Spells in our lives
When things done for money
Bring less delight
We had enough motives
But struggle to keep living up
Necessity makes us so keen
Like it is all to us
Tours in our ways
When little done for love
Born memory ever green
We had much fright
Yet we never gave up
Stress for what seems nothing
Leaving assurance most time
In chase of precious gem
To tie ourselves to the prime
Wonders if good not mixed bad
That wrong not brewed right to blend
The wight of loss and gross pulse
We shall hardly believe logically, reason mortals surcease
And question the paper for the pen's drive
Looking back on my younger days
and in that summer haze
you were the pearl my girl
in my oyster the whole wide world
so many memories
of you me and how we used to be
but of photographs far too few
altho' we did have a laugh a two
now all growing dim and grey
with the fading shades of day
etched in my memory for good
our trips to sunny Spain
and when we went
for a walk in the woods
on the way to the Isle of Wight
the night we were caught
in the freezing rain
no I'm not living in the past
and yet I'll raise a glass
to each and every single day
from over the hills and far away
Famous pet doctor, James Alfred Wight
Who, at 50 years of age, began to professionally write
Taking "James Herriot" as his pen name
Bought from a goalkeeper at a football game
Couldn't publish with the name he used as a vet
Self-promotion goes against professional etiquette
But he had a way with words
To write many funny blurbs
About his family, his friends, and their pets
His books then made their way on TV
A film, a sequel, and shows on the BBC
But the man was unflattered by his fame
After all, the critters still saw him the same!
Never again to know fresh air,
Combing worms from my matted hair.
No one remains who’d ever care —
Tied to my grave, this lonesome baire.
I must escape the sun’s harsh glare,
Tread carefully down crumbling stair,
Descend into my crypt just there,
Where I sit alone in dark despair.
Upon my ancient worm-eaten chair,
Inside my vaulted charnel house lair,
Such a sad and accursed affair —
Never to rest, always aware.
This kind of death is so unfair:
No converse, no song, no whispered prayer.
A thousand lifetimes in disrepair,
Unattended, solus, solitaire.
Harshest sentence beyond compare,
Caught in this endless undeath snare.
Naught to do but eternity stare —
And comb the damn worms from my hair.
mite night
wight fight
lite bite
right tight
And late at hour, by rippling roar
Of waters lapping 'neath the tor,
A figure bathed in lunar light
Who smiled and turned upon my sight.
And beating wings above the wight,
The somber creatures of the night.
And as the stars about him played,
A sad embrace he gently made.
"If I were 'cross the seas again, in climates fair or poor,
I'd still be where I've always been, sailing by the shore."
He my sire and I his daughter,
Far across the fretting water,
Far across the sea.
As I look into the vast ocean of wight,
here in the shadows of wont right,
left amongst the myriad mellifluously,
will you still hold a monstera like me?
To be this maiden fair — to care about myself,
ore not to mine — opals rainbow in black skies,
heralding a new plateau of what you know,
breaking the shackles of the winter cold.
As I gaze into the bleak sea of night,
hearing sweet edicts of your final rites,
left turning into an arrow without a quiver,
wilt lullabies still paint my death in color?
To sweven this ounce of decadence in my beloved,
my amo mia, my final goodbye to you,
gould by the expire in hot vermillion — and blue,
kiss blew in the mind with lead — me and through.
Sometimes we need to be — golden silence.
What if the winter
crawls too slow toward a melting Spring,
what if the willow be buried alive
under the wight of a weeping sky?
A long deep sigh fills the land,
with the whites of numbed eyes.
Snow flows in and out
of a hollow stump.
What if the world quite forgot to turn
in its grave,
and under the willow, there unseen,
underneath that veiled mistress of time,
were heaped mounds of frozen shoes,
and none warm enough
left
to fill them?
.
wight before my
magical eyne
hern
drawn to
mine
Nostalgia makes me feel wight,
he makes me fright.
I have tried to seek help of his,
but he just sets me free.
