Aldi Sunset

Still catching up on Napowrimo, this is the response to Day 14  “celebrate a place, thing or idea” This poem evolved midway into a poetic prose…or possibly drifted into a stream of consciousness.

 

Aldi Sunset  – April 2020

 

An acre of tarmac; white lines map territorial rights

measured in inches of space filled

with the low growl of engines.

 

Security guards count single adult entries held 2 metres apart

in a snaking queue, but there’s no hurry

only patience and impatience marks time.

 

Waiting in the car, my daughter takes care of the shopping

It’s a new boundary for her to tear down.

We both win.

 

From this new vantage point, the clatter of metal

slamming together in the trolley park

seems musical.

 

Early evening light dapples through popular trees

edging the car park; a precious necklace of beauty

never previously noticed

 

As families load car boots with groceries, domestic chatter

is as serene as birdsong in this new oasis of peace

in the surburban landscape.

 

Cheesy 70s hits blare from an open car window

the driver’s paunch strains buttons on his acidic striped shirt.

He sings along, parking, reversing, correcting, reversing

aligning, reversing in time with the beat.

 

Sunglasses perch on bleached blonde hair, a dainty lady struggles

to manoeuvre an overladen trolley towards her Audi convertible.

She pauses to consider how her bulk bought goods will fit

into the postage stamp boot. After 3 bags fill the space, she loads the interior

propping up wine with frozen peas and cartons of lemon sorbet.

 

Her sultry daughter remains seated throughout, scowling at a world

which doesn’t sufficiently entertain, glowering at the domestic inconvenience,

wondering why no-one has responded to her latest Instagram selfie.

 

Dream Home

Napowrimo Day 4 – Write about a dream

 

It started with a dream

of a home in the forest

with a ceiling of stars

of a life non-conformist

 

I climbed a great oak

there I laid the first planks

made a bed in the boughs

with moonbeams for a lamp

 

I drank from the waterfall

I ate berries from the bush

I forgot about the city

its pollution and the crush

 

Time evaporated into air

joy took its place

I was living without a care

I lived at my own pace

 

Wild roses were my perfume

small animals my friends

birds serenaded daily

leaving my soul fully cleansed

 

My pulse did not race

my arteries didn’t harden

I was healthy, I was happy

In my rustic home and garden

By Gum!

Day 3 of Napowrimo – use rhyming words

 

My resolve I now need to harden
Got the look from my prison warden
Was summoned to tackle the garden
The weeds she sees cannot be pardoned

Before this beautiful day closes
She kindly, thoughtfully proposes
I should prune and cut back the roses
Their fragrance will once more thrill noses
So I’ll summon my strength and amass
The inner strength to mow the long grass
Perhaps I may scrape by on a pass
Though the neighbours compete and outclass
Kneeling weary on two creaky knees
Carpe Diem! This day I will seize
Though I huff and I puff and I wheeze
I’m determined to win by degrees
Such joy now the long winter is done
Mopping my brow I turn to the sun
Need a massage and bath but By Gum!
I came, conquered, I weeded, I won!

The Sycamore Prince Returns

Today is a momentous day for me. Today is the first time as a member of the Write Out Loud Poetry Group Stockport, that I feel accomplished. Not through being published, not through any quality of poem produced but… to be able to pull out of my bag a poem previously written and read, re-edited and rejuvenated.  You may think this unremarkable, but allow me to explain. In the last two years of joining the group, I have been running to keep up. Each meeting a theme is set and we have a month to write a poem ready to read at the next meeting. I have always been envious of those poets who can say, “I may have read this before, it’s one a wrote a while back.” This month, with the publication of my new children’s Picture Book “The Fixer Man” (shameless plug – I’m sorry!)  I haven’t had the hours needed to write a poem for the group…but I do have “one I have read before, one I wrote a while back” and there you have it… I have now reached the point where I have my own back catalogue of poems, which I can delve into and pull out when called upon. I feel I’ve earned my stripes, done my time, passed my test, graduated into poetry. Today is a good day.

 

The Sycamore Prince Returns

 

Each year impatient for his return

marking time until the majestic moment arrives.

In a shaft of pure light, when reverent air lies still

on a soft whisper he comes.

 

The Autumnal Prince towers

above ethereal mists caught

between earth and sky.

His slender ebony limbs outstretched beneath

the canopy of his golden crown.

 

A silvery sun showers him in sparks

igniting flaming hues.

Baptised in fire a volcanic blaze erupts

burning with vibrant life,

copper passions and saffron embers smoulder.

 

But one who burns so bright cannot stay,

his reign fleeting.

