This is my blog (now there is a surprise!). I will be sticking in it poetry, prose, random musings, things that take my fancy and more than likely lots of pictures of cats. I hope you find something to amuse and/or interest you here.

Thursday, 28 April 2011

Summer Field.

Across the windswept plains of flowing grass
the shadows of the clouds go flowing by
and bending stems make waves as breeze gusts pass
while seed heads rattle softly as they dry.

The toasting sun turns grass to winter’s hay
and fires scarlet poppies into bloom
as butterflies go dancing on their way
and buzzing insects swiftly zip and zoom.

One shadow flickers rapidly in sight
and stays in place despite the pushing air
the hovering of sparrow hawk in flight
its sharp eye scanning for some prey down there

a flashing dive and rabbit shrilly cries
to shatter peace as death strikes from the skies.

Playing with English sonnet style.

Tuesday, 26 April 2011

One Shot Wednesday

Although it is actually still Tuesday in my part of the world....

Following on from Monday and the Prosery work, i has been playing with meters, spondees and trochees.  Possibly the off terror-dactyl if I did but know it, I'm sure Gay will put me right.....

Pop over to one shot Wednesday to see what other people are up to...


Dreamy days
sunlit haze

Off boating
just floating
and gloating.

Idling by
bright blue sky
hours fly.

No worry
no hurry
no flurry.

Sailing on
troubles gone
peaceful one.

Monday, 25 April 2011

One Stop Poetry Form – Prosody Week Two

Another great article on prosody from Gay here:
Go have a look!

Well, I have learned something this week.  I am as clumsy on my literary feet as I am the ones on the end of my legs.  Ah me.
I have aimed for trochees, please tell me if I have hit or missed by a country mile......

Gentle breezes cooling sunburn,
teasing strands of heat-browned grasses,
carrying the scent of rainfall
from the distant purple hillside.
Waking once again the gurgle
as the sun-baked stream bed trickles
with the coming of the water,
slaking arid, dust dry surface,
polishing the leaden pebbles
into glowing, jewel-toned treasures.
Soothing sounds of renewed plenty
as the drought at last releases
desiccation’s harsh constriction
letting forth the verdant flourish
as the parched and wilting plant life
drinks again from Freyr’s bounty.  

Sunday, 24 April 2011

Taking Flight

 I wrote this for a picture inspired story contest.  I can't include the picture due to copywites but I hope the story stands alone.  The maximum word count was to be 1500 words.

Third row, seventh column; being careful to tread only on the paved squares, she found her assigned place, and stood bare foot on the bare soil.

No full ceremony with row after row of brethren linking, today Tyrr was here alone. The fresh tattoos of her rank in the brethren still smarted in the chill air. Today she must link and find her own answer; she must learn her name. In the dormitory, her fellow fledglings would be waiting their turn, rehearsing the correct procedures over and over in their heads, as she had. In the refectory, the brethren were waiting, greeting each successful initiate and welcoming them to full status. A joyful party she longed to join.

Gradually, she brought her breathing under control, slowed her racing heart and focused on what she was here to achieve. Piece by piece, Tyrr filled in the image in her mind. There, the tree of knowledge. Overhead, the birds, messengers of the air. Her breathing became slow and rhythmic, and she forgot the cold soil beneath her feet, the sting in her face and shoulders, the restless stir of the wind.

The image in her mind was so real she almost flinched as the bird brushed past her face. It was right, it was good. Relaxation and a sense of purpose flowed with her breathing.

Then there was a second layer to the image. A building, a great hall shimmered in her sight, gradually solidifying until the tree and the birds were gone. Tyrr was surrounded by solid stone.

Moving without moving, she passed grand statues, grave, impartial figures which appeared to by judging her. This was not under her control, this movement, this vision. Tyrr thought she should be afraid but her emotions were numbed, blanketed by a soothing calm. She was not here to do but to see and learn.

Through more archways she moved, then into a hall. The stone was no longer grey but a luminous, soft gold. The sourceless light focused on the raised dais and the lectern standing as its centre.

Her feelings flooded back. Tyrr shook with the terror and awe that ricocheted through her soul. Her movements were under her control again. She quivered with the urge to flee, to run from all this. This was not what she had been taught to expect.
The tree of knowledge, yes. The birds, yes. Even the bird who had skimmed her face, yes. That bird should have landed, should have whispered her name. But this? This was terror. Unknown and unasked for. By now, she should have been Tyrr no longer. She should have been back in the refectory, feasting and celebrating her new status with her friends and fellows. Not here, not in this unknown hall. Not crushed under this terrible weight of foreboding.


