sting

to coney-catch an

ambodexter needs a

swipe both sides

of that nikum’s face

 

gotta appeal twice right?

 

rouker talk outta do it

make him think he’s a

percher of some sort

 

ruff it up and step back

 

before he knows it all turns

swerk and we teen him proper

now he’ll pay ear rent all year

 

This submission is for my prompt over at  Real Toads which encourages the penning of a poem using words from a list of ‘older, once common language.’ The full list, uncovered by The University of York, is available over at The Imaginary Garden. Why not pop over and write one yourself?

Notes: for my piece I used the following words from the list.

Ambodexter: One who takes bribes from both sides. Coney-catch: To swindle, cheat, to trick, dup, deceive. Nickum:  A cheating or dishonest person. Rouker: A person who whipers or murmurs, who spreads tales or rumours. Percher: A person who aspires to a higher rank or status; an ambitious or self-assertive person. Ruff: To swagger, bluster, domineer. To ruff it out/ to brag or boast of a thing. Swerk: To be or become dark; in Old English often, to become gloomy, troubled or sad. Teen: To vex, irritate, annoy, anger, enrage/ To inflict suffering upon; to afflict, harass; to injure, harm. Ear-rent: The figurative cost to a person of listening to trivial or incessant talk

Poem also submitted to OLN at dVerse

keep the faith

Here we dance upon our leaf tossed floor

Northern beech

full of soul

no chalk required here

twisting our bodies to the rhythms of the Earth

on green moss covered creepers

flailing curly dreadlocks in our wake

ancient gnarly faces lit with full wide grins

we are up and at it in the early hours

love for the music of life flows

indeed it does

 

submission for Kim’s Autumnal Poetics prompt at dVerse

notes: the movement in the image brought to mind the Northern Soul scene, a particular song, and memories of the dancefloor craze that swept across Northern England in the 1970’s.

Here’s the song by Frank Wilson referenced in the poem’s closing line and a video of the kind of dancing you might see at Wigan casino in it’s pomp.

 

hope falls

no morning sun

rose in me this day

no birdsong

lifted my spirits

 

they were present

as always

but hope was not

 

not for the wanting though

i want to hope

i hope to hope again

i want to see a way

i want to break

from this grip of dark

but it holds fast

 

instead another voice

calls clear and true

and insistent

 

words I do not wish

to honor

but must

 

‘feel this pain

fully’ it says

‘feel it to the depths of no hope

for then you might surrender

 

for it is only when we truly give up hope

that a path can open for us

 

despair does not come in half measures

nor would it move you if it did

 

let hope fall from the cliff to which it clings

and crash onto the ground below

 

let it break open

so that the light

can pierce the darkness

 

we must crack

before we can really hope’

after the deluge

I sat in the grove of this October beech cathedral, my heart bursting with autumnal spirit-song. Sometimes nature just does that too me. Around me stood those giants, old, gentle and wise. They had seen it all and yet even they were in awe of the river. Millions of tiny droplets leaping from stone to stone in a game of flow, fueled by a recent deluge.

Clean crisp air, with a whisper of Winter notes, brought to my senses the smell of earth. The smell of the river, whose journey reflects the nature of things. Every moment I stare into it’s movement is new and fresh. The only constant is change. What appears to be there is not. I am still. The beech too. The river is flowing.

journey unfolds us

destination springs from this~

winter will follow

 

statues

 

what to do

when faced with challenge?

run away?

stand your ground?

or refuse the fight or flight

response by freezing?

~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~   ~

 

 

submission for Marian’s Fussy Little Form prompt over in the Imaginary Garden.

 

moon-a-side

Moon Art from Pinterest

 

Thirteen moons were murdered

swept away on the tides

 

four were cut to ribbons

carved up cheese

 

four were hung

dripping from the stars

 

four were burned alive

staked on that profane land

 

and one was drowned

deepest blue liquid grave

 

with no moons left to cycle

we descended into hell

where we remain still

 

submission for Hedgewitch’s Flash 55

bodies

nobody’s eyes fell here on this text, so nobody knew deep inside

that this poem was all about nobody, till somebody probably did

somebody knew about everything, till nobody knew that he died

so was it somebody or nobody, that lay under coffin’s dark lid

the question it seems that is out there, is who here remains who is hid

everyone’s someone or no one, i think that in time you will see

that everyone answers the call of their number, and so in time ceases to be

submission to dVerse for the Rhyme Royal. This has a diddly-diddly meter 😉