I took a bath in chilled champagne
Bubbles pop across heated skin
I emerge from a hole hewn into ice
Granddad’s job earlier that day
The milky layer with sharp edges
Thicker than my hand is wide
Promises joy and death
I pull myself up the wrought iron steps
Bare feet rush in wet pitter-patter
Across icy ground to reach my soft robe
The sound of heat radiates from fluffy fibres
Scent of pine resin caresses me
As we walk chattering back to the house
And the fiery embrace of the sauna
Tag: Poetry
Wee Beastie
A wee beastie, fluffy coat without buttons,
satellite dish ears orienting.
Micro kangaroo hops
across moss covered brick.
One, one, two. One, one, two.
The wee beastie watches
black button eyes anticipatory.
Feathered waiter has opened the buffet.
His yellow coat and blue bib
draw our attention.
One, one, two. One, one, two.
Sunflower seeds.
The menu is a bit simple.
Tablecloth covered in debris
from the last rain.
A random leaf dances past
–just because.
One, one, two. One, one, two.
One seed thrown aground and another,
two seeds down the beak.
A feather sticks.
Wet leaves cling to French doors.
Wee beastie happily munches.
tiny fingers hold treasure.
‘That’s how it’s done.’
The airborne pal tells us.
One, one, two. One, one, two.
Three Hazelnuts
or Cinderella
Seriously, Cindy. You pine
for a man who doesn’t recognise you
when you wear a different dress!?
Shallow much, your beau?
His horse is smarter!
Taking the apple from a trusted hand
when you meet in the snow-covered woods.
You can do better Cindy!
Hear me out.
I know your sisters are pests.
And stepmother gives all of us a bad rep,
but you really don’t have to go for the guy!
The one who needs a glass slipper to know you!
The three Hazel nuts!
You could wish for start-up funding,
or a scholarship,
or a train ticket
out of town to somewhere far away.
Excuse my anachronisms.
And make your own family
with people who ken
even when you walk in the dark.
Wintering
When cold clings to your bones with painful fingers.
You go for a lunch-walk to watch the sun set.
The clouds shroud so heavily you can’t tell if it is day yet.
Dark tendrils enclose your space; the ceiling light fights a battle lost.
The steam from your soup bowl fogs your vision.
Hard rimmed bread softened in salty broth.
A warm hug and friend’s presence brighten the grey day.
There is no such thing as too many blankets.
Wrapped up like porcelain dolls ready for shipping.
Only noses and eyes emerge; clouds of breath hang over our heads.
Laughs muffled by thick scarves.
Our steps crunch on frozen ground, or kick bursts of snow into the air.
We enter the house with much exclamation, and stomping of cold feet,
Rubbing numb hands, and shaking off frost, as if we were still fur-covered beasts.
Warm blankets snug around the body, lest any air touches shivering skin.
Book in hand, a hot cuppa, and a candle the night may fall now—again.
Spring Equinox
unedited free writing for spring
12 hours
twelve hours of light
twelve hours of darkness
yet the planets align
beauty to harness
Writing
silly little rhymes flow from my pen
words phrases punctuation
I hoard like a poetic dragon
in my soul they grow entwined
syllabic stew bubbles in my mind
to spill out in no discernible order
rhyming sometimes or I don’t bother
it’s spring and everything tumbles
stumbles, bursts into being
my words urge and urge forward
just don’t you stop they are screaming
so I am beholden to the pen
to write until the very end
Life!
life stumbles into being with ostentatious urgency
spears of green impale last winter’s brown leaves
purple blossoms stand askew amongst yellow
death from last year barely covered by sap green growth
a longtail tit almost smacks into my head
single minded focus on nesting mating food
flight an afterthought of being
while I look on enviously
coltsfoot, lesser celandine, ****crocus, winter aconites
daffodils, dandelion leaves, hawthorn buds,
cowslip tenderly peek out from mud
first sight might betray you that first day of spring
amongst the brownish, greyish, greenish darks
second sight notices sparkling glitz
third sight confirms the colour explosion has rizz
Response to wilful ignorance
Bitch
Are
Devils
Engulfing what used to be your soul
Nourish the sucklings of hate
On your bosom
Come to my class I dare you but you need to be
Human
From the news a couple of weeks back: “A country cannot be successful if its people and intellectual elite don’t believe in it. This means dealing with the poisoning of minds through higher education.”
