Jane Dougherty's Blog, page 32

Best small fictions nomination

Thank you to Lorette and Ekphrastic Review for nominating my short piece ‘Changes’ for inclusion in the Best small fictions 2023 anthology!

You can read all five nominated pieces here.

6. (seven lines)

6.

Venturing off the path
where leaves lie deeper
beneath the trees.
The smell of leaf mould.

Loam gleams sleek
as mole fur here
life in waiting.

Virelai

Paul Brookes chose the virelai as last week’s challenge.

This was the most challenging form so far. I enjoy rhymes, but this form calls for so many (nine rhyming end words for a poem of nine-line stanzas) that the sense took very much second place to fitting in a rhyme. The first poem, which took hours to get (sort of) right, proves the point that Medieval French poetry is best left to Medieval French poets. I ended with a six-syllable line because I ran out of enthusiasm to find a three-syllable line that would ‘do’.

Winter day-dreaming

Cold of a winter day
cracks stone, ice in the bay,
deep as night.
We beg the sun to stay
and chase the chill away,
beaming bright,
but my heart’s heavy clay
no comfort in the grey
of frost’s bite.

I wake in morning light
with all the stars so bright
dimmed on high.
Silver and blue unite,
gold-threaded; pure delight
is this sky,
broidered with pigeon flight,
swirls of frilled ammonite
hung to dry.

Ice patterns butterfly
the panes, frost’s lullaby,
hear it play.
Till spring sun, in reply,
bursts, with a gentle sigh,
buds of May,
nut-brown and nut-shelled, by
blackbird-singing brook, I
will dream winter away.

The second attempt proves a second point, that nonsense is much easier to write than poetry. It took me only a few minutes to write, but it’s rubbish.

The stupidity of youth

Youth fades too soon, alas,
old age will come to pass,
we all know,
to every lad and lass.
Tarnished all your strass
in the snow,
it looks so very crass,
dull and cheap as brass.
There you go.

When life goes by too slow,
we want it fast, although
at top speed,
adrenalin’s swift flow
that sets our blood aglow
we don’t heed,
and steer our course to woe,
to Thurles or Arklow
or Leed(s).

Wherever there’s a seed,
it turns into a weed
(I grimace),
of pride and senseless greed,
they’re just not what we need.
I preface
this with care, and I plead,
don’t do what makes you bleed.
Too late. Ass!

Wind blows the thrush’s tree

Wishing everyone a happy new year, hoping you will find your happiness and contentment in the small things we all extol, like the beauty of sunsets, wild flowers and birdsong.
Thanks

The Planet

Wind blows the thrush’s tree

The wind has blown, will blow, is blowing still,
the shrivelled leaves of last year’s tired trees,
all through the restless night of rocking stars,
bright lightships shining in the heaving dark.
And now the clouds are piling deep and grey,
the only sound the wind’s persistent voice,
cold daylight dim, not bright enough to call
this day a start, not new nor even green,
nor half the frosty way to leafy spring.
Yet sing, thrush, stormcock, in the poplar tree,
sing loud as only feathered hearts know how,
defiant, jubilant to pierce the dark.
You dominate your windy world, perched high,
you see far clearer than my human eye.

Re-wilding the mundane day 31

Last day of the year and last day of this challenge. Thank you, Paul, it was fun! Badger says, happy new year!

Two badgers

Burley
with shambling gait
badger tracks the hedgerow
leaves his distinctive prints
broad feet sharp-toed
tramples

his path
carving the bank
mud-slide clawed sticky clay
raw, rumble-voiced he growls
The year’s turning
to spring.

Turning leaves

Turning leaves

Storm cloud points a finger,
and the wind screams. The sky
streaks with petal-pink as the sun
rises, and eaves drip diamonds.

This last day of the calendar year
is just a day, full of light and shadow.
No god will be offended, turn his face
either backwards or forwards.

The sun is a distraction; there
should be frost. We should strain
into icy fog where our dreams
of spring are cocoon-curled.

They are there across the red water
of another sunset, swimming in tepid
pools, curled inside sunburst eggs, the
stirring roots of the garden-in-waiting.

The slide will be gentle; the green
is already here, bird music already
playing spring chords. There will be
no sadness turning over new leaves.

5. (seven lines)

5.

Looking higher than birds
blue and bluer
we need clouds
to give perspective

rain to know
how tears make
the green things grow.

Re-wilding the mundane day 30

For Paul Brookes’ December challenge.

Dusty

an old person’s home.

She has so little time left
why waste it on housework?

Dust settles in the parlour
where no one goes these days
too cold in winter too sad in summer
full of north-flung shadows
and the silent piano.

The cabinet keeps the dust
off the precious things
a safe with windows.

Children look
but know not to turn the key.

Dead moths in the linen press
that smells of camphor.

Hard to tell between scraps of relics
in rust-stained scapulars
and moth wings
but the glassware glitters
eternally.

Re-wilding the mundane day 29

For Paul Brookes’ December challenge. Not really on-prompt, in fact not at all, but it’s about a kingfisher at least.

Kingfisher

In the pool among the trees,
beneath the sky of winter blue,
the ripples spread, and shadows
lengthen in the half-lit glen.

I tread the dead and noisy leaves,
brush through the sedge and crack dead boughs
that lie in mossy green, as bright
as spring and blue as feather-gems.

A turquoise flash caught in the gloom.
and ripples spread across the pool
among the trees; a piece of sky
has dipped to find a fish then fly.

4. (seven lines)

4.

Pebbles smooth as pearls
I’d wear them
if the sea allowed
but water-fingers curl
and snatch them away.

Blue is what you see
and what you get.