Cricket

One tends to picture cricket as

a gentle game. The green of grass,

a sunny day, men dressed in white

stand scattered on the field of play.

The rise and fall of bowler’s arm

is echoed by the moving bat.

a timeless moment seems to pass

before the sound can reach the crowd.

And then you see reality,

The sweating bowler charging in

 to hurl the ball with frightful speed

towards the batsman’s careful guard.

The solid click of bat on ball,

or thump of leather hitting man,

perhaps the shouted, anxious call

‘Howzat!’ will echo round the ground

and one lone man is made centre

of all attention, ‘til he makes

the gesture they’re all waiting for.

The fielders celebrate while one

lone figure sadly trudges back

to where his team-mates sit and wait.

Or, perhaps, just a shake of head

will greet the shout, then bowler turns

and trudges of to start again

his paced-out run.  And in a match

where every ball that’s bowled must count,

the scampered run will get a cheer

as big as test-matches hit six

The muttered chants of ‘ten off four’

will hold spectators minds, intent

on seeing if their team can win.

I’ve come home from some matches hoarse

with shouting at batsman’s stroke

or yelling at the fielders drop.

Some days are gentle, and the match

will dwindle into lazy draw

but then, for every game like that,

I’ve seen one where my heart has raced,

my body tensed and every ball

has gone so fast I can’t believe

a day has passed so speedily.

Posted for A Saturday Celebration: Let The Games Begin on One Stop Poetry.
I'm practising blank verse

Friday Poetically with Brian Miller

Friday Poetically with Brian Miller

    Pop over to the site and see a fantastic and inspirational story.  It is about Chuck Close, an artist with an unusual painting style.

Painted Life

Too close, stand back and you will see

that life is just a tapestry

and we are all the little spots,

the picture-painting colour dots

who build to make the patterned work

in which a thousand stories lurk.

Each has its place, each little dab

has purpose here, however drab

the life that made the mark may seem

when standing next to golden gleam.

Bold and bright or soft and small,

history’s picture holds us all

Grief and Loss - a sonnet

This grief is such a fragile thing

and shatters into sharp-edged knives

spearing so deeply into lives

already lashed by losses sting.

Each shard spears deep in memories

to make old pictures bring forth tears,

so pain will reach back through the years

and lacerated moments bleed.

In time grief’s growth gets slow and frail,

the fragments dull and bite less deep

so memories don’t make you weep

as vibrant sadness starts to pale.

For time will dull the sharpest blade

and deep-carved scars will slowly fade.

Prayer

For One Shot Wednesday.

I’m frozen by the icy chill

of loneliness, that leaves me still

and bitter to my inner core

while feeling I can take no more.

I stand and offer up a prayer

and suddenly I feel you there,

your arms protect me from the storm

and finally I thaw, I’m warm.

High Octain

Luke does a far better job of explaining this form than I ever could so please go to

One Stop Form – Octain week 2 – Guest hosted by Luke Prater

to understand it better.

Thanks Luke, for the challenge and the advice.

Wind

The changing wind tears through the trees

whose thrashing branches flog the air

which flees, loud wailing in despair

The anguished branch so sadly sees

its ravaged leaves and, rocking, grieves

in mourning for the soft spring breeze.

Still pressure driven from elsewhere,

the wind of change tears through the trees.

The wind of change tears through the ease

of men just dozing in their chairs

ignoring all but little cares

It has no pity on the pleas,

what they believe gains no reprieve

when faced with inequalities.

When revolution’s pressure flares

the wind of change tears through the trees.

One Stop Poetry Picture Prompt Challenge.

Yet another brilliant interview on this award winning site: http://onestoppoetry.com/  visit and see for yourselves the amazing work of  Walter Parada.

 Thanks to Walter Parada for letting us use this picture for inspiration this week.

Do you claim victory?

Or is that scarlet flag

you wave so openly

just a blood-dripping rag,

acknowledging the need

for the fighting to cease

as dying soldiers bleed

to fertilise the peace?

Who claims the glory here?

Do you appeal for praise?

Or triumph with the fear

from all the dreams you raze?

Who wins when all have lost?

What price the victor’s reign

when set against the cost

of battle’s sanguine drain

Word Play

I have a hundred, thousand friends,

I spend my time with some each day,

they visit me in different blends,

and they will help me in my play.

