My little poem

Brancaster

A vast expanse of empty beach
And the sea,
In retreat, out of reach, benign.
A glittering line on the horizon.

The sand shifts and dances in the wind,
Catching our bare legs in a gritty embrace.
Seeming to say “don’t go”
As we face towards the wreck.

Like a siren it beckons.
Distant, large,
Marooned and shimmering in the heat,
And, as if a mirage

The longer we walk, the further away it seems to be.
And then, here is the sea,
No threat, you think, but yet, you turn to find that,
Like a stealthy assassin, it has stolen in behind you,

Flooding a channel.
You have nowhere to go.
And the wind, still scouring,
Simply says “I told you so.”

I

Grandma70s

When I was in the 6th form we had a wonderful new English teacher who made us write poetry, like it or not, We had to write in various formal ways such as sonnet, villanelle, triolet. It made a change from my usual adolescent ramblings and I loved it. Some people just couldn’t do it, though. They couldn’t count the beats. Formal verse is just like music in that way.

That's the correct way to teach it.

Perhaps the easiest form and rhythm of poetry to copy is the form: and rhythm exemplified by:

I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful ,a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild
(Keats)

Bellanonna

I do wish we had a ‘Like’ button. And Caleo is probably right but I still enjoyed the rhyming couplets. Thought the whole poem very evocative.

I am sorry and I apologise to Purplepixie for my uninvited criticism.

Thank you all so much. I like the way I put them together and that’s all that matters.

PS - Luckygirl3, I love Grandpa’s Violin. Very touching.

When I was in the 6th form we had a wonderful new English teacher who made us write poetry, like it or not, We had to write in various formal ways such as sonnet, villanelle, triolet. It made a change from my usual adolescent ramblings and I loved it. Some people just couldn’t do it, though. They couldn’t count the beats. Formal verse is just like music in that way.

Yes - we do need a like button - I wonder why there is none?

Referring to Purple Pixie’s opening post

I do wish we had a ‘Like’ button. And Caleo is probably right but I still enjoyed the rhyming couplets. Thought the whole poem very evocative.

My nephew was having a frustrating morning with his young DD’s lively cockapoo so he put this on Facebook.

Mollie the doggie just wants to go out,
In a moment she’ll want to come in,
For no matter where Mollie the doggie is now,
She’ll want to go where she’s just been.

How beautiful Luckygirl3.

Should read ...... My friend set these to music......

And I wrote this as a response to an incident while my late OH was still alive. He was an excellent violinist but when Parkinsons Disease struck he stopped playing. One day my little grandson (probably about 3) asked him to play and he would not. My set these words to music for me too.

Grandpa’s Violin

Take your violin Papa
And play a tune for me
Fetch your violin Papa
I want to dance, you see

I cannot play the tunes my child
The way I used to play
In these shaking hands my child
The notes will go astray

But I am very small Papa
And love the notes I hear
I treasure simple things Papa
So you need have no fear

So take your violin Papa
And play a tune for me
Please, fetch your violin Papa
And come and dance with me

How lovely to have a thread with gransnetters poems - creativity is to be applauded.

I have written poetry for many years and have dug this one out ....

At My House

There is a tiny bird
Bobbing and dipping on the front doorstep,
Inviting himself in

There is a child,
Chubby arms outstretched to the sparkling dust motes,
Believing it is Christmas

There is a violin
Slipping soft airs under doors and seeping melodies
Into the floorboards

There is a faraway lawn mower
Humming its promise of summer sunshine
From distant tidy gardens

There is a vast white bed
Where we sprawl on warm still moonlit nights
As the buzzards wheel home.

There is a lilac tree
Tap-tapping on the panes with fragrant pledges
Of lazy warmth to come

There is a snug kitchen
With brown-red tiles and foot-shone flagstones
And rising bread

There is a dish of raspberries
Nestling by the floating curtains at the open window
Awaiting cream.

There is a half-read book,
A half-eaten bun, and half a pair of slippers
At ease on the hearthrug.

There is friendly dust
Sleeping undisturbed on the mantelshelf,
Making itself at home.

There is an open door,
Always open to welcome the sunlight
And you too, my friend

Purplepixie

OK, I am not sure where to post my poem so here goes:

The Classroom

The rain battered on the classroom windows that cold winters day
Our English teacher kept us transfixed with plenty to say

Drifting off with topics of homework essays whirling in my head
Longing for home time and pyjamas on and away to my bed

The bell screeched out in those corridors of learning and doom
We all bustled out onto the darkened streets of coal dust and gloom

Dreams of the future were never far from our adolescent minds
But the winds of the future in this pit village could be unkind

Those homework essays always carried me away on dove like clouds
Wrapped up in hypothetical words which could quickly change to shrouds

I’d gaze out of the window at the moon as a cloud rushed by
All these chapters in our lives hurtled away in the blink of an watery eye

Gather up the words and drink in the atmosphere of life
Spread them on the page and level them with a political knife

The future is yours if only the authoritarian minds didn’t strangle your life
Away back to that warm bedroom and dreaming of days without any strife

Might have succeeded if you had not been so determined to use end-rhymes. Try saying your poems out loud and then you may know whether or not they have rhythm. The message of your poem is good. Why not simply say it as prose?

top marks to Dr Watson's

"We get paid for building drains –
We get paid for building drains –
That overflow each time it rains;
That overflow each time it rains;
Filling rivers day & night –
Filling rivers day & night –
WE get a bonus, YOU get shite!
WE get a bonus, YOU get shite!"

The main thing a poem (or even doggerel) needs is rhythm. End rhymes don't matter nearly as much as rhythm.

A few months ago, on the wonderful 'I'm Sorry I haven't a Clue' (Radio4, a series several times a year?) they did a new type of round, at least new to me. The panellists had to concoct a 'chant', performed by the likes of a prison chain gang, or perhaps an American Army Platoon. A leader does each line, repeated by the whole group.

But these were for civilian occupations, as in >>>
Thames Water Executives
(all to the sound of marching feet! -- and possibly best spoken/chanted out loud?)

We get paid for building drains –
We get paid for building drains –
That overflow each time it rains;
That overflow each time it rains;
Filling rivers day & night –
Filling rivers day & night –
WE get a bonus, YOU get shite!
WE get a bonus, YOU get shite!

You get the idea, not Tennyson or Wordsworth, but trying to lighten the daily news gