floral pretty dressed
for summer : but under just
wild bare happiness
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haïku
Category Archives: summer
under the summer trees
gossamer & gold
citrus blossoms’ sweet mischief
blushing mauve madness
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haiku
hog
i’m on the winter
side of our mattress while he
rolls in summer plumes
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haiku
99’summer’s
kids licking dairy
whips with flakes stuck in youth sweet
scoops of happiness
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haiku
defiant chill in the air
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summer’s here, not gone, you insist
it’s beauty emptying and fermenting
tempting trees to bare their teeth and throw down arms
though barely September, winds whinge and whine
querulous as a passels of squirrels rustling and thieving stashes of nuts
but autumn comes in hobbling like two old biddies in dirtied petticoats —mouths
prattling, puckered as a skinny cow’s arse and just as fetidly malted
shocking as the hot stench of wolves on the cooled nostrils on a fist of horses
shivering, prickling as a torment of digits in agony on the return of blood as tips thaw out
summer’s not gone… you insist, hunkered into your nest of jewels and tattered letters —
like a tiny brown shrew nibbling whortleberries that stain like gossiped loot —
the colours, taste and scent that lasts well past memory, dribbled and inked in wines
behind preserving glasses- solitarily grasping at remnants of loves and leaves almost gone
to seeds, pulling heads in for a duration you shall not mention or admit —
except in the writing of this
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not a haiku
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p.s A whortleberry is a forest-foraged berry, also known as a bilberry or huckleberry. Traditionally, after a harvest of them was sent to the kitchens of London and other important towns, ( from Porlock and its environs ) remnants were sent to be used in the dying of airmen’s uniforms. (So i’m informed)
Napowrimo day 26.-
A couple of days ago, we played around with hard-boiled similes. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that contains at least one of a different kind of simile – an epic simile. Also known as Homeric similes, these are basically extended similes that develop over multiple lines. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they have mainly been used in epic poems, typically as decorative elements that emphasize the dramatic nature of the subject (see, by way of illustration, this example from Milton’s Paradise Lost). But you could write a complete poem that is just one lengthy, epic simile, relying on the surprising comparison of unlike things to carry the poem across. And if you’re feeling especially cheeky, you could even write a poem in which the epic simile spends lines heroically and dramatically describing something that turns out to be quite prosaic. Whatever you decide to compare, I hope you have fun extending your simile(s) to epic lengths.
lady of Avalon
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i dream i’m drowning
it’s an old one
but it no longer owns me
now i’ve come home to avalon
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thoughts of rain awake me
the lady comes again for me
from across the levels blurred in
a banging of silver bangles
a breathing womb of grass and apples
a trembling of limbs still stuck in the suck
of muck-moist land that’s been drained for ages
until it rains; and it rains
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she is ages older than me, yet young
she speaks an older tongue, voice
fizzy with dialects of scrumpy cider and musky crusts of ancient cheddar
echoes dance from dank chalk caves
wassail wassail wassail
and so it was
and so it is
.
i dream her lovely face
etched upon a sorrow of cloud
heavy as half a pound of moonlight
light as a fragrance of lemoncakes
i dream her silken garments
and steely armaments
reflected in the ancient lakes of this summer land
do you see me, she rasps
swirling me in underwater loves
she drags me to her breast where i rest
kisses the stone of my bones
unheeding of the summons of Merlin
defiantly ungifting trinkets to the kings
the legend of the lady
awaits a feminist twist
shhhh, she whispers, coming
and i dream myself asleep
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not a haiku
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ps
I moved the the isle of ancient avalon last year. Do you know where that is? Quite simply, Somerset in the West Country of the UK, near Glastonbury. I felt a pull to come here and so here am i. Still dreaming…
NaPoWriMo day 25
prompt is based on the aisling, a poetic form that developed in Ireland. An aisling recounts a dream or vision featuring a woman who represents the land or country on/in which the poet lives, and who speaks to the poet about it. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that recounts a dream or vision, and in which a woman appears who represents or reflects the area in which you live. Perhaps she will be the Madonna of the Traffic Lights, or the Mysterious Spirit of Bus Stops. Or maybe you will be addressed by the Lost Lady of the Stony Coves. Whatever form your dream-visitor takes, happy writing!
pan out
picture this
bottom of a kitchen garden
unruly patch, a willow hatch
yellowberries, cherries, teasels, thistles
radishes and chive flowers lined up messily
close up in the lush long grass
intro music
a fresh-freckled nose pressed close to the damp dust and rooted shoots
pan out
a little girl in a short summer’s dress
flat out on her tummy, legs lolling, humming softly
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she’s busily tucking happy daisies, pansies and violet bells
in and around the loot, snagging pebbles and twigs in the mix
betwixt secret vibrating riggings, a spiralled ring begins to zing
.
scene blurs a bit
you may have to squint
to see it
a glint of wing
that spins and turns
into a tiny faerie thing
that lands on the girls’ thumb
spritely music begins
our little girl grins
.
pan out
another child strides out from a distant house
dumps a school bag as she crosses the lawn, frowns
as she reaches our peace-filled scene, she willfully
stamps
on the circle and thunder’s felt
she shouts out
‘ as your sister, i know better
i shan’t let you get caught up in this nonsense, ever after
FAERIES DON’T EXIST, you twit !’
she shouts it thrice
something melts
perhaps it’s wonderment
.
spell is broke, peace was there but
magic ceases in that spoken moment
faerie-play snaps out of woken memory
faerie-blinks out like dew-dropped reverie
focus in
the creased face of the older sister
and the small girl’s curled in a ball in the iris of her pupil
tight in a ball of older-sister certainty she-who’s
violently opposed to such wicked-wildness
her magic already bound and tamed
in a flash
she forgets
she forgets
god exits
fade to blacks
pan out
pan out
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not a haiku
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NaPoWriMo prompt, day 14
: write a poem that takes the form of the opening scene of the movie of your life.
cornucopia cold feet
what happens when ?
unicorn wants to turn on the heating but can’t not
because he is hoof-full and finger-less
but because of the cost
and a magical horn won’t cut it
he curses, willing winter dismissed (for good )
he’s a summer horse, awaiting a miss ( of course)
he deserves more than this!
he stamps his frozen feet
shakes his silver sweet forelock
to no avail
flicks the whites of his tail
as shivers quiver his withers
he fails to notice
across the planet
ripples are felt and ice melts
closer closer closer to home
warms the globes of his heart
his cold cold heart.
.
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p.s
hey, boy
what does a unicorn have for tea!?
mind your own business, lass!
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not a haiku
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NaPoWriMo day 5 :
write a poem about a mythical person or creature doing something unusual – or at least something that seems unusual in relation to that person/creature. For example, what does Hercules do when he loses a sock in the dryer? If a mermaid wants to pick up rock-climbing as a hobby, how does she do that? What happens when a mountain troll makes pancakes?
distance
‘you’ve spoiled the way the tree hangs’, he muttered in passing, the man i’d watched from across the orchard with admiration, imagining some future passion. His torso glowed in the low summer sun. Sweat over taunt muscles, golden fuzz glued, caught in highlights, his face averted, his shorts short and tight.
When he approached me, i’d gasped at the intense scent rising from his body, that eclipsed the perfume of the apples dangling from the branches and fermenting in the grass. I’d felt quite dizzy from it, perched as i was, dangerously high on my ladder.
‘is that a fact?’ i’d offered to his back.
A beautiful, rippling study of manly motion and determination, he attacked the tree next to me with his secateurs. ‘yep’ he said, under his breath, ‘get some perspective’.
i climbed down from the ladder, took a few steps away and surveyed my own tree, glistening with rosy fruit, littered with severed branches and foliage, listing slightly.
He’d made no bones of it. I laughed. He was probably right.
In this tender light, this splendid afternoon spoiled, i removed my ladder to a further tree and began again.
i left my thoughts hanging
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not a haiku
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The prompt is based on Robert Hass’s remarkable prose poem, “A Story About the Body.” The idea is to write your own prose poem that, whatever title you choose to give it, is a story about the body. The poem should contain an encounter between two people, some spoken language, and at least one crisp visual image.
doused
saunter of pasture
ambush of musk rose red
amongst flowers wild
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haiku
barbaraturneywielandpoetess 