At times they shuffle sullenly

and grudgingly move into  line,

they will not answer easily

and are reluctant to combine.

In times when I get rather fraught

my friends will hide and will demur

so I am left with poor support

from those old stalwarts, Um and Err.

But sometimes they will understand

my thoughts and gladly will agree

to line up in the way I planned

and then it's simply poetry.

Harvest moon

Dodge is trying her hand at the yadu, to learn more about it pop over to her blog. Dodge Writes.

I think I got it but only JL will tell....

Harvest moon lit

cloud wisps flit by,

stars sit behind;

bright, refined gems,

reminding me you see this sky too.

For One Shot Wednesday

It's Wednesday again so here is another work for One Shot Wednesday.  Unusually for me, its freestyle poetry.
Why not pop over to
http://onestoppoetry.com/and read some other peoples work?

I have a broken mind,
my paralyzed grip no longer controls
the dark emotions spewing forth
from the bowels of my soul
where festering sins erupt
letting forth the stench of rotten deeds.
You see the outward signs,
the tears and anger bursting forth,
noxious gases vented from
the pitch-black, rancid puddle
filling my mind and fouling my thoughts.
A viscous slurry of septic dreams
drowning unbirthed beneath the weight
of turgid doubts and misery.
So hopes rise briefly like bubbles
on the boiling acid of self-directed spite
and burst in the cold air of reality,
to fade again into the bleak morass
as tidal pull drags me back down. 

 

 

 

 

The Octain...

 A completely newform to me.  For more information visit out friends at:

One Stop Monday Form – Octains

Always a good place to go.

When black clouds ink the sky so deep

a granite hue it weighs life down,

 presses a smile into a frown,

so making clouds begin to weep,

a shaft of light , the sky turns bright,

there shattering, its colours seep

and paint the air a rainbow gown,

when black clouds ink the sky so deep.

Than out of the deep recesses of my mind pops:

My well of inspiration’s dry

I dip my thoughts into the space

where words should dance with fluid grace

and find a desert’s windy sigh

no poetry to refresh me

the pictures desiccate and die.

my pen is still, it can not race

my well of inspiration’s dry.

One Stop Poetry Challenge – the Photography of Fee Easton

One Stop Poetry Challenge – the Photography of Fee Easton

 Some woderful photo's this week and I get writers block.  Typical.

Thanks to Fee Easton for the use of the photo.

Poppies bloom early then fade to seed

before the scythe will reap the corn

the threshing harvester shakes the heads

and smoke-like black seeds billow forth.

Tiny seeds that fall to ground and rest

too small to separate from soil

and lie safely through the wintertime

under sheets of frost, snow blanket,

‘til springtime’s harrow turns the fresh earth

and wakes the dormant life within

to rapid growth of scarlet glory.

Poppies bloom early then fade to seed.

And because poppies always link to Remembrance Day in my mind;

Red amid the gold,

Poppies blooming in the field,

Signs there of a bumper yield

When the farmers their scythes wield.

Red amid the gold,

Memories of soldiers slain,

Flowers dyed with blood’s red stain

When the fields were ploughed again.

Red amid the gold,

Though the stories now seem old,

Still the message must be told,

Of the brave and good and bold.

Red amid the gold,

Not the war to end all wars,

Though they fought for that great cause,

Rights we must enshrine in laws.

Red amid the gold

Soldiers fight and soldiers die,

We must make sure we know why,

It’s too late when widows cry.

Red amid the gold,

Red for pride and suffering.

Red for all the death wars bring.

Red for shame at peace failing.

Red amid the gold.

And one for  Dodge's prompt:

Depression stalks through night-time dreams

where nothing is quite what it seems,

it harvests long held memories

and changes truths that one believes.

Childhood hometown quickly fading

into hell’s own masquerading

while stars dance through the darkened sky

despair arrives, chatting ‘Let’s die’.

From JL's prompt on Tuesday:

 Here at Dodge Writes we are once again trying a new form... the Shairi:

JL, this form is murder.  I'm not sure I got it but here you are anyway.

You shattered my heart and I fell.  You ripped up my soul, I felt pain.

