Tag Archives: ghazal

Poem 94: More blazing than the sun

The song I heard you singing falls more blazing than the sun.
The woodlark in the coppice calls more blazing than the sun.

It’s little things that seem to joy our peace-filled days and yet
any sullen silence quick-galls more blazing than the sun.

Children frolic on back garden lawns with shrieks of laughter,
and then a bee stings one who bawls more blazing than the sun.

Wings of butterflies, rasps of crickets, hung webs of spiders,
the ordered world of ants, enthrall more blazing than the sun.

The distant haze of blue, line-dancing mountains row on row
makes late afternoons stop and stall more blazing than the sun.

The tiny flower, unnoticed, hidden, nameless, lost, unknown,
outshines the fields of peonies tall, more blazing than the sun.

And Bruce, his song so incomplete without your voice to sing,
entrusts you hear his words, though small, more blazing than the sun.

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Poem 90: Blue

Kingfisher waited near fish-filled stream and flashed blue fire.
Distant thunder grumbled to a scream and flashed blue fire.

A welder melded into shape tough unbending steel;
this artist’s arc launched one steady beam and flashed blue fire.

The frantic horse’s metal shoes on stony gravel
broke the silence of the morning’s gleam and flashed blue fire.

Massed irises turned their heads towards the rising sun;
yellow, purple, peach, rose, white, and cream, and flashed blue fire.

And Bruce, patience at an end with this and that and things,
saw this growing mound of stifled dreams and flashed blue fire.

(This is my final poem on this blog – at least for the time being. I’ll still post the occasional poem hopefully, but a poem a week is a bit much! I shall be concentrating on putting out a story a day until the 1500th story is reached!)

Poem 70: Into nothing

All the empires of this world will crumble into nothing.
Strident protests of our time will tumble into nothing.

The homeless in the byways, in makeshift cardboard boxes,
hold out their hands in pleas for bread, fumble into nothing.

Young men in search of meaning in empty, shallow hangouts,
find all their courage dashed as they stumble into nothing.

Vibrant women, scarce seen and rarely heard from day to day,
are told to cook, knit, and sew, and humble into nothing.

Growing boys play in the park; they tussle, combat, battle.
Boys! Don’t fight! and watch your manhood rumble into nothing.

Captured girls sold abroad as slaves are going cheap this year;
their hopes, dreams, and aspirations jumble into nothing.

And Bruce? I know my words won’t echo far in time’s good hands.
I hope a crumb or two might not mumble into nothing.

Poem 68: Ah! Song!

There’s so much can be said in a song.
The troubled child sings an inner song.

Fat cats stuff their mouths with food and drink.
Farts and belches are their dinner song.

Remorseful mother, stressed and angry,
blesses her child, sings a sinner song.

Grand Andy stands to sing on tele;
he smugly thinks this is the winner song.

Gale force winds break branches, howling loud,
until a breeze drifts a thinner song.

Some make a long story longer still;
Yet some tell tall tales; some spin a song.

And I, with stilled pen and silent muse,
pour myself a second gin… Ah! Song!!

Poem 62: Rhapsodic burst

The form chosen this month is the ghazal.

The dead twigs of winter, neglected, burst into flower.
The dull, dawdling child, subjected, bursts into flower.

See the clown with wilted roses wrapped in newspaper;
his tears of blue make buds dejected burst into flower.

Young lovers kiss; they have eloped to camp at the beach.
The one with his tent well erected bursts into flower.

Dance barefoot the jagged stony path; the pilgrims’ way.
Reveal that love, when it’s perfected, bursts into flower.

The young girl, so good, so sweet, so plain, so commonplace,
all innocent and unaffected, bursts into flower.

Grandmother tends her pint-sized patch of barren garden.
It’s watered, watched, and as expected, bursts into flower.

Bruce, despite huge carpet stains, gets rent bond back in full;
he breaks into song! oops! corrected! bursts into flower!

Poem 59: Dormant mountain

(The form chosen for this week is the ghazal)

The mountain lay dormant for years, and then the volcano lets rip.
This lady afraid hides her fears, and then the volcano lets rip.

The dude sits alone in the pub. He gapes at his glass half the night;
his mood is not what appears, and then the volcano lets rip.

At the meeting the chairman sits high in his chair like he owns the place;
the listeners tolerate his airs, and then the volcano lets rip.

My friend Uma stared at his screen month after bloody month;
a little he wrote; next he dares; and then the volcano lets rip.

A man is too scared to say how he feels to the woman he loves.
One night he tells her how he cares, and then the volcano lets rip.

