Autumn Legacy

Autumn Legacy
Form: Raven’s Rovi Sonnet 70

My autumn lady come take up my hand
As we let go of summer and its light
With the crops all gathered in from the land

The summer has provided for us well
Now our legacy shines in red and gold
Before the long days within winter’s spell
The time is all ours for love to behold

Let us make the stories for them to tell
As echoed desires from a time long past
For now, the days are equal to the night
Our destiny has come to here unfold
In the mystic ways that were always planned

Gone are our days of loving wild and fast
Now we lean back into golden repast


Oh, My Love by Nizar Qabbani

Nizar Qabbani 1923-1998

Oh, My Love

Oh, my love
If you were at the level of my madness,
You would cast away your jewelry,
Sell all your bracelets,
And sleep in my eyes

Nizar Qabbani
Born: 21 March 1923, Damascus, Syria
Nationality: Syrian
Died: 30 April 1998, London, UK

Qabbani was a diplomat, poet, writer, and publisher. His poetry is best known for combining simplicity and elegance to explore the themes of love, eroticism, feminism, Arab nationalism, and religion. Qabbani is among the most revered and respected contemporary poets from the Arab world and is considered Syria’s national poet

Smear (YDWP)

Inspired by and written for Your Daily Word Prompt – my thanks to Sheryl

Form: Bina

sunlight captures the streaks on the glass
vinegar and newspaper to make it shine

early summer days the sun comes to shine
and the top of the pond shimmers like glass

wiping smears from the glass I can see my pond shine


Doggo’s Delight (Simply 6 Minutes)

Inspired by and written for Simply 6 Minutes – thank you, Christine

Form: Four Kings Sonnet

The knitting needles were clicking all night
Insomnia making while drinking tea
With a loyal doggo for company
The TV flickers with non-stop blue light
The news is all wrong and nothing feels right
Flicking a button something else to see
Some old soap or a documentary
On just another insomniac night

On the morning walk doggo looks a sight
A special gift for being friends with me
Keeping me from my darkest fears that be
But his face is not of purest delight
I can but hope my doggo forgives me

Time: 6 minutes 20 seconds
Word Count: 122


Name of Horses by Donald Hall

Donald Hall 1928-2018

Name of Horses

All winter your brute shoulders strained against collars, padding
and steerhide over the ash hames, to haul
sledges of cordwood for drying through spring and summer,
for the Glenwood stove next winter, and for the simmering range.

In April you pulled cartloads of manure to spread on the fields,
dark manure of Holsteins, and knobs of your own clustered with oats.
All summer you mowed the grass in meadow and hayfield, the mowing machine
clacketing beside you, while the sun walked high in the morning;

and after noon’s heat, you pulled a clawed rake through the same acres,
gathering stacks, and dragged the wagon from stack to stack,
and the built hayrack back, uphill to the chaffy barn,
three loads of hay a day from standing grass in the morning.

Sundays you trotted the two miles to church with the light load
a leather quartertop buggy, and grazed in the sound of hymns.
Generation on generation, your neck rubbed the windowsill
of the stall, smoothing the wood as the sea smooths glass.

When you were old and lame, when your shoulders hurt bending to graze,
one October the man, who fed you and kept you, and harnessed you every morning,
led you through corn stubble to sandy ground above Eagle Pond,
and dug a hole beside you where you stood shuddering in your skin,

and lay the shotgun’s muzzle in the boneless hollow behind your ear,
and fired the slug into your brain, and felled you into your grave,
shoveling sand to cover you, setting goldenrod upright above you,
where by next summer a dent in the ground made your monument.

For a hundred and fifty years, in the Pasture of dead horses,
roots of pine trees pushed through the pale curves of your ribs,
yellow blossoms flourished above you in autumn, and in winter
frost heaved your bones in the ground – old toilers, soil makers:

O Roger, Mackerel, Riley, Ned, Nellie, Chester, Lady Ghost.

Donald Hall
Born: 20 September 1928, Connecticut, USA
Nationality: American
Died: 23 June 2018, New Hampshire, USA

Hall was a poet, writer, editor, and literary critic. The author of over 50 books across varying genres he was a graduate of Phillips Exeter Academy, Harvard, and Oxford. He was the first poetry editor for The Paris Review and was known for interviewing poets and writers about their craft.

