#18 - BLUE

 An ode to the sky, because I couldn't think of anything else to write about for the colour blue. And I painted myself into a bit of a corner with the last line from my previous poem...

Radio Telescope

we cannot teach the sky herself to sing, 

but if we mouth the words, she’ll hum the tune.

The notes will fill the air with silver wings;

a cobalt-coloured symphony. The moon 

will croon in sympathy, her face aglow 

with light that she has borrowed from the sun.

The sun will bring the bass, the song will grow

until it fills the stratosphere and none 

can nullify the rhythm of the song. 

The periwinkle twinkle of the stars, 

bring azure notes that echo loud and strong. 

And, from the earth, the music sounds bizarre 

an antidote to all we think we are, 

reminding us they’ve been here all along. 

LM

Image via Unsplash.com

#17 - Seven Ages: Judge

 

Presumably not distracted by kids singing Let It Go

My Muse! My Comrade! Wreathed in loving glory,

words fail to scale the height of my esteem!

A bildungsroman now is this, my story:

from callow youth to half a winning team.

 

It’s thanks to you – in every case before me –

my judgement’s more considered, less extreme;

romantic poets might murmur “I adore thee!” –

but sometimes rhymes run deeper than they seem.

 

This ain’t no corny Keatsian teenage yearning,

to seem profound (and get you into bed) –

more recognition that this guy’s still learning

to be the man he promised when we wed:

 

a partner for your honour, sure together;

a ward ‘gainst civil strife and chilly weather..

AWB

#16 - I Lost Thursday

This year I am using the seven days of the week as prompts for a crown of sonnets

With some words from the song of the same name by They Might Be Giants

...she knows the hope and loss that Thursday brings
I packed it all up in a sleeping bag
Lettered with the lines and hues of flags
Obstinately flying in the wings
Supernatural, spaced out cats and kings
Tripping tales of homelessness and skag
They talk in tongues to tell the world their rags
Hope lies bleeding, tangled up in strings
Underneath this cinematic sheen
Repentant/not repentant afterthoughts
She measures all the fantasy she finds
Deep in panopticons I often dream
Absolutely everything and naught
You know that Friday’s always on my mind...

RJT

#15 - Invidious

Fay Roberts apologises for entirely losing a day, and proffers this hastily written, iambic stream-of-consciousness on the subject of Envy, which turns out to be more complex than ze’d anticipated.

How dare they shout to claim your starry skies?
You think that they’d have quite enough from birth
to satisfy their hunger, stop their cries –
it’s like they don’t appreciate the worth

of everything that’s handed to them – free
and gratis, not like you, who’s had to work
to claim what meagre scraps you’ve gathered – see?
It’s more than equal treatment while they shirk

responsibilities – it’s thoughtlessness
that irks you, when all you can do is think
what luxuries you’d milk from bitterness
while, all the while, you’re clinging to the brink

of giving up on being good and kind –
they all deserve a big piece of your mind.

– FR

Image from pixabay

#14 - GREEN

 Another one that came out of following where the rhyme led me...

Overgrown 

A symbol of fertility and growth

is fine, if that’s the way you want to live.

This garden’s only fit to harbour ghosts;

a climbing vine to strangle infants with. 

A haunting is a solitary thing – 

an empty acre, mourning verdant shoots.

But even fallow fields still crave the spring,

and do their best to nurture wilder fruits.

The nettles, with their customary bite,

still tilt their pointed faces to the sun.

The meanest blossom leans towards the light,

the soil is never bare, when all is done. 

And every seed that sleeps still craves the spring:

we cannot teach the sky herself to sing. 

LM

Image via unsplash.com

#13 - Seven Ages: Soldier

Hunt at Peterloo 1819. Never forget.

 

The hope on which society depends:

that still the arc of History will tend

towards a cultured, genteel evolution.

“Too slow!” cry new recruits with resolution –

some take up arms to hasten their solution,

and some write poems that call for revolution.

(And to this day, both cohorts still contend

at which approach will pay more dividends.)

 

So yeah, I wrote some angry stuff back then:

like “Burn the System! Capital Aflame!”

 “Drown All the Priests in Slurry Made From Tories!”

But Westminster still stood, despite my pen!

And I discovered – focusing my aim –

my muse, a comrade, wreathed in loving glory.

AWB

#12 - A Wednesday Car

This year I am using the seven days of the week as prompts for a crown of sonnets

After the film ‘A Complete Unknown’, with apologies to all the participants
‘Sylvie’ equals ‘Suze’, for the purposes of reality
With some words from the song of the same name by Johnny Cash

...the new dawn’s magic, Wednesday’s sorcery
that haunts this earthly city’s cracks and peaks
with words to tie you down or set you free,
to liberate those lemons, dogs and freaks.

In Greystone, Woody shines but cannot speak
of all he’s been and all that he has done,
while Pete recounts the wonders that he seeks
and Johnny simply laughs and gets his gun.

Now Bobby rides electric wheels for fun
as Sylvie weeps for what she helped create,
yet Joan cannot regret what is to come ‒
a whole wide world to circumnavigate.

She whispers softly ‘just fuck off and sing’.
She knows the hope and loss that Thursday brings...

RJT