Thursday 28 September 2017

Happy National Poetry Day!

Hi guys. So it's National Poetry Day once again, and to mark it this year I haven't got much in the way of poetry. At the moment I'm still working on getting the next installment of Frynwys Features and the first installment of Slam Poetry on the Spot finished. Hopefully those will be with you within the next week. However, I can't really mark today without something made of verse, so here's a short poem about that most universal of subjects, a mole trying to find his way home.

Underground Junction

A mole burrows home,
side to side like a hairy lizard.

He approaches a junction,
dank soil and worms.

Light is unknown to him,
whiskers are his guide.

They hit a worm on the left,
chilled soil on the right.

The mole scurries down the left tunnel,
the promise of a banquet awaits.

Friday 22 September 2017

Wildfowl

On a Wednesday, bleak and drizzly,
the pond surface hardly sizzly,
ducks dabble and watch as the world
goes by with the speed of a snail.

Not a single thing disturbs them,
yet the dawn of night rouses them
to prepare for the evening's rave,
for the evening's great pond rave,
a rave all the wildfowl crave.

They line the waters in their droves,
led by the Mute Swan Club of Stow,
with geese, grebes and moorhens galore.
A moulting mallard emerges from reeds

to begin his set intended to please
birds from Cardiff to Tennessee
who gather near the shallow shore
to hear what tunes the duck has in store,
sounds not heard on the pond before.

The mixer rises from the depths
where the sticklebacks would have slept
had it not been a Wednesday night.
Distorted honking and quacking,

with feathers ruffled and scratching,
the rave rages and rages all night
'till the return of the sunlight
and all the wildfowl take flight.

Monday 18 September 2017

Opening Doors

Just two quid on the counter.

The key to elusive peace
and eternal happiness.

One pint please.

Beyond the gates of heaven
the rivers flow down the steps,
and you can swim in them forever.

Two pints please.

Armour forms around the feet and arms
as the fire erupts in the bowels.
The walls high, stout, unassailable.
Flames melt the stone into a broth,
the fire becomes an inferno.

The rigours of the day
melt on sight when the king
sits half-on-half-off his throne.

A golden glass is his sceptre,
white froth forms his dripping crown.
Not so much riding as staggering into town,
throwing the gates open, claiming them
as his own.

Bouncers descend on his grace,
the king of the world never backs down.
He ends it face down on the concrete,
his liquor spilling from his can
into the cold gutter underfoot.

The fire burns out,
leaves its cinders behind.
They smoulder in the morning
and the world goes up and down.