Baby, Don’t Cry

Baby, Don’t Cry
Form: Ivorian Sonnet 95

From outside our bedroom, I heard her cry
As I sat beside her, I asked her why

While I laid my hand softly on her arm
And her body racked out another sob
What had caused my darling this painful harm

In a gulp of breath, her mother had called
How she had failed to live up to their dreams
My heart is breaking I was so appalled
My rage withheld, as I wiped her tear streams

She repeated the words that made me scald
And I let my chest absorb her sad screams
For in this moment that hate cannot rob
Our love; it hurts the same to hear the lie
But in our love, we ease the hurt and harm


Without a Muse (Weekly Prompts Colour Challenge)

Inspired by and written for Weekly Prompts Colour Challenge – thank you Sue and GC

Form: Sonnet Reversii

Heartbreak hotel where my soul sings the Blues
Blues the music to bring me some solace
Solace found in a glass without a muse
Muse, please return to me in this place
Place me in the middle of all those songs
Songs that sting my eyes with the empty tears
Tears cried when nothing is right in the wrong
Wrong place to be to face all the dark fears
Fears that never help to turn on the light
Light locked out of my darkened mind and room
Room to think and room to cry out tonight
Tonight, without you I see only gloom
Gloomy dreams that bring my soul to its ache
Ache, and ache some more, in this my heartbreak


Our Struggle is Real

Emanuel Xavier 1970-

Xavier is a Latinx poet, author, spoken word artist, editor, and LGBT+ activist from the Bushwick area of Brooklyn. Once an underage hustler and drug dealer, through surviving hate crime, Xavier emerged from the East Village, Manhattan art scene, the ball culture scene and Nuyorican movement as a successful poet, writer, and advocate for gay youth and Latinx gay literature.

Born in Brooklyn, New York, Xavier’s father abandoned his Ecuadorian mother when he found out she was pregnant. Xavier was also a victim of child abuse by a relative. He grew up in Bushwick during the 1970s when it was mainly an immigrant community. He attended a white elementary school in Queens where he was subject to racism. Xavier was kicked out by his mother at age 16 when he came out as gay and survived as an underage hustler. With strict rules, he returned home and graduated from Grover Cleveland High School before attending St John’s University for several years receiving an associate degree in communications. Xavier worked at an LGBTQ bookstore, A Different Light, where he found his passion for writing and turned his life around.

In 1997 Xavier self-published the chapbook “Pier Queen” and in 1998, with his friend, Willi Ninja, he created the House of Xavier and the Glam Slam, an annual art event held at the Nuyorican Poets Café. The fusion of ball culture and poetry slam featured categories such as Best Erotic Poem in Sexy Underwear or Lingerie, Best Love Poem in Fire Engine Red, and Best Verbal Vogue. In 1999 Xavier’s semi-autobiographical novel “Christ Like” was published by Painted Leaf Press. Despite a limited run, it was nominated for a Lambda Literary award in the Small Press category and was reprinted in 2009 by Rebel Satori Press as a revised 10th-anniversary edition.

Xavier hosted the Lambada Literary Awards in 2001. He was one of the leading forces behind “Words of Comfort,” a poetry benefit held after 9/11. Xavier’s poem “September Song” was included as part of the National September 11 Memorial and Museum website and later appeared in his 2002 poetry collection “Americano”

In the 2000s Xavier appeared twice on Russell Simmons Presents Def Poetry on HBO, he also guest hosted IN The Life on PBS with Laverne Cox. Xavier also appeared in the Wolfgang Busch documentary How Do I Look and co-starred in the film The Ski Trip aired on LOGO. In 2005 Xavier edited the anthology “Bullets & Butterflies: Queer Spoken Word Poetry” and earned a second Lambda Literary Award in the Anthologies category. In 2008 he edited “Mariposas: A Modern Anthology of Queer Latino Poetry.”

In 2017 PEN America invited Xavier to read his poem “Americano” at the Writer’s Resist rally in protest of the Trump administration. Also that year a weeklong exhibit celebrating the 20th anniversary of his collection “Pier Queen” was held.

Xavier was part of the Saks Fifth Avenue Stonewall Inn Gives It Back Initiative in 2019 for the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall Inn riots. Xavier was invited to share his poetry at the United Nations in 2018 as part of The International Symposium on Cultural Diplomacy. He shared a poem about gun control and after the criticism that followed, he was uninvited back as a speaker.

Xavier was attacked by about 20 men in Bushwick, Brooklyn in October 2005. Among the rumours about the attack, some suggested it stemmed from his giving permission to the Latin Kings gang to publish his poem on the subject of police brutality “Waiting for God.” Xavier was diagnosed with an acoustic neuroma following the attack and underwent surgery. The tumour was benign but he suffered partial facial paralysis for a time. In 2015 the neuroma returned and Xavier underwent successful radiosurgery.

The Death of Art by Emanuel Xavier

“Reading well is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you.”
-critic Harold Bloom, who first called slam poetry “the death of art.”

I am not a poet. I want to be rich and buy things for my family.
Besides, I am sort of popular and can honestly say I’ve had a great sex life.

