There was no reason
for the charge brought against him.
Pardon came too late.
Category Archives: Self compositions
RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #219
Filed under Factual, Haiku, Self compositions, Uncategorized
Sunday Photo Fiction – Sept 16 2018
“Navigator’s yeoman to the bridge at the double,” the pipe was loud and clear and I could see the panic on Able Seaman Ralph’s face as as he raced across the mess to the forward ladder.
“Looks like old Ralph is in for a hard time,” I thought.
I decided to follow as it could be something everyone could have a laugh about later so started to make my way up to the bridge.
The navigator was pointing the finger at the chart on the table at the back of the bridge and saying to Ralph, “Now are you sure you haven’t missed an alteration to the chart, do you how serious that could be? ”
”No Sir, I heard the siren but thought nothing of it.”
”Well have a bloody look up ahead, is that or is it not a starboard buoy when all the rest are port?”
”Navvie, you’d better have a look at this,” the Officer of the Watch, laughing, interjected.
”What is it now, “ irritation in the Navigator’s voice apparent.
”Well, that so-called buoy is just a couple of idiot holidaymakers with a bright green umbrella , we’ll radio the harbourmaster to go and pick them up.
’
Filed under Flash fiction, Self compositions, Whimsical
N haiku
True love will ignore
the obstacles encountered
regrets may follow
Filed under As you read it, Factual, Haiku, Self compositions, Unashamed promotions
Sue Vincent’s #write photo, part the second
Atop the grassy mountain
stands a stark grey silent ruin
in clearer air black ravens soar
high above the mighty tor
below, the marshy vale sits
in a sea of swirling mist
clammy moss-lined battlements,
leaning, long forgotten remnants
no bright, wind-blown flags unfurling
beating drums or trumpets sounding
gone the soldiers, all their followers,
the tourney ring bedecked with flowers,
trapped in the stones just memories
fading over long centuries
Filed under Alternative history, History, Self compositions
M haiku
Hurricane footage
sympathy follows wonder,
seasonal cycle.
Filed under As you read it, Factual, Haiku, nature inspired, Seasons, Self compositions
Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt: Spectral #writephoto
The great stone edifice had been standing sentinel for over a thousand years. With it’s tower and four storeys it had served as the seat of all authority, it’s imposing presence casting fear into the hearts of some; security in the minds of others. Providing a home, and employment for the servants, the garrisoned solders and a ready market for the market-traders who had seized the opportunity to set up their stalls in the shadow of the high walls. Eventually was formed a thriving community, nourished and encouraged by the needs of the Lord of the Manor and his retinue. All unaware of the nightmare to come. On the third Sunday after the Feast of St. Joseph a travelling fair had arrived in the town. Their wagons loaded with with hawkers, jugglers, dancing bears and a hidden cargo. On their second day in the town the performers realised that they had brought a legacy that would be remembered only as swift, deadly and disastrous. The plague was relentless, reducing both the village and, despite locked gates and armed guards, the castle itself, to an empty shell. The survivors, believing the land accursed, moved away to the towns that had escaped the catastrophic events. The thatched dwellings and the limestone battlements gradually eroded, their stones carried off to build and repair houses far away. It did not take long for the tower to remain only as a home for bats, owls, spiders and beetles. In time, visitors to the district could find no-one who knew when it had been built or who had lived in the ruin on the hill. Folk memories suggested that something bad must have once happened. Hence the reputation that the old stones were haunted by some unknown entity, but despite no-one having seen or heard anything supernatural, the rumours of ghosts persisted.
Filed under Alternative history, Flash fiction, Self compositions
#WEEKLY TANKA PROMPT #POETRY CHALLENGE – WEEK 113 – POVERTY & GIFTED-Sacrifice
poverty stricken
but hoping to do their best
for their gifted child,
they sacrifice everything
for a prosperous future.
Filed under As you read it, From the heart, Self compositions, Tanka
Colleen’s Weekly #Tanka Tuesday #Poetry Challenge No. 101, “Plan & Finish,”
Start with an outline
then expand your ideas
end with a flourish
the layman’s guide to writing
just another fantasy
Ronovan writes #Weekly Haiku #218
The steam underground
built using cut and cover
London pioneers
Filed under Factual, Haiku, History, Self compositions
Sue Vincent’s #Thursday photo prompt: Early snow #writephoto
Patrick reached up to the last berry on the low branch. Nervously looking to right and left while occasionally stretching his neck to scan the skies above. No dark shadows were visible, no signs of a soaring bird above. He felt safe, camouflaged in his brown, mottled gold and fawn, feathered coat but one still had to be wary or they could be unlucky. A badly timed movement could be notification to watching eyes on the ground or in the skies, then with a pounce or a swoop life could rapidly be cut short. Patrick listened intently and sniffed the air, he felt something amiss. Gradually, like a mist forming in front of him he saw small feathery white flakes starting to fall all around. “On no, he thought, I will be caught out here in a minute, the snow has come too early. Quick,quick, I must go and hide”. With a rush he ran into the heather and nestled down onto the cool pine mat, crouching as low as he could. With his head tucked under his wing he soon relaxed and pondered his best methods for keeping warm. His feathers provided excellent insulation and if it got too cold shivering for short periods warmed up the blood. He hated the snow, he would have to dig through it every time he went to eat and often the water would turn to ice so he couldn’t drink or bathe. Like most birds Patrick enjoyed a bath, fluffing his feathers right up and letting the water splash over his exposed flesh. Of course there were times when water wasn’t available and this meant he had to take dust baths, this was quite exhilarating too especially when he could sit on top of an ant’s nest. Though feeling guilty he knew that the ones he beheaded and rubbed into his skin were so soothing. Getting rid of any itchy little ticks that had fastened on, irritatingly sucking his blood and so difficult to scratch and dislodge. Anyway now was not the time or the place to daydream. He would have to run back to the copse before the snow covered the ground like it had the hills in the distance where his white cousins lived. He didn’t envy them sitting out in the cold snow. He was happiest when he sat dozing with just one eye open in his warm heather and bracken bed
Filed under Flash fiction, nature inspired, Self compositions
When the pen takes control. 