At dverse De is hosting and has challenged us to write a Quadrille ~ a 44-word poem to include the word ‘murmur’!
She hates the dark.
How it closes slowly
like a fist squeezing
out the daylight.
How it murmurs
through her bones
that crack like
fragile sea shells.
How all her words
are icicles shattering
on the ground,
spraying syllables
into a silent night.
At dverse it is Quadrille night. Grace is in charge and has us writing a 44 word poem to include the word ‘creak’
7.30am he puts on his headphones,
shuts out the day, strides
down the platform and gets
on the train. He can’t hear
the creak of his seat as it
swings down the line. Just the beat
in his mind of the life left behind.
At dverse tonight Bjorn Rudberg is host and has challenged us to write a poem made up entirely of questions without answering any of them!
Do you have any sharp objects
in your luggage such as
scissors, a screwdriver,
a tongue not under control?
Do you have any toxic substances
such as organic peroxides,
corrosives, poison
in your veins and/or mind?
Do you have any ammunition
such as blasting caps,
flares or information
to harm friends who harmed you?
Do you have any items not
in transparent containers
such as liquids, contact lens solution,
a broken heart?
Do you still want to fly from here?
At dverse Grace hosts Poetics and is looking at borders. Our task ~ if we should accept it! ~ is to include the word in a new poem.
In mist-light the great white house
is blue-grey. Sucked into a
murk where borders fade.
Where the certainties of hedges,
fences, a double gate are suddenly
exposed as quicksand. Like
comfort
income
security
ambition.
From across the river I watch
the house slip in an out of view.
I wait for the sun
knowing it will come.
Like phases of the moon,
like the herb robert flower
on a roadside verge,
like the departure of
tree summer leaves,
like the cycle of life
I’m riding just now.
At dverse tonight it’s time to celebrate our 6th anniversary ~ and we’re doing it with a Quadrille this time set by Grace and to include the word ‘flicker’ Here’s something that happened in town earlier this evening.
It’s a plague, of sorts.
The evening semi-thick with ants.
After months underground
they’re stupid with light and flight.
Lace-winged walking along footpaths
or bumbling through the air.
Black spots pock marking late
sun streams. Swifts flicker high
readying themselves
for an evening banquet.
At dverse tonight it’s Quadrille time set by Kim to celebrate the 50th anniversary of The Beatles iconic Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album. Consequently the poem is to include the word ‘pepper’.
He peppers his conversations
with her name, all the time
saying she is now of no consequence.
His favourite story is when they
flew to Oslo. Last minute
to see the northern lights.
He is anchored in a deep water harbour,
still not casting off.
No longer captain of his ship.
welshstream 