I am not a poet. Georgia O’ Keefe paintings do absolutely nothing for me. I do not feel oppressed or depressed and no longer have anything to say about the President.

I am not a poet. I do not like being called an “activist” because it takes away from those that are out on the streets protesting and fighting for our rights.

I am not a poet. I eat poultry and fish and suck way too much dick to be considered a vegetarian.

I am not a poet. I would most likely give my ass up in prison before trying to save it with poetry . . . and I’d like it! Heck, I’d probably be inspired.

I am not a poet. I may value peace but I will not simply use a pen to unleash my anger. I would fuck somebody up if I had to.

I am not a poet. I may have been abused and had a difficult life but I don’t want pity. I believe laughter and love heals.

I am not a poet. I am not dying. I write a lot about AIDS and how it has affected my life but, despite the rumours, I am not positive. Believe it or not, weight loss amongst sexually active gay men could still be a choice.

I am not a poet. I do not get Kerouac or honestly care much for Bukowski.

I am not a poet. I don’t spend my weekends reading and writing. I like to go out and party. I like to have a few cocktails but I do not have a drinking problem regardless of what borough, city or state I may wake up in.

I am not a poet. I don’t need drugs to open up my imagination. I’ve been a dealer and had a really bad habit but that was long before I started writing.

I am not a poet. I can seriously only tolerate about half an hour of spoken word before I start tuning out and thinking about my grocery list or what my cats are up to.

I am not a poet. I only do poetry events if I know there will be cute guys there and I always carry business cards.

I am not a poet according to the scholars and academics and Harold Bloom. I only write to masturbate my mind. After all, fucking yourself is one of the great pleasures that solitude can afford you.

I am not a poet. I am only trying to get attention and convince myself that poetry can save lives when my words simply and proudly contribute to “the death of art.”

Breakfast Table

Breakfast Table
Form: Casbairdne

Sitting out at the sunrise
They chatter before first light
And I’ve no doubt they’ll go on
With their natter till the night

Sparrows and blue tits in trees
All sharing their own review
As they sit in my garden
Their chirping becomes my cue

They have made their presence felt
It’s time to bring seeds and nuts
A well-laid breakfast table
A birds’ bounty and no buts

The ravens shimmer in black
Standing back to stay aloof
Their craven heads help up high
Their beauty alone pure proof

Bacon placed upon their plate
And leftovers from my tea
My birds chat on in delight
Before flying away free


To the Triad

A Garret Poet

To the Triad
Form: Italian Sonnet

Thou touched this heart of mine with moonlit song
as I redeemed my soul in love divine,
and sipped thy blood that is the blesséd wine
my pledge, renewed, to serve thee stays strong.
Oh Goddess, Queen of dark and light, I pray
for eyes to see and strength to understand
the path I follow, guided by thy hand,
in thy embrace my spirit comes thy way.
And when I falter, falling on the ground
I hear thy voice calling, yet I know not when
I feel thy love that lifts me up again
to fill my heart with joy and hope profound.
The Goddess, Maiden, Mother of the skies
and Crone of Wisdom, can thee hear my sighs?


Men Loved Wholly Beyond Wisdom by Louise Bogan

Louise Bogan 1897-1970

Men Loved Wholly Beyond Wisdom

Men loved wholly beyond wisdom
Have the staff without the banner.
Like a fire in a dry thicket
Rising within women’s eyes
Is the love men must return.
Heart, so subtle now, and trembling,
What a marvel to be wise.,
To love never in this manner!
To be quiet in the fern
Like a thing gone dead and still,
Listening to the prisoned cricket
Shake its terrible dissembling
Music in the granite hill

Louise Bogan
Born: 11 August 1897, Maine, USA
Nationality: American
Died: 4 February 1970, New York, USA

Bogan was a poet. Appointed the Poet Laureate to the Library of Congress in 1945. she was the first woman to hold the office. Bogan wrote poetry, friction, and criticism and was a regular poetry reviewer for “The New Yorker.”

Curry and Jazz

Curry and Jazz
Form: Free Verse

Golden liquor shimmers in the late morning sun
a whiskey before noon
perhaps it’s too soon
but whose to judge but me
as I ponder another evening meal for one
the warm feeling slips through my throat
a subtle reminder of other nights
of cooking lamb curry
eaten by candlelight
soft jazz setting a rhythm
enticing and inviting her and me to our bed
and a warm feeling slipping slowly through my throat
diced lamb and sliced onions
simmer in the slow cooker
spices scenting the air
lingering in my throat –
I’ll freeze the other half


Ticket to Some Place (Weekend Writing Prompt)