I have frowned,
I have fought,
but he didn't try to give it a thought.
I have cried,
I have tried,
But we just happen to divide.
Our paths have been closed,
I guess we are not supposed.
Written: October 12, 2023
Cinquain Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Ink Empress
______________________________________________________
Guile gust
I grasp your gasp
goad grafts gently glowing
the gray grove greenery growing
glean grace
Skies Straight
I snared your sight
Schizoid swing of Steward
sewn souls spewing as oxblood stems
stark stance
Wince, wight
I've weaned your whiff
the world-wedged wink was wrapped
while not washing down the wild waft
when whet
Froth flow
your frisk frame flits
follow fall foliage
freshly framed flimsy fruity field
faint flame.
Sand stake
of smog steam sieve
you stride in silence steps
by slamming a skulker-shaped slope
spread string.
In the darkness, I am shapeless.
Formless I slink through the gloom.
Witness, for a moment, death near.
Your breath is deep in its tomb.
In the darkness, you are helpless,
Senseless and fearful forlorn.
Blind to what’s within deep shade,
Displayed in expression adorned.
Your heart beats quicker in darkness,
Your hardness and will are undone.
Looking in shadows for demons;
The legions are really just one.
You fear the darkness around you.
Surrounding, smothering smoke.
Instead you should fear what’s in it.
Admit the terror evoked.
Opening eyes in the darkness,
Harmless is not what I am.
Staring you down from the corner;
No border halting advance.
The gleam of my eyes in darkness,
Its sharpness surprisingly bright,
Pierces your soul as you see them.
Flee, you cannot this midnight.
Fear feeding the fire inside;
Desire to feel the rush,
Of a mortem imposed on you,
And pursuing fresh bones to crush.
You stumble backward at my sight;
A wight from hell in the gloaming.
Fear thick in the air between us
Keen my senses are honing
In darkness I stalked
And forwards I walked
Out from the shadows
While seething
And seeking
The sweet rush of death
*Image of Tennyson Cross, Isle of Wight provided by Pixabay.
Forlorn Hope
Poetic Form: Sonnet
Divined amassed, thinly advance their scope
bloodlines warrant one soul's intended quest
persuades enhanced history, constants hope
pastoral guides sculptors essence is blessed
Readiness spurs insights, smoothing passion
unforeseen tests that fool-hearted, not them
their unbidden stare on death's face, cash in
pushed e'er determined, tensing a rose stem
Unchecked horses, intrepid horsemen burst
barrage relents as foe feared those affirmed
lurked rears castle shadows most accursed
chance lights an afront darken all confirmed
Bold few opinions charged submits warlords
fruition won swords gained Heaven rewards
2021 May 08
*1st Place*
ALL YOURS (May 18): Judged 2021 May 18
~~Brian Strand
*2nd Place*
This or That, Vol 2
~~Edward Ibeh: Judged 2021 May 13
*HMS checked 10 syllables x 14 lines.
Virus now in decline
Vacations back on line
Vectis arms open wide
Vessels each hour to Ryde
Visitors so oft held
Valhalla they have dwelled
Valediction withheld
[Vectis: the old Roman name for The Isle
Of Wight, it is still in common use today.
Valediction: an act, gesture or words of farewell]
5 May 2021
Contest: Pleiades V
Sponsor: Kim Merryman
“This wittle wight of me, umm, I’m gonna wet it shine,
This wittle wight of me, I’m gonna wet it shine...SEE!”
He thrusts his pointer finger upward on the SEE....
“Oh, wet it shine, wet it shine, wet it shine...SHINE!”
My three-year-old sings these words over and over
Until I say, impatiently, “Jeez, give it a rest, will ya!”
“Wet it shine...otay, but your wight is gonna go out!”
He shouts, then, quietly hums the tune to himself.
The little guy puts the shine into his papa’s life.
With him, everything is just fine—inside and out!
FIFTH PLACE WINNER
Written April 9, 2021
For “Shine” Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
Sub Categories
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