She’s hunting the corridors In her once splendid gown Now, just sad tatters of brown Retracing her steps, as countless times before
Where once there were eyes Is now pits of black sorrow Knowing there will never be a bright tomorrow The house echoes with her cries
She will never again hold her children close Or see them thrive and grow Never again see their smiles Or guide them through life’s trials Never again hear their laughter Or have the joy to care and look after
A mother’s love never dies Keeps her searching forevermore Trapped here on the lonely moor Even as the centuries flies
ps. I have become aware that in some browsers this blog is experiencing what is called the white screen of death. I’m working on figuring out how to fix it. ds.
Some say I should curse my love, for making me become this. That I should have refused her hand, as I lay dying on the battlefield. I say she swooped down and saved me, took me to the fields beyond. Gave me new meaning and eternal love.
So what does it matter? How I look, or the horns I bear. I bear them proudly, without feeling their weight. They are a sign of my prowess and courageous heart. Of her giving me part of her essence, meaning she’ll always be near.
Now we fly the skies together. From afar seeing what becomes of man. Diving down to pick up, those that no longer have flesh hands. After we have them delivered, we fly back to our fields. In the soft twilight, there is no need for armour or shield.
There we lay together, exploring the way to each other’s bliss. So truth be told, I’ve never been happier than this.
When inspiration strikes, whether it’s convenient or not, I try to write. And few things are as good at waking my muse as the pictures curated by Paul Brooks over at The Wombwell Rainbow. See all images and read other responses to the Folktober Challenge here.
A glimmer of hope and faith Let’s seeds of hope germinate Growing tender shoots Sending out questing roots Searching for purchase in the arid plain Watered by tears of grief and pain
Growing stronger each day As the soul realizes she may Free the muses to let creativity flow Allow faith in budding ability to grow Trust in the Goddess boon Receive nourishment from sun and moon
Evolve according to the season Follow the heart’s bright beacon Until passion sings in the blood Flowing freely, transforming the lifeless mud Into rich and fertile earth Where a scarred soul might find rebirth
I have a dream Of all earth’s children Cherished and loved Fed and clothed Happy and safe Free to fantasize and play Allowed to dream Educated to think for themselves Regardless of gender, faith or colour Free to choose whatever their hearts desire
When the world outside is quiet and calm The choir of voices singing in my head Fills my being with the singing of psalms The echo sounds of dreams I long thought dead
Passions stubborn spirit refuse to shed Visions burning clear in my thirds eye’s sight My core even though abuse has me bled
My walls can no longer contain the light
The choice becomes, slowly die or shine bright Trust there’s life time left for another choice Spread my battered wings and let dreams take flight Believe there’s stories to tell with my voice
Let truth be my shield and my words my spear My pen the fire that burns away all fears
This is my fourth Sonnet in April. And my first ever Spenserian sonnet, which has a linked rhyme scheme of ABAB BCBC CDCD EE.
I still feel sonnet’s are harder than some other forms, or I’m more intimidated by them. Due to their Shakespearean connection. Meaning I feel like a novice poet like myself has less right to venture into such prominent territory. Such are the silly traps my mind makes for itself. I mean I have no problem venturing into other classical forms.
This is the first time the pentameter felt natural and not overly forced, although keeping all the feets iambic still eludes me. I also had an instructive fun time reading up on the Great Comets of 1811 and 1819. Especially the first of those, that was visible to the naked eye for 260 days must have been a real marvel. Leaving many impressions in culture, for example in William Blake’s miniature painting The Ghost of a Flea(below).
Somewhere in the golden dusk a tawny owl calls From another direction wooden wind chimes makes a dull sound Over at the pub there’s cherry voices Comforting homely noises I lean against the ancient stone wall Exhaustion pulling me to the ground I’m just gonna rest my eyes for a minute
~I’m awakened by a trumpet~
Over the hill comes the crest of a centurions helmet The air fills with the sound of marching feet The rattle and clang of weapons and armour I scramble for my bow and arrows They fill the air like a flock of sparrows The romans have come to another tribe uprising meet Certain their might will make them the victors
I learned the Puente form just yesterday, and as I so often do, had to write another one as soon as possible to get a feel for the form.
It can be both rhymed and unrhymed, both mine and rhymed, but with different rhyme schemes. This one has the following rhyme scheme: abccabd d defggef.
Inspired by all three works of art for today. To read all poems go to The Wombwell Rainbow.
The Sky Is Filled With Voices by Kerfe Roig
Jane Cornwell
likes drawing and painting children, animals, landscapes and food. She specialises in watercolour, mixed media, coloured pencil, lino cut and print, textile design. Jane can help you out with adobe indesign for your layout needs, photoshop and adobe illustrator. She graduated with a ba(hons) design from Glasgow School of art, age 20.
She has exhibited with the rsw at the national gallery of Scotland, SSA, Knock Castle Gallery, Glasgow Group, Paisley Art Institute, MacMillan Exhibition at Bonhams, Edinburgh, The House For An Art Lover, Pittenweem Arts Festival, Compass Gallery, The Revive Show, East Linton Art Exhibition and Strathkelvin Annual Art Exhibition.
Her website is: https://www.janecornwell.co.uk/
John Law
“Am 68. Live in Mexborough. Retired teacher. Artist; musician; poet. Recently included in ‘Viral Verses’ poetry volume. Married. 2 kids; 3 grandkids.”
Old lady who’s homeless who goes into spoons for a coffee every night by John Law
The lad was sad, so sad Because vegetables was all he had Grow on the sill to his tiny pad
He wished, oh how he wished He had some coin for meat or fish Something to make a filling dish
But his mind was set, firmly set He would give something to the homeless old lady he’d met She smiled like his nan and called him pet
So he gave her a salad to eat Then offered his bed, so she wouldn’t sleep on the street Don’t want to burden, she said, but thought him sweet, so sweet
I really felt devoid of inspiration yesterday. Nothing came to me, so what did I do?
I started with the salad picture, listing what I imagined I saw. I mean is it a cucumber or a zucchini? Small tomatoes or radishes? I decided upon salad of some sort, cucumber, sweet peppers and radish. Then I started rearranging the letters in each word to see which words I could find. Then I let that list of words stew in my mind as I went to dance class.
On my way there I was one of the people who alerted the staff in the local traffic about a passed out homeless guy, who looked like he could use medical attention.
When I came home I wrote the poem above. Which made me quite sad to tell the truth. I wish, oh how I wish, that solving the problems for homeless people were as easy as writing a poem.
John Law
“Am 68. Live in Mexborough. Retired teacher. Artist; musician; poet. Recently included in ‘Viral Verses’ poetry volume. Married. 2 kids; 3 grandkids.”
Into the Mirror (remembering Marisol) by Kerfe Roing
Women appearing perfect everywhere Painted, coiffed, pushed up and laced tight Waiting for admirers to gawk and stare Balancing on spikes as if ready for a fight
Painted, coiffed, pushed up and laced tight No trauma, scars or sorrow the mirror shows Balancing on spikes as if ready for a fight No brilliant minds or passionate hearts glows
No trauma, scars or sorrow the mirror shows Every advantage brought to the fore No brilliant minds or passionate hearts glows Polished dolls hiding so much more
Every advantage brought to the fore Waiting for admirers to gawk and stare Polished dolls hiding so much more Women appearing perfect everywhere
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The world according to RedCat 