It wasn't a voice, this command from nowhere. It filled her with knowing yet it was knowledge beyond her grasp, hovering at the edge of her mind like a forgotten memory.


The force of it nearly dropped Tyrr to her knees. What was the choice she must make? Grasping her tattered courage, Tyrr took a deep, ragged, cleansing breath to steady herself. Turning her thoughts back into herself, working to regain control. After a brief fight with her inner demons she brought her attention back to the hall in which she stood, calmer and more in control, if no less afraid.


The feeling was gentler, more approving. The fear lessened a shade.


No need to ask what. Tyrr moved with a firm, slow step towards the dais. The stone steps were cool and smooth under her bare feet and she wondered now who had trodden here before her. Whose feet had worn these smooth depressions in the stone?

The light thickened around her as she moved towards the lectern. The glow became blinding in its intensity, but Tyrr knew she must not shade her eyes. She forced her way through the solidifying air. On the lectern in front of her was an open book. The writing was the old script, with illuminated lettering so ornate the words could be lost in the elaborate pictures.


It was clear Tyrr was to read aloud.

Tyrr felt the air swallow her words. She had projected them to ring off these stone walls yet they seemed to vanish as she spoke them, leaving her with no memory of what she had read. The book looked the same and yet the words could no longer be read, they held no meaning.

'So be it.'

This time, the feeling came as regret; sad yet resolute.

'It is time.'

And the bird landed on her shoulder, there by the tree of knowledge. The stone halls, a dreamlike memory, were gone, leaving her doubting what she had seen. The bird's beak parted and it whispered a word.


Her name. She was successful. She was a full initiate.

Tathinal stepped from the soil and walked towards the refectory. Reaching the entrance, she returned her mentor's silent, smiling greeting. They entered the preparation room together and Tathinal relished the soothing touch of the warm water as her mentor helped her wash. A smile so wide it made her face hurt came as she was robed for the first time as an initiate, fledgling no longer. Now nothing could remove her from the brethren. No act could change her status. Oh yes, there could still be punishment for transgressions, and she was still one of the lowliest of the low within the brethren, but her status in the world was set.

Her mentor indicated that she was ready and, with a waved arm and smiling bow, ushered her into the refectory. Time for her first public announcement. For a split second her poise deserted her and her knees trembled. Ridiculous. Sternly she regained control. All she had to do was say her name.

'My name is Tathinal'

Silently, she rehearsed it in her head. Simple. Four words. So why this sudden fear?

At her mentor's questioning gaze she shrugged, smiling wryly. Her mentor repeated his earlier gesture with a reassuring grin. He had seen all types of reactions to this moment, she guessed.

The swirling, laughing group paused, turning to look at her as the gong's soft chime announced her entrance.

Tathinal stood tall and faced the assembly. Into the welcoming silence she spoke so that all could hear. The words that came from her lips were words she did not remember; words she had said once before, standing at a lectern in another silent, expectant room.

'Behold, I am come. I am the destroyer, the changer, the reaper and the one who sows. I will bring down and raise up. I will remove and replace. I am the past and the future, the present will fear me. All things will be done anew. All endings will come and all beginnings start. I bring terror and destruction; there will be no peace until my work is done. Do not fear me, for I must be. My name is Tathinal, the necessary one.'

In silence, they turned away from her, forming into ranks.  The Hawkmaster moved to face her, bowed, then took his place at the head if the files.  It was her only acknowledgement.  The Brethren followed him out through the arched doorway, out of the building.

As the marched to the sacred ground, the last of the fledglings, herded by their mentors, stumbled to join them.

The deathly hush continued as the hallowed spaces were filled. Each of the brethren moving to their place with solemn deliberation, linking with practiced ease. 

Tathinal walked along the diagonals, not stepping on the sacred earth, lightly touching each person.

Finally she returned to where the Fledglings were huddled in uncertainty.  

‘Go.  You have no place in this.  Yours is a beginning not an ending.  Start it now.  Leave.’

They stared back at her in blank incomprehension.


Her shout broke the spell and they ran.  She did not look where they went but moved to stand in the space she had occupied earlier.   Bowing her head, she linked with her Brethren.

Behind the fleeing youngsters, Fledglings no longer, flames exploded outward; engulfing the sacred ground.  Greasy smoke rose skyward, thickening into the form of great black crows. 

