Day 3

 Bad triolet


How small my grief, my joy how great,

Since I forgot to know you.

The years flew by ,and gone the ache -

How small my grief, my joy how great,

I think of you for old times' sake

but all my fond nostalgia's fake-

How small my grief, my joy how great

Since I forgot to know you.








Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Nanopowrimo 23

 Day 1 Moonshot They've found another ocean on the moon They've found another ocean in the earth Cowboys everywhere are shooting for space, Laika's in orbit, circling us now, Werner Von Braun sings Werner Von Braun. Did your Father make a rocket from the remnants of the Sixties, fuelled by white spirit and diesel? Did your Mother make rainbows from domestic trajectories Did you crouch like a child in the capsule? Was America's shadow cast in the desert? Was the flag still waving in the wind that wasn't, in the yard of the last living astronaut? Static Someone sleeps on teams , someone alive before. Someone in the left corner or else it's the right or the left or whatever- someone is trying now to get his attention, someone is waving their hand, so it appears like a ghost in random frames. The hand blurs He is Still Still Time goes Time passes The fly appears, crawls across his face, crawls across the mute screen- no one mentions it, no one comments, no one chats...
Read more

NaPowrimo Day 17

  Day 17- Dog The first dog she knew was a wolf- he guarded the baby's cradle, head on forepaws, tick tock pendulum tail- what a big commitment, many thousand years. At three, a spaniel placed its soft little rubber teeth over her hand, and pressed the points in until the skin indented. They asked the parents what will you do to train the puppy, human or dog? Later, the dog brother, who stands as tall as her hip. He moves through the tall grass in rough black and white, he rests his head on her knee. She cleans the blood and feathers from his mouth. No one knows his true name but She 1
Read more

Day 8

 Day 8 Twenty little projects ...not easy  Hill farm blues The land is a sleeping woman. At Chernobyl, the nuclear accident  includes a release of a hundred thousand  bluegreen butterflies He sees a heavy field by the power station And when he touches her rattling fence He knows- great She who sleeps from Carlisle to Whitehaven, I love you. He tastes the reactor release  a flock of mercury birds or hears a suite of quantum computers,  all approximating sentience. He is too nesh to fight the robots, his father said what doesn't kill you  makes you stronger to the broke arm boy. This land-woman wakes. Yan tan tethera - follow the lovely beck  of imagination, a diver tied to a feather stone. Like the fake lake, deeper, She eats a village for breakfast. Kit the rhymer is finding it hard to see, one day this land and poem will either burn or flood. A clever John Deere tractor  announces  the arrivals of Marxist Leninist angels to Her side. Co...
Read more