Lilac and Lavender

Early Lilac Blooms by Kim Nelson

Poem In Three Parts

Bouquet of flowers
enfolds me in soft embrace.
A meditation.

          ***

I breathe in scents of lilac and lavender,
light perfumes drifting in violet haze.

But dreams cluster round like fragile old ladies,
their shadow-ghost beings gentle relics of time,

while memories, frail as paper-thin tissue,
hover and whisper through the length of my days.

          ***

Maiden Aunt's
lavender and lace
disguises
a life lived
in quiet expectation,
minus surprises.

Her bouquet
speaks flower language
with no words.
Its beauty
engulfs both eyes and senses
in admiration.


Linked to Poets United, with thanks to Kim.

15 April 2013 I have found later edits of two of these, like so:-

Casualty of War

Her token
lavender and lace
disguises
a life lived
in quiet contemplation
of a secret admirer.

His bouquets
once used the language
of flowers
to show her,
by their bashful eloquence,
his love and admiration.

But the war
stole his life from him
and left her
with nothing
but memories, as fragile
and elusive as perfume...

Haiku

The perfumed posy

enfolds us in its embrace.

A meditation.

Birthday Boy

Kerry, at IGWRT's, has asked us to celebrate the month of April, Wordsworth's birth month, and she asked that we start our offering with some of his lines of poetry. Here goes!

To Wordsworth, April and Nature

"Come forth into the light of things,
let Nature be your teacher."

Use this chance to be her friend;

make haste to go and greet her!

Let’s celebrate the birthday month

of Mr Wordsworth, William,

and honour golden daffodils

that moved him - in their millions!

Nature in the raw can be

a harsh and cruel lady,

but April, dancing in with Spring,

is sunny, warm - though shady,

if cloud-held showers follow close

about her flowered gown

as she charms old Winter’s blues

with her golden crown.

Perhaps throughout the day, or later, I may come back to add some more verses... but no promises...

Challenging!

It has taken me until today to attempt Fireblossom's Saturday challenge of writing free verse, an aspect of poetry I have never studied.  I shall post it for IGWRT's Open Link Monday, instead, and pray for leniency from all who read. :-)

A Quiet War

Silence flails my ears,
beating my brain,
buffeting it with bullish bravado.

My senses need a shield
against his arrows of anger
as old wounds reopen
to bleed memories.

Love's life force ebbs
before a tide of antipathy
and swamps me with sadness
as history repeats
like a record stuck in a groove.

Work To Rule

Fireblossom is asking us to do just that today, over at IGWRTS, so how could I gainsay her? Pop over to read her rules and regulations for the game, and let the fun commence.
Here is my instant offering. 

To write a poem in this way
is certainly a change,
so other chores in line today
I'll have to re-arrange.

Stop,
take time to think!
Now
abandon kitchen sink!

Take pen and paper right away,
get your grey cells working.
Ignore those silly folk who say
you are only shirking!


I have taken my own advice, and this is my fist poem in reply, but I may be tempted to come back with more, later in the day! Thanks, Fireblossom. I like a challenge to start the morning...

And now here's mark 2, where I've only paid attention to the syllable count, not set rhythms or rhymes.

See, in the loneliest of times,
how solace may arrive
from many unexpected sources?
One need but welcome it...

Peace.
It's soft comfort
heals
all levels of being.

Descending softly as darkness
cooling a parched country,
it can give us true contentment
if we only allow.

Does this make it 'free verse' do you think, or only 'syllabic verse'?

Permission To Speak?

In sidewalks
of my secret mind
merciless
dreams entice,
seek your permission to speak,
to be understood.

My questions
flicker into life,
sweltering
in the heat
of simple disapproval
which you radiate.

Tangible
as a bulldozer.
this assaults
my feelings,
demolishes dignity
with biting silence.

And silence
clamps my every thought
and exacts
punishment
when no crimes were intended
from the very start...

Written for IGWRT's  Wednesday prompt..

A Little Madness Goes A Long Way

Phantasmagoric?
I am not euphoric
at finding this word
so absurd
when I say it,
display it
on a page...
Outrage
at its hard hitting
syllable-splitting
rhythm is what
is not
pleasing to my ear,
dear.
So pardon my straying
while saying
how I feel
for real?
"I hope laughter
will follow after
reading",
say I, pleading -
notwithstanding -
for understanding!

Written in a moment of madness after reading IGWRT's prompt today from Laurie Kolp.