The guys hang around and drink beers; the guys hang around and drink beers;
The guys hang around and drink beers; and then the volcano lets rip.

For sixty-eight years adventures have sat in a corner.
Bruce sears, tears, wears, jeers, glares, cheers, veers. Not once the volcano lets rip.

 

 

Poem 53: Yet still the sun rises

(The poetic form selected for this week is the aubade/ghazal).

The new born baby cried, yet still the sun rises.
The old man slowly died, yet still the sun rises.

First day at school with pencil, paper, books, and lunch;
In tears and petrified, yet still the sun rises.

They called it puppy love; perhaps that’s what it was.
She dreamed of being a bride, yet still the sun rises.

The marriage didn’t work; they drifted far apart.
Divorce was justified, yet still the sun rises.

The pattern of the days, forever monotone,
In dreary waves of tide, yet still the sun rises.

The leaders of our world dropped bombs on each other.
Nothing left………………………… yet still the sun rises.

 

Poem 50: Sasha had chicken

(The form selected for this week is the ghazal).

Sasha had chicken for dinner and yet, nothing beats a good duck.
Jane chucked plates and cups at Bill; the whole set. Nothing beats a good duck.

Farmer Tom took Lizzie out to his barn to show her his wild life.
Lizzie was quite impressed and said, “I bet nothing beats a good duck.”

In the cricket match Harry was bowled out, not having even scored.
Then he overheard Arnie say “Don’t fret, nothing beats a good duck.” *

Minnie decided to fix a leak in a pipe under her sink.
Hardware man said when asked what tape to get, “Nothing beats a good duck.” **

Gary’s wife wanted to know why he hadn’t come home for the night.
He said his car broke down; don’t worry, pet. (Nothing beats a good duck?)

Sally and Bernie’s new swimming pool was great for relaxing in.
Bernie was pushed under and got all wet. Nothing beats a good duck.

Some folk may express amazement at the triteness of this ghazal.
Bruce reckons there is nothing to regret. Nothing beats a good duck.

*For those unfamiliar with cricket, not getting any points (runs) is called a duck.
**For those unfamiliar with fixing things, there’s duck tape (sometimes called duct tape).

Poem 36: Grandfather Clock

(The poetic form selected for this month is the Burns stanza. However, even though I liked what I’d written it was a bit “hard-hitting” and I decided that some readers would get offended – so I wrote something modelled on the ghazal instead!!)

Once wound I am ignored, the old clock chimes.
Once loved and once adored, the old clock chimes.

Too weak and frail to spring from bed at dawn,
Men wait in old age ward. The old clock chimes.

Three! Three! Three at last! Thank God Almighty!
School is out! Praise the Lord! the old clock chimes!

Four times she runs late for work, just this week;
It’s what she can’t afford, the old clock chimes.

Five-green-bottles-hanging-on-the-wall song:
In which one is time stored? the old clock chimes.

Six steps on toes the ballerina goes,
Major lift, minor chord, the old clock chimes.

Severn is the river through Shrewsbury.
So? Just for the record, the old clock chimes.

Ate eight big eggs for breakfast, fried in fat,
And greasy bacon gnawed. The old clock chimes.

Nein, the Germans say. No! Trains leave on time!
Delay is much abhorred! The old clock chimes!

Tender are most maternal hearts, and kind;
Kids leave to go abroad, the old clock chimes.

Eleven days make way for dozens more.
In none is bliss forestalled. The old clock chimes.

Twelve heralds in the darkest midnight hour.
I’m timeworn… slow… and bored… The old clock chimes.

Poem 32: In love with the wind

(The poetic form selected for this month is the ghazal.)

Let us dance at the top of a hill, in love with the wind;
Twirl, outstretched arms, in fields, like a mill, in love with the wind.

Kettle drums pound out the rhythm, the trumpets play fanfares;
Clarinets, flutes, and piccolos trill, in love with the wind.

On sleds on a slope, hair all atumble, mouths all agape –
Faster! Faster! They scream loud and shrill, in love with the wind.

The students kick footballs; they tussle and sweat as they brawl.
The ball soars up higher and hangs… still… in love with the wind.

Fires in forests, prairies, and farms show little mercy,
They stampede through landscapes all at will, in love with the wind.

Leaves in the autumn skate circles, waltz waltzes, turn cartwheels,
These joy clowns of leaves, they know the drill – in love with the wind.

Arthritic and shaky, slightly deaf, unable to dance,
Bruce sits quiet and watches. No, not ill – in love with the wind.