Poetry and short story writing

[SpokeyDokey]

Inspired by our very first proper date when I spent a fabulous evening with the owner of a pair of nright green eyes locked on to mine, both of us not knowing what lay ahead:


You Painted Me Green

Flick, flick, flick and lock

Gently washing over me

What’s this then?

Entwining in green – startled!

Where’s this go?


Flicker, flicker, flicker…

Softer now, in melted jade

And the world spins and whirls and spins and whirls

And where does this go?


Flick and flick again and hold

Chartreuse bathed – unsettling momentarily!

And in one tiny moment

Round and round and round it goes

Where? Where does this go?


Hold, hold again and hold some more

Sliding now in dizzy green

Lives unscrolling

Worlds imploding

Futures connecting

Tell me please, where does this go?


They held and held

And here we are

Still emerald bathed

And on and on and on we go

To where

Who knows

Together entwined

Together forever

Always together

From the moment…


…you painted me green

 

[AndyRM]

I've plucked up courage and will give it a go - I've stacks of these that I have writen over the years.

For my wife on our 28th anniversary (2 years ago):

Sparkles


When I think of you - my love

When I think of us - our love

Bright sparkle-memories flare in my mind

Oh, how I love to watch them glitter there

Dancing, weaving... shouting; pick me, pick me!

Which one to pluck?

To savour

To delight in

To relive and take me back

To when they were forged

Deep in our souls

Where fierce-burning love seared those sparkles deep within


I decide; and reaching out I take the one

That takes me back to ‘92

To when our marriage was so new

I smile, feeling sparkle-tastic!

Remembering feeling oh so proud!

That my soulmate -lover was now my wife

Standing there

In ivory and flower bunched

My dream-girl; the one!

How beautiful you looked

(And still you do)

And how you shone that day

Lighting up those precious moments

When sacred promises were heart-made

To love each other and well… just be there!

As our love story further unscrolled

To who knew where…


And now… 28 years later

I remember it all so well

What a lovely sparkle, on which to dwell!

That is absolutely beautiful.

 

[SpokeyDokey]

An ambitious attempt to write a poem as a play with how our relationship developed as a simile of one lovely summer day:


Crimson Sunset

(A love play – performed by a cast of two against a backdrop of one perfect sunny day)

Showtime:


Act 1


Sunrise!

Hovering over the horizon

Dawn’s misty-grey promise softly unfolds…

….into a day full of love’s possibility

Shimmering hazily

And with cast assembled

The sun-ripe glow slowly coalesces into a familiar shape

Ascent starts

The stage warms

The play commences


(The audience buzz with anticipation…

…hopes are high!)


Act 2


In golden glimmer the orb climbs

And…

…warming now in day-shine

The two players stir

And then…

…it starts

Love is in the air

Affecting both

It grows cautiously

Full of promise

Full of hope

Full of what may be


They revel in frantic exploration

Take pleasure in the love-heat

And carefully balance the bitter and the sweet


Their roles are assumed

And each plays their part…

… instinctively

Having never travelled this way before


Act 3


Still rising

Carefully transecting

Orb arcs

Colour shifts


And now…

…with the stage dripping in honeyed gold

They bask

In love-light slowly binding

Connecting

Engaging

World shifting

Amazing!


Immersed deeply

The cast are subsumed

By the play’s inertia

Loving the flow

And allowing the undertow

To shape the play

To shape their future

Bliss!


Act 4


Ascent completed!

High noon in sharp white relief

All is exposed

Nothing can hide!


Laid bare

The players give their all

Limbs twist

Salt-sweat flows

Minds twist

Eyes connect

Passion peaks…

… bright hot now!

Ah…

…how that burns

Searing deep

Deep into their hearts

Deep into their souls

Reconfiguring both!


(The audience begins to understand the truth)


Act 5


Inevitably…

…dipping now

Into golden warmth

But still shiny-bright

The bright disc sinks

Slowly, love maturates

With two hearts a-glow

Bonds deepen in comfortable devotion

With words spoken…

… with words unspoken!

And unseen smiles of delight

Love blankets softly

Covering them with gentle embrace

They were two…

…but finally, they are one


(With delight…

…the audience cheer and clap!)


Act 6


And then

With horizon a-beckoning

In crimson hints

The daystar sinks


With dawn’s promise fulfilled

And with nothing uncooled

The two who are one

Walk hand in hand

And heart in heart

Together

Continuing their journey…

…as the end draws near

And what a journey

The best it could ever be

Celebrated…

…with every anniversary!


(The two players depart the stage together…

…the audience are hushed; expectant!)


Curtain call


(They do not return but their voices ring out)


As the crimson sun slides down…

…for the final time

And ash becomes ash again

Our play’s course is run

Yet the love we have will still endure

Sparkling in the dying light

Then finally…

…travelling on and on

Through dark eternal night


Lights out


Smiling thoughtfully, the audience arise and depart…

 

[SpokeyDokey]

That is absolutely beautiful.

Thank you very much.

 

[tyred]

Simplistic enjoyment

Sometimes simple is best..

The shining sun
Between the showers.
A corned beef sandwich
And bottle of lemonade
Is a five-star feast
On a grassy hillside in June.

Tartan-slippered feet
Warmed before an open fire’s
Orange glow, as hailstones
Beat the window pane.

A nice dinner and bottle of wine
Shared with friends.
Music and singing and beer
Shared around a campsite’s fire
Casting shadows in the gloaming.

Enjoy the simple things,
They’ll be past before we know.

