Food For Thought, Perhaps

What does your letterbox eat?

Mine used to survive
on a sparse diet of envelopes.
It was healthy.

Now, it gets force-fed with flyers
from local fast food places
or supermarkets,
which it spews at once
onto my doormat,
as unpalatable...

And catalogues? They're
enough to give any door indigestion
as it tries to swallow their feast
of expensive purse-tempting pages.

But the menu alternates on lean days
with thin, pleading, plastic sacks
which expect a throw away
generation to feed unwanted items
to this charity, or that good cause.

So while I and my letterbox
are bombarded with ”Buy, buy, buy!”
the plastic bags keep coming.

I think I'll link this to Poetry Pantry... for some reason, all the Toads chose to ignore it last Monday...

Rictameter Rules

IGWRT's mini-challenge for Sunday is to write a nine line rictameter. The first 5 lines are very similar to a cinquain and  the pattern of syllables per line goes like this:  2,4,6,8,10,8,6,4,2.    The first and last lines must be the same.

Sunday;
by tradition
a day for radio
to subsume the senses
and ease into wind-down of the weekend
before the mind need remember
the next week's beginning -
heading towards
Sunday.

Prelude Part ll

Choices

Eleven Plus Examination; first milestone passed and signposts pointed to 'no-choice' choices - 
"Possible combinations of English: French: German: Latin?"
"Yes."
"Plus Greek?"
"No."
"Art: Needlework: Cookery?"
"Yes."
"Plus Shorthand and Typing?"
"No."
"Maths: Biology: Science: Physics: History: Geography?"
"Yes, yes, yes."
But only if The Arts were not first choice;  a 'no-choice' choice in action, curtailed by timetable restrictions and too few teachers, or too few hours in a day.


Summation

Life had come in six year slices;

first, a war torn, well populated family life:

second, a solitary, introverted world at school:

third, a dawn of self awareness, confidence

and growing realization of the enormity

of how much knowledge was on offer.

From  eighteen on, as if twelve years’ worth

of three-term-times-each had not been enough,

came another five-times-three at art college:

annual, pie chart segments, interspersed 
with dribs and drabs of holiday buffers

linking the rushing train of life and learning.

But the points changed

and sent me along a branch line -

to marriage, and children,

not the capital city of a teaching career.

Now whistle stop memories

halt at my brain station

as scenery blurs outside time’s window.

The engine followed its track to Now,

but  the train still holds fast to the rails…

Destination? Learning;  always changing.


This is the follow on from last Wednesday's Real Toad's challenge to write a prelude. :)

Prelude

The lifeblood of the classroom passed into my veins, that Easter Term in 1946. Chalk-dust, copybooks, inkwells, had scents which linked the chain of school days about my neck. They hung heavy, at the start. So much was new, as home became secondary and Teacher was the centre of the universe to the clusters of pupil-planets in orbit about her each day.

A gold star sat on a turned page when lessons went well… until knowing how, why, what, became an ongoing addiction… Where might this lead, if acquiring knowledge, passing exams, winning scholarships, meant  finishing the race to adulthood ahead of the crowd?

Written for IGWRT's, and it so happens a holiday snap of my great-niece and great-nephew fits the bill - sort of!

Real Toads

IGWRT's Kerry asks about a favourite poem. Although I have come across many more erudite examples of a poet's art, if I'm to be totally honest, I have to take you all back to one of my earliest childhood memories, in order to share mine.

It's called 'The Littlest One' by Marion St John Webb, and long, long before I went to school to read it for myself, it could reduce me to tears as an Aunt or a cousin read it aloud. It was right at the beginning in the book of the same name, which probably means it got read more often that those on later pages, but to this day, it remains top of my list.

The Littlest One

I'm sittin' on the doorstep,
and I'm eating bread and jam,
and I isn't crying really,
though I 'speks you think I am.

I'm feelin' rather lonely,
and I don't know what to do,
'cos there's no one here to play with
and I've broke my hoop in two.

I can hear the child'en playing,
but they sez they don't want me
'cos my legs are rather little,
an' I run so slow, you see.

So I'm sittin' on the doorstep
and I'm eating bread and jam,
and I isn't crying really,
though it feels as if I am.

Acrostics

Written for Poetry Jam

A Thought

Soak in silence brains which have been
Overloaded
And otherwise afflicted by too much noise
Killing the power of rational thought.


