Dragons fly

I’m adding this one to the dverse open link night and the ‘movement’ prompt.

Photo©Michael Apel


dancing dragons

flying in stream shade

green as ocean deeps

feasting on gnats sun-struck blips

in cool water light


gems with wings

flash-flicker flick light

turquoise indigo

black gold blood and russet red

myths in motion


hover then flip

land on the slenderest leaf


machine-hot metallic tints

glint in cool leaf gloom


reptile insect

powdered with fool’s gold

in brittle-winged flight

rapid shutter speed

film of prehistory


deep shade

water trickles

dragonflying machines


tricks of the light

Limbo of infants

For the dverse prompt, a 55 word poem about one of the most insensitive unofficial doctrines of the Catholic Church.


Beneath flat stones,

nameless as the first day,

they lie cheek to cheek.

No forgiveness,

say the black-robed men,

for scraps of life

dead before the holy sacrament

can cleanse the uncommitted sin

from their souls.

Yet any mother knows

original sin

is the rot

in the black hearts of priests

not babies.

Ask one.

Calculating worth

Colleen might not be back yet, but that’s not a reason to shirk. An etheree, because she likes us to keep counting syllables. Short enough maybe for the NaPoWriMo prompt too.


They say there is no value in grass or

ditches running with bright rain water;

the sun, the sky, the lark singing

cannot be owned. Yet at the

end, when the last dark falls,

the nightingale’s song,

sweet stream pouring,

will be worth

more than


Haiku sequence

Colleen isn’t here for a few weeks, so this Tuesday, I shall profit to post haiku without counting the syllables.

spring clouds

meadow soaks up

golden light returns it

in buttercups


ancient cow pasture

a profusion of flowers

defies time



knee-high in dew

spring mornings


ditch is full again

running to the stream—evenings

is frogs’ chorus


clouds drift

white and soft grey as gulls

I hear the sea

By the light of the rain

A series of twitter poems.




By the light of the rain

and the darkness of the wind,

I see you better than beneath

the treacherous rays of the sun.


I taste the sharp tang of the stars,

the fizz of gunpowder on the tongue,

night shadows prickle the skin,

and I know you are there.


Hanging, the centre holding,

the brightest star,

you are,

touching the canopy of the night

with the scent of roses

and tender drops of dew.

I catch them in cupped hands,

drink the distilled music of the stars.


When the stars went out,

chased by the dawn,

the grass was sprinkled

with diamond dew

and the tiny yellow specks

of daisy seeds.


In the alder leaves’ dappled pattern,

the ripples of the stream,

I see your face,

and in the soft call of the doves,

I hear your voice.

Let me gather you,

light, leaves and laughter ,

and keep you safe

from the fickle world.


Black violets

A sequence of short poems on a dark theme.

Photo ©Rennett Stowe




Black violets clutched in your fist,

Cloying perfume from beyond the dark,

No light in your eyes,

No words on your tongue,

To answer a silent plea,

Hope that claws from a hollow heart,

Take me back to your shadows.


Lunar landscape of my heart,

Crawls with black holes of despair,

Where even screams are silent,

Smothered in fog and filthy air.


The silence between us is heavy as lead,

Black as pitch,

And cold as an arctic wind,

Yet I remember,

How once it was red with passion,

Fierce as a vengeful robin,

And light as a summer breeze.


Water pocked

with raindrops pitted

quicksilver flowing

and filling so fast

I lose track of the reason

you left me here

with empty hands

in the falling rain.


Four short poems.

painting ©mr-art.


No escape, no release

from this dull pain,

from this dark, sunless place

where you are not,

no choice but oblivion,

the leap into the void,

the final abyss.


Which, then, will disperse?

The boiling black clouds of perpetual anger,

or the wind-buffeted gulls,

white winged phantoms of joy?


Hovering on the brink,


do I plunge into chaos

where you have fallen,

or soar with the white gulls

into the bright morning?


I drop my heart into the pool,

black water that has with no end.

The ripples widen

to touch the shore,

then nothing.

No pale gleam of hidden light,

the sound of sorrow,

waves lapping.