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Parable of the Rose (free form sonnet)
Some of the roses, bowed but not broken,
fought the onslaught of a storm-soaked summer.
They cradled teardrops amongst perfect petals,
lifted spirits during endless grey days.
Some buds never achieved their potential,
roots and stems too weak to withstand attack.
Their foundations were just not strong enough.
Predators robbed them of their sweet future.
Brave survivor in water logged gardens,
how tenderly we gaze upon the rose,
draw meaning from its perfect symmetry;
many-hued symbol of romantic love.
How ruthlessly we prune and throw away
the corrupted buds onto the rubbish heap.
Difficult Diagnosis
The sterilised hands of the suited specialist
folded with finality across my closed file.
Weighing me up and down, he shrugged:
‘Nothing has shown up on your tests.
Shut the door on your way out. Next patient.’
The years clocked up the wear and tear of life,
elusive symptoms and exhaustion ground on.
My mind and body were hawked in desperation
around expensive alternative therapy circles,
until a new doctor discovered the diagnosis:
the wolf had been my inner enemy not me.
[Lupus (Latin for wolf) is an incurable inflammatory condition
where the immune system attacks the body]
Land and Sea - eternal courtship
My boundaries buffer your powerful surges
nibbling, eroding my crumbling contours.
Tied to you for as long as we both shall live,
you slowly devour me - wave by relentless wave.
My pounding energy cannot be controlled.
My rippling tides swell in the eternal dance,
whipped by the winds, massaged by the moon,
heated to distraction by the sun’s hot glare.
Come, my beloved, melt in my hypnotic embrace.
Surrender your shored up defences.
Enrich my foam with your nutritious loam.
Submerge yourself in my ocean bed.
I will not give myself and my dependants
willingly to your seductive, dominating wiles.
I allow you inlets into my body but will fight
your passion flooding me into oblivion.
Words Ephemeral
Freed from paper’s confines,
erased pencilled rhymes reduce
to piles of graphite rubber shards
across the would-be writer’s desk.
Winging their way
in crowded cyber space,
they jostle for recognition
amongst competing stars.
Would a better memorial
to all those hunched hours,
honing fleeting inspiration,
be deeds and actions –
not more unmemorable poetry?
Lapwing – an acrostic
Gregarious, wispy crested, wading bird
Resident in Britain’s fields, moorland and coast,
Enlivens our Spring skies with acrobatics
Endangered by modern farming and weather
Never to fly, fledglings die in flooded fields
Protected green plover, lapwing, or peewit,
Loved and named for its bleak call and zigzag flight
Occasional migrant when winter’s talons grip
Varied plumage - white, black and iridescent green
Encircled by concern at threatened extinction
Red alert assigned as population declines.
Note: The Green Plover is also known as Lapwing or Peewit.
Gaia’s favourite colour
savannah, rainforests, jungles
prairies, hilltops, meadows, lawns
through cracks in radioactive concrete
waste land, abandoned slag heaps
gaia’s irrepressible life force
glorious spectrum of growth
clothes her scars with a healing mantle
reaching for nourishing light
Our local hill, nearly a mountain, has frequent hang-gliders overhead and this is inspired by them:
Hang-gliders
Neck craned, I stop and marvel at them,
rising and dipping at the whim of the wind.
I would love to be up there floating free,
the nearest thing to a bird in flight,
silent apart from the rush of fresh cold air.
My land-locked body is more at home
wading through peat and bracken moors.
Afraid of heights,
I could not summon the courage
to accelerate along the grassy runway and
jump into nothingness.
I console myself that though I might be
anchored to solid ground, my spirit can still
soar up and unite with these giant human kites
as they ride the thermals above my head.
My wave is returned and they sink out of sight.
It is fairly noisy and confined inside an MRI scanner. It would be easy to go into mental melt down if of a claustrophic nature...this was my way of coping with a brain scan lasting about 20 minutes:
Magnetic Resonance Imaging
Strapped on a conveyor belt, my head caged,
I surrender my body to strangers.
Piped music declined, ear plugs inserted,
I glide into a narrow cylinder,
hypnotising myself to remain calm.