Inspired by and written for Weekend Writing Prompt – Thank you, Sammi

Form: Free Verse

automated reactions
the nervous twitch
sparks electric through my nerves
yet hands and words
like wheels spinning
without revelation of feelings
and emotions
making jokes at my own expense
my lips on autopilot
before my thoughts jam the cogs
matter over mind
say never mind it doesn’t matter
as pain erupts in varying explosions
my soul is stranded
on the platform of Heartbreak Station
checking the time for
the next clockwork train
to any destination
anywhere and nowhere in particular
away from here
I no longer care
a ticket to a new destination
some place
away from you

Word Count: 99


Establish (RDP)

Inspired by and written for Ragtag Daily Prompt – my thanks to Sgeoil

Definition: Establish – v. set up on a firm or permanent basis; achieve permanent acceptance or recognition for

Form: Dodoitsu

reputation a base line
building solid foundations
credibility matters
when making a name



A Garret Poet

Form: Italian Sonnet

The darkest winter cannot hide Her light,
even when the coldest winds begin to blow
Her love shall shelter me from drifting snow
She is the star to bring my eyes their sight.
It is Her hand that leads me through the night,
and it’s Her kiss that leaves my heart aglow,
as in Her love, my soul has come to know,
it is Her joy that brings me my delight.
Alas my eyes are blinded to Her face
my mortal body imperfectly weak
I wonder if Her beauty is now lost
but still, my saddened heart can feel Her grace,
and now forever I shall always seek
Her joy no matter the personal cost

Mote it be



Form: Curtal Sonnet

With a gentle touch to placate the beast
That is ticking time to end silent fear
Of ashen streets lined with ashen faces
The only words those of a praying priest
As the steady hand to the wire draws near
Inside a soldier’s mind shakes in places
What if it is blue instead of the red
But none in the crowd is thinking of that
If he gets it wrong, they will all be dead
All that will remain of him is his hat
It’s red


Penelope’s Song by Louise Glück

Louise Glück 1943-

Penelope’s Song

Little soul, little perpetually undressed one,
Do now as I bid you, climb
The shelf-like branches of the spruce tree;
Wait at the top, attentive, like
A sentry or look-out. He will be home soon;
It behooves you to be
Generous. You have not been completely
Perfect either; with your troublesome body
You have done things you shouldn’t
Discuss in poems. Therefore
Call out to him over the open water, over the bright
With your dark song, with your grasping,
Unnatural song–passionate,
Like Maria Callas. Who
Wouldn’t want you? Whose most demonic appetite
Could you possibly fail to answer? Soon
He will return from wherever he goes in the
Suntanned from his time away, wanting
His grilled chicken. Ah, you must greet him,
You must shake the boughs of the tree
To get his attention,
But carefully, carefully, lest
His beautiful face be marred
By too many falling needles

Louise Glück
Born: 22 April 1943, New York, USA
Nationality: American

Glück is a poet, essayist, and winner of the 2020 Nobel Prize for Literature. While in high school she suffered from anorexia nervosa and later overcame the illness. Often described as autobiographical poet Glück’s work is best known for its emotional intensity and for drawing on mythology or nature to reflect modern life

Colourblind (WOTDC)

Inspired by and written for the Word of the Day Challenge – my thanks to Cyranny

Definition: Colourblind – adj. unable to distinguish certain colours, or (rarely in humans) any colours at all; not prejudiced, discriminating, or distinguishing on the basis of skin colour or race

Form: Lune

all blood runs in red
first aider
don’t see shades of skin


Sestina Notes

Considered a difficult form to master, the Sestina was created by Arnaut Daniel, a mathematician, and poet in the twelfth century. It was later adopted by Francesco Petrarch who composed a series of sestinas he called Canzone.

The sestina is composed of seven stanzas. The first six stanzas each have six lines, with end-word of each line falling in a precise mathematical progression. The seventh has only three lines which are a mathematical reflection of the first stanza.

The first stanza defines the following stanzas by setting the words used at the end of each line, ABDCEF are the defining words. They are repeated in the following five stanzas in the following pattern


The final stanza or envoy uses the same six-word but only in three lines with the even-numbered words descending internally and the odd-numbered words ascending on the outside to give the following pattern



Sestina by Elizabeth Bishop

September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.

She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,

It’s time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle’s small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac

on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.

It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.

But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house

Snapshot of Desire

Snapshot of Desire
Form: Free Verse

My eyes captured a brief moment of your desire
forbidding my heart not to love you
and having seen that moment
how could I not
when to be with you is all I crave
without pressure or coercing words
nor matchmakers setting it up
at that moment, my heart was enslaved

Yet your gentle hand refuses me
waving its intent I should go away
I don’t understand, confused by your grip
with no want to set me free
and in your holding me
you know I am at your command

I feel the tenderness of your touch
demanding I leave my solitude
to clutch at the dreams
while they’re creating my want for you
in my confusion, I don’t know what I should do
as your lips whisper “Go away!”