Now my heart is spread the word wide. My tattered soul heals again.

The doctor’s knife lanced my soul, Now the poison’s gone, I am sane.

And my widespread heart, love has thawed.  No longer gripped by hate’s dark stain.

The Magali Shairi 
 

See below clouds, there rainbow’s arc?  With gentle brush, sun draws on sky.

So raindrops fall, to splash on earth,  Far up above, the paint’s not dry.

The birds curve through the light splashed bands, changing colour, sideways they fly,

Bending down low, nearing the ground, the colours bleed; fading, they die.

Now for something totally different:

Stop! Take a breath,

Why this vapid rushing to your death?

Why the rat race?

Who’s forcing you to live at this mad pace?

Stop! Take a while,

Look around, let something make you smile.

Pause in your race

To re-evaluate the dreams you chase.

Stop!  Can you see

How many things you’re missing as you flee?

Let others race,

I can live forever in this grace.

There is no hope for me.
I see the sun shine bright
and rejoice in the light
but there's no hope for me

I have no future here.
Where others see their days
reach into happy haze
I have no future here.

I hate the world I see.
Where entertainment's filled
with people maimed and killed,
I hate the world I see.

I'm tired of feeling fear.
When my every attempt
is mocked with harsh contempt,
I'm tired or feeling fear.

My strength is almost past,
The happy times I knew
were just a passing few,
my strength is almost past.

I've not the will to fight.
My fragile hopes and dreams
are smashed by other's schemes,
I've not the will to fight.

I long to rest at last.
Now getting out of bed
is just a thing to dread,
I long to rest at last.

I'll gladly leave this plight.
Where people love to hate,
emotions suppurate,
I'll gladly leave this plight.

There is no hope for me.
I have no future here.
I hate the world I see.
I'm tired of feeling fear.

My strength is almost past,
I've not the will to fight.
I long to rest at last.
I'll gladly leave this plight.

For One Shot Wednesday

Visit One Stop poetry for more peotry fun.

Dodges prompt: on muses and also a look at RHYME by Gay Cannon

Dodges prompt: on muses and also a look at RHYME by Gay Cannon

Just a bit of fun.  I am catching up slowly as I still have a stomach bug and can't eat.

Night Muses.

Calliope will visit me

in the dark hours of the night time

and taunting me with poetry

she fills my dreams with verse and rhyme

And when I wake and grasp my pen

to write those flowing lines I dreamed

I jot down a good verse and then

Thalia ruins what I schemed.

So I give up and doze again

in skips Erato, hand in hand

with Terpsichore in my brain

to full church choir and big brass band.

Polyhymnia hums a line

while Clio adds a background note,

Melpomene soaks us in brine,

her tears wash away all I wrote.

So I drift off to a far place

with joyful help from Euterpe

and end up so far out in space

Urania must rescue me.

what makes a good neighbour?

If you noticed my abscence yesterday, I was struck down by a sotmach bug.  I am still wobbly and can't eat anything but at least I can not keep water down.

When I moved into my new house, eighteen months ago, I was aware that there were two trees in the garden which needed attention.  One tree was frankly dangerous as it dropped hugh limbs everytime the wind was strong.  The second looked okay but I wanted it checked out.  Some branches were close to my neighbours properties.

So I did my research and found a good local tree surgeon.  Well, actually, a team of them since it was too big a job for one man.  Two thousand five hundred pounds late, the trees were trimmed, safe and thinned out.  My neighbours said they were happy as the tree surgeons and I had consulted them while the work was being done.  This had resulded in work being done on a third, smaller, tree to stop it overhanging the neighbours fence.

So for a year, everyone was happy.

Then on Sunday, my neighbour called to me over the fence to complain about the tree nearest the house.  She now demands that I have it taken down completely.  And why is this?  Not because the tree is dangerous. not even because it is blocking her light.  No, she wants it down because it sheds leaves onto her patio and because pigeons sit in it an make a mess on her patio,

Now it may be me, but it seems that by trying to be a good neighbour I have become a bad neighbour.  if I had done nothing about the trees, my neighbours would probably have grumbled amonst themselves and never mentioned it to me.  Since I had work done, I have become the villain for refusing to finish the job properly in their eyes.

