Category Archives: Self compositions

Personal literary offerings

Ronovan writes #155

all that remains

when the flame of love burns low

are embers and ash

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Westerly 

The warm West wind

whining as it weaves it’s way 

around the woven wire

 watch the birds feathers fluff and

bristle, softly complaining 

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Tale Weaver #125

Chronicler

Chantellion is sitting in front of her loom with her back to the central hearth, where a pile of glowing embers barely give enough light to see. Her woollen cloak covers her long greying hair and is open at the front allowing her bare arms to protrude. Hunched forward uncomfortably on a low, wooden, three-legged stool,she lets her fingers run down the fine threads stretched horizontally in neat, evenly spaced rows across the frame, lingering on each one as if to test it’s quality. At her feet in what seems a haphazard pattern, stand large skeins of coloured rough yarn. Varying in size and hue she has placed each one carefully within reach of her outstretched fingers knowing which to choose even in the gloom. She is alone and sits rocking back and forth to a slow rhythm only she can hear, whilst humming almost imperceptibly a low tune that her own mother taught her. Long gone are the days when Chantellion was considered to have a sweet singing voice and she knows that if she raised her voice she herself would be disappointed at the change wrought by the years of sitting in smoke filled rooms. Memories of her younger self appear in her mind and she smiles, satisfied that with these memories will come others and she will be ready to pick up the threads ready to start weaving her picture stories. This is how her family’s traditional tales are told. Not by word of mouth around the blazing fire in the evening where they may suffer distortion by exaggeration and faded memory. This only leads to arguments and ill feeling. Through her loom the tales she tells in woven pictures can be read by all and know the truth. This is her task, as chronicler, entrusted to her, like her mother and grandmother before and soon will be entrusted to her own daughter for that is their way.

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Summer solstice on the BBC

For the benefit of their English audience but regrettably not for all others, the BBC have been broadcasting a selection of poems at intervals throughout the day in celebration of the Solstice. Today we have had the privilege of listening to well-read favourites, spoken by well-known voices. I hope that many of you were able to catch at least one. Despite my love of Larkin, his contribution being, “Cut grass,” I feel that “The way through the woods,” by Rudyard Kipling was the most enjoyable of the day. Not being a fan of love poems my views on “Strawberries,” by Edwin Morgan were mixed but it was a rare delight to hear again the lovely “Adlestrop,” from Edward Thomas. On the whole a fine varied choice and I hope that you were able to enjoy them too. If so, I would be interested to know which was your favourite out of the selection on offer?

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The weever in the net, (dedicated to HD)

I

lie,

trusting,

quietly,

craving the contact

pleasured, I allow your light touch

but you repay me with your restrictive betrayal

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Thursday photo prompt – Twilight – #writephoto

 

writephoto-15th-june

It was early in the evening but already the lamps of the rapidly disappearing houses were losing their battle against the descending, chill-inducing fog. I glanced at my watch for what was probably the fifteenth time since my arrival, surprised to find that only five minutes had passed. Not one person or vehicle had I seen, perhaps this was the reason she had been so insistent that this was the only place we could meet. The only place where we both would be safe from the night-stalkers who always came out at twilight. Even I was wary of them

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Ronovan writes #153 – 2

 

bloom

as the stars emerge

the algae blooms and rises

from depths of darkness

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Colleen’s Weekly #Poetry Challenge # 37 – SMOKE & VEIL

Haiku

she raises her veil,

looks into the smoke-filled globe,

into the future

 

tanka

Your thin veil of lies,

smoke from the fires of deceit

extinguished by truth

my smouldering jealousy

will take a long time to cool

 

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Ronovan writes #153

Like a fading star

each scented bloom is eclipsed

and begins the fall

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Flash fiction challenge, 99 words, Slave to the game.

Through the fence I could see the warriors on their ponies. Bare-chested in check trousers, their tattoos, symbols of their bravery in battle. Each had a wooden stave which they swung around their heads as they passed a tall tree in the field, from which hung a large sack. The one who hit and made the sack fall was acclaimed the winner to loud cheers. The sack was then dragged off to be refilled. I was hoping this would be a long time for, being a prisoner I was due to be the next one sewn into the sack.

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