A trickle of water
on a bed of pebbles
nourished by nothing,
sheltered by the trees,
one drop
to quench the thirst,
the rains descend,
drench the forest
while mountains weep
and streams tumble,
all engulfed in a torrent,
tumbling down the cliffs
barreling its way
down the gorges
till every pebble
lies submerged,
the once deep gully
now fit to burst
with white surf lashing
the undergrowth
as the rapids explode,
lay claim to the soil,
the bushes, the brambles,
the mud, the mole hills,
their veins burst, spilling
lifeblood of the earth
across the soaking forest,
down to the river,
and even the fish
are swept up
and get lost
in the long grass.
Sunday, 7 April 2019
Saturday, 6 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #6: Last Minutes of the Day
Concrete's cold embrace
stretching out to meet the sky.
Grasping at the clouds
with fingers of steel and glass.
The towers of commerce
caressed by the last rays of day,
an orange inferno bathing the rooftops
but shading the streets.
The vacant shop fronts
with hooded figures in sleeping bags
shivering and hunched over,
silhouetted by the glow within.
The trains clatter along aching tracks,
the seagulls swoop and dive
in the space between the towers
until at last the inferno
is swallowed by the hills beyond
and the city lights take hold.
Friday, 5 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #5: Heron Waiting
The shadow of death,
the grim reaper on rail-thin legs
looming over the lowly pond
like a feathered crane with cold eyes,
only no fish would willingly
let themselves be carried off
by the heron's yellow jib.
A grey ghost wading through the water
as if walking through walls.
The fish remain undisturbed,
gazing up from the green depths
seeing nothing but the reeds.
Then a blinding flash,
the grey shadow strikes,
takes off on silent wings.
the grim reaper on rail-thin legs
looming over the lowly pond
like a feathered crane with cold eyes,
only no fish would willingly
let themselves be carried off
by the heron's yellow jib.
A grey ghost wading through the water
as if walking through walls.
The fish remain undisturbed,
gazing up from the green depths
seeing nothing but the reeds.
Then a blinding flash,
the grey shadow strikes,
takes off on silent wings.
Thursday, 4 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #4: Sleet
The weather's not sure, should it rain or snow?
It's supposed to be April, time for spring,
but it seems the forecasters don't know
that spring sunshine can be a fickle thing.
year's worth of frozen ice falls en masse.
For anyone out in the open air,
they should've just given this one a pass,
for the sleet will bring its wrath to bare
on all humans, mammals and birds alike.
Ice in my shoes, in my coat, up my nose,
what madness told me to try and hitchhike
through such freezing chaos I'll never know.
Be sure to check the next weather forecast.
You can never be sure if spring will last.
It's supposed to be April, time for spring,
but it seems the forecasters don't know
that spring sunshine can be a fickle thing.
year's worth of frozen ice falls en masse.
For anyone out in the open air,
they should've just given this one a pass,
for the sleet will bring its wrath to bare
on all humans, mammals and birds alike.
Ice in my shoes, in my coat, up my nose,
what madness told me to try and hitchhike
through such freezing chaos I'll never know.
Be sure to check the next weather forecast.
You can never be sure if spring will last.
Wednesday, 3 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #3: Wild Goat Chase
Nothing about me seemed that special.
I'm just like any other Kashmiri kid.
Wandering the Great Orme with my herd,
grazing amongst the blooming orchids,
white fur and a beard as scruffy as any other.
A tuft grew out between my horns
and suddenly I was a marked goat.
Shenkin IV they named me.
Chosen to fill a vacancy I didn't know was going,
passed an interview I didn't attend.
Soldiers dressed in deciduous patterns,
white feathers atop their caps,
called out to me through the trees.
I wondered in those feathers
were their way of trying to blend in with the herd.
Still, I gave them the slip.
If they wanted to make me a fusilier
they'd have to earn my service.
I darted here and there, to a fro,
across the headland and through the thickets,
their whistles and entreaties useless.
My mother taught me not to heed mimicry.
How amusing to see allegedly trained troops
defeated by a four-footer for four weeks.
Being on the run was time-consuming,
but then a man with a dart gun caught me out.
