Random word generator and other things

Yesterday I was too busy and preoccupied to post anything. Today I have:

Made a hedgehog house and café, away from the fence. The dogs scream at the poor thing as it tries to have a quiet meal under the plum tree.
Watched a young deer leaping through the meadow, the heron circling looking for water.
Written a letter to the tax people.
Walked the dogs and preempted a violent meeting with Imelda (cat) twice.
Made a hospital appointment.
Watered all the things in pots with water from the well.
Made a minestrone and the dogs’ dinner.
Written a few poems.
Revised a bit more of a manuscript.
Watched in admiration the changing light in this warm autumnal breeze.

Here, for those who would like to use it, is a selection of words that I didn’t post yesterday. Quite a good one, I think.

There are strange things hiding in these strings of random words, the limping laugh and untidy cry, a venomous cure, clam oil, ruddy muscle (or mussel) and the insistence on milk. And there are whole tragedies, the irate uncle with a secret, who imbibes until his state reaches alert, and the attractive skier now a grey stiff. Ultra regret.

This is what I got, a cadralor, I think. I chose this Chagall because it’s bright and full of music and movement, but also ambiguity.


We are a barbarous race,
build bonfires of all that is good
and scrape up scraps of tawdry leavings,
gewgaws and glitz, to venerate.

The peace breaks, a muttering in the air.
Did the wind swing the bell,
or does it toll in alarm at the change,
a gale gusting from the ocean?

Bird-talk, a busy painting,
a concert hall’s swollen sound,
laughter that dive-dips, the colour of jay’s wings,
the rhythm section of the chiff chaffs.

Speaking of God, I see him striding, the curé,
as if he still evokes fear,
seeing only the ghosts of the long-dead,
who would have bowed at his passing.

There is something grandiose
in snow-capped mountains,
and secrets shared with a cat, a baby,
someone who will never tell.

Silver linings

Finally getting round to posting Saturday’s message from the Oracle which turned out to be a proper Cadralor.
The painting is by Marc Chagall.

Silver linings

It’s live, she said,
I know I’ll speak too fast,
my tongue stumble on the words.

But the cat in her lap
stole the show.

They lean together like reeds
at the water’s edge, to chant,
worship, but the wind blows away
the quavering song,
leaving the dead in peace.

The wedding party was a mingling
of joy and grief, men and women
with their separate ideas.
Only the red-haired fiddler
was lost in the tune.

Will this rain never stop? you cry.
The sea tosses spray in your face,
the wind tosses petals
torn from early roses,
and suddenly, you laugh.

In this cool spring light,
a storm is a thing of beauty,
steel shafts of rain echo the tall sedge stalks.
I watch summer budding
in lightning flashes.

At the end of never

At the end of never there is music
of the moon
playing in the shadows of rain and storm
in the tongue of sweet summer and winter whisper.

At the end of never light slips
fast as starfire
pure as the pink-petaled rose reflected in still water.

At the end there must be blue
and the spring rising of swallows’ wings
where dragonflied lakes glitter with the soaring sun.

And at the end of never is sleep
dreams perhaps of forest green
and moons slipping fast as starfire
into the cupped pink petals of a rose.

Poetry challenge Sleep walking: the entries

It is so gratifying to see that the paintings that I love and get so much inspiration from, seem to prod the same nerves with so many of you. I loved reading these poems, you produced a beautiful collection.


Sarah’s small collection of dancing jewels

Poetry challenge #39 – Sleep walker – for Jane Dougherty. | fmme writes poems


Lady Lee’s poem is a dream of love

Believe in Dreams – ladyleemanila


Three, Ken! Is this a record? I think my favourite is the first poem. Cats always manage to steal the show.

sleepwalking | rivrvlogr

sleepwalker | rivrvlogr

Inspiration de Chagall – cross-out poem | rivrvlogr

And a fourth cinquain (fingers crossed he doesn’t add a fifth) on the cat’s orders.

The cat says | rivrvlogr


TJ’s poem, like Kerfe’s is a circular argument or real or unreal. Back to front and inside out. Maybe that’s how it feels to be between dreaming and waking.



Kat’s poems follow the rules beautifully of one of the more precise forms of cinquain.

Never Forget – A Trio of Cinquains | like mercury colliding…


I really like Kim’s cinquain. There’s something so off-balance about that last line/word.

Lunar Tricks – writing in north norfolk


Louise’s poems are also a little unsettling. My favourite is the first one. Reminds me of Clive Barker’s Abarat.

Chaotic Nightmares – Fantasy Raconteur


Merril’s second poem seem to me to be infused with feelings inspired by the horrific events in Nice. Again, the dreamworld is not necessarily a fairy tale.

Dreamscape | Yesterday and today: Merril’s historical musings


As was to be expected, the Crow’s poem is mid-way between dream and nightmare. A jovial nightmare? If that’s possible.

my feet on the roof, off the ground (20160714) – Words and Feathers


Kerfe’s dream world is topsy turvy and back to front, but there’s a sense that it will all make sense in the end.

Orbiting | method two madness


Janice’s poems sent shivers up the spine, especially the last one. Definitely not a comfortable dream world.

Sleepwalking—Cinquain poems – Ontheland


Doug’s sleepwalkers might or might not be of this world. Eerie yet not frightening. I like the atmosphere of this one.

When Dusk Disappears | Elusive Trope


and a last minute entry from Sri. Romantic as always.



That’s the foray into the world of Chagall’s Sleep Walker. And a trip well worth making. Thanks to all of you, and hoping tomorrow’s prompt inspires you equally fruitfully.