The Brethren flew.

One Stop Sunday Photography Interview: Greg Laychak & Poetry Challenge

Taking the
One Stop Poetry Sunday Challange

Thanks to Greg Laychak for letting us use this thought-provoking picture.

What Do You See?

What do you see before you?
A long bleak corridor, a wheelchair,
Old age bowed and frail
Bound by grey walls and defined by grey hair.

What do you see before you?
A freedom fighter battling away,
Fighting for independence
The battle getting harder every day.

What do you see before you?
A thing to pity, patronise?
Out of place in the modern world,
Just an anachronism in your eyes?

What do you see before you?
The knowledge of the years,
Skills and techniques learned,
A lifetime of old joys, laughter and tears

What do you see before you?
An old woman in a chair?
Do you see a person?
Do you actually see that it’s me?

Friday, 22 April 2011

Dodge's prompt for Thursday, a day late!

Today's Prompt is Crapsey cinquains (Reverse+butterfly+mirror)

We are trying something new and are not sure of how well it can be done, so for today's prompt you may choose to do one or all of the following Crapsey cinquains ...

Right, thanks JL.  Make it easy for us why don't you? (lol).

Since it is Easter, how about this?

retelling the Easter story
of life everlasting
the redemption
of man.

when a man died
a religion began
as sacred blood fell from the cross
He died
and rose again in His glory
son of man, Son of God
the redeemer

He died
in agony
crying to His Father
pleading for the Lord’s forgiveness
for us.

He came forth from the rocky tomb
bearing God’s forgiveness
redeeming us

Air - a sedoka

A sedoka consists of two unrhymed three-line stanzas, each with a syllable count of 5 - 7 - 7.
Often these stanzas go at the same subject from different perspectives, but that is not a requirement.

Gaseous mixture,
oxygen and nitrogen
with trace carbon dioxide.

Blithely whimsical,
diaphanous and dainty
personified by the sylphs.

Thursday, 21 April 2011


Yesterday was water, today had to be fire.  I will have to work my way through the elements!

I am the lightning spark,
the brightness in the dark,
I make the rainbow arc.

I am what you see by,
the sun up in the sky,
I make you warm and dry

I cook the food you eat,
I am the source of heat,
I make the ice retreat.

You seek to subdue me,
look how tame I can be,
working at your decree.

I free metal from ore,
turn sand to glass and more,
I am a tool of war.

I can rage in passion,
spread in rapid fashion,
I have no compassion.

I can turn life to ash,
turn wild in just a flash,
I sting like a whiplash.

Death, destruction, sorrow,
these things always follow
everywhere that I go.

You need me, you’re near me,
you try hard to steer me,
but always you fear me.

Wednesday, 20 April 2011

WOW.... ( Words of Wednesday) over at Dodge Writes

 Dodge says:

For our prompt today we are trying ...The ZaniLa Rhyme... a form created by Laura Lamarca. It has a minimum of three stanzas and no maximum poem length. There are 4 lines per stanza and the rhyme scheme for this form is abcb, with a syllable count of 9/7/9/9 per stanza. The 3rd line is written as a conjunction and this line repeats at the 3rd line in each stanza, but each time the order is switched up. For example, if your 3rd line is: Make me belong and sing me a song, then you'll repeat it in the 2nd stanza as: Sing me a song and make me belong .





A truely evil form I think but I had a bash:

 No More

There must be an end to mindless hate,
thoughtless, careless emotion,
to find true peace and for wars to cease,
to bring an end to this commotion.

Hate may be the opposite of love,
piercing, twisting, nasty knife,
for wars to cease and to find true peace
we must stop this pendulum of strife.

Extreme, irrational emotions,
nursed into a hate-filled flame,
to find true peace and for wars to cease,
these are the kind of things we must tame.

Hold your hand, your tongue, that hasty word,
that throws fuel on the fire,
for wars to cease and to find true peace
before we perish on that last pyre.

There is no glory in starting war,
destruction and death abound,
to find true peace and for wars to cease
we need to find neutral common ground.



I have danced within the clouds above,
torn the sunlight into rainbow shards,
dropped to earth to wash the dusty ground.
run across the land in joyous speed.

I have been a part of oceans deep,
foamed and frothed on waves of stormy seas,
forced down deep into the earth below
bursting forth again in a sweet spring.

