About a cat

A cat Serpent’s Tail poem for the OctPoWriMo prompt.

Come on Trixie

What can I say about the cat

that shares this home,

roams at will

until hunger brings her in?

Winter cold resistant,

insistent, she claims her right to walk,

stalk the night,

bright eyes light the way.

Daytime, she sits for hours,

scours thickets and hedge,

edging ever closer to small prey.

Says the dog, you’ll never change her,

feather-brain but quick,

thick as river mud but fast,

last to leave the chase.

Brace yourself to wait,

late, for there she’ll squat.

Broken hearts

The suggestion for the OctPoWriMo prompt is a loop poem. This is a variant. I call it Serpent’s Tail.

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There is no compassion,

passion for death replaces it,

fit only for townfolk.

Poke fun at their sentimentality,

reality is power,

cowering wildlife at your whim,

slim chance of escape all they get.

Yet you call yourself a guardian, arbitrator;

terminator’s not how you see your task,

ask any huntsman anywhere.

 

 

Silent screaming

Monday morning, after a weekend of carnage, the retired men with white vans, too much time on their hands and too little imagination and sensitivity are still blazing away at inoffensive creatures that are infinitely more useful and beautiful than they are.

For the OctPoWriMo prompt.

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knots tighten

taut

twanging like bowstring

the report of a gun

not placid

as the eyes embedded in wood

fiercely blind

clench-fisted against the ungraspable.

Knots bind

hands flail

unbound but helpless

in the face of flying bullets

and the brutish blackness

beneath the skull

of the hidden hunter.

Disappointment

For today’s OctPoWriMo prompt. The first broken heart. The lurcher pup in the photo isn’t the one we had briefly. Our little lurcher was grey-black but her face was the same.

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Like bitter beads

strung on a chain

the first, the bitterest,

taste lingers still,

the dreamed of puppy,

too bouncy, too messy,

too demanding,

returned to the pound,

just when she had captured

my heart.

Scattered

For the OctPoWriMo prompt I’ve used the suggested form, a kyrielle.

 

Scattered we are, it’s in the blood

to up and go. Perhaps we should

put down more roots and let them grow,

but dreams run deep as rivers flow.

 

Perhaps we should have found one place,

where each could carve her special space

and sit and watch the roses blow,

but dreams run deep as rivers flow.

 

Yet close we are, though far apart

it only needs a word to start

the talk. Come sun or winter snow,

Our blood runs deep as rivers flow.

Where did it go?

For the OctPoWriMo prompt—time. A serpent’s tail poem.

 

Where did it go, the time,

crime-wasted,

tasted too often the same things.

Springs sprang and ran away,

days died with the sun.

Done the nights of bright and gaudy,

tawdry pleasure,

measure now the loss,

dross we gathered, saved,

slaved, craving  eternity,

we found only midnight’s neon glare.

Out of the depths

So much of what I write at the moment is influenced by the state of the world. Every image seems to have a dark side. This is another poem I wrote for this image by Dale Patterson for the Ekphrastic challenge. It also fits today’s OctPoWriMo prompt.

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Out of the depths they cried until their mouths filled with darkness, and

they flew. Silver paper wings butterflied them through the murky air,

 

until their throats filled with poison. We watched from our windows

shuttered against the change and chased them on and on and on,

 

watched the birds follow, wheel and wing away, voiceless and

childless with nothing in their feathers but despair.

 

We will wait behind our shuttered windows and watch the screen,

until all goes dark and the water rises, the water full of darkness.

Anger

For today’s OctPoWriMo tree prompt. Not hugging, but sympathising with. The form is one the Oracle whispered to me yesterday. I’m calling it a Sevens until further notice. And yes, I am sick and disgusted and depressed about the laxist attitude towards the massacring of our wildlife population by a tiny minority of middle aged men with guns. The wind blew hot and hard all last night. Sunday is the chasseurs’ especially productive day.

 

These trees are angry, listen

to their voices, the green-leafed

fury in the rising gale.

Acorns pelt and dead wood, yet

when the cold stars have faded,

tomorrow it will come, with

furtive gun-metal breath, death.

 

 

 

 

Black

I miss so much when the internet is down. No Oracle yesterday, but she gave me a whole string of poems in a particular form that I’ll post sometime.

This consultation (quick before we lose the signal) is grim, but it fits yesterday’s OctPoWriMo theme of black.

 

The fat in the fire, wind in the sky,

like the angry voice of the universe,

screaming into dumb eyes and open mouths

that see secrets

where there is only smoke.

 

Can you not see the black

in the spring sky so blue,

the darkness on the edge of town,

the shadows on the water?

Cry to the shining sea,

stop these lying tongues,

soar with the light.

 

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