An Afterthought

Spiritual
orientation
always
kindles
imaginations
needing
grace.

It's All Go

Fallout

After the party once the guests leave,
the workers then set to and roll up their sleeves -
scrubbing the dishes or scraping the plates -
all of them in a row, next to their mates.
The washing up water sends up clouds of steam
and the washer-up wishes this was just a dream!


This week's Mag shows an illustration by Helen Ward, and I've played with a detail from it here, with thanks to the original artist and to Tess...and come next Friday, it will be fit for G-Man, as, including the title, it reaches the magic 55 number!

In Honour of Botticelli

Love Poem

Pastor Portle       
gave a chortle,
tipped his hat
then sat -

and smiled

beguiled
by what he saw.

No flaw
of nature marred his view -
for - in front of him stood you,
in all your glory;
what better point to end my story?!
For Botticelli's Venus is
undoubtedly a perfect Ms.

A late 55 for G-man , as well as a second poem for # 28 of NaPoRiMo :)
I must apologise to Doctor FTSE, who coined the name 'Parson Portle', which I , in my stupidity, transcribed as 'Pastor Portle' - perhaps they were twins?! Hehehe!

Foggy Frog Daze

"Save The Frogs Day is the world's largest day of amphibian education and conservation action," IGWRT's announces. In searching for some poetic inspiration, I got no further than the word which sits at the top of my 'poem' for today...To any serious scientists who take umbrage, my heartfelt apologies!


Archaeobatrachia
most primitive of frogs,
tiny by comparison
(so Mr Wiki logs)
with other leaping creatures
in ponds or streams or bogs.

Then I read about the origin
of our more modern frogs,
who are called Neobatrachia.

At this point, my mind boggles - I shall hide me 'neath a log,
and hope my brain cells will emerge from this Anura* fog - soon...

(*) Posh name for frog.

Quick As A Blink

IGWRT's Fireblossom transforms us into totem animals for her challenge, but showing versus telling is the hardest thing to do - not sure I'll ever get the hang of it, to order, but I fancied feeling owlish today, so here goes...

Predator

Day dazzles me;
my senses twist
in search of night,
whose mysteries turn my head,
listening for your scuttlings...
Are you already fleeing
towards deeper darkness,
overwhelmed by my menace?
Does fear beat the air like wings
as I rise on its lift of excitement?
Hunger takes control
and the hunt is on...

Not Again!

Wouldn't you know it?

The second I put the shampoo on
somebody rings the bell!
I could wish that they were gone
straight to the gates of ...well,

somewhere else!


A detail from this week's Mag - a painting by Jamie Wyeth - for which inspiration, I thank him and Tess.

Friday Flash Fiction

The wind came, late last night. It blew against my window panes, making them creak.  Shrieking at me,  it told of spending fretful days, weeks, months,  battling invisible elements circling the Earth: of being born and dying many times over, in many guises: of being at the mercy of cosmic forces beyond control of science...

In 55 words, for G-Man

Boys Will Be Boys

Accusation and Explanation

"You did that!"

"No, I didn't!" the little boy replied.

"Yes you did, I saw you. Don't go away and hide
behind the cupboard in the hall - I saw you scribble on that wall!"

"But I was only 'tending my arms were air'plane wings,
and I was looping lots of loops, and other swoopy things.
An' then I seemed to notice I'd got crayons in each hand
an' squiggly lines had happened. None of it was planned
to end up on Mum's kitchen wall...I just don't understand!"


Theme Thursday's word 'Accusations' set me off on this flight of fancy! Hehehe! Sorry for the levity, folks...

Pen's Pen

I take my pen

in hand. No matter what the day

I take my pen,

those inner urges come again

to organise my thoughts to say,

"Whenever I feel need to play

I take my pen!"

 Over at IGWRT's, Marion nudged us to jump to it and compose a rondelet. How could I resist? Even though I already posted my # 16 NaPoRiMo!

IGWRT's Mini Challenge

This challenge is from hedgewitch, who says;-

Because Sunday is normally the day for our mini-forms challenge, I'd love to challenge people to write from any one of Sorolla's paintings, employing their favorite of the many short forms we've been exposed to here at the Garden over the months: haiku, slijo, senryu, nonet, sevenling, triolet, cinquin, or any of the many others Kerry and others have shared with us. This is purely optional!

Mother by Joaquin Sorolla

 

 

Radiance
wraps babe and mother;
love-light.

 

 

 

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...