I have been a part of so much life,
surging through your veins at restless beat,
running in the rising sap of trees,
then exhaled to rise up high again.

I can break cement and shatter walls
wear away both concrete and hard stone
ooze in tiny spaces, there to freeze
and expand,  destroying  with cold spite.

I am part of the great dance of life,
endless circle swirling through the days,
none can live unless I’m part of them,
I can cleanse or kill with equal speed.

Trying blank verse for a change for  One Shot Wednesday week #42

Monday, 18 April 2011

15 words or less

Dodges prompt for todat, with the cue word 'Stress'


There are rules associated with the award which are...
1) Link back to the person who gave you the award... (done)
2) Tell 7 things about yourself... (err)                        
3) Award 15 recently discovered bloggers (tricky!)  

Okay.  7 things about me:

  1. I have an I.Q. of 157 acording to Mensa.
  2. I get on better with cats than with people.
  3. I spent 20 years working as a Train Announcer on the Railway.
  4. I suffer from mental illness.
  5. I am clumsey and accident prone.  I have only had minor injuries from accidents whan awake, the worst being a broken fingure when I was five.  While asleep I have sprained my neck on two occasions, broken a toe, sprained my shoulder, dislocated my thumb, concussed myself, torn two intercostal muscles, scratched my cornea and blacked my eye.  I am somewhat of a restless sleeper.
  6. The only animals I can't get on with are equines  the hate me, I dislike them.  This has been going on since I was bitten and kick by a Zebra at the zoo.
  7. I love singing and frequently sing without realising I am doing it.  My brain tends to sing the song it thinks suits the occasion, not always appropriately.  I was caught singing 'Busy doing nothing' at work by my manager, who was not amused.
In the spirit of this, I give the award back to JL.  Versatile she certainly is!
Three more are:
  1. Helena (http://helenasmemorybox.blogspot.com/)
  2. Jinksy (http://pens-poems.blogspot.com/) 
  3. Susie (http://countrysidepoet.blogspot.com/)
Thanks and well done to all three.

more shadorma.

Well, I tried.

So here’e the Poetry Form challenge for today~ transform one or both of the following  poems into shadorma form.

My response to Rainy Day Jersey by Dustus.  - Sorry Dustus!

Out of time,
coffee drinking scribe
fits no more,
while rain pours,
short on money, sleep and dreams.
full of tortured hope.

Sunday, 17 April 2011

Triple shot for one stop.


Thanks James!   Great photos and a great challenge.  I stuck after the first three.

An anchorite within my cell,
amid a green and leafy dell,
in scenery that I know well,
as here alone with God I dwell.

Sit here with me and rest a spell,
to hear the stories the birds tell
tales that were old when Adam fell,
with truth that rings clear as a bell.

You see a tiny prison cell,
dark and bleak, a cold, hard hell.
You see only the outer shell
you miss the peace in which I dwell.

Your body may be in the ground
one thing is sure though, this time round
I finally can have my say,
this time you can not move away.

I told you to take time to chew,
that food would be the death of you,
I just wanted to let you know
I get to say ‘I told you so’!

It’s got to be the underground,
that rushing, swooshing, rumbling sound,
antique equipment all around.

With escalators stuck on stop,
no other way up to the top,
you climb on ‘til your ears go pop.

Then engineers slowly appear
and start to tweak the ancient gear
repairs for the Olympic year.

Somehow we will all muddle through
as England always seems to do
when faced with doing something new.

Next year, when thousands come to see
how good the London games will be,
somehow it will work perfectly.

Thanks to James Rainford for the use of his great pictures.

Later additions below:

See the pace at which I fly
in the billowing of my tie.
My jacket flares with the speed
with which I rapidly proceed.

I have no time to stand and wait,
no time to just anticipate
I smile and race through life with joy,
I’ll taste the world, I’ll not be coy.

The fortress was old, its walls had stood
through the ages, sieges and long onslaughts,
resisted arrows as only stone could,
protected wealth, position and thoughts.
His defences were breached with no shed blood,
just long, blonde hair, pink top and grey shorts.

Yes, I know.  I did all five in the end.  I just couldn't resist them.
I'm in a strange mood today, I think it shows!

What I did on my holidays - part 1

Whoo hoo!  Holidays!  No work for a week.

Well, not paid work anyway.

Instead, I am tackling my garden.

We moved into this house a year ago last December.  I swore I would giv it a yar to see what I wanted to keep and what to change.  So, it is spring and I am making those changes.
I am a 'fits and starts' gardenr with green fingures and black thumbs.  Thus my success is erratic.

