I could say…

I could say this is a Surrealist poem, but I could well be wrong. For dverse.

 

 

I could say the sun dripped like a sea anemone among the paper

cups of the butcher’s floor amid the sweepings of carnations

 

and the sighs of woodlice. I could say the wind blows through

the night dunes, rolling its r’s in true Roman fashion, dropping

 

packages of white powder on the beach, while I listen to the click

clack of the beadmen as they trip the light fandango on the prom.

 

And I could say this sun is setting, balanced for a moment upon

the treetops, gathering up the gold and turquoise for other climes.

 

I could say the blue is fading, a thinning veil between us and the

stars, and soon we will see the universe if only we raise our heads,

 

if only the street lights would dim,

if only we were not the way we are.

 

Some things I understand,

others not.

Hare

A quadrille for dverse

 

Beneath the hedge

long ears turn

antennae

capturing vibrations in the air,

nose twitches

with the scent of dog stalking,

flanks quiver

with pounding heart muscles

tensing with the vibrating, quivering

scent-sounds,

alert in every pulse of the blood

for the moment to leap.

In awe

Second cascade of the day for the dverse majestic prompt.

Photo©Airwolfhound

800px-Red_Kite_(36208444586)

Beneath the mountain, a round pebble I,

Cloud-mountains build their vastness overhead;

The falcon stoops, my land-locked heart takes flight.

 

The keystone of a soaring arch-ribbed vault

Looks down on me with pure and cold disdain;

Beneath the mountain, a round pebble I.

 

The darting swallow-specks that fill the sky

Fly where I cannot go, that blue realm where

Cloud-mountains build their vastness overhead.

 

Such grandeur mocks our proudest works, their vain

Pale imitation fails to move, yet when

The falcon stoops, my land-locked heart takes flight.

Pop

For the dverse Andy Warhol prompt.

 

The flash and the crass

in a souped up Merc

bright yellow and orange.

Noise music blasted

across a banal field

frightening the pigeons

night full of neon

drug-vision and the blur of electric light

fizz and crackle.

A face masked with make-up

wig silver or blond

shades that shade night-shade

all gone pop pam pow

packed in a can

shelf life of soup.

On freeing a walnut tree from an invasive fig tree

The dverse quadrille this week has to include the word ‘set’. I have spent a goodly part of today wandering about in a badger’s set (virtually, for the purposes of a story) so I had to join in even if the poem isn’t about a badger’s home at all.

Fig and walnut

While it is wet

it will not set

but the clay

today

is dry as bone

and alone

I cannot dig

around the fig

to get it out.

No sprout will shoot

nor root

delve beneath this tree

if I can’t get it free.

 

Leap in the dark

The dverse quadrille theme word is extinction. A quadrille is a poem of exactly 44 words.

 

She hurried her child through bone-dead streets

where shadows played giants on crumbling walls

to the chasm where millions wept and leapt

into the dark and the roar of flames.

 

The child peered down and troubled asked,

‘What place is this?’

‘Extinction,’ she said.