Jane Dougherty's Blog, page 33

Re-wilding the mundane day 28

For Paul Brookes’ December challenge.

Serpentine

Summer there are snakes here,
beneath plums and blackthorns,
the elms and trailing vines.

They nest in vole burrows,
waiting for the meadow
to rise up from winter,

to slink, heavy-bodied,
grey-green silvered, among
orchids, a reapers hook,

to clean up spare fieldmice
set purple heads nodding
green grass stalks quivering.

A noble enough task.

3. (seven lines)

3.

Days of sorrow
days of rain
and nights too dark
to see the stars

I remember when
we needed only entangled fingers
firelight in red wine.

Re-wilding the mundane days 26 and 27

Word-playing the two prompts. This is two day’s worth of Paul Brookes’ December challenge.

Mustelidae

weasel-mink
wrestlers
with stoat and polecat
that ferret
in setts
of badger
honey and worm-eater
otter-mink
sleek-fierce
one big riotous family

like breadboards
bed-and-board
bed boards
bread sticks and bed heads
head boards
and broken bread
fed
to Mustelidae.

A painted day dream

I’m very late visiting the Oracle. I tried yesterday and ran out of time. Tried to pick up where I left off, but she gave me this instead.

A painted day dream

It was a painting of sun on water,
white sand, a paradise, so far from
the grey, the ordinary things.
I imagined walking the woods
of a tiny tongue of land, misted
by distance, its low hills
lapping the sea, a green largo
in a concerto for blue and gold.

Re-wilding the mundane day 25

A bit behind (Christmas) with Paul Brookes’ December challenge. Here is yesterday’s prompt.

Wild bookshelves

There are bookshelves everywhere now,
at the station, at the grocer’s
and outside the baker’s

sheaves of words read and shared,
shelves of well-thumbed paperbacks
to be thumbed yet again,

waiting to be picked up and taken home,
unlocked, to pour, purring into other hands,
to light a fire inside another head.

Meanwhile they lean against
one another, whispering comfort,
steam from a teapot, a place on the sofa,

keeping the words warm
like a nest of mice.

Wind and leaves

Paul Brookes’ chosen form last week was a Welsh poetry form, the rhupunt. I quite enjoyed the challenge though the rhyme and rhythm scheme give the poem an unavoidably jaunty air.

Wind and leaves

The wind blows cold
and strips the gold
of trees grown old;
they have their dreams.

Like stars, leaves fall,
tossed by the squall
beyond recall,
in rust red streams.

Such wealth they’ve lost,
by tempest tossed,
I’d save from frost
had I the means.

In my palm held,
each coin tree-spelled,
gold treasure shelled,
leaf richly gleams.

Seven in the evening

Wishing everyone a peaceful and happy day/afternoon/evening.

Seven in the evening

Christmas moonset
a pale golden crescent boat
rocking on dark seas
spangled with stars
air mild as promises
we intend to keep
perhaps a shiver
of an eastern night
shadow-patterns
on cooling sand.

Re-wilding the mundane day 24

For Paul Brookes’ December challenge.

Seal chest

Sliding silently
sleek and slick
motion smooth as oil
you carry memories
and ancestral wisdoms
from one element
to another
asking nothing in return.

Re-wilding the mundane day 23

For Paul Brookes’ December challenge. On target today.

Wardrobe

Wardrobe was once a tree,
fashioned and crafted,
full of hiding places

and doors that opened
onto other worlds.

All trees are wardrobes,
homes where hundreds hide
in warm safety.

Each breathes its own air,
tasting of leaf and blossom,
foundations deep-dug,

towering high,
bird-roost, crow’s nest,
each one a galleon,

a tower, a jungle,
a rocket to whichever star
we choose.

Walking among trees
upon deep loam and leaf-carpet
we push open the portal
to another side. Listen.
Snow is falling.

2.

2.

Shingle sucked back
to deep water
swell pocked by rain holes
the sound of sticks rattling
in the stove

too small to give much heat
too short to last
like those good days.