I have just finished day one of the project, or rather, it has finished me.  technicallt it is day two as I have already spent one day on this.  What I am doing is taking down a laurel tree that block the view down the garden from the house.
This is the view from our window.  The tree nearest the house is a 'Tree of Heaven'.  It is near the end of its lifespan I am told but, with the help of a good tree surgeon, we are nursing it along.  It is a beautiful tree but has one bad habit, it produces a chemical that kills anything that is planted near it.

The view from the top of the steps down from the decking.

The view from by the brick shed, still looking towards the willow at the bottom of the garden

Whoever planted the garden must have loved trees because the planted quite a few.  apart from the Tree of Heaven, we have a mature weeping willow (which is looking sorry for itself having had to be pruned severely last summer), a rowan and a couple of small trees I don't know.  Unfortunately, they have been badly neglected.  I spent £2000 on a tree surgeon who has got them back into some sort of health and shape but the are all over 50 years old, the willow and the Tree of Heaven were probably planted when the house was built in the 1920's.

I had the decking rebuilt last year.  The ground slopes sharply away at the rear of the house, the decking atsrts level with the rear door and finishes 5 foot off the ground!  That makes the slope about 1 in 3.
The whole garden slopes, although not all at that rate.  I am trying to decide whether to terrace it or not.  Terracing would make access easier but seriously increase the cost and workload.  One thing I do want to do is open up the view.  It is a narrow garden but long.  The trees and bushes block it off and make it look very small and dark up by the house.

So, what have I done today?  Not a lot that you can see.  Behind the tree arching over the path, there is a laurel bush/tree.  This blocks most of the light from the house end of the garden so I am taking it down.  I probably need to use a chainsaw to do it properly but I haven't got one.  I am also broke so getting someone to do it for me is not an option.  I have spent two days on it and am about two thirds of the way through.  Mind you, a day is only about 3 hours long.  After that my strength gives out, along with my knees and ankles.

Hopefully, I will be fit enough to finish it tomorrow but I can not be sure.  The vertigo I am undergoing at the moment is really taking its toll.

Friday, 15 April 2011

For JL - a villanelle

Couldn't resist the rhyme in the title.  This is JL's prompt.

I love to hear the birds singing
and sit and watch the flowers grow
with all the joy of life springing.

Watching feathered flyers winging
as gentle breezes softly blow
I love to hear the birds singing.

So rapidly they are bringing
nest making things from high and low
with all the joy of life springing.

So soft, it’s like bluebells ringing
the chirps they’re making as they go
I love to hear the birds singing

And plants join in with wide flinging
of flowers and leaves that fresh glow
with all the joy of life springing.

See the new nests tightly clinging
far up high where they scarcely show
I love to hear the birds singing
with all the joy of life springing.

Not my best form.

Thursday, 14 April 2011

a Dectina Refrain. or two

who’s that
looking back
from the mirror?
Sure, the face is mine
but those eyes hold secrets.
bland, show little, round old face.
But the eyes, veiled behind glasses
look dark shadowed, bleak, lost and haunted.
So, who’s that looking back from the mirror?

my father
reflected back
Looking at my face
and seeing his shadow
ghosting in my reflection.
He shaped my personality,
left demons in my soul and my mind.
Shock,seeing my father reflected back.
I think this form is growing on me.

In response to  Write a letter Wednesday @ http://write-a-letter-wednesday.blogspot.com/ write a letter to the person you see in your mirror! 
and Dodge's Today is WOW.... ( Words of Wednesday)

Wednesday, 13 April 2011

One Shot, Two Targets.

 Shared for Oneshot Wednesday, though I have cheated and put in two as I couldn't ignore the second one.

Going through some old paperwork, I dug out some writing  I did some time ago.  I have resisted the urge to edit it and left it as it was.

Mother Earth

I know why we call her Mother Earth,
we treat her with the lack of worth
of children who don’t see the strain,
the worry or the constant pain
that’s present in their mother’s eyes
when faced with their demanding cries
for toys and treats beyond her means,
repaying love with tantrum scenes.

Children who, with children’s greed,
see a want to be a need
and money from their parents steal,
not seeing future fears as real.
Happy to have contentment now,
never worrying about how
mother pays for the clothes they wear
or feeds them when her purse is bare.