Supremacy

From Google Images 
( photographer unknown)

Snow-silent,
high lord of Winter
dream-whispers
messages...
"I hold the key to Springtime;
I am still in charge."

Unyielding,
icicle fingers
grip the land,
hold hostage
impatient plants and flowers.
"You will pay me heed!"

"Acknowledge
my supremacy,
my power
and my right
to rule at this time of year.
The season is mine!"

He blusters,
until the warm air
from his lungs
brings downfall,
as its heat beckons the Spring
to approach his realm.

Then anger,
like melt-water, fades,
and a truce
is achieved,
while the Earth spins on its course
and balance returns...


Written for IGWRT 's Open Link Monday

All's Well That Ends Well

"Tingling!" of a bell summoned the maid
with her prim white apron, starched and staid,
as gown and bodice it overlayed.

"Open the window", the little girl said
"I need a breeze to cool my head
while I lie here in this rumpled bed."

" But what ails you, mistress mine,
on this day so fair and fine,
when all are greeting summertime?"

And she drew the curtains, swish and swish,
and opened the window, feeling churlish.
"What will such laziness accomplish?"

"For lazybones you are, I say!
You're no more sick than I this day;
let's get you up and out to play!"

And through the window beamed the Sun.
"Come follow me; we'll have some fun
You'll soon feel better, little one!"

His sunbeams danced across the floor.
"Well" said the maiden. "If you're sure.
I'll meet you soon, outside my door!"

Written for Mary over at IGWRT's

Christmas Pastiche

How could I resist the prompt from Kerry on Wednesday's IGWRT? With Christmas looming, I collected five card designs I'd created over the years, put them together in one 'frame', then played with various computer options until, of a sudden, appeared this almost-not-quite 'Greetings' word in festive season red...

The top third reminds me of bookshelves, with volumes arranged by colour, where you will be able to add all the new books Santa Claus will put in your stocking on the twenty fifth.
 
The centre section depicts two, clear weather patterns - ice and snow to the left, rain and mist to the right.  I apologise for ignoring the fact that some parts of the world revel in sunshine at this time of the year, but many of us in the Northern Hemisphere are only gifted with these wintery options!

And the lower, third part? Well, greetings card to the left, and mulled red wine to the right! What more can I say? Have a good one, folks!

The Last Day Of November

And another chance to practice our counting skills for Mr Knowitall, otherwise known as G-Man, who rations us to a mere 55 words on a Friday, as his way of making sure we Bloggers do not become overly verbose!
Fat chance!
However, fifty five he says, and fifty five I have written, after peering out of my window this morning for inspiration...

Frost on grass this bright morning signals Winter has arrived. A smile of sunshine greets his presence, but warns him to take his time, not to be too hasty with bitter winds, ice and snow.  For December has yet to take the lead and guide him towards the New Year, when the coldest months thrive.

All New Perspective?

An interior designer from Crewe
thought he had found something new
when his squiggles, in stripes,
made him squirm with delight,
until Santa crawled out of the flue!

Created for Tess at Mag 145, thanks to her image found here.

A Good Night For Wreckers

There was none of the usual crisp cleanliness about the moonlight. It entered the coast-guard's cottage in the way that warm breath becomes visible on a cold night; a presence which comes from nowhere, hovers in the air like phosphorescence for a moment before it disperses and lets the blackness rule...
Outside, rising winds chased clouds which raced from their grasp like naughty children evading bed time.  But there was no fun attached to their game.  Instead, a sense of foreboding was tangible in the air that night.

Thanks go to Tess and Andrew Wyeth for their inspiration at  Mag 144

Witchery!

Halloween's coming! The witch-hag is nigh!
On hovering besom high in the sky,
with cloak and with hat, see her silhouette fly!

A familiar black cat perched on the handle,
ears all a-twitch, long tail a-dandle,
watches the stars, each bright as a candle.

Mewling spells to the moon, he fills us with fear.
So, remember, children, it's best you steer clear
of fast flying broomsticks once Halloween's here!

For IGWRT. One from my archives of two years ago.  Time flies, as well as witches! 

The Eyes Have It

Once again, I have been seeing things, thanks to Tess at the Mag 140.

Human brains
will search for faces
everywhere;
even when
the result produced is odd,
we are satisfied.
Scientists
will probably try
to explain
why this is,
but do we need to know?
We can just enjoy!

Fourteen lines, and then some...

I never did like people with red hair;
at school, it was not long before I met
one so afflicted with this colourful
attribute, that she glowed like a candle,
burned the skin of any who came near,
with words of ridicule, or unkindness.

