NaPoWriMo #14: Grand Old Boar of the Dean

The forest harbours many

a strange thing.

From the ghost deer

on the bordering fields,

to the fire squirrels

in the strangling branches. 

Then there are the boar.

The great sounders saunter through the trees,

rooting out roots and bulbs,

the treasure under the soil,

with tusk and hooves

while the white-striped piglets

huddle in the shadow

of a weary old elm.

Grand Old Boar of the Dean,

seen many a challenger approach,

and sent them all fleeing.

Many a hunter took a shot,

just one made a near-miss,

skimming the hairs of his greying mane.

Now he rests in spring shade,

dappled under the canopy,

tusks broken, eyes half-open.

His patrol of the wood will commence

for one last night

when the nightjar starts calling. 

NaPoWriMo 13: Dead End

Glass holds a moving image,
trapped in a continuum,
never free but always moving.

Tethered by a business suit
collared by a white starch shit,
looking out past the city-scape
to a dream caught in the wind.

Choked by the overhead noose,
desperate to be set loose
the shadow of the street upon them.
Scores of maybe friends
smile and dissipate into the night.

They stand by the traffic lights,
on windswept rail platforms,
pigeons perusing the detritus.
Maybe one day
the track forward will clear,
the lights may change.

One day.

NaPoWriMo #12: Dracoraptor

Dragon thief,
forbearer of the tyrant lizard king,
dredged from the cliffs
in a many-layered casket.

Feathered fiend
shore dweller,
red from head to tail-tip,
like the serpentine fire-breather
adorning the flag of its resting place.

Still growing
before the rocks entombed it,
yet still the oldest creature
from the era of the giants,
a tenacious herald
of the giants to come.

NaPoWriMo #11: Twmbarlwm Tribe

The spring light bathes the ancient Celtic fort,
a forgotten tump sat atop a peak.
Nondescript, no markings of which to speak,
yet within its walls are tales of a sort.
The Romans on the plain would try and thwart
the tribe from the woods playing hide and seek.
Against the legion their prospects were bleak,
but on top of the hill they held court,
decided to make the forest their shield.
Subterfuge became their weapon of choice,
they'd strike and disappear into the green
to the phalanx of Rome they'd never yield.
A sentry on the hill yells at full voice,
the army approaches but not unseen.

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.)