I Seek for grace,
In nature’s ever changing face.
Yesterday
the sheeting rain chased empty thought away.
This morning, The wind purifies,
Birds sing in sunny skies.
At times, my spirit flies
Or goes asighing with the breeze.
Would
That I could
Soar high up in the trees
And be lost among the leaves.
“He’s dead”
She said.
What to say?
Meaningless words
Of sympathy, by her probably only half heard
While thinking “I must get away,
The shop will soon close
And heaven knows
I am out of milk. Well nearly so.
Poor lady how will she go
On without him?”
A short walk and I am in
The shop where once they together went
And spent notes that crumble into dust.
Earlier today I offered readers the chance to win a free signed print copy of my latest collection of poetry, “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind”, (https://newauthoronline.com/2016/06/25/your-chance-to-win-a-signed-copy-of-my-book-lost-in-the-labyrinth-of-my-mind/). Thank you to everyone who shared my post. I am pleased to announce that a winner has emerged and the competition is now closed.
The answer to the question posed, is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle who was born in Edinburgh in 1859 and died in 1930. The quote comes from “The Speckled Band, which can be found in “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes”. Holmes is speaking of Doctor Grimesby Roylott. If you haven’t read “The Speckled Band” I strongly recommend doing so, (http://etc.usf.edu/lit2go/32/the-adventures-of-sherlock-holmes/352/adventure-8-the-adventure-of-the-speckled-band/).
Where I to write a poem for you
How much of it would be true?
For one may construe
Black as white.
The night
May bring delight
But come break of day
The succubus will be on her way.
He who invites the vampire in
Has, I maintain
No reason to complain
When she leaves him pale and thin.
The blood red
Wine tastes divine
And there is a fine line
Betwixt the living and the dead.
—
A succubus is a female demon (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Succubus).
Thank you to Shital Shah for her poem, “TFL Limerick”. For anyone unfamiliar with London’s transport system, Transport for London (TFL) is the body with overall responsibility for the capital’s transport. You can find out more about TFL at their website here (https://tfl.gov.uk/).
Strong winds or heat,
Rain, snow or sleet.
Engineering works or strike actions,
Perhaps a leaf causing disruptions.
Whatever the reason, TfL simply can’t defeat.
*Inspired by Thursday’s weather and travel troubles. Londoners will sympathise.
The rain pours
And Thor’s
Hammer knocks
Against crumbling locks
As he our civilisation mocks.
A few, hearing the thunder
Lift their eyes in wonder
From the TV,
While fewer still, know what it is to be free.
He said, “I have wrought
What I ought
Not to have wrought
And bought
What I ought
Not to have bought.
I have caught
the wild bird
Who’s song I heard
In the lonely night.
Once delight
Of a kind, semed sweet to you and me
And we believed ourselves to be free”.
She said, “There can be no mistaking
That I flew into a cage
Of my own making
And now I rage
Against my own stupidity
And cupidity.
Expensive bras
Make for sturdy bars.
The truth is, you a bird caught
But together we rought
This cage
In which we now both uselessly rage
Skin soft as silk.
Giver of milk
But not yet
For you must get
What you need
In order to succeed
Or feed your greed.
Seed contained in a glove.
But one day a tree may shoot
From another route.
I would
That it’s fruit be good
And bathed in love.
I was feeling overwrought
And somewhat out of sorts,
When my heart was caught
By a little girl who sang.
Joy into my soul sprang
And her father gave me a strawberry juicy and red.
Few words where said,
Yet my heart was fed
By fruit and a child
Who did beguile
Me to smile
On a crowded train,
Soothing my racing brain.
—
Thank you to the man, his wife and their little girl who touched my heart on the way home from the office last week.
Thank you to Jayne King for her poem, “The invigilator”. The below poem is copyright Jayne King and may not be reproduced without the explicit written permission of Jayne King.
—
Being an invigilator,
Is there anything more boring?
Scanning the hall.
Toing and froing.
Trying to be alert,
So I can respond quickly to a raised hand.
Wishing I could sit like the others.
But instead, having to stand.
How slowly the time passes,
Seemingly standing still.
There’s movement all around me,
But somehow the time stays still.
Seconds turn to minutes,
A minute lasts an hour.
Some students offer small, tired smiles,
Others just sit and glower.
K Morris - Poet 