Should I call your bluff and leave?
would you stop me with words: “Please don’t”
would you command me to make that vow
in a lover’s kiss
as acceptance of your possession of my soul


Sunday Sonnet – The pillar perished by Sir Thomas Wyatt

Thomas Wyatt 1503-1542

The pillar perished

The pillar perished is whereto I lent,
The strongest stay of mine unquiet mind;
The like of it no man again can find
From east to west still seeking though he went.
To mine unhap! for hap away hath rent
Of all my joy the very bark and rind;
And I, alas, by chance am thus assigned
Dearly to mourn till death do it relent.
But since that thus it is by destiny,
What can I more but have a woeful heart,
My pen in plaint, my voice in woeful cry,
My mind in woe, my body full of smart,
And I myself myself always to hate
Till dreadful death do ease my doleful state?

Poplars on the Epte

Poplars on the Epte by Claude Monet, 1891. Oil on canvas. National Gallery, London, UK

Poplars on the Epte
Form: Cardinal Stanza

Quiver on the breeze
Beneath a blue sky
Standing straight and tall
Along riverbank

Quiver on the breeze
Capture artist’s eye
In flowing waters
Dark shades and light

Quiver on the breeze
Evergreens reach high
Of dreams gently stroked
On canvas in air

Quiver on the breeze
Visions in a sigh
Words left unspoken
For trees cannot speak

Quiver on the breeze
Listen as they cry
No words
Yet they talk freely
By artist’s hand


Without End

A Garret Poet

Without End
Form: Canzonetta 2

The first time I saw you at the station
I knew I had known you someplace in time
Perhaps at the dawn of creation
As the earth came into her prime
Our love began in its probation
In sunshine, in rain, in every clime
Here and there, in every nation
I knew I’d love you in every lifetime

For eternal love has no cessation
In familiarity that echoes the heart’s chime
You and I, there is no end of duration
I love you then, and will again, and this time
Is as wonderful as the first incantation
This life, and all lives, we’re desire in prime
Making love in eternal adulation
I knew I’d love you in every lifetime


Surreal Life

Surreal Life
Form: Epistle Sonnet 31

A sadness filters deep within my soul
Always there as something I have to feel
For where you are is where I can be whole

Living this life is somehow too surreal
Because I am here and not there with you
For now, Mistress Fate has taken control
And I wait for love’s crescendo to play
As this sadness meanders on through me

My darling, please tell me what I should do
Where do I find the will to make the day
As in Fate’s twisted hand, I have no clue
Somehow for your love, I will find a way

Whilst sadness lingers there for me to see
I know it’s you who holds my destiny


Oh! Mr Best You’re Very Bad by Jane Austen

Jane Austen 1775-1817

Oh! Mr. Best, You’re Very Bad

Oh! Mr. Best, you’re very bad
And all the world shall know it;
Your base behaviour shall be sung
By me, a tunefull Poet.–
You used to go to Harrowgate
Each summer as it came,
And why I pray should you refuse
To go this year the same?–

The way’s as plain, the road’s as smooth,
The Posting not increased;
You’re scarcely stouter than you were,
Not younger Sir at least.–

If e’er the waters were of use
Why now their use forego?
You may not live another year,
All’s mortal here below.–

It is your duty Mr Best
To give your health repair.
Vain else your Richard’s pills will be,
And vain your Consort’s care.

But yet a nobler Duty calls
You now towards the North.
Arise ennobled–as Escort
Of Martha Lloyd stand forth.

She wants your aid–she honours you
With a distinguished call.
Stand forth to be the friend of her
Who is the friend of all.–

Take her, and wonder at your luck,
In having such a Trust.
Her converse sensible and sweet
Will banish heat and dust.–

So short she’ll make the journey seem
You’ll bid the Chaise stand still.
T’will be like driving at full speed
From Newb’ry to Speen hill.–

Convey her safe to Morton’s wife
And I’ll forget the past,
And write some verses in your praise
As finely and as fast.

But if you still refuse to go
I’ll never let your rest,
Buy haunt you with reproachful song
Oh! wicked Mr. Best!–

Jane Austen
Born: 16 December 1775, Hampshire, England
Nationality: English
Died: 18 July 1817, Hampshire, England

Austen was a novelist and poet best known for her six major novels, which interpret, comment upon, and critique the English landed gentry of the late 18th century. Austen’s plots explored the dependence of women on making a good marriage in the pursuit of social standing, respectability, and economic security. Austen’s use of irony, realism, and social commentary has earned acclaim among critics and scholars alike. Her books were published anonymously in her lifetime and Austen gained greater status after her death. Her novels have rarely been out of print

Debris (RDP)

Inspired by and written for Ragtag Daily Prompt – my thanks to Sgeoil

Definition: Debris – n. scattered pieces of rubbish or remains

Form: Kimo

landfill site mountains of our wasteful greed
Mother Earth getting angry
and still, we wonder why?