I refuse to cut down a tree that is perfectly health and between fifty and eighty years old just because it is mildly inconvenient to a couple of people who haven't been here half as long.

So then I get accused of attracting mice because I feed the birds and my neighbour saw a mouse in her garden.  Now I store my birdseed in mouseproof containers.  And I have three cats, who often bring me mice.  They tend to discourage mice from nesting in my garden.  Also, these are proper little field mice, the tiny brown ones with the long tails.  They are not a major threat to health and don't tend to infest houses.  However, the field near the river by us has been recently receiving a makeover which has temporarily damaged some of the mice's feeding grounds, hence they are questing further for food than in previous years.  Now the work to make the field a protacted habitat is complete, I expect the mice to swiftly return to their normal living area, and, in fact, it has been over a week since my cats last bought me a mouse.

However, I am now being threatened with being reported to the council and environmental health people.

So what makes a good neighbour?

Rant over.

Happy Mother’s Day to everyone in America.

It is not Mother's Day here in England, we celebrate it earlier in the year.  I nearly didn't join in with today's challenge but I thought of this sonnet when looking at Dodge's Prompt, so here it is.
To explain a bit, my mother was trying to raise four kids in a three bedroomed house on very small income while also coping with an emotionally-abusive husband and an ailing, emotionally-abusive mother of her own who lived with us. Gran and Dad hated each other and both resented the time Mum spent with us kids.  At the same time, she was gradually losing her sight.

Mum.

When I was just a baby in your arms

you were the one who answered all my tears,

the source of all my joy, the one whose charms

would soothe away my hurts and all my fears.

In early childhood I aimed to please,

to gain the swift reward of your quick smile,

I saw each frown you wore with great unease

and sought to prove the love you gave worthwhile.

I was too young to see the pressures which

so filled your life there was no time for you

to spend some moments enjoying the rich

small pleasures that then were your due.

I’m glad we took the time in adulthood

to find this friendship we shall share for good.

For my friends from the PTSD group and for America's Mental Health Month.

Today's Prompt is Terzanelle 

See JL's blog for the description of this form. 

Thanks, JL.   This has been buzzing in my head looking for the correct form to come out in.

Soldiers Return

The soldier returns from the war

he has seen things no-one should see

he’s body whole but still mind sore.

Surrounded by his family

he can’t forget what he’s been through,

he has seen things no-one should see.

Although it’s normal things they do

they trigger harsh anxiety

he can’t forget what he’s been through.

Pressure builds degree by degree,

and anger and depression too,

they trigger harsh anxiety.

Then he finds help to build anew

his sanity free from the strife

and anger and depression too.

It’s not the same as his old life,

his sanity free from the strife.

The soldier returns from the war,

he’s body whole but still mind sore.

No decent person comes back from war uninjured, even if you can't see the wounds.

Fridays mixture

 Firstly a response to 

Friday Poetically with Brian Miller

Please visit this award-winning site.

Among the wind-rippled reed beds at morn

Bob the waterfowl seeking their breakfast,

Curlews curve their calling flight overhead,

Dawn breaks as the sullen sun heaves itself

Ever higher in the russet stained sky.

Flitting dragonflies flash rapidly by,

Gorging themselves on early flower blooms.

Hidden within the verdant waters-edge

Insects scrabble and chirrup their shrill call

Just within the threshold of audible.

Kingfishers flash their colours as they dive

Launching themselves from tree’s overhang.

Minnows scatter at the shock intrusion.

Nesting birds scrabble amongst the rushes

Overhauling their homes for a new brood,

Paddling speedily around the edge,

Questing for last years dried soft bull-rushes

Under the spears of spring-times new growth.

Various rodents scuttter and scurry,

Winding through dangling willow branches

Xanthium cockleburs push through the grass

Yellow tinged by dusting catkin pollen

Zealous bees have carried while travelling.

then a bit more work on the English sonnet form:

How could I not have felt the icy chill
that must have lingered in each loving phrase
that came from your lips while your heart was still
and frozen in your breast for many days?


So was your passion ever fiery hot?
Did love burn in your soul and warm your mind?
Or was that spark in your dark eyes a plot,
a trap to draw me in with love so blind?