Now I find myself a fusilier.
My sergeant's given me my own uniform
to make me part of this human herd.
Soon I'll meet something called the public
with my harness and silver headpiece on.
Maybe I'll get to march by the Orme sometime
and let my old herd know I'm still here.
I'm just like any other Kashmiri kid.
Wandering the Great Orme with my herd,
grazing amongst the blooming orchids,
white fur and a beard as scruffy as any other.
A tuft grew out between my horns
and suddenly I was a marked goat.
Shenkin IV they named me.
Chosen to fill a vacancy I didn't know was going,
passed an interview I didn't attend.
Soldiers dressed in deciduous patterns,
white feathers atop their caps,
called out to me through the trees.
I wondered in those feathers
were their way of trying to blend in with the herd.
Still, I gave them the slip.
If they wanted to make me a fusilier
they'd have to earn my service.
I darted here and there, to a fro,
across the headland and through the thickets,
their whistles and entreaties useless.
My mother taught me not to heed mimicry.
How amusing to see allegedly trained troops
defeated by a four-footer for four weeks.
Being on the run was time-consuming,
but then a man with a dart gun caught me out.
Now I find myself a fusilier.
My sergeant's given me my own uniform
to make me part of this human herd.
Soon I'll meet something called the public
with my harness and silver headpiece on.
Maybe I'll get to march by the Orme sometime
and let my old herd know I'm still here.
Tuesday, 2 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #2: The Coils of Dread
The coils of dread, diamond shape scales,
coils looping round a spade-shaped head,
eyes scanning all the jungle trails,
the coils of dread.
The snake glistens, skin freshly shed.
Against its strength few beasts prevail,
the python kills with no bloodshed.
Against it most other snakes pale.
It haunts a path few beasts dare tread,
unwinds, strikes like a whip or flail.
The coils of dread.
(Today's poem is a roundel, a form devised by the poet Algernon Charles Swinburne. This one was a bit of a challenge due to the fact that all the lines apart from the refrain need the same number of syllables, but I think I managed to get something out of it.)
coils looping round a spade-shaped head,
eyes scanning all the jungle trails,
the coils of dread.
The snake glistens, skin freshly shed.
Against its strength few beasts prevail,
the python kills with no bloodshed.
Against it most other snakes pale.
It haunts a path few beasts dare tread,
unwinds, strikes like a whip or flail.
The coils of dread.
(Today's poem is a roundel, a form devised by the poet Algernon Charles Swinburne. This one was a bit of a challenge due to the fact that all the lines apart from the refrain need the same number of syllables, but I think I managed to get something out of it.)
Monday, 1 April 2019
NaPoWriMo #1: The Winter Tiger
In the windswept forest of ice and snow,
in the mountain blizzard and the winter's cold,
a spectre of stripes glides through the tundra.
Other creatures clear the way for her,
the terror of the northern reaches.
Her fur a tapestry of tawny and black,
a roaring fire amidst the white haze.
Her den cradled by the roots of an old pine,
the fallen cones scattered outside.
A hare crosses the threshold,
hears a rumbling growl within and flees.
The mother tigress shelters her newborns,
blind and mewling, against the arctic chill.
Soon the hunt will call to her again,
and she will haunt the ice once more.
(Yep, we're off on the NaPoWriMo adventure once more. Who knows where it'll go this year, but we'll soon find out with the next installment tomorrow. See you all there, and to my fellow poets, good luck!)
in the mountain blizzard and the winter's cold,
a spectre of stripes glides through the tundra.
Other creatures clear the way for her,
the terror of the northern reaches.
Her fur a tapestry of tawny and black,
a roaring fire amidst the white haze.
Her den cradled by the roots of an old pine,
the fallen cones scattered outside.
A hare crosses the threshold,
hears a rumbling growl within and flees.
The mother tigress shelters her newborns,
blind and mewling, against the arctic chill.
Soon the hunt will call to her again,
and she will haunt the ice once more.
(Yep, we're off on the NaPoWriMo adventure once more. Who knows where it'll go this year, but we'll soon find out with the next installment tomorrow. See you all there, and to my fellow poets, good luck!)
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