Tag Archives: micropoem

On Camber Sands

sibillant squeals,
insistent, persistent:
parent-pestering young gull,
close-following, food-demanding,
noisome, brain-numbing:
nature’s survival ploy

seconds tick, cries continue,
minutes pass with constant mews;
unsated hunger; wanders wide;
wonder of wonders! parent flies,
youngster follows, peace returns:
save for surf’s hiss, bliss now reigns

but I still hear it

Tell me what

Sissinghurst Castle estate

Tell me what you think
I’ll tell you about your time in the future
Tell me what you mean
I’ll tell you what I have done for you
Tell me what you want
I’ll be doing the same thing again

Will there ever be
a meeting of minds
or will we forever be
passing strangers?


Lines partly generated using predictive text, followed by my response

Week upon week

Careful what you wish for.
A proper summer? Hot days
with wall-to-wall sunshine?

False memories of winter:
cloudy skies, gun-metal grey,
lashings of rain curtaining down.

Was it always like that?
Or were there blue skies in between?
And now we have week upon week

of parched lawns, diminished rivers, moorland fires and painful sunburn, sleepless nights and short tempers.

Bring back a touch of winter:
promise-crammed clouds of black and grey,
replenishing streams, greening grass,

dampening moorland, cooling skin
and brows. Blessed, blissful rain.

But careful what you wish for.

He lay there

He lay there, there in the room
where he’d had his office,
where his papers, neatly filed,
filled the folders boxed up on his shelves

He lay there, there on his back
as though snoozing, skin so sallow
for all the embalmer’s art,
silent, chinless, still judgemental.

Did I feel bereft? Or merely empty?

Would I no longer suffer an appraising glance,
a carping comment or a critical silence?
Would I still be found wanting, a vaporous wastrel,
failing any potential I ever possessed?

He lay there, there in the room
where he’d had his office,
where his still body, sweetly smelling,
filled the coffin, a box to himself


Piece written for creative writing course on poetry, the brief being to compose a poem based on a personal experience

 

Doggerel days

So autumn comes to southern climes:
bid farewell now to summer,
the best of times. The worst of times?
When fingers get much number.


Dog days are the really hot days of summer when Sirius the ‘dog star’ briefly appears before the sun dawns in the northern hemisphere. Doggerel days can be at any other time

This piece of doggerel was inspired by a post on the blog Gert Loveday’s Fun with Books.