The Crying Mare
The Crying Mare
sipping Earl Grey
through Flora Danica porcelain
she tastes traces
of his mouth
singing echos of Nirvana
she plays a fingerprinted disc
in the sand
closes her eyes
like a ravenous hyena
or a sucker fish
running her tongue around her lips
licking for flashback
laughing too loud
loving too high
alive> < evil a
she tugs a necklace memento
the cowrie shell grins
she stays awake
wrapped and crushed
she could not save him
It was the end of a long,
all we had been
leaving the ghost
of first love
to haunt me forever
Victoria has set the prompt at dverse pub poets today.
It is a Quatrian Refrain comprising eight lines:
two tercets and a couplet,
eight syllables per line or iambic tetrameter, your choice,
first line is a refrain, repeated as the last (some variation acceptable).
It was indeed a fated trip.
She wanted music endlessly.
It pays to listen properly.
The cruise was meant to mend her hip.
‘Over here’, I cried, self-satisfied,
and whooping loud, ‘A band on ship’.
She jumped, feet-first, straight in the sea.
I won’t forget that fated trip.
Open link night at dverse.
Daphne’s Diet – Day 1
She’d signed at ‘Slimming Zone’ and paid her dues,
determined she would stick to it and lose
the weight that so miraculously formed
around her waist, her thighs and upper-arms.
She didn’t eat a lot and moved about
so couldn’t understand the fat throughout
her visceral muscles – so the doctor said.
‘You’ll have to get it off or you’ll be dead’.
The choice was clear. She had to motivate
herself to reach a healthy weight. A state
she had aspired to since nineteen eighty two;
before the kids, of course, and Chicken Vindaloo.
‘I’ll just use up the last of this’. She hated waste,
and couldn’t bin the Galaxy or resist the taste.
Read more about Daphne’s Diet in
newly published ‘Tickled Pink’
The Simian Line
The single palmar transverse crease
is etched across your hands –
both of them – rare, I believe.
You’re a one percent boy to man.
Head melding with heart – confusion.
Emotion is a record on faces.
Mind matters most; a skewed fusion
of logic built on moving bases.
Frustration dogs you frequently.
Your crystal clear view – invisible
to the naked eye of all and sundry
who don’t/won’t see – or are unable
without your cursed clarity
and one-eyed reason. The brain,
reluctant to sleep, peddles endlessly
its dilemmas, solutions, think-pain.
You don’t feel a real part of it.
An observer; disregarded.
If only they knew how little
they know – climbed over your guarded
wall into your silent bluff.
Your hands curl in, hiding you palms,
just as your body armour rebuffs
the warmth of a mother’s arms.
Bodhirose has set today’s prompt.
Our challenge for today is to use the following fourteen words in the order presented: stay, sits, play, wits, fits, comedy, flits, tragedy, eye, smart, cry, heart, moan, stone. These words were borrowed from a sonnet by Edmund Spenser.
So we will be writing a fourteen line poem with each of these words being our end line rhymes and they must be used in the order presented. You may choose to write a sonnet using iambic pentameter if you wish (as was traditional) but it isn’t necessary.
PS. I’ve changed the ending on this. Apologies to early commentators, but I should have stuck with my original idea 🙂
If you were I would you ask me to stay?
Considering the way consorting sits
with you. Your inability to play
a simple game of chess. Where are your wits?
I’ve heard them call you numbskull – well it fits.
In fact you could be labelled comedy
on legs. Your concentration dives and flits
from here to there. It’s such a tragedy.
And please don’t try that melancholy eye.
You ought to know by now I’m much too smart
to fall for your pathetic ‘love me’ cry.
It’s not that I am mean and have no heart,
but don’t you know, you silly dog, I’ll moan
when mud’s awash the best Venetian stone.
it was a strange awakening
we rode tandem through the blur of an old film
she breathed promises on the back of my neck
the air tingled with sepia summerness
drifting bon-fire smoke
virgin brushed lips
she was August in December
heat through ice
drawing me into her like liquid
I ached to lie there
closer than I could be
be long there
hippy jewel in a thorny-crown town
I was the Walker-on-Water,
first Man-on-Mars doing anything
if I’d wanted to be doing anything else but
touching her skin.
rippling black-water hair
she danced on the core of my consciousness
flying me hard and fast
sky skimming our skin
to a moon so big
you couldn’t blank it out
with your hand.
there were no choices
and my need, greed,
lips and loins
a crumpled flower-child
shielding my face from her indifference
watching her silhouette into the sun
seeing her with me
over and over
In A Stew
‘Simmer it, don’t let it bubble’.
The trouble is
the thermostat is knackered.
I stood there, stirring it
over ninety minutes
blending OXOs, cornflour
and mixed herbs in it.
Then the bell rung at the door.
Stew bubbled all over the floor.
in rainbow bubble-glow
viewed from a place
shaded with hues
lighting your face
asking for nothing
but to survive
you simply were
the cutest little
Career 27% (Buffering)
Just some strings of words
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