2014 Poetry Theme Challenge
#21 Writer's Own Choice
Thank you all who took up the last challenge. I hope this next one provides you some food for the muse. This time the theme is the writer's own choice. Instead of a theme prompt I am going to give a selection of prompts ranging from quotes, words, music and art.
Dolce Far Niente - John William Goodward
Fans - Jeeyoung Lee
Portrait of a Woman Inspired by Lucretia - Lorenzo Lotto
Bright Blue Boots - UGG
Marching - Unknown
No Swimming from US National Archives
Fashions in bigotry come and go. The right thing lasts - Mary Hays
Silence is the mother of truth - Benjamin Disraeli
Earth laughs in flowers - Ralph Waldo Emerson
let me paint a thank-you on my palm - Welcome Morning by Anne Sexton
with a few gusts of wind - Ithaca by Ira Sadoff
the light appears to crest in waves - Radiance by Wally Swist
strayed; psychedelic; reflect; shacked; guacamole
Michigan; loyalty; azure; sketchy; proud
Writer's Own Choice
it's been hot all day, -- too bloody hot
it's different now, we had a little rain
and I'm sitting outside, sheltering from it
but also enjoying each cooling drop.
I have my dinner and my glass of port
what could be more perfect
save the absence of my loved one,
but one cannot expect too much perfection
one thing about this town is the silence
even during the day it's pretty quiet
save farmers in their vehicles and truckies
and workers on their way to and from work.
The time now is 7.30 pm,
the sun is setting and the clouds have gone
I sit back now and enjoy another sip of port
Karen Carpenter has "Only Just Begun"
I look at the sky and light clouds suffice
there is a vapour trail from a plane
probably on its way to Adeliade
another very quiet place (For a city).
A rainbow of red and black
Everyone sees grey and black...
such silly souls, chasing golden bowls,
when they could simply follow the rain.
The moon shines brightly tonight
in a glowing circle of haze
a spectrum of colours like a rainbow
radiating out from within.
It is hauntingly beautiful
causing me to sit and gaze upon it
long after I should have gone to bed.
Each individual drop like tears
mingling then simply fading away
twirling around in agony, yet smiling
as if smashing puddles was revenge.
Looking suddenly, solemnly upon the grey strokes
on the artists palette of a Monday evening
colour mirroring a heart, if one could be found;
lost and wandering in the rain so far from home
that the mere image cannot be remembered after.
back to list
What good is a fence when birds have wings.
to fly across unprotected meadows of grain
wild of creatures that have the right brain
with ways and means to hypnotise things
that are tamer in what immortality brings
tis only the loser that thinks what he ought
yet his inner voice portrays what he sings
a bird in the bush shall thank thee nought
'Tis the way he shall be within distinction
for he needs to survive so within his right
his featherd plumes may bear not a light
camouflage gives him naught of selection
with a darkened form his final connection
to surrender may not be of a forgiven oath
until then he shall pray for his protection
only mother nature shall pledge his troth.
back to list
back to list
Lazy grey the start of the day,
foggy dew my footsteps to you
through the silhouettes of trees
praying on their bended knees,
silent birds singing muffled hymns
to the Invisible Sun:
"We are not the Only Ones
but we have melodious voices."
I croak with old Crow at this
and pick up a half-frozen
pine cone to throw at them,
receiving a disgusted squawk for my trouble.
An owl hoots its approval
but an old lady walking her spaniel
scowls at me as archly as she dares,
wrinkling her nose as if she smells
something rotten in the air.
After an hour or so of walking towards Jerusalem
the fog disperses and I find myself on Derby Lane,
cars and buses honking past like low flying owls,
angry bulls on crack or conger eels on God-knows-what;
on a whim I flag one down and board it,
paying the ferryman the traditional fare
and cleaning the condensation
from my window with a damp mitten
to gaze out luxuriously at the blurred
and chilly world I was formerly a part of.
Two children are squabbling behind me
a shabbily dressed fat man is gobbling a Mars Bar
as if it were the last confectionary bar in the world,
a worried looking young mother is reading her
horrorscope, stale smelling baby on her lap,
the vicar is practicing his Sunday sermon
and Herman Cloud is putting out his
tongue and making faces at him.
Nigel Ponsonby is learning his twelve-times table;
two girls on the back seat look quite fit and able
despite their implanted cellphones
but I think I see a second-hand book shop
out of the already freshly misted window
and hurriedly make my way off the conger eel
to search for Richard S. Prather detective novels
and that elusive Lin Carter:
'Thongor in the House of Optical Illusions'
that I have been on the trail of now for seventeen years.
Naturally I find neither although there is an early
Ace copy of Moorcock's Stormbringer
with a reasonable cover by Jack Gaughan.
Snow is in the air but the coy bugger is playing hard to get
- all the same I can smell it
and feel its presence with the ends of my toes
and melting on the outer surface of my brain
like a liquid electric train coming in from Heaven Central
but I can play the coy game too
and deliberately take off my mittens
and unfastening the top two buttons on my shirt
begin whistling California Girls.
In less than fifteen minutes its snowing
- I pass a happily yapping poodle
and a red-wellingtoned toddler jumping in an oil-slicked puddle.
The world is full of rainbows if only you look for them.
The stars over Ithaca
Clustered worlds like fruit on a tree
- how long will it take for us to explore Infinity,
hopping from nebula to nebula like bees
drunk on perfume, nectar and colourful adventure?
Oh, but space is dark between the stars
and the spaces in man's heart are even darker...
will we ever overcome our own shadow-selves
and be ready to embark on such a journey
or will Humanity's fruit wither on the vine,
leaving only a few survivors to root for
grubs in the ravaged and radioactive earth
like ignorant and devolved swine
such as the sorceress Circe kept
on her sea-girt island in the Middle Sea.
Just so, our own blue-green paradise
might become a prison cell
and we the prisoners of self-willed amnesia,
with no brave Odysseus to guide us.
How distant the stars that brightly burn
above our mythical Ithaca!
back to list