Tuesday’s dVerse prompt was “choose your muse“. I think mine must be Thalia, muse of comedy and pastoral poetry, as that’s what I seem to mostly write. Finding quiet time to write is a challenge at the moment.
My muse is shy, she won’t come out
if there is anyone else about.
I hear her whisper, but can’t catch the words,
she demands silence to be properly heard.
So I wait impatiently, all day, and then,
when at last we’re alone, I take up my pen.
The aural assault begins:
the cornet sounds the charge,
taken up by horn and trombone.
A boy smaller than his bass drum,
and a second on snare and cymbal
thunder out a covering barrage.
Until all are silenced by the baton.
I came across the sevenling form on ‘Scrambled not fried’, for example this one and have been meaning to try it for ages. The specifications are here. Oh, and QJB is Queanbeyan Junior Brass. And they’re much better than this, or any of my other poems about them, may have implied. But they are loud.
I was reading Worms’s post about belief, “The answer is a question”. And I started writing a really long comment, and then thought it was a bit rude to take up so much space on her blog for my own musings. So I’m putting them here. Continue reading
Parents wait at the gate for the cages to be opened
and the flock,
bright as grass parrots in their green and yellow,
to come flying out.
Hands are held across the road:
look right, look left,
look right again –
walk straight across, don’t run! Continue reading
I’ve been thinking about seeds a lot as I keep planting peas that get eaten by mice, and I’ve written a few poems about them. But pruning one into 44 words for Monday’s dVerse quadrille prompt “planting seeds” didn’t work for me. So I tried to think of what a seed is – enough genetic information for an organism (diploid), the machinery of a cell to start it all going (mitochondria, etc)… Did you know that mitochondrial DNA comes purely down the female line? Yours is the same as your mother’s, your grandmother’s, your great-grandmother’s, stretching back along a line of a hundred thousand women…
what masculine conceit,
calling your semen ‘seed’!
Spill it on the ground,
wait for an army of sons to rise,
from those sad wrigglers –
not even half the story.
Wait forever –
it’s not seed you sprayed,
Filed under musings, poem
On the hill above the city,
on an afternoon all green and blue:
Picnics are spread, a tea-party laid out.
A small boy joyfully kicks
a large plush toy down the hill,
as a wedding party poses by the pavilion.
Happily discordant strains
of “happy birthday to you”
drift from a nearby teenage group,
set apart from the many little ones
who are running,
beneath a bright flock of kites.
I took my daughter and a couple of her friends for a picnic and kite flying at the Arboretum yesterday. It was one of those perfect Canberra autumn afternoons – mild and sunny, and almost unbearably blue. The sort you want to keep preserved in glass, for later revisiting.
At least it was perfect until I decided to have a go at rolling down the hill. The kids were having a great time doing it, and who cares what other people think, right? Turns out all those other adults were smarter than me. Barely a quarter of the way down I had to stop, head spinning and almost throwing up. Sigh. Next time I will stick to flying kites.
The string slides through my fingers
as the kite leaps up,
impatient to join the bright flock.
Riding the wind,
string humming in my hand,
it tugs like a fish with each gust –
a dot-dash transmission:
let me go
This is for the dVerse prompt “hopscotch with anapestic tetrameter” and is another collaborative effort with my daughter, although it reflects my school days more than hers – she wanted to know why a teacher would use chalk instead of a screen… 🙄
back to school.
No more fun,
that’s the rule.
“All be quiet!
No more talk, Continue reading
For the bothersome dVerse Monday quadrille #126 prompt, and with thanks to H_ for scribing for me on the school run this morning:
What a bothersome great fuss,
another morning weekday rush
just to get to school on time
on a day so sweetly fine.
Look, the sky’s so brilliant blue,
Mum, can’t I stay home with you?
Absolutely not my dear,
get your butt outta here!
A quadrille is exactly 44 words, no restrictions otherwise, and must contain the prompt word or a variation, in this case ‘bother’.
Easter Sunday, such a fun day,
watch the children run –
they need to solve the puzzles before
their chocolates melt in the sun.
When my kids were very young, we used to hide Easter eggs for them to find in the little fenced-in yard behind the house. But once they were old enough to read, we set them clues written on strips of paper to follow to find their eggs. Each clue is a puzzle that they need to solve to get to the next egg, with the next clue wrapped around it, and an Easter bunny at the end. Continue reading