Wordless Wednesday

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A Poem Found

I’ve often thought I’d have a go at found poetry, but it wasn’t until yesterday when I https://cherylandrews.wordpress.com/2017/03/30/fire/#comment-8474 saw Cheryl’s re-blog of a post by CB Wentworth that I was inspired enough to try.

Cheryl  responded to my comment by asking me to post if I tried, so here it is.

I didn’t have an appropriate pen and have no idea where my paints are, so I used a whiteboard marker and a biro.

Do pop over to both Cheryl and CB, ‘Fire’ is absolutely beautiful. I’m going to try this again soon, it was good fun. Thanks again Cheryl, this could be addictive.

 

In Hope, a poem for Thursday

This Thursday instead of Lazy Poet, I’m re-posting a poem I wrote a few years ago, for International Women’s Day. Yes I know that was yesterday, but you know me by now, the other week that I got the day wrong for wordless Wednesday, and the syllable count wrong for LP!

In Hope

Cast aside your veil

Turn your face to the sun

Gather round the hearth

Your work today is done

Your sisters draw near

Feet planted to earth

They no longer fear

The lone walk on the trail

Your children breathe free

The mountains clear air

Well nourished with plenty

And wind blown away care

Your abundance is here

Take love in your stride

Future perfect and clear

Go forward with pride

Cast aside your veil

And no longer hide

Not so lazy Thursday poem

I’m tired tonight, too tired to even write a five minute haiku. So, I decided to look back at things I’ve posted before and choose a poem for this week.

I’ve spent ages looking and there’s still more. I’m totally amazed at how much poetry I’ve written, even if lots of it is of little consequence.

So with apologies in case you remember this from four years ago, and for the lack of image.

Waves of Foam

Foaming ocean laps the Jurassic shore

where molten lava once seared and pitted

into burnished pockets of chalk

that glow pale in the shallows

where volcanic flame no longer scorches

earth but in its place frozen fluid

 turned to stone in the countless millennia

before mankind’s dawn

then lapis and bronze lay down its mineral

to adorn sweet womankind’s questing hands

and feet that step through warm golden sand

above the azure sky reflects light

from the firmament holding the source

of celestial waters in balance

Normal service will be resumed next Thursday with a haiku!

Through the surf darkly

I went to the coast today, this is what I saw

and this is what I was inspired to write.

They stand tense in the knowledge

that feet giving way

would trap twist betray

one distracting sound that might pierce

the rage of ocean on rock

to knock them like dominoes.

each yearn to go further

to be the brave stepper

cheering risk taking surfers

while surreptitiously wondering

would the sea turn red

if instead of a wave

a skull breaks on the strand

 

Awards, poetry and Blogging Addiction

Yesterday I received a nomination for the Leibster Award, from my dear blogging sister Meg. It’s my first award for some time, and I remember in Lucid Gypsy’s early days, seeing awards flying back and forth and wondering if I’d ever receive one. One they began, they came thick and fast. Flattered, I accepted and shared the love, until I realised that I was spending way too much time on them and decided I wouldn’t take part anymore. Awards seemed to peter out a little anyway.

The Leibster was one of the first that I received, but when I saw Meg’s post I decided that I would take part, simply because it was Meg! Then, I remembered that I haven’t posted for three days, have lots of photos and things I want to share as it is, how on earth could I fit anything else in?

Time. My nemesis and many other peoples. Of the 168 hours in a week, I spend 43 walking to work, being there and walking home again. I spend 56 attempting to sleep (and usually achieving about 42). Probably 26 hours are taken up with cooking, housework, grocery shopping, and self-care. I might watch TV for 3 hours a week, 5 hours a week might be social times, 10 if I have a day out! That still seems to leave 4 hours a day to be too exhausted to move uh, have fun, be creative, walk the dogs.

Write. That’s the one. That’s the reason I began blogging, at the end of a three-year period of study, that was undertaken to improve my creative writing skills.  Twice a month I go to my writing group and sometimes share some work, but I actually write very little these days. I’m one of those people who is too interested in too many things. I want to learn everything, read everything, experience everything, from block printing to training ants, and talk to everyone I encounter.