Did I mistake for love this tawdry lust?
This hunter seeing some long treasured prey
to capture and display, then gather dust,
discarded when another came your way?

So did I ever know the real you?
Was any of this dream love ever true?

Others may be added later

Dodges WOW! a day late.

I apologise to everyone for my lack of activity yesterday.  I got a virus on my laptop and didn't dare use it until I had cleaned it out, I did not want to hand it round, hence my lack of visits.

JL, I am a day late but hopefully still acceptable! 

These prompts are from Dodge writes
and also a response to http://www.threewordwednesday.com/  whose words are:
Grace; noun: Simple elegance or refinement of movement; (in Christian belief) the free and unmerited favor of God, as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings; verb: Do honor or credit to (someone or something) by one's presence.

Jitter; noun: Feelings of extreme nervousness; slight irregular movement, variation, or unsteadiness, especially in an electrical signal or electronic device; verb: Act nervously.

Thin; adjective: Having opposite surfaces or sides close together; of little thickness or depth; (of a person) having little, or too little, flesh or fat on their body; having few parts or members relative to the area covered or filled; sparse. 
and http://write-a-letter-wednesday.blogspot.com/ This week's Write A Letter Wednesday prompt is to write a letter to someone telling them about where you live and why you like it... or why you don't!

For the three words I produced
 

  Haiku

thin sharp sound jitters

splitting chill air at dawns light

bird cheers the suns grace.

and



Revelation

That moment of heart-stopping grace,

that  sliver-thin yet endless pause,

then heartbeat’s jitter resumes pace,

the feeling lives though gone the cause.

And while not exactly a letter, I produces this about where I live.



House And Home

My house is older than I am

It’s build of bricks and mortar hard,

the wood within is warped with time

the walls are chipped where time has scarred.

My home is where you smile at me,

where times are shared and laughter too,

where bonds grow stronger as days pass,

and I will always live with you.

Though time may tear the brickwork down

and we may be forced far apart

whatever happens, you should know

you’ll share the home within my heart.

Jacob Marley - a quatrain with apologies to Dickens.

Jacob Marley worked hard all his days,
accruing money in so many ways.
He felt himself to be an upright man,
and valued his position all his span.

Yet when poor Jacob came at last to die,
Saint Peter met him with a saddened sigh,
barred him from joining the heavenly host,
condemned him then to be a wandering ghost.

Then Jacob was tight bound with heavy chain
that dragged upon his soul and caused him pain,
and sent to wander far across the earth
to find the things whose value held true worth.

At first his chain weighed heavy on his heart,
this upright man had always played his part,
He could not understand his dreadful fate,
just why he was condemned to this hard state.

He strode the winds dragging his chains behind,
his troubles always playing on his mind,
but slowly then, the world he could not touch
loosened his mind from self-indulgent clutch.

Into his heart and soul some feeling crept,
he saw the plight of others as they wept,
he saw the poor and starving die of cold,
he saw the suffering of young and old.

Then on one Christmas Eve,when praying hard
to help a friend he held in high regard,
his pleas were answered and he did indeed
provide the warning that his friend did need.

So Scrooge was spared the pain of Marley's fate
but Marley wandered on in the same state,
his chains now nothing compared with the pain
of watching others suffer once again.

Then Marley found his roaming steps had led
not to the earth but Heaven's gates instead.
He stood and faced Saint Peter's sorrowed look
and bravely asked his question, though he shook.

"Am I condemned to roam eternally?
Is this the fate God has in mind for me?
It is the punishment I so deserve
and such a sentence willingly shall serve."

Then Peter sighed and shook his head again
"Jacob, though I am sorry for your pain,
just look hard at the chain that you now bear,
are those the links the Good Lord fashioned there?"

So Jacob looked and saw the links had changed,
the binding had been gently rearranged,
the chain no longer made of glowing steel
but of the shame and regret he did feel.

"Go wander more across this world of grief,
until you find again your true relief,
forgiveness for the things you failed to do
can only come at last from within you."

So Jacob roamed again across the land
until he found that he could understand
and pity the poor creature he had been
and let his pride fade in the sights he'd seen.

Then once again he stood in Peter's sight
and Peter smiled at him with great delight
then threw the gates wide open to let in
one more redeemed soul to find peace within.