Whatever you do...don’t open your eyes!
Mechanical noises surround my head.
My mind transforms them, taking me away.
That boom is a fog horn far out at sea,
echoed by a ship sailing towards it.
A buoy clanks, a lighthouse beams out warnings.
Whatever you do...don’t open your eyes!
Iron anchor chains sway in swelling waves
rippling along a tanker’s slate grey sides.
Crates creak in the hold, a loose oil drum rolls
along the deck, rope clicks against a pole,
plastic flaps as a breeze prises it free.
Whatever you do...don’t open your eyes!
Are you okay? Just a few more short scans.
Relax, breathe and keep as still as you can.
I am in a jungle - insect wings whirr,
snakes rattle, dry branches crack, thunder claps.
Natives knock their bamboo sticks in challenge.
I can’t fight it...I’ve got to do it...I am opening my eyes!
The Cockerel
Trespasser in territory of smaller birds,
a deviant lone cockerel perches
on a winter bare branch,
wraps himself against a gathering gale,
attention fixed on some distant point
visible only from this icy height.
More magnificent this act than his
jaunty summer trips to our gardens,
feathers shimmering, feasting on nuts.
Like an ancient withdrawn from the tribe,
he seems determined to meet it here
as the sun sinks in darkness behind him.
A Lamb’s Tale (Children’s poem)
With wobbly legs and wriggly tail,
I am born in a winter world.
Along with the bright daffodils,
my arrival heralds the Spring.
I soon grow strong and love to play,
gambolling and racing the gang
along wire fences and stone walls,
guzzling mama’s milk when thirsty.
My twin and I like nestling close
with our four black propeller ears
and two heads nodding off to sleep
with mama resting by our sides.
I have blue numbers on my fleece
my mama has the same ones too.
Another mark splashed on my side
shows I belong to our master.
His sheep dog, Bess, does his bidding.
To his whistle, she rounds us up
moving us to greener meadows
or up to the heathery moors.
Summer makes mama lose her coat,
white wisps of wool float in the air.
She is glad when her fleece is sheared
and she feels the breeze on her skin.
The day comes when some of our flock
are taken off by my master.
Mama says we have been chosen
and when spring comes around again
I will have dear lambs of my own.
Lost gloves
In a bleak landscape of ochre and green,
a tiny pink glove dangled on a reed,
forlorn flag waving for its missing twin.
Quite near to this, another orphaned glove,
patterned with polka dots, precariously
perched on a reed swaying in the cold wind.
Waterproofed walkers plucked them from the mud,
loathe to leave them in this deserted place -
hope flying in the face of all the odds.
This is a work in progress - trying out of the pantoum form.
Celebrates our Lancashire village packhorse bridge, upon which I stand
and meditate most days:
Sturdy stone bridge arching our village brook,
your narrow back has borne many a load.
A long time ago, weavers’ clogs rang out
as they marched to the mills in the valley.
Your narrow back has borne many a load.
The rough road threw up dust in those hard days.
As they marched to the mills in the valley,
clacking looms echoed in their deafened ears.
The rough road threw up dust in those hard days.
Women’s skirts were long and hems draped in dirt.
Clacking looms echoed in their deafened ears.
Sign language was one of their many skills.
Women’s skirts were long and hems draped in dirt.
Life was not easy but it was happy.
Sign language was one of their many skills.
Villagers knew each other, good and bad.
Life was not easy but it was happy.
Churches, pubs and hills to climb for fresh air.
Villagers knew each other, good and bad:
Comings, goings, births, marriages and deaths.
Churches, pubs and hills to climb for fresh air.
A long time ago, weavers’ clogs rang out.
Comings, goings, births, marriages and deaths.
Sturdy stone bridge arching our village brook.
Water Cycle (the etheree form of poetry)
Clouds
Cirrus
Cumulus
and their offspring
whipped by air currents
into cyclones and hail,
tornadoes and hurricanes,
thunder, lightning, funnels at sea.
Heat from the sun brings vapour and mists
starting the cycle all over again.
