My Poems

More poems may be found under A-Z Poetry Challenge 

 

Sunrise Concertante

Burnt golden rays break
the night-time sky,
beating on the Ouse’s, slow crawl.

Air warmed sweet-grasses
fan fragrance into the wind:
marsh marigolds shine.

A blackbird’s
chromatic glissando sweeps

towards the riverbank
to claim a worm.

Swanking his red tuxedo, a robin
trills to join the recital

as elm silhouettes dance,
watching their mirror image.

The mistle thrush flaunts
a speckled belly, takes his turn
to chant – introduces

hedge sparrows who chatter,
boast brown suits.

A cadenza call governs the concerto—
plump skylark makes his solo in the skies.

Shades of light peep,
geese chevron across the blue,
noses down, necks stretched, wings

spread wide. Honking their signal sound,
they climb the horizon and sky-fall
on to daylight’s iridescent waves.

 

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The Azure Blue

They glide around the room,
arms angled loose and wide,
he gazes into blue topaz,
slyly whispers, reminisces
the canoe trip where they kissed
under the azure blue.

They glide around the room
corner to corner, step in time,
one, two, three. Magenta gown
trails layers of silk and frills.
She twirls in perfect motion
as he recaptures the azure blue.

They glide around the room,
ladies and lords come to a halt,
little brown cards wave and display,
it’s time to change. Their gaze holds
until a new escort directs
her away from the azure blue.

 

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Tick-Tock Sings a Clock

A ghost in an attic
jumps out – BOO—
I shout to Mama
to know what to do.

It’s a trap,
it’s a trap—
I run to sit
on Mama’s lap.

‘It’s Grandpa,
not a ghost,’
Granny grunts and claps,
‘off your Mam’s lap—
Too old for that at six,
but you can kiss Granny’s lips’—

I spin, spin around, glum,
kissing Gran’s lips is no fun,
it’s cool to sit on Mama’s lap.
It’s a trap, it’s a trap.

Tick-tock – sings a clock.
(A Poem without using ‘e’ – not as easy as you may think.)

 

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Stratford Mums

Scarlet and gold maples, wave either side
of slow wrinkled water.
A mother with five murky young
paddles up and down.

She stops, long neck bent
into ‘C,’ nuzzles
snow plumage
to rub her coat clean.

Head lifted, she stretches
towards puffed clouds,
buckles wide wings, stands
on tiptoe, quivers,

swings backwards,
signals cygnets
to follow in line,
swims up the Avon.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Costume Project

A group of ladies meet
to sit and sew,

emerald silk taffeta crackles,
crisp cotton rustles,
scissors snip – thread snaps-

Victorian gowns,
waistcoats,
boys’ breeches
recreate past times.

 


A couple of poems on summer

All Change

Oblong at first,
hairy and small,
lived on a leaf,
curled in a ball.

Slithered along
in search of food,
to build myself up,
ate all that was good.

Then came the time
to close my eyes,
cocooned in a cover,
quite a long while.

Along came Spring,
told me to wake,
time to push through,
make my escape.

Emerged with wings
in soft burnished gold,
transformed in sleep
to a beauty I’m told.

In summer I flit
from flowers to trees,
but the buddleia bush
is the best home for me.

Signs of Summer

Outdoor table tennis and rounders,
not forgetting athletics and cricket too.
Activities to be enjoyed out in the sun.
Deckchairs and parasols with loungers,
men cooking at barbeques- lazy days for Pat
and Paul, to relish before the sun has gone.

Fresh strawberries and cream at Wimbledon,
to eat on Court whilst watching Andy Murray,
free flow beer at folk festivals, Glastonbury
controls your pour as the bands play.
Sensuous dresses, sumptuous hats
and Her Majesty at Royal Ascot.

First published in Brian Wrixon’s, Summer Anthology, Poets of Voices Strong (2014)


A poetry Sequence on Spring

Spring Awakens

Under an Alice blue sky
by rippling waters,
book in hand,
eyes watch
Mother Mallard’s
mottled brown
bounce
with downy young.

Song thrush perch
on barren branches
that peak green-
musical whistle
enchants those near.

Blackbird drags worms
from damp green grass,
bares yellow beak,
chants mellow melodious,
flute-like tune.

Burnished wings
flutter amongst red
and purple folds,
yellow funnels bob high
under the wonderland sky.

Spring Garden

She steps out
on cobbled ground,
back bent. Clasps
her laundry load.

Cuplike yellows and reds
stand tall, silk heads, petalous nod.
Wisteria’s green
threads cottage walls,
promises lilac bloom.

Hazy sunshine hints heat
as she pegs
terry towels
in the gentle breeze.

Patchwork paving
draped by cherry blossom,
resting place for finches,
red, gold and green,
twitter high in the tree,
reach perfect cadence.

She sits in a chair
to take note and gaze
at violet violas behind
a white picket fence.

Plant pots reveal
cheery blue pansies, secluded
by golden forsythia
and burnt red azaleas.
Heaven in a spring garden.

Longer Days

Longer days, shorter nights,
pastel colours sprout,
warmer sun, lighter wind,
children play and sing,
birds hum out loud.

Men on mountain bikes,
tots on tricycles,
spin fast,
speed on dust,
riders hold on tight.

Frogs seek out ponds,
safe home for birth,
mounting males drone,
females quiver,
too early to spawn.

Ducks dip,
ripple water.
Golden reeds of canary
grass blow sweet
scent with the wind.

First published in Brian Wrixon’s Spring Anthology by Poets with Voices Strong (2014)


How to give birth to an alien

Start with the species, what is desired
Think? Are tentacles, legs and heads required?

What about shape, square, blobby or round?
Seek, search, discover, selections found

The grey scrawny male with bright black slit eyes
Or the white wide-winged torso that’s dressed in disguise

The green blob of jelly out for a jog
Or the red skinned sly serpent afraid of the fog?

Duck sparkling stars whilst riding dark skies,
Set down on the world, take caution, be wise

Befriend beastly species, set seduction in play
Entice, beguile, and bewitch to get your own way

Mission accomplished, return home to earth
Linger nine months, for the alien’s birth

You have your agenda and know what to do
‘How to give birth to an alien?’ …I haven’t a clue.

How to give birth to an alien was first published in Fields of Words, Ink Pantry Publishing (2013)


 

Uninvited

Wooden floorboards creak,
bedroom door bangs closed
as the wind blows. She buries
her head under the pillow;
heart ticks loud as panic grows.

Nowhere to Hide

It shimmered in the light,
a sulphur stench erupted,
her insides became tight,
her stomach somersaulted.
Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide,
It’s here. It’s here and inside.

 

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