From that day, I catalogued the colour
as one to be avoided at all costs.

When I cried, my Mother would comfort me,
tell me to ignore the flying insults
or teasing words of Mary Pond. Her name
follows me to this day, while my Mother's
dark, auburn hair has long since dimmed and died
and all but faded from my memory.

Before my first baby was born, I prayed
“Please, let it be well – and not be ginger!”
I got my answer.  She had long, black hair;
but in three days, it turned to bright copper...
Love laughed loud.“So much for old prejudice.”

IGWRT's challenge  today got me writing. After fourteen lines, the flow of thought was interrupted, before I added another five. Now, I'm not sure whether I should have stopped at fourteen? Does it feel complete to you too, at that point? I wonder...

Tantivy, Tantivy!

At the local meet,
pink coated riders gather,
scarlet blood-lust fuelled.
They talk of cross-country trails
and the best route to follow.

Horse and hounds move out,
a pack in pursuit of prey.
Horn sounds"Tally-ho!"
and the cavalcade sets off
in haphazard formation.
 
Frightened animal,
alert, outwits the hunter.
Tail remains intact
as the harrowing day ends
and fox has won the contest.


For today's IGWRT, thanks to Hannah, and Peter Trimming's Photo.

The Last Word

“I’ve not telephoned you for a long time –

this is a dreadful line –

can you hear me clearly, Rosemary?”

“What’s that?

You’re not Rosemary? “

Where is she then?

Oh...dead!

Pardon my mirth - IGWRT wanted a 30 word drama , and I couldn't resist a little black humour. Sorry!

The Script

Our book of life falls open at a page
whereupon we write our stories daily,
with tracery that weaves our souls’ intent
into the fabric of the words we choose;
ours the choice to seek the light, or dark inks,
used to embellish the script of our play.

We have to take the leading role. Each act
supplies a cast of characters for us,
without whom our production would be dull,
a monologue in shades of monotone
uniformity.  So raise the curtain,
let the orchestra play the overture,
as we stand in the wings of a stage, set
with painted backdrops poised to shape our lives.

This is one of my poems re-worked, linked today to d'Verse

Fantasia For A Wet Monday

The world has clothed itself in misted grey
as each damp day mimics the one before.
All memories of warmth and sun recede
into the mists of imagination.

But crystal rain beads line each graceful leaf,
as though the plant had decked itself with gems,
before attending some illustrious
gathering, a high society ball
to be held in a fairy-dream garden... 

There, diamond studded spider's webs are strung
to light, in place of cut glass chandeliers,
the mossy dance floor. Woodland elves and sprites
will make full use of this bosky ballroom
while Lady Moon looks on and smiles, content.

Others flights of fancy may be found in this garden, too!

The Eyes Have It

 Mag 136 is playing with our minds this week, as an opulent swirl at centre stage dazzles us with colour. But all is not what it seems...thanks to Tess and David Salle.

 

Look hard and you'll see
how this came to be -
a flip and a stretch,
et voila! A new sketch.

Hands up all those
who would not suppose
two faces would stare,
under pink or blue hair?

War Baby

from an original photo by iMac, with many thanks

I came from a wailing siren:
from bomb-blast air:
from searchlights streaking black-lead sky
as dragon flames burned the stars.

I came from a salt spray wind,
while warships rippled silver trails
through calm seas,
or climbed storm mountains.

I came from a close-knit fear,
from family sardine squeezed into a shelter
where humour blanketed horror
and spread a kind of calm.

Linked to The Poetry Pantry today, and IGWRT on Monday.

Altered Perception

In slow time,
the colours of day
receded
further from
his mind's imagination,
painting out the scene.
Night left him
feeling out of place,
but aware
his body
was insubstantial, could fade
into nothingness,
as nightmares
combined to close ranks,
battalions
of grey ghosts
marching in hushed formation
towards the sunrise.

Inspired by Mag 132, with thanks to Tess & Andrew Wyeth.

Falling Star

Blue ink sky
writes a new story
with each star.

When one falls,
read of its journey
across time;

tracery
scribes an epitaph
as it dies.


Written for Haiku Heights

Ships That Pass...

by mailratocero.com

My family members are off on their hols
they're zooming around the globe.
One lot is coming, the other is going.
We all keep in contact by 'mobe'.
Sometimes we manage, despite the mad rush,
to say ‘Hello’, even while passing
betwixt here and there via boat, plane or train…
travel can be so harassing!

A holiday 55 for G-Man!