This is a Florette (a real one) for Saint Patrick’s Day.
Photo©Linda Bailey The sheep is hogging the limelight—the standing stone is in the background.
The green will fly and march today,
The beer will flow, the bands will play
Immortal folk reduced to sham
Travestied imps on Instagram, the modern way.
Once upon these rolling hills, sheep
Pastured, and where rivers run deep
A people lived ruled by the sun.
It seems as though those days are done; fairy folk sleep.
But seek them in the passage graves,
Among the stones and sea-licked caves,
Where whispered stories in the breeze
Drift from the rath into the trees, across the waves.
This poem is for the Secret Keeper’s writing prompt, using the words:
READ | ARM | RAID | STARE | RAGE
The more I use the Florette form, the more I like it.
I understood your angry stare,
Your words a weapon, brandished where
Our love alone spoke, soft and low,
And in our arms we’d make dreams grow, not this warfare.
If you could ravel up your rage,
Put by the past and turn the page,
I’d gladly help you write a new
And better story for we two—this world our stage.
Putting the record straight. It seems I have been labouring under a misapprehension, otherwise known as a wrongly titled entry in Shadow Poetry. I got the form from this entry which is entitled Florette. It isn’t; it’s an Essence. Those nifty little two-liners are in fact called Essence poems. Now we know, I’ll stop calling them Florettes.
This is a Florette.
(I’m rather proud of producing this one off the cuff, so I’m posting it in the dverse open link night.)
Quiet, the day grows, gold the light,
That softens into blue of night
And daytime world sleeps. Wakes the fox,
A silent thief, despite your locks, however tight.
Beneath the stars the night grows old,
He slinks to earth where hunger cold
And fierce is driven from the nest—
A feathered gift—and now to rest; this story’s told.
Just a reminder that the end of winter and the first months of spring are the hungry months.
Beneath the earth seeds sleep,
Famine, dearth, mothers weep.
This rain soaking deep earth,
such pain in spring rebirth.
Night falls, old day dying,
owl calls, shadows flying.
Snowflakes melt without trace,
spring wakes this sun-kissed place.
I woke, sleep in tatters,
night spoke, wild gale batters.
This little poem was inspired by a photograph posted by Paul Militaru on his beautiful blog here. He has very kindly allowed me to reproduce it. Thanks, Paul!
Water shimmers with light,
moon glimmers, sky alight.
I tried to get a photo of our brief flurry of snow on Wednesday, but there wasn’t enough for it to show up, plus my phone has now started taking mini photos.
This day ends in cold snow;
you stay—warm hands, fire-glow.