NaPoWriMo #10: Wanderer

Wild gales whip the Southern Ocean,
spraying salt and surf asunder
across the waves,
an invisible conductor
of an Antarctic opera.

A cross-shaped glider,
black wings against the clouds,
a pink bill and ice white feathers.
The mother albatross soars above
the thrashing sea,
barely moving a wingtip,
glides through the theatre of her struggle,
her mission's end in sight.

On a blizzard-besieged hillside
a mess of black down,
his bill as pink as his mother's,
huddles against the chill,
weathering the winter alone
till a familiar shape plummets
out of the freezing tempest.

The chick feasts on what scraps
his wandering mother could scrounge,
meagre offerings from the unyielding waves.

Not long now,
and the ocean will call her away once more.

NaPoWriMo #9: Eyes of the White Pointer

Seals dare to dither in the churning sea,
in the depths lurk silent silhouettes
about to embark on a killing spree.

For just offshore is a ferocious threat,
a black-eyed creature half shadow half ghost,
in the depths lurk silent silhouettes

of gleaming teeth. The great white of the coast,
the dead-stare shark, yet very much alive,
a black-eyed creature half shadow half ghost.

The white pointer looks up then starts to dive,
its massive bulk lurches out of the gloom,
the dead-stare shark, yet very much alive.

The white shark rockets up, herald of doom,
it snatches its prey, leaps above the waves,
its massive bulk lurches out of the gloom.

The surf churns, the ocean now a red haze,
seals dare to dither in the churning sea.
It snatches its prey, leaps above the waves,
about to embark on a killing spree.

NaPoWriMo #8: Reduced to Clear

A house, empty of all
but the echoes of memories.
Settees and chairs
with no more guests to host,
the kettle's hiss quenched,
an oven turned empty chamber,
the living room, once vibrant
with raucous laughter,
similarly silent.
The memories of generations,
what the retailers would call
reduced to clear,
sitting on display stands
till the "for sale" sign disappears
and the offer expires.

(Today's poem is inspired by a prompt from the NaPoWriMo site which asked for a poem turning jargon used in a professional setting into some kind of metaphor. Whether or not I achieved that here is up for debate.)

NaPoWriMo #7: Torrent

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.

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. 

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.

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.