Embers of my Dreams

Photo by Maddog 229 on Pexels.com

My lockdown life has fuelled a fire
a fire of the imagination
It burns the strongest in my dreams
its brightest light at night
an ever flickering conflagration
half hidden from my sight

For when I wake
I feel its kick
I tremble with the loss
of leaving that other clouded world
left picking through its embers

There where strangers meet as friends
where lovers lose their once-held power
where every tree meant more to me
with every passing hour

But why when shrouded in dreamland’s mists
do such recovered images
disappear with wakefulness
refuse to linger
rush away
leaving only a taste
a memory risked
asecond chance missed
a taste of what could have been
lost in that fleeting insubstantial dream

The Cliche Storm

Photo by Kaboompics .com on Pexels.com

Say not the struggle naught availeth;
But is it worth the flaming candle?
Can I pull those hearty Strings,
Or will my pretty baubles jangle?

Where on earth do things grow down,
And how can spoken jokes be dumb?
Perhaps it’s to do with nonsense verse
Veiled by rule of my thick thumb.


When I escape this dragging net,
When I have pulled my other leg,
When I have plighted all my troths,
It’s then I will sit up and beg.

Till then I’ll fly by my pants’ seat;
I’ll kiss my nascent hopes goodbye.
They’ll rescue me from life itself
And sing my praises to the sky.


For I’m a versifier pure
I’d rather play with words than girls
Forever searching non sequiturs
Words have more twists and turns than curls.

Photo by Bich Tran on Pexels.com



The Purpose To It All

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

As I considered how my life was spent
How purposeful, how plotted
A sigh escaped me pleading to be heard
And as I sighed I felt the pain
Some twinge of inner turmoil
The pent up tension of all those years
Summation of a retreating life
Intent on seeking some resolution

For what had it been all about
What purpose behind the screen
How indistinct the clouded scene
However firm the frame
How difficult it had been

To keep the picture clean
How worthwhile now to try
For passing clouds will understand
More than I can see
But I trust that others will come to understand
More than has been gifted to me

IN THAT OTHER LIFE

Take me back to those distant days
When time stood boldly still;
The burbling beck flowed green and clean
Beside the bellowing forge;
When each day brought new hope
And the healing world invited me in.

With that street gang
I fearlessly fought,
Braved the imminent threats.
Regrets nor desire for retribution
Clouded no horizon
And danger held no thrall.


Little I knew or even thought
Of what new years might hold.
Each day brought its gratitude,
Each birthday took no toll…
No future promise was worth a penny
Beyond tomorrow’s stretch.


But now, even in my clouded vision,
I see with unblinkered sight,
The past held all my future
Up to its proffered light,
And could I but have known it then
I nothing would now overwrite.

A Coward’s Charter

Swing the lead
Play it for dead;
Keep a lowly profile
Life is no featherbed,.

Don’t stick your head,
As Joe Soap said,
Above the parapet,
Lest you have it shot at.

Lie very low
Avoid life’s blows
And play the game ‘Dead Donkey’.

Avoid the Pricks,
The pointed arrows
Of outrageous fortune.
And be afraid,
For life is out to get you.
Let that Sea of Fortune
Be forever calm.

No good at last,
With chances past,
To count the cost
When all is lost.

Best play your cards
Close to your chest;
Hide those better feelings.
Be self-indulgent,
Go with your better judgement.
Leave other hearts to their bleeding.

A Covid Cinquain

A CINQUAIN

Covid
Ominous threat
Reaching out to find me
Giving me constant pause for thought
Hope lives.

cinquain is a particulay form of five-line poem that was invented by Adelaide Crapsey,an American poet who took her inspiration from Japanese haiku and tanka.

The Rules of a Cinquain

  1. Cinquains are five lines long.
  2. They have 2 syllables in the first line, 4 in the second, 6 in the third, 8 in the fourth line, and just 2 in the last line.
  3. Cinquains do not need to rhyme, but you can include rhymes if you want to.

N.B. A Quintain is the generic name for any poem consisting of just FIVE lines

A SHADOW FELL

‘Stalker’ . . . Photo: WHB – 2020

A shadow fell across my track
As I walked ‘neath the evening sky;
I became concerned,
My stomach churned,
As the stranger hurried by.

Just a shudder felt
In my worried step
As I caught just a glimpse of his frame
And I knew at once
What it was he wants
As he held out his hand to me.

“Think you may have dropped
Your walking stick”,
He politely said to me.
He passed it on
Then he was gone
And I felt sad to be me.


Outmoded Slang

SLANG: a type of language consisting of words and phrases that are regarded as very informal, are more common in speech than writing, and are typically restricted to a particular context or group of people.

It’s a shame when words expire,
Especially the vernacular,
Like pizazz and balderdash;
Such words are quite spectacular.

Gadzooks has long been dead
And other words are dying.
Lost are darn and drat it,
In desuetude they are lying.

scallywag, twerp and wally,
Scoundrel, bounder, cad,
Have passed away and gone,
Their day they all have had.

No more nincompoops or rotters,
They rolled sweetly off the tongue.
So sad to see their passing,
No more we’ll hear them sung.

As for pillocks and rapscallions,
They’ve all died and gone to heaven,
Where they can still be rascals,
While awaiting Armageddon.

Some will call it Death

Haworth Churchyard . . . Pen & Wash – WHB – 1983

I say
That the day
Will surely come
One bright and sunny day
When all else will  fail to satisfy
And time I find has brought me to an end
Deciding to stop my future in its tracks
And lead me instead on another path
One never trodden by me before
Into an alien foreign land
Of unenvisaged freedom
Of dedicated delights
Free from stress
Which some
Will call
Death

WHB . . . October 2020

Elfchen

Today, I attempt to compose an ELFCHEN or, in English, an ELEVENIE

 

Wikipedia defines an Elevenie, or Elfchen, as follows:

“An elevenie (German Elfchen — Elf “eleven” and -chen as diminutive suffix to indicate diminutive size and endearment) is a short poem with a given pattern. It contains eleven words which are arranged in a specified order over five rows. Each row has a requirement that can vary.”

A simple form, similar perhaps to  Haiku, Senryu or Tanka, in which the poet attempts to carry an idea within a set format of words and lines which imposes certain strictures of thought and form on the author.

The usual format requires a short verse of eleven words in five lines in the form – 1, 2, 3, 4, 1.  An order which I have reversed in  my last of the 4 elfchen below  . . .

ELEVENSIE 1 . . .   On Poetry

Poetry
Felt experience
Not always beautiful
But rich in meaning
Worthwhile

ELEVENSIE 2  . . .   On Age

Years
Bring age
Not necessarily wisdom
Learn from your experience
Grow

ELEVENSIE 3  . . .   On Lockdown

Constriction
Distorting minds
Playing with normality
Threatening well earned contentment
Lockdown

REVERSE ELEVENSIE 4  . . .   On Covid19

Puzzlement
Why let us suffer
Whilst time passes
Our lives
Wasting