A Vain Pursuit

I search in facebook and my email box

in a vague play of eyes and finger-tips

for something – anything – I don’t know what.

Except I do. I want to smash the locks

that death instals so deftly: kiss the lips

of those I loved, as if alive. They’re not.

And friends I used to talk to when online

have nothing new to tell me now; their quips

and loving wisdom stilled, while bodies rot.

Likewise, they don’t absorb one word of mine,

though I pine.

Written for the curtal sonnet challenge at Poetic Asides
Also linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #371

The Light Seems Holy

The light seems wholly blue when I look out

from my front door, discovering the day:

a day of starkly brilliant winter sun.

The dark blue mountain range right opposite, 

the vast and shining blue of morning sky,

pervade the street below. 'Thou art the one!'

I sing to Life (for God is Life, we're told).

On such a day, my soul must dance and fly

in sheer delight, pure joy that I was born.

This moment is the whole. This truth I hold:

all's one.

Written for a form challenge at Poetic Asides

In Difficulties

I wrote a curtal sonnet but it stank.

I needed all of 14 lines to say

the whole of what I had in mind; present

a thesis that would float before it sank –

in fact not sink at all but stretch and play,

its movements elegant and confident.

Instead, alas, it doesn’t wave but drown.

Without room to manoeuvre, there’s no way

to save it – what I meant as eloquent

is chopped abruptly, three lines short, shut down
unspent.

Written for a form challenge at Poetic Asides

On Not Going Home Again

Across remembered waters, bay and sea,

the island lies that I will not forget,

the one I know I'll never see again.

The mountains and the rivers nurtured me.

In memory the crashing waves repeat

their rhythmic play on ancient cliffs of stone.

Old forests grow unhindered, thick and tall,

fed well by rich dark soil, by gentle rain –

in memory. In fact they've since been cut,
the lakes and streams polluted, air made foul.

All gone.

Written for a form challenge at Poetic Asides

Nomenclature

He's asking us to write a 'curtal sonnet'.

I told him once before, the word's 'curtail'

(as in truncation, lopping off) but he

persisting with his error – set upon it –

will judge our efforts. I don't want to fail.

I'd better just shut up and let it be.

They call me grammar Nazi; spelling too.

I like precision to the nth detail.

And Hopkins said 'curtail', so why not me? ...

Oh, never mind the name – just write one, do!

(Or three.)

Written for a form challenge at Poetic Asides.

(Adopting a bit of a persona for this one. I don't REALLY think I'd be failed for cheekily correcting a spelling mistake.  And actually, it turns out he's right, I'm wrong! I have now ascertained that 'curtal' is a variant of 'curtail', and is indeed the word used to describe this form.)

To Boredom

I'll learn to live with me; no loneliness,

I said when first bereaved and left alone.

I did not know that I would find me dull.

My conversation I could second-guess;

opinions and reactions, all were known –

nothing over which to slightly mull.

However, I am getting used to it.

I find that dullness can be comfortable.

There's no-one I need please except this one.

I like the lovely, lazy lack of effort,
I confess.

Written in response to Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Boredom

(Dear Readers, it's a bit tongue-in-cheek.)