Wild briar rose,Sun soaked face,
Petals as sheer as fine lace;
Like a dancer on tip toes
Wearing silky pink bows,
Suddenly a brazen breeze
Brings a helter shelter of
Forlorly marooned in scented dew.
Morning’s dampness on my hands.
I find a torn seam in elemental’s veil;
Ask to enter the precious trail.
Nose wrinkling as plumes of bluebells waft;
Lost in a deep purple blue lake,
Their wizened branches seeking light,
Orange tip butterflies flee with all their might!
I take a sip of Titania’s tea,
Finding myself mixing a pool of morning dew
With soothing dainty hues from the bluebell wood
on my watercolour palette ready for a new painting to emerge.
Clouds of buttery yellow billow;
Brimstones and Commas drenched
In honeyed pollen,
Wings tilting elegantly
Dancing in sunshine.
Unfortunately those gorgeous delicate butterflies won’t linger long enough! But it is wonderful to watch them.
Rapeseed oil I hear is very good for us, especially if it is cold pressed. It can help painful joints.
Happy Easter all! 🙂
like a lace wedding veil,
torn in a March gale;
sailing on scented winds
like fairy wings-
bringing spring’s tingling feeling
of happy, lingering, sunny days.
This poem is dedicated to yesterday’s International Poetry Day and a celebration of spring.
I’m really enjoying our walks in the countryside around Cople. Each day I wonder how many more buds are out, what suprises are there under the hedgerows: daisies, celedine, anemonies and tiny violets. Skylarks serenade us along the paths at the edges of fields and red kites circle above. Our prize is watching the brown hares running along the furrows and sunning themselves. Such beauty is to be savoured every moment!
Small heart translucent face,
Peeping shyly through downy lace.
Awakened by a sour biting breeze,
Which makes her cower, she
Curls up, sheltering under boughs
Of mighty beech trees.
Suddenly a shower of frosty crystals
Adorn the mysterious, tearful princess,
Crowning her with a spectacular tiara
As the dryad minstrels play their lyres.
Is writing my poetry blog a deliberate distraction from the challenge to write a novel in a month?
Is the act of writing and rambling a way of getting the creative juices going?
I have had the main characters in my novel swirling about in my brain for a couple of years, may be longer. When I’m walking with the dogs, watching them and noticing the changing cloud formations or ripples on water, I can zone in on the action of the novel and what the characters are feeling and thinking. When I stop and feel close up to nature, my world reverts to poetry.
I find at first light I greet the day with my cup of coffee and pen poised to write about 1800-2000 words. My husband has gone out to work, the dogs are stretched out on the sofa. I love the quietitude. If it is calm and silent, my felt tip fibre pen takes off. I know this novel won’t be perfect because if I was using the language of poetry, it would probably take me the rest of my years to finish the first draft. I’m just letting the innocence of the novel flow and see where it ends.
For the Nanowrimo website I created a quick cover design and thought of a title: this may change.
I will always be a nature poet and photographer who writes the occasional novel. Even the genre is a tricky one. I don’t want to restrict myself.
Writing is freedom.
Through wild woods,
Parting shimmering drapes,
Greeted by a fanning of tiny hands
Seated next to dryads wrapped in cosy ruby capes.
Swirling dervlas swish folksy skirts,
Weaving dreamily through silver birches.
Waiting for woodland girl to emerge, her gown tinged with whispers
of pearly tears.
The audience sighs!
Queen of the forest has arrived!
Delicate dragonfly’s iridescent wings like
rainbow beings, flying high in angelic beams;
Dancing with filigree seeds like snowflakes and pearly beads.
Entranced by glistening tears on ‘Old man’s beard’,
Gliding golden speckled skies;
riding the tide of sighs,
Seeking sophorific berries
Juicy as cherries.