This is what I am calling this poetry form until someone shows me that it already exists and has another name.
Becalmed on this sea,
we watch the sky for cloudfall,
stalled and immobile,
while hands clasp tight.
Night comes and no wind blows,
flows the tide into the dawn.
Born again in sunlight,
wings spread to fly,
sky calls us home.
Foam-flecked, we rise and find
behind is left all harm,
becalmed on this sea.
Posted in the dVerse open night. This is a circular poem which means the last word of the line rhymes with the first word of the next line, and so on until the last line which is a repeat of the first, and the poem has come full circle.
Tomorrow will come,
drumbeat and cymbals clash,
flash open the sky,
dyed merciless white.
Flight of starlings chasing the night,
soars the white gull,
full indifferent to our flutterings,
mutterings and pleading,
ceding only to the waves’ call.
Fall we must from our sleep,
weep tears of rage,
stage our temper tantrums for the crowd.
Loud crash the waves whatever our complaint,
faint the sirens’ call from the sea,
we make do, in happiness or sorrow;
tomorrow will come.
Rain is falling,
stalling the year,
drear as an ending,
sending waves to break on muddy banks.
Thanks given for what?
Not good fortune or happiness.
Loneliness is the lot of many,
any port in a storm, they take,
make their own joy.
Cloying, the unctuous sweetness of the season,
reason departs and folly reigns,
staining the simple spread of pleasures shared,
snared, the quiet soul of peace,
fleeced, the unwary and naïve.
Eve of childhood’s magic feast,
released the genie from the bottle,
throttled the hen that laid the golden eggs,
begs the question, why all this pain?
Rain is falling.
Done the day, so short,
caught between two dusks,
husk of the year,
drear sometimes or glitter bright,
light strung with gold,
enfolding a placid summer shore,
or shot grey with rain.
Train whistles, homeward bound,
sound full of melancholy,
follies of youth,
truth be told.
Old now we are, like the winter sun,
done the day, so short.
A circular poem based on today’s magnetic poem
Quiet as stone falls the light,
bright and glacier cold,
folding the world in clouds of frost.
Bifrost the bridge of violet and blue,
hues of the rainbow,
slowly arching across the sky,
flying on swans’ wings from rooted earth,
berth of sky ships, soaring,
roaring with the winds voice.
Rejoice in this sky-reaching and spanning space,
race, white swans with this dead heart,
part the clouds for I see the journey’s close,
rose scented, blue horses joyful riot,
quiet as stone falls the light.
Photo ©Stuart Wilding
Among the leaves,
breeze strips the branches bare,
where robins sing as though
snow will never fall,
calling back the light,
bright berries strung
among the leaves.
Will the dawn break again,
Rain fall on parched earth,
Birth and death,
Belled the cat
That killed the bird,
Heard no more
For its beauty is still,
Will the dawn break again?
No leaf clings,
sings still the robin fierce,
piercing the gloom with song.
Long lie the shadows deep,
sleeping the dreams so dearly bought,
taut the wires that pull and bind.
Find we the path in this night,
light in this dark?
Hearken we to the voices of the dead,
treading their silent way back to their peace?
Ceases the clamour of heavy hearts,
parts the cloud and floods the moonlight,
bright glimmer paints the robin’s tree, though
no leaf clings.
Photo ©Nigel Mykura
Grey winds are blowing,
flowing the swollen river,
quivering banks of poplars damp and dull.
Full are the sullen clouds,
shrouds of winter sailing,
wailing the gull, “Golden autumn drifts away,
grey winds are blowing.”
Another circular poem, this one with a rhythm.
I called goodbye to the empty air
Where you had been but moments past.
Last summer when love seemed so sure,
Pure as a the sky streaked white with cloud,
Loud sang the songbirds in the tree,
We laughed and loved through day and night.
Bright day dawning, swan takes flight,
Light me home, now, morning star,
Far away in the brightening sky,
I called goodbye to the empty air.