Day the twenty-second

The prompt is a phrase from another language.

Freedom.

He lives in a house without furniture
His bed is the earth where he stands
And the sky is his guide and shelter

He travels across oceans to new lands
And flies with the birds on rain wings
And time is a took in his hands

No walls hold him in, he is serf to no kings
And the wind is his voice and its music he sings.

Day the twenty-first

The prompt today is meant to be a homophonic translation - but I am interpreting this a little loosely . . .

When the weather talks . . .

The rain cloud tells us to shelter, and pitter patter
Is not a matter to be considered sufficient
To ditch the um-ber-ella and forget the galoshes
That protect your immortal soul . . .
The blue sky whistles memories into mind now knowing
And echoes the shouts of a beach and sandcastle
Playing of days in the past and promises, perhaps,
Of sun kissed moon washed life again . . .
The howling wind is retching and hurling abuse
At violent misfortune, armed with a bludgeon and
Knife, smashing and slashing the flimsy barriers
Mankind has erected.

Day the thirteenth

On this the the thirteenth day the prompt is a non-apology, the discourse so beloved of politicians and confidence tricksters . . .

I am (not) sorry

a thief I am, and I feel no regret,
whilst still I utter anodyne and
pointless phrases, my apology is
conditional for what have I done?

I stole the day and danced with the teasing breeze,
I stole the time to walk beside the taunting seas,
I stole the hours of rain to linger long,
I stole the moments in the wild birds' song.

For all these things I took and knew no shame,
For all these things I'd steal again and again.

Day the twelfth

Today the prompt is to write a triolet.

One day


This day was born in the silver grey of rain
And grew wise from the added soft of sun;
It danced to keening windsong over and again;
This day was born in the silver grey of rain
And battled man's insane tyranny of pain
And lived through all the hours 'til it was done;
This day was born in the silver grey of rain
And grew wise from the added soft of sun.

Day the eighth

Today the prompt is to use a line from another poem - plagiarise in fact!


If . . .

To shiver like a root in the rain
To tremble like a wind-struck leaf
To venture one tentative step once again
To challenge the end with belief.

To dance like the storm in her eyes
To float as though eagled with wings
To cast a blanket of fear on the skies
Is to wait for the pain future brings.

Day the seventh

Today the prompt is to base a poem on a news article. I chose one from the Grauniad . . .

Recipe for success

Perfect shelves and unblocked drains are surely
All that anyone could ever wish for?
It would not matter that the cupboard doors
Fell off, or that the bathroom take keeps dripping
As long as the shelves and perfect and the drains unblocked.

Never mind that the roof is missing so many tiles
That you need an umbrella over the bed when it rains;
Never mind that the broken window means that
You need your winter coat, gloves and a hat to visit the loo.

Perfect shelves and unblocked drains are your guarantee
Of domestic harmony and bliss, they are your happiness
Assured from now on, your life will be trouble free
Because you have perfect shelves and unblocked drains.