My writing blog isn’t, it’s a photography blog.  Lured in by the Weekly Photo Challenge and similar, I get to indulge another of my passions. Sharing photos is far quicker and easier than writing and I’m kind of cataloguing some of my life, that’s how I justify it to myself. But the reality is, like Meg, I’m addicted to blogging, both posting and visiting my blogging friends around the world. Some of you are very special, you know who you are and you’re the other half of what fuels my addiction.

I’d like to be able to say I’m going to change, that this will become a writing blog, but I’d be kidding myself. So dear Meg, thank you for choosing me for the award, but I’m declining. Instead I’m going to schedule my weekly events and of course I’m going to write, perhaps, maybe, sometime. Meanwhile, I went hunting for my Leibster Award and instead I found this poem from 2011, and thought I’d share again.

By Train Through Somerset

Country gulls flushed by the 10.53

arrow  from fields with frosty periphery

like yuletide tinsel under threadbare trees

 

lamb filled ewes  felted and jacketed

join blanketed ponies to nibble on nothing

awaiting a ride or a jar of mint sauce

 

depart the Levels undulating uphill

where railway huts stand derelict lonesome

the sizzle of pylons shoot towards ozone

 

old man’s beard helplessly clings to dense hide

of hedge where Roe stags lurk in dank

acres furrowed and ready  for spring

 

spires crack the  mist near burst  banks

where Saturday shoals of angling young men

stand fishing

and wishing

 

Lazy Poet’s Small Thursday Poem

Who has lost this small pure heart? asks Tish. She has offered up this image for anyone who is inspired by it, to write whatever springs to mind.

Tish Farrel's Eglantine

Dog Rose

Twisting, tumbling from a dense hedge

 with a brief moment of gratitude for space.

It fell, it turned, raised a shocked face,

damp with the tears of morning mist,

 when a thousand more dropped en masse,

 to perish, impaled on blackthorn’s blades.

This Eglantine heart in gentlest Tyrian hue

will bear no royal crown, but a floral wreath

of Earth Chestnut will encircle its place of rest

and join with the detritus of seasons before.

This heart unbroken will nourish any tiny seed

and root that finds itself climbing skywards.

 

Thank you Tish.

All rights to this photo belong to Tish Farrell, Writer on the Edge.

Half Light

Through a glass darkly.

This photo was taken on a sunny day, in a woodland glade, in a sculpture garden. It was actually a large frame with dark and distorting reflective glass, in blue shades.

Jabberwocky landSo, can you conjure up the Jabberwocky? I can, cackle, cackle, but just in case, here’s the poem, perhaps it will help.

Jabberwocky

By Lewis Carroll 1832–1898 Lewis Carroll

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
      And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
      The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
      Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
      And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
      The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
      And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
      He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
      Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
      He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
      And the mome raths outgrabe.
Why does the text resonate with me, Krista wants to know? Well obviously that’s because I’m crazy.

 

Lazy Poet’s Thursday . . . Poem!

A few days ago, the lovely Isobel commented that I’m addicted to photo challenges. She’s right of course, I am, even my own weekly Thursday one. So this week, just for a change there’re no photo inspired haiku, just a little poem.

Totem

Twig legs, and wings collapsed like a fallen angel,

flown too early in this false spring of harsh, March winds.

Breast not red, but orange, flame extinguished now,

 the once piercing eyes, blank

issue a question .

Have I the courage to answer?

could I have fed this hungry yearling?

Skeletal, with moulting feathers,

starved, desperate, chilled and lost

with a cracked, fairy porcelain beak

 

No grassy resting place,

in a well-tended suburban border.

No crow will dine on her bones,

on that flagstone path in need of repair.

Rather, old Mr Jones scooping her precious remains,

into a Waitrose bag and the black wheelie bin.

 

This, my totem bird will never renew,

but her spirit has found release, a regeneration,

as my raw heart has revealed,

a new compassion for self, rebirth.

 

On my walk to work a few days ago I saw a dead robin on the path, I did a double take – seeing a dead bird is quite unusual. It made me cry, and I still have the image in my mind, this poem is my response.

Jo isn’t lazy, but she has posted a joyful, spring haiku this Thursday, it definitely cheered me up, thanks honey!