Form: Raven’s Rovi Sonnet 69

My place of safety behind sunglasses
As they shield my eyes away from your gaze
I can see the truth of you as it passes

In the snide comments that come to reveal
The new reality of what you call love
And the agony you want me to feel
In darkness, it’s not even a kind of

For I have seen what you cannot conceal
From behind my shades that is truth, I see
No more shall your lies in my heart amaze
As when the beauty of love surpasses
As what you want there is no kind of love

Behind shades, the truth set my heart free
As no tears cry for what can never be


Nicholas Nye by Walter de la Mare

Walter de la Mare 1873-1956

Nicholas Nye

Thistle and darnell and dock grew there,
And a bush, in the corner, of may,
On the orchard wall I used to sprawl
In the blazing heat of the day;

Half asleep and half awake,
While the birds went twittering by,
And nobody there my lone to share
But Nicholas Nye.

Nicholas Nye was lean and gray,
Lame of leg and old,
More than a score of donkey’s years
He had been since he was foaled;
He munched the thistles, purple and spiked,
Would sometimes stoop and sigh,
And turn to his head, as if he said,
“Poor Nicholas Nye!”

Alone with his shadow he’d drowse in the meadow,
Lazily swinging his tail,
At break of day he used to bray,–
Not much too hearty and hale;
But a wonderful gumption was under his skin,
And a clean calm light in his eye,
And once in a while; he’d smile:–
Would Nicholas Nye.

Seem to be smiling at me, he would,
From his bush in the corner, of may,–
Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn,
Knobble-kneed, lonely and gray;
And over the grass would seem to pass
‘Neath the deep dark blue of the sky,
Something much better than words between me
And Nicholas Nye.

But dusk would come in the apple boughs,
The green of the glow-worm shine,
The birds in nest would crouch to rest,
And home I’d trudge to mine;
And there, in the moonlight, dark with dew,
Asking not wherefore nor why,
Would brood like a ghost, and as still as a post,
Old Nicholas Nye

Walter de la Mare
Born: 25 April 1873, London, England
Nationality: English
Died: 22 June 1956, Twickenham, England

De la Mare was a poet, short story writer, and novelist, best remembered for his works for children and for his poem “The Listeners.” He also authored a subtle collection of psycho horror stories including “All Hallows” and “Seaton’s Aunt.” In 1921 he was awarded the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for his novel “Memoirs of a Midget” and in 1947 the Carnegie Medal for British Children’s Books

Passion Remembers

A Garret Poet

Passion Remembers
Form: Katauta

memories of you
curl in my mind like your hair
wrapping around my fingers

emotions entwined
yearning more than remember
yet my heart knows fulfillment

my lover keeps me
in a place I can’t forget
the stories of love we shared

floating in recall
salty tastes of rivulets
extricated in a kiss

it’s like I am there
embraced within your passion
touching the skies of desire


Melmillo by Walter de la Mare

Walter de la Mare 1873-1956


Three and thirty birds there stood
In an elder in a wood;
Called Melmillo — flew off three,
Leaving thirty in the tree;
Called Melmillo — nine now gone,
And the boughs held twenty-one;
Called Melmillo — and eighteen
Left but three to nod and preen;
Called Melmillo — three–two–one–
Now of birds were feathers none.

Then stole slim Melmillo in
To that wood all dusk and green,
And with lean long palms outspread
Softly a strange dance did tread;
Not a note of music she
Had for echoing company;
All the birds were flown to rest
In the hollow of her breast;
In the wood — thorn, elder willow —
Danced alone — lone danced Melmillo

Walter de la Mare
Born: 25 April 1873, London, England
Nationality: English
Died: 22 June 1956, Twickenham, England

De la Mare was a poet, short story writer, and novelist, best remembered for his works for children and for his poem “The Listeners.” He also authored a subtle collection of psycho horror stories including “All Hallows” and “Seaton’s Aunt.” In 1921 he was awarded the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for his novel “Memoirs of a Midget” and in 1947 the Carnegie Medal for British Children’s Books


Form: Free Verse

A gathering of grey at the end of the day
And I listen to the jasmine sipping the rain
As I drink a chilled white wine
I watch the summer rain drizzle from the tiles
Refreshing the climbers on the trellis
Their leaves thirsty from a hot day
Softly falling drips and drops
As I bid my garden goodnight

In the morning the rain has gone
The light of the sun shining on vibrant green
Making dark shadows a cool space for sparrows
Their black eyes watching with caution
The dish fill in time for breakfast
From the deck table I see the flurry of brown feathers
Chitter-chat and flutter over the seeds and nuts
And the stillness of the raven on the shed roof
Content to chew over the bacon
A lovely sight on a summer’s day


