Turia Bridge (after John Clare)

Hello river, my old friend
I cross above you at day’s end
As my work begins,
The night does fall
And I wonder about the point of it all
For like you, river, I am running daily
And where I reach it never fails me
My joys I must often compromise,
But you, dear friend, are a balm for my eyes.

(This is from December 2019, when of course, I actually did cross the bridge to get to work, and when I was particularly enjoying the work of English nature poet John Clare)

rambling rhyme

yet another poem about inspiration and writing style. I particularly enjoyed playing with rhythms and sounds in this one. it´s definitely one for reading aloud.

I usually write rhymes

About things I can see

I rhyme about lakes and

about mountains and trees

But sometimes I rhyme rhymes

about things that are not

so immediately obvious

and easy to spot

I scribble sometimes some rhymes

about love or about fear

some lines

don´t rhyme each time

and sometimes the end is too near

BUT

This rhyme is simple and easy

to hear

I´ve written a rhyme where the

rhythm is clear

I rattle, rock and roll and I ramble away

and the lines will all rhyme and my words won´t betray

me `cause it´s just silly play

I´ll move and I´ll sway

I´ll eat love and pray

and we can chill out at the end of the day

Alone Among Oranges

I splashed past a flooded orange grove

Fruit bursting with juice hanging low on the branches

And greening around the slits where they have split open

wind and gravity hurling them to the ground,

The normally parched earth shining muckily through rivulets of spring rain

that came down harder than we ever expected.

A wet season, they said. Winter. This winter at any rate.

Puddles collecting at every zebra crossing,

stressed parents manhandling plastic covered prams

And style-conscious ladies flashing designer welllies,

Their annual show, finding excuses to parade through the square,

giggling and shrieking as they sprint to avoid the spray from delivery vans.

They remind me of birds, preening and presenting, using the rain as a weapon

a tool in their hunt.

A long-limbed snowy egret stands alone amidst the fallen oranges

Her eyes sweep the scene, watching vigilantly.

The rain continues to fall. I pass and the moment is gone.

Perhaps she is still waiting there.

 

 

I haven’t written a post in a long time. I hope you will forgive the rushed quality.

Painter’s Muse

You stood stock still in the golden hour

Your brush dangled from your hand as you scrutinised the scene

It was the first time I’d watched you work

And the joy and the freedom were almost more than I could handle.

If I moved – to speak or to scratch,

You would gesture impatiently for me to resume my stance,

The crickets clicked their deafening wings

While the lowering sun engulfed us both in its splendour.

The heat of the day would not subside, but would linger

Long into the hot summer night, the mosquitoes usurping the crickets

Your sensual, gentle strokes continuing,

As your final touches transformed the wasteland around us into paradise

The end of Spring

With swirling, falling

Purple petticoats 

The city trees signal

The end of their season.

The playful petals

Of springtime blooming

Have fallen prey 

to Father Time, 

That old greyhair,

And his consort Mother Nature,

Together conspire

To turn the springtime maidens

Into summer mothers,

Providing shade 

for younger lovers

Spreading their leaves while

Remembering the day

Their sticky fallen blossoms 

Took their innocence away

A Tree Speaks

Our mountain home is a good placeWe are green of leaf and, fair of face

The raven’s wing covers our scars

And we trail our branches beneath the stars

Dance by the light of the cherry moon

Fearing the furious heat of June

When Our brothers fell in their habitat

Mown down by fiery flames so that

Some concrete blocks could take their home

And concrete people with hearts of foam

Will park their Eco-friendly vans

In villas carved from forestland

We trees our home ground cannot choose

In a war with man, we always lose.

Thunderbirth (poetry prompt #1)

Ominous, malevolent

 pregnant-bellied

Cloud entwined within 

Herself and without – that

Soot-colored Sky

The turbulent and wild Sky

The air waves are fiZzling 

The cracking static hymns

Praising the parson at this demented wedding.

The wedding band strikes UP

A guitar twang and crash of drums

The flow of favorites come thick and fast

And the bride and groom twirl around 

Each other and faster

And faster

And faster they move,

Pulling their guests in their wake

and that dark pregnant belly breaks 

its water,

And we all attend the labour

The child, a girl

A daughter

April the first

The afterbirth 

Spring.