a poem for spring reflection

The dark has been so long

the cold has been so deep,

the new buds barely there

stretching in the springtime heat,

reflecting on the roots of change

time for fresh new thinking.

 

 

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NaPoWriMo 2018 day 19: a poem for April heat

 

Heat today, hottest April record,

left garden scorching, plants wilting:

pot plant bowed head, thirst making humble.

 

Heat relentless, leaving sweat on brows,

blisters on hastily sandalled feet.

 

Sun’s heat, all invading:

down necks, armpits pools of

awkward, seeping sweat,

other flesh clammy to touch.

 

Sunshine welcome, lifting mood.

Heat dense, suffocating, sucking:

creating craving for whirl of air.

 

Weeds grow, inch by hourly inch,

loving power, stealth through hedgerow.

 

Spring here:

“hurrah”

 

NaPoWriMo 2018 day 18: the wind on a not so brilliant day

I tried to tend it, but nature overwhelmed my efforts

What’s the point of even trying

with all that withering around me.

Yes, take the leaves and petals, leave the ground free and clean

as I want to face life, not death.

All the flowers are gone, and I want them back

No, you can’t take their smell away from me

and I’m not sure about your odour of jasmine.

If it’s meant to be the call of my soul

then I’ll wait for the wind to blow it in.

 

This is an upside-down take on original poem The Wind, One Brilliant Day, by Antonio Machado

The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.

‘In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I’d like all the odor of your roses.’

‘I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.’

‘Well then, I’ll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.’

the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
‘What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?’

NaPoWriMo Day 16: playing at life

Video games give a great reminder of lives

too short, and too easily run over;

these days, easily re-built or re-booted,

according to your app, or whatever’s closer.

 

Your avatar lives as though a real you,

ducking, diving, dashing – always a fight

to save your last life, as though those before

the last one didn’t count for nought.

 

Except the reality of play is a metaphor of real.

Why play at life, when it’s a fragile gift.

Here and gone in a heartbeat, it is.

Like a game, life’s time is swift.