Apocalyptic Night

Apocalyptic Night
Form: Canzonetta 1

Crashing thunder echoes through the night
Blue light dances in the distant sky
Like strangers coming into our sight
And the clouds roar tempest from on high
A shard of light sets the grass on fire
As we watch through the old windowpane
Another flash and another pyre
For the gods are at war in the rain

Searing rage it’s one hell of a fight
While we cuddle close, just you and I
And here we cower out of the light
As holy tempers rage as they fly
For in their battle the gods won’t tire
The end of days with storms so insane
Recalling legends sung to a lyre
For the gods are at war in the rain


Taichi Sonnet Notes

Structure: Three quatrains and a couplet
Meter: Pentameter or Decasyllabic
Rhyme Scheme: aabb cccc ddee ff


Morning Alarm by JezzieG

As the day begins breath deep a few times
And listen to the sound of the wind chimes
As the eyes soften to see the new day
Before the birds waken to lead the way

Now limber up with a yawning stretch out
Before touching the toes or there about
Gently does it without a fear or doubt
For the today, body and mind need clout

And the will doesn’t always come from coffee
If only, how simple then life would be
But when you are ready go make a cup
And let the muse know you’re awake and up

But first things first go turn off the alarm
For that incessant beeping has no charm

Lebennin by JRR Tolkien

JRR Tolkien 1892-1973


Silver flow the streams from Colos to Erui
In the green fields of Lebennin!
Tall grows the grass there. In the wind from the Sea
The white lilies sway,
And the golden bells are shaken of mallos and alfirin
In the green fields of Lebennin,
In the wind from the Sea!

JRR Tolkien
Born: 3 January 1892, Bloemfontein, South Africa
Nationality: English
Died: 2 September 1973, Bournemouth, England

Tolkien was a writer and philologist, best known as the author of “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings”. He was also the Rawlinson and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxon and a Fellow of Pembroke College at the University of Oxford. He and his close friend CS Lewis founded the informal literary group “The Inklings”. Many authors published works of fantasy before Tolkien, however, the great success of both “The Hobbit” and “The Lord of the Rings” directly led to a resurgence in the genre and Tolkien is often referred to as the father of modern fantasy literature

Eleven Books

Eleven Books
Form: Book Spine Poem

Solomon’s cat
a mythical beast
dark inside
clichés and verse
in a book of form
writing a dirty story
in a journalist’s handbook
for a year and a day
love’s serenade on a violin
echoes among the trees
of an English garden


O Germany, Pale Mother! by Bertolt Brecht

Bertolt Brecht 1898-1956

O Germany, Pale Mother!

Let others speak of her shame,
I speak of my own.

O Germany, pale mother!
How soiled you are
As you sit among the peoples.
You flaunt yourself
Among the besmirched.

The poorest of your sons
Lies struck down.
When his hunger was great.
Your other sons
Raised their hands against him.
This is notorious.

With their hands thus raised,
Raised against their brother,
They march insolently around you
And laugh in your face.
This is well known.

In your house
Lies are roared aloud.
But the truth
Must be silent.
Is it so?

Why do the oppressors praise you everywhere,
The oppressed accuse you?
The plundered
Point to you with their fingers, but
The plunderer praises the system
That was invented in your house!

Whereupon everyone sees you
Hiding the hem of your mantle which is bloody
With the blood
Of your best sons.

Hearing the harangues which echo from your house,
men laugh.
But whoever sees you reaches for a knife
As at the approach of a robber.

O Germany, pale mother!
How have your sons arrayed you
That you sit among the peoples
A thing of scorn and fear!

Bertolt Brecht
Born: 10 February 1898, Augsburg, Germany
Nationality: German
Died: 14 August 1956, East Berlin, East Germany

Brecht was a theatre practitioner, playwright, and poet. He had his first successes as a playwright in Munich during the Weimar Republic and moved to Berlin in 1924. During his time in Berlin, he wrote “The Threepenny Opera” with Kurt Weill and began a life-long collaboration with the composer Hanns Eisler

Value the Most (Weekly Prompts Wednesday Challenge)

Inspired by and written for Weekly Prompts Wednesday Challenge – thank you GC and Sue

Form: Sicilian Quintain

I listen to you whisper on the breeze
In echoes of other suns going down
Scattered under the shedding autumn trees
Amongst the dancing of gold, red, and brown
I sit for a moment taking my ease

Recalling times we sat in the dim light
Watching the sky turn to that burning red
Yet everything seemed so vibrant and bright
I hear the whispers of love that you said
That never fades in this, a long, good night