Cool light fades. Cruel chill winds blow

loosening the desperate grip of his fragile hands.

I mourn each yellow fingered leaf

as it falls and returns to its roots.

His glory too quickly lost.

 

Cast into wintry shadows,

our dreams left to sleep for a season.

sycamore

Poetry Unleashed

Day 28 of NApowrimo – 28 poems written and the end is nigh…today’s prompt was to write a poem about poetry “try your hand at a meta-poem of your own”. Here is my rant about archaic rules… I may even publish a second because I’m completely fired up, but for now here is

Poetry Unleashed

Who applied mathematics to literature?

Who dared degrade lines to a vile number count?

Who callously ripped out the soul to insert regularity?

Iambic Pentameter you are a satanic curse infecting creativity.

You leave me cold, my blood stilled.

You bind my hands and feet with rigidity.

Your condescending eye watches over my choice of phrase.

Know that you are not welcome in my world of dreams,

my moments of emotional outpouring.

My self-analysis has no need of your stuffy laws.

When I lower my defences to release pent up anger,

remorse, heartache or hurt, revealing scars

never before uncovered,

when I flood the page with deep sentiment,

boundless praise of nature’s beauty,

when I proclaim my love of the one I adore

or worship my children, professing eternal gratitude

for being so blessed,

do I need your calculated condemnation?

Do I need your bony finger pointing out inconsistent

decrepit

syllable counts or misplaced emphasis?

No! Close the door on your way out!

You are old and decrepit, redundant and impotent.

You shall not haunt my page. Be gone.

Lie down in your cold grave and let the living write poetry.

Songbird

My heart swells, with the Spring song sang

by the soloist in sycamore tree

My spirit rises, as his tune stirs

hazy sun-warmed memories.

I drink in, the surroundings

with eyes unveiled and see

diamond dew drops dripping

from budding apple tree.

Where did you go little songbird?

When snows filled winter glen

To whom did you sing whilst away?

Do they miss you now as I did then?

 

Day 25 of Napowrimo and the prompt is as follows: write a poem that

  • Is specific to a season
  • Uses imagery that relates to all five senses (sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell)
  • Includes a rhetorical question

spring

Dust

A shirt is shaken, sprawled over a board.

Her smile is fixed, eyes glazed

hours pass by as the iron runs.

Life evaporates with the steam.

The corpse is well turned out,

the headstone reads “she kept a tidy house”.

 

Dust piles upon dust

falling layer upon layer

dancing on sunbeams in shafts of light

piercing silent rooms.

Bed clothes lie ruffled.

breakfast pots sit in the sink.

 

No-one cares they run through fields

climb over styles

gather mud on their boots

eat picnics on blankets

whilst the tap drips into a bowl

waiting, waiting, waiting.

 

Wind-blown hair, sun burnt skin,

smiles light up the meadow,

birds chatter along with laughter

on the breeze, the dandelion clock

sends parachutes to mark the hours

of this endless day.

fun in fields

Dear Deer

Come close my dear,

and I will tell

the tale of a dear deer

(with a tiny tail)

who sadly didn’t fare too well.

He died at the fair

when he decided to try

a new fur dye he’d seen.

Flowing around the unique horn

of a unicorn was

a rainbow mane,

unicorn hair

when along came

a bare-faced bear

who had an aloof air,

(perhaps of a heir bear).

He added too much dye

and I declare!

It burnt the dear deer’s eyes!

You see, the no-eyed deer

he could not see

so ran and ran

and damn,

he ran into a dam,

that broke,

he choked.

For four hours he tried

to survive….

When he finally passed

we sang for hours and hours

hymns for him

that dyed dear deer

of ours who died.

hymns

Day 14 of Napowrimo saw a challenge that I had to read up on to understand;

write a poem that incorporates homophones, homographs, and homonyms, or otherwise makes productive use of English’s ridiculously complex spelling rules and opportunities for mis-hearings and mis-readings.

I hope I have achieved the objective?

Simple Pleasure

Simple Pleasure

 

A rose garden alive with soothing humming bees

fragrance so intoxicating it brings me to my knees

a parasol to cool my brow whilst playful toes peep

at blazing golden rays from above, whilst I submit to sleep.

rose garden

 

I dropped the ball for Napowrimo on Day 7, writing a poem about what you would wish for…. so here it is, better late than never. Hopefully….

Goodnight

If the music never ends

If no-one call time 

If the sun never sets

If the clocks don’t chime

If the tides don’t ebb

If the moon doesn’t beckon

If we never say goodnight 

I will believe in heaven 

 

Day 6 of the Napowrimo challenge is to write a poem of possibilities.