Then, moving into teenage years,
mock a mother’s loving fears,
destroying things they don’t want now
never caring when or how
replacements will come into being
when, in time, a need their seeing
for mother will provide at need,
 her duty in the teenage creed.

Mothers are old, and the old, you see,
don’t feel like the teenage you and me,
they are not human, they don’t feel pain
or understand the teenage brain.
Mother’s rule of taking and giving
ruins what makes teenage life worth living.
Mother has no wants and needs no care
For mother is mother, and will always be there.

And if we eventually outgrow
our mother’s home and off we go
to new homes circling the stars above,
will we remember our mother’s love?
Will we remember the care she gave?
Visit, reclothe her, her dignity save?
Or leave her circling until the sun’s end
stripped bare as the moon, her barren friend?

and this one, the title speaks for itself.

September 11th 2001.

We didn’t set out to be martyred,
we didn’t think we would die.
So, when you think of us and remember,
don’t be ashamed to cry.
None of us could have expected
the fate that we would share,
we went in fear, pain, acceptance,
terror and in prayer.

We were not killed for our faith
or our nationality,
because we worked for oppression
or served in the military
but because some people, in arrogance,
deny our idea of ‘Free’,
using religion to mask their intolerance,
faith, their rigidity.

So don’t assume your way is right,
standing hard and fast in pride,
the result of this kind of thinking
is why we thousands died.
As a tree, to withstand the raging wind,
roots across a wide range,
freedom must also have a broad base
to withstand the winds of change.

Turning away, remember those
who survive but suffer still,
those left frightened or lonely,
injured, maimed or ill.
Our suffering is over and gone,
ceasing at our life’s end,
but remember each of us was also
parent, child, partner or friend.

Tuesday, 12 April 2011

which came first...

Two weeks ago I had a migraine.  Not one of my asymptomatic 3 month headache jobs but the full blown, multi-sensory experience with flashing lights, hypersensitivity to noise, tactile distortion, dizziness and nausea. 

Fortunately, after a few hours of what one of my college friends insisted on referring to as 'shouting for Hughie down the big white telephone', I managed to keep the medication down long enough for it to kick in.  After that, apart from a tendency to walk into things and stagger a bit, it was almost normal working.  Okay, my mouth and brain were out of sync. and I still wasn't entirely sure what vertical was but I could manage.
One week later and I was still wobbling around.  The best way to describe it is that it felt like my brain had turned to liquid.  When I moved my head, I was fine until I stopped, then my brain sloshed back and forth like coffee in a cup until it reached equilibrium.  Fed up of this, I went to the doctor.

After prodding, testing, looking in my ears and eyes, taking my blood pressure (normal), she chirps brightly: 'a virus'.

So I get seasickness pills(??) and the usual instructions to drink plenty of fluids and rest.  Sorry, lady, I have a job I need to keep and I can't afford time off at the moment. Work it is.
So, another week down the line and I am still in the same state.  I go back to the doctor and what do I get as a diagnosis this time?
Look,doc, I am wobbling around.  Customers are telling me I should take more water with it.  I work in a job where I am not allowed to think about alcohol for eight hours before going on duty, let alone drink it.  I could get tested for drugs and alcohol if anyone has reason to think I have had a drink.  To be found to have had a drink is instant dismissal, no pension, no appeal.  Being thought to be under the influence is not good.  On top of that, I am finding it very difficult to read computer screens or paper and my co-ordination is completely shot.  I struggle to form a complete coherent sentence and am so light sensitive I tried to put clip on sunglasses on my specs when I already had a pair on.


Carrying on from yesterday, another quick Shadorma

 Am I?

Holding hands
now reality
of being
we are here
but when you are not by me
do I still exist?

Monday, 11 April 2011


Our friends at onestop offer up another form for me to massecre today.  Come and learn about it here.

Monday One Stop Poetry Form – Guest Host Anne Welch – Shadorma

Personally, I am not sure if I like it.  It seems a bit more like diced prose than poetry to me.

 Still, I tend to favour form and that is an arguament that can run and run forever while having all the validity of oil painters fighting watercolourists over which is best.  Art is where you find it. 

Anyway.  Three trys.  I hope it isn't three strikes and I am out, lol.


Surely not,
This simple line form
cannot be
so simple,
there must lurk some unseen twist
I have failed to grasp.

Spiders web
decked in diamonds
lacily draped on hedgerows
arachnids’ larder.


Dawn chorus
soloist leads in
others join
building sound
glorious cacophony
announcing morning.