In the trees, I’m blessed by thinking of you
Precious moments money can never buy
Possessions can’t keep me this close to you
The things you left behind just make me cry
For it is your sweet love that I value


Tea (RDP)

Inspired by and written for Ragtag Daily Prompt – my thanks to Punam

Form: Hay(na)ku

in pot
steeping to perfection

or lemon
a refreshing brew

good morning
watching the sunrise

roses echo
with dawning colours

time for
one more cup


The Night of the Violet Moon

A Garret Poet

The Night of the Violet Moon
Form: English Sonnet

We’ll live again the time we knew before,
a place where only love can touch the soul,
as on an eagle’s wings we swoop and soar,
once more, my dearest love, we can be whole.
Ev’ry embrace shall take us to our place
and write the precious words in amber sands
to honour love divine in all its grace,
while walking to the night as it demands.
And there beneath the violet moon, so rare,
I’ll ask you from my knee to be my wife,
to stay with me in this old place we share,
and once again, I offer you, my life.
On this sweet night in our love’s purple haze
where we belong until the end of days


Unworthy Beast

Unworthy Beast
Form: Awdl Gywydd

The lessons of love gone wrong
A song that I learned from you
Love became a bitter choice
And my voice only sings blue

You took my strength, made it weak
Unable to seek inside
To see beauty within me
Yet couldn’t see love denied

An unworthy beast’ you said
My head easily believed
That to be true; you knew it
The flitting way love deceived

But now I see who you are
My scars prove gorgons live
Your venom was killing me
See you had all I could give

I’ve nothing left, you are right
The night you said I deserve
It all: Yes, you’re right, I do
Thank you, now I’ve found my nerve

Gorgon, you can’t fuck me up
Take your cup, drink your vile brew
For I know you are the beast
And I’m worth better than you


As Firedrakes Slumber

A Garret Poet

As Firedrakes Slumber
Form: Sapphic Stanza

Bird of mystery who stole a Bardic heart
sings through the imperial mists and mountains
to softly echo in my Cambrian ears
as firedrakes slumber.

Enchantress on an island of mystic dreams
as eyes catch your beauty in my own valleys
and airs of netted breezes capture my soul
for a Northern wind.

Soft susurrus words of poetry reveal
glistening jewelled canyons of hidden delight
a playground of adventures learning the craft
from a poet’s hand.

With muted desires becharming the senses
where untamed rivers of creation divide
these apprentice scribblings become an offering
to poetry’s queen.

And from my lands of Cambria, I listen
for the sweet songs of Alba to fill the air,
for the words of a poet I cannot name,
Cara nightingale


Sunday Sonnet – Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844-1889

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled thing –
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim,
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings,
Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
Well swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him

Napoleon by Walter de la Mare

Walter de la Mare 1873-1956


‘What is the world, O soldiers?
It is I:
I, this incessant snow,
This northern sky;
Soldiers, this solitude
Through which we go
Is I.’

Walter de la Mare
Born: 25 April 1873, London, England
Nationality: English
Died: 22 June 1956, Twickenham, England

De la Mare was a poet, short story writer, and novelist, best remembered for his works for children and for his poem “The Listeners.” He also authored a subtle collection of psycho horror stories including “All Hallows” and “Seaton’s Aunt.” In 1921 he was awarded the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for his novel “Memoirs of a Midget” and in 1947 the Carnegie Medal for British Children’s Books

Listening to Mother

Listening to Mother
Form: Epistle Sonnet 16

Some days I need to remember those things
The things that give my soul the strength to heal
Allow myself to feel the joy life brings

To take time out, listen as nature sings
Away from keyboards and the glaring screen
A gentle reminder, a note-to-self
It’s never too late to take that one day
In the arms of nature to simply feel

For life isn’t about making cash wealth
Spiritual wealth can’t be a might have been
When time out is good for the mental health
With memories of the beauty I’ve seen

So when I’m quiet I’ve not gone away
It’s time to hear what nature has to say


Not so Coy Koi (Simply 6 Minutes)

Inspired by and written for Simply 6 Minutes – thank you, Christine

Form: Folded Sonnet

The art of a spy deceiving their too-curious eyes
Takes a pinch of cunning and a simple wily disguise
But in the reality, I just wanted to break free
Escaping the confines of pond life to swim in the sea
They all said I couldn’t I was just a bright orange koi
I’d stand out a mile and bigger fish I’d surely annoy
They would beat me all up and leave me alone there bleeding
But I’m a koi, a goldfish of superior breeding
I’m not a stupid fish so while I am swimming, I think
There must be a way to fake it out there in the big drink
Then pow and bam it came to me like a flashing great spark
A fish like me can only be a mahoosive great shark

Time: 10 minutes 20 seconds
Word count: 157