 

[tyred]

A LONER’S SATURDAY NIGHT

Others are putting on their glad-rags,
Going galivanting. A night on the town.
Meeting friends and their sweethearts
For dinner and drinks or music and dance.
A show at the theatre, or a film at the pictures.

I sit alone on my couch,
The late-night radio DJ plays ‘60s hits.
A half-read novel lies on the floor,
An empty crisp packet and Guinness bottle
Litter the coffee table.

Saturday night with no-one to meet,
Nowhere to go, no-one to dine or dance with.
I’m just sitting here. On my own.

 

[tyred]

OLFACTORY MEMOIRS

Scents and smells intertwine
With our most vivid recollections.
The slightest whiff transports us
To long-gone days of yore.

Walk through Strabane’s Canal Basin,
The scent of roasting maze, in my mind
Still wafts from Smyth’s old mill.

Letterkenny’s Oatfield Sweets may be gone,
Molten sugar and fruit flavour still linger.

Sweet bluebells have me playing
In the wooden knowes of my youth.

Freshly mown grass still takes me
To the golden hayfields of childhood.

Hot oil mingled with freshly cut barley -
Harvest days sitting on a combine-harvester
Covered in chaff and dust.

The earthly smell on a frosty morning
Of a freshly gathered potato basket.

The sweet, sickly smell of molasses
From a newly opened bag of calf-feed.

The smell of peat smoke on a frosty night
Gives images of a chair by the fireside.

The sense of smell, our most vivid sense
Conjures up nostalgia for our enjoyment.

 

[tyred]

Border Reiver

An inquisitive young boy with curiousity to burn,
A yard overflowing with ancient, rusting machinery
And best of all a decaying, decrepit Albion Reiver
With a medal badge showing the rising sun.
A huge steering wheel and dead-man handbrake,
A relic of the early ‘60s, a cab with curves,
A beautiful Scotstoun lassie.

The six year old me sat on the driver’s seat
Looking through a cracked and crazed windscreen
Across the the metal dash with the Smiths guages.
Trying to reach the pedals and the gearlever,
Trying to turn the worn bakelite steering wheel
With the badge of the rising sun at it’s centre.

Looking through the cracked and crazed windscreen
At a world of fantasy with a child’s mind
Running riot, where everything is possible.
I’m king of the road with foot to the boards,
The fastest lorry around, outrunning the cops.

The scrapman cut up my Albion,
And the rising sun set on my fantasies.
Today I drive a desk. How did that happen?

 

[SpokeyDokey]

Love it!

Thank you.

 

[Gwylan]

Trouble with poetry is that it is like looking for a princess by kissing frogs.

You have to wade through a lot to find a good one.

I edit a community magazine and have to deal with people's poetic endeavours. My criteria for publication include being dead and already been published in two languages.
So far we have had very little poetry published.

Last one was Hedd Wyn. Sets the bar quite high.

 

[Reynard]

Remembrance

Breezes still whisper your name
Light strands caressing the trees
Keeping watch beside your grave

Whose leaves fall like memories
This soft rain of broken dreams
Kissed with winter's frozen tears

And yet here so very tranquil
Peace like a cloak enfolds me
The gentle touch of your soul

I could drown in this feeling
Of being so close to you
A blessing of remembrance

 

[Gwylan]

Remembrance

Breezes still whisper your name
Light strands caressing the trees
Keeping watch beside your grave

Whose leaves fall like memories
This soft rain of broken dreams
Kissed with winter's frozen tears

And yet here so very tranquil
Peace like a cloak enfolds me
The gentle touch of your soul

I could drown in this feeling
Of being so close to you
A blessing of remembrance

Thank you.

Severalty quanta above some of the tosh I was obliged to impale on spike of rehection

 

[tyred]

In Mourning

Do old bikes have souls?
The shared experiences,
Thousands of miles travelled.
In the sunshine, the rain, the hail.

The knocks and battle scars,
DIY modifications and repairs,
Each telling a story
Of past use and adventure.

The commutes, the utility rides,
The tours and long days awheel.
The shared sensations and freedom,
The unfettered joy of the open road.

Now I am in mourning,
A black tie and armband.
My faithful travelling companion
Struck dead by a broken bottom bracket shell.

I feel responsible. A murderer.
A new bike would make feel unfaithful.
Do old bikes have souls?
Will we meet again in bicycle heaven?

 

[tyred]

Cottage

An empty space unveils
Grey skies, where in the past
A covering of lint, neatly thatched.
Protected generations
From rain and hail.

Now-decaying doors and windows
Once kept the draughts at bay,
The flaking whitewashed render
Once shone brilliant white.

My mind returns to childhood,
Seeing it as it was.
Sealed, snug and warm against
Winter’s blast. A roaring fire
Drives out the cold as the kettle sings.
Granda reads at the table,
Granny listens to the wireless.

I choose not to see
Today’s collapse and decay.
The happy, nostalgic scenes
Live in my memory still.

 

[tyred]

Cherry Blossom

With satisfying ping,
The lid pops off.
Waxy aromatic compounds
Engulf the senses.
A quick brushing,
Removes the dirt.

An oily coating of black wax,
Freshly applied.
Then buffed to a sheen.
The kitchen light reflects
From polished
leather.

A tin of shoe polish,
A tin of nostalgia.
Saturday night’s routine.
Polishing shoes,
Learning Catechism,
Preparing for Sunday School.

Nowadays preparing,
For a night on the town.