Tag Archives: dVerse

under a lilly-pilly moon

This was written for the dVerse Razzie prompt, which was to write a poem incorporating the title of a film that has won a Raspberry (worst film) award. It was also prompted by last night’s blood moon, which was red because of the syzygy (alignment) of the sun, Earth and moon. And the botanical name of the Australian native lilly-pilly which grows red or purple berries is syzygium (although I only found that out after writing the poem and googling lilly-pilly to check my spelling). 


Under the blood moon

…no, that’s wrong,
that conjures wolves
chasing across snow
hearts racing with fear…
No, not in late spring,
and not here
where the closest thing to a wolf
is the ginger mutt curled at my feet.

So let me start again:

Under the cherry moon,
Earth’s-shadow pinked,
a warm northerly caresses
the swelling berries,
still pale but ready to blush.

No, still not quite right…
Begin again, begin with what is here:

Under the lilly-pilly moon
the ginger-mutt mutters,
paws twitching, ears flicking
at a boobook’s plaintive cry.
Adrift on bloodborne ancestral songlines,
in his dingo dreams he chases the ‘roos,
that thump past
like the slow, heavy heartbeat of the bush.


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For the d’Verse quadrille prompt “for whom the bell tolls“:


The bluebells are tardy this year.
Although perhaps I misjudge them,
perhaps they are just cautious –
perhaps, having seen the fate of the tulips,
those princesses reduced to muddied rags –
perhaps they are just waiting for the storms to pass.




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Ginger-Mutt doesn’t eat nachos

I made nachos last night with the new red heeler pup, aka the ginger-mutt, staring up at me the whole time and snapping up any scraps I dropped for him. So the d’Verse “spicing it up prompt” seemed very appropriate when I finally time to read it.  The challenge was to include the names of several spices/mixes in a poem.


Ginger-mutt looks up, Egyptian eyes beseeching
waiting for manna to fall:
oh oh, those heavenly scraps of beef
disappearing with a snap
into the salt and pepper muzzle.

The air is embroidered with curlicues of scent:
cumin and onions, golden-soft,
and those kohl-rimmed eyes, pleading, are raised again
filled with a desire no less intense for its silence.

But, the beef must go into the pot now
(although perhaps the chef may let fall a little more largesse).

Tomatoes, beans, corn, chilis, brown sugar and a touch of vinegar
and at the last, when the heat is off,
for a balancing touch of bitterness
and a final russet tint to the fragrance:
just a puff of cacao and cinnamon.
Food fit for the gods!

But not, alas, now the cooking is done,
for the ginger-mutt,
who must now make do with food fit for a dog.



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there’s a word for that

Tuesday’s dVerse challenge, “there’s a word for that“, was to indulge our sesquipedalianism and write a poem using a selection from a list of interesting words. Thanks for the vocabulary lesson Mish! 


Burbling through another gin and tonic,
unconcerned at my own inanity
he yet remains aloof, laconic,
to the verge of inhumanity.
I’m munificent in my legolepsy
but he’s securely wrapped in his sang-froid!
If only he’d take the first step, he
could overcome his isolophilia.
A single scintilla is all I ask
a single clue to this masculine puzzle
but his silence renders it a hopeless task
and leaves me severely, verbosely bumfuzzled.
Is he just quiet or is he timorous?
Or has he slipped into dormiveglia
lulled by my words’ gentle susurrus?
Is he my ikigai, could it be that we are
meant to be, and this is my soul mate?
Have I found my love on “Aussie first dates”?


From the list:

burble, laconic, legolepsy, sang-froid, isolophilia, scintilla, bumfuzzle (love that one!), timorous, dormiveglia, susurrus, ikigai. 


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labour of love

Written for the dVerse quadrille Monday prompt “learn to labor or labor to learn“, 44 words exactly, including the word work (and dedicated to my darling twin boys and my husband who I didn’t listen to):

three years of hoping
nine months of waiting
twenty hours of labour
(two panadol)
two thousand loads of washing
twenty thousand meals
for two lumps on the couch
grunting and picking their pimples.

You were right dear,
a dog would’ve been less work.


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offshoot 61

Thursday’s dVerse prompt was “vertical lines of kisses“, and the challenge was to take one of the five specified lines and use it to write a stanza with each line beginning with a word (in order) of the prompt line. I chose the line “since there’s no help, so let us kiss and part”, from Drayton’s idea 61. We studied that poem at school, and I loved it then but haven’t read it since, so it was wonderful to be reminded of it after so many years! Thanks Laura!


Since there’s no help and
there’s no hope, and there’s
no cause to try – please…
help me to cut these ties.
Come let us kiss, and then
let us say goodbye, and let
“Us” return to “you” and “I”. Just
Kiss me once, this final time
And, knowing it is final, then we’ll
Part, without further tears or sighs.


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Spring’s kiss

For the dVerse prompt “A World of Common Scents“:

For weeks Spring has flirted
with a wink of golden narcissus,
and a coy blue-sky smile
tossed over her shoulder
before she turns and sashays away again
into Winter’s iron-scented grey.
Until now,
she makes her intentions clear
and with soft pink arms reaching out
offers a sweet blossom-perfumed kiss.

Great prompt Worms!


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small hours

Written for the dVerse Monday quadrille prompt “morning has broken“:


spores of self-doubt grow
and spread into a mycelium,
enmeshing every cell,
blooming into twisted,
pointing fingers
here, on the wrong side of the morning,
hearing the first 4am cock-crows,
I count the hours
until daylight flows from the sky
washing away the night


A quadrille is exactly 44 words, and for the prompt the quadrille must include the word morning.  


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it’s not an effing restaurant

A collaborative effort by the whole family, in response to the dVerse prompt “at the restaurant“, starting with the title which is something I say at least once a week…


“It’s dinner time my darlings!
it’s time to come and eat,
turn off your screens, my dears,
take a plate and have a seat!

“I’ve made this food with love
Why won’t you eat your fill?”

“’Made with loves’ all well and good,
but we’d rather ‘made with skill!’

Why won’t you make what we want,
why won’t you let us choose?
It’s always half-raw vegies
or brown, mysterious ooze

“You’re always free to help me
and then you’d get some say!
Some help around the kitchen
would really make my day!

But until that happens,
I’m here to tell you, bub,
there’s two things on the menu
and they’re both avec shut-up”

You must be really stupid,
you must be such a dolt,
you always cook the stuff we hate
but expect a new result!

And then when we won’t eat it
you’re always full of sadness.
You do the same, expect a change –
now that’s a sign of madness!”

“It’s not an effing restaurant,
it’s not even a café,
if you don’t want what I’ve cooked
you can bloody go away!

You’ve always got a choice,
you’ve always got an option
you can eat what’s on your plate…
or you can go up for adoption!”



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clackety-click, what’s that in the attic?

in the dusty darkness
and cob-webbed quiet of the attic
with nought but the resident mouse
to bear witness
to their mechanical trysts,
the typewriters have multiplied –
and now they lurk in their dozens
their presence betrayed only
by an occasional
nocturnal tapping


Written for the dVerse Monday quadrille prompt, “what’s your type?“, and for my husband who collects typewriters and hides them in the roof-space where there is now a large colony of them.     


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