A thousand moons

Jane Dougherty Writes

For Magnetic Saturday in honour of Elusive Trope whatever he’s about today.

The oracle of the fridge magnets has a clear theme.

A thousand moons Screen Shot 2016-08-20 at 17.50.14

light the sky above,

singing winds

rock the black lake,

as cool forest shadows

recall summer beauty.

Red raw rain,Screen Shot 2016-08-20 at 18.11.42

blood beat

of moon music,

playing to you.

Roses watch

as black petals rust.

Sing to the purple sky,

let it soar.

No moon,Screen Shot 2016-08-20 at 18.44.54

forest sleeps

through summer storm.

I sing,

waxing purple,

as honey music

rains like sunlight

on water.

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Blackbirds

Jane Dougherty Writes

A sad postscript to my post about the midnight blackbird drama. After finding two of the chicks dead yesterday, Finbar found a third one this morning. One had drowned in the rain water butt the two others were just dead, from exhaustion, cold, fear, maybe, but not the cats.The blackbirds have gone, either taking the last chick somewhere safer, or because they have none left.

800px-Little_Birdie_Seen_From_Very_Closely_Up

Nature’s law,

Build a haven, fragile and ephemeral,

Hunt the bright glint of beetle and worm,

Back and forth, ever on the wing, no time to rest,

No oblivion in sleep, ever-watchful,

For the night hunters prowl.

Ask for little,

For no stark, white winter death,

No spring flood.

Hope for only hunger but not famine,

Give no names, no love, to the open mouths,

Clamouring one day, cold and still the next,

For the task is to be redone while the summer lasts,

Over…

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A LETTER TO RUPERT BROOKE, POET 1887 – 1915, BY K J ROLLINSON

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Rupert Brooke

Dear Rupert,

May I call you this, for I feel I know you? I MUST write this letter to you because you are so real to me. I agree with the Irish poet W.B.Yeats, who described you as ‘the handsomest young man in England’. You are one of my favourite poets – not only for your good looks, but because of your poems too. One of your famous poems, and one of my favourite is ‘The Soldier’, and I quote it below.

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And…

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POEM – A GOLDEN BOY BY K J ROLLINSON

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In the ‘Writing Magazine,’ a UK magazine, there is a lady, Alice Chisholm, who invites you to send in your poems for a critique. I have sent the following poem to her. The magazine only comes out once a month, and if my poem does appear I will let you know the critique.

The poem was inspired when a friend and I went to a restaurant, by the sea, and watched this blond boy gazing out to sea and sometimes playing on a rock.

THE GOLDEN BOY

He stood in the moonlight as he called to Jupiter.
I thought him Ariel, a lion cub of God,
with golden mane, limbs pale against the dark of the sea.
I thought him a prince of the waves, Poseidon’s son. 

I watched in awe this golden boy, attune with nature,
as he commanded the restless sea to follow
his rhythmic dance. Naked torso…

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Art Music Poetry #97

Dougstuber's Blog

Kicevo Opus 1686 or soIMG_3884

Kicevo, 2010.

Experiment on printed paper.

I rarely comment on the music I put up here.  This one deserves a little explanation.  It turns out I have fallen in love and I hope I do fall in love again.  And I did fall in love a few times and had it not returned, you know what I mean?  So the next time someone falls in love with me, it better be the one I love from afar, the one who already loves me, the one who will never let me go.

What can I do about geography?  Circumstances do not ALWAYS make things work out.  But, not for the same reasons Mr. Waits settles for more drink and not falling in love, and then he falls for the woman who is no longer in the room, at the end, rang a bell with me here today.

Combine that song with this one…

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ODE TO AUTUMN

Annika Perry's Writing Blog

Autumn colours

As we slowly slide into Autumn with the first frost of the new season stealing upon us last night I awakened to the sweet crisp chill air. 

This brought to mind a poet whose work I relished as young; snuggled into bed I would read his words aloud, enraptured by their beauty, their cadence; his verse so rich and full in sound and meaning.

Below is a poem by John Keats that captures this season so well. Take a minute or two to read aloud, revelling in his exquisite eloquent Romantic poetry.

Ode To Autumn

1.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 

        Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

    Conspiring with him how to load and bless

        With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

    To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,

        And fill…

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August 1922

Jane Dougherty Writes

Michael_Collins

To know that death is waiting,
Beyond a turn in the road,
To know that home, the place of beginnings,
Will also be the ending.
To have so much to bear,
And to know you are just one, and a weak one at that,
And still to drive home, to say goodbye.
To drive on to the last bend in the road,
Between fields and stone walls,
Tangled blackthorn and blackface looking on,
With the clouds rolling overhead,
And the hedgerows full of blackbirds.
Behind, in the house, a woman at the window,
Love left by the hearth,
And the last sound, the rattle and whine of death.
So much waste, so many years of shed blood,
And yours not the least.
No beauty in this terror, if not in the thought,
To go home and pass beyond the last bend in the road.

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