Wintering
When cold clings to your bones with painful fingers.
You go for a lunch-walk to watch the sun set.
The clouds shroud so heavily you can’t tell if it is day yet.
Dark tendrils enclose your space the ceiling light fights a battle lost.
The steam from your soup bowl fogs your vision.
Hard rimmed bread softened in salty broth.
A warm hug and friend’s presence brighten the grey day.
There is no such thing as too many blankets.
Wrapped up like a porcelain doll ready for shipping.
Only the nose and eyes emerge; clouds of breath hang over our heads.
Laughs muffled by thick scarves.
Our steps crunch on frozen ground or kick bursts of snow into the air.
We enter the house with much exclamation and stomping of cold feed.
Rubbing numb hands, and shaking off the frost as if we were still fur covered beasts.
Warm blankets snug around the body lest any air touches shivering skin.
Book in hand, a hot cuppa, and a candle the night may fall now—again.
+++++++++
I was invited to write a contribution to wintering in academia and became stuck half way through my essay and ended up writing a poem. … of course
Replying to Sara L
That’s it.
I think.
No knight on an exhausted steed rushing to the rescue.
No benefactor pulling notes of worthless tender from fat pockets.
No, nothing like that.
No meaningless gestures.
No empty materialism.
Your touch, every time you pass me by.
You alternate your path just for that.
Silly dancing half naked on a sunny Saturday morning
Cajoling loudly to song.
Cuddled underneath thick blankets the dome of fairy lights
Painted above us by Night.
Autumn: hot chocolate in the garden
Before the last hours of work that day.
Storm battled adventures under canvas.
Bringing you coffee first thing every morning.
Cooking me birthday breakfast on the beach.
Swigging champagne from the bottle in a mountain hut.
A thick pair of gloves you knew I would need them.
Unexpected snowstorm we waited out with hot tea and chocolate.
Arms wrapping around each other tightly.
Holding hands while sleeping.
And so in Love
We safe one another every day.
If you do not know the Poetry Cove yet go have a nosy and join! I participated in the chap book writing month so have a lot of poems to share here but then the semester began, and I managed to slip a disc and things went a bit haywire for a while. Catching up and will schedule some more poems soon.
This one was a discussion we had after a love poem prompt that we found challenging. Here is my response to the inspiration by one of the participants.
The new bird feeder
A biophilic forward operating base
In the midst of seasonal modification
The airborne unit is in recce mode
New targets were installed at 1400 Zulu
Bluetit is the first Oscar Mike
The tiny sortie checks go/no go for IP
And flatters nervously checking for bogeys
His friends chirp: buster for target!
And finally he makes contact
Hover in flight refuelling before a fast RTB
Such is the urgency around the new birdfeeder
This still needs some work. We were joking that the songbirds keep using the camelia as a FOB so I wanted to write a poem that reflects the urgency and excitement around getting to the snackies all the while avoiding the sparrow hawk.
Why do buzzards sit in the field?
Note: this is written as a spoken word poem so get your rap on! I will attempt and upload a voice recording later.
Did you know buzzards have FOMO?
You can watch them moving in SloMo,
On a soggy field far from Soho.
Rat girl summer is over Fosho.
Buzzards just wanna kick-it.
Choosing mud over thicket.
Picking worms is the ticket,
Seeing others chum a big hit.
That’s how the crowd begun:
They flew over mates having fun,
Stagger through mud like RayGun,
Hunting for worms on the run.
Background story
In a field close by, usually over the winter, we observe dozens of buzzards gathering, but only that one field! There are none (with maybe the odd exception) in any of the other fields, although the conditions appear to be the same. So some digging through forums has unearthed that buzzards indeed gather based on seeing other buzzards already sitting in the field–hence the FOMO (fear of missing out)!
If you are like me a bit too grey around the edges for the youth slang
FOMO = Fear Of Missing Out
SloMo – Slow Motion
Fosho = For Sure (feeling like the cool aunt as I learned this from the nephew)
chum = is not just fish food but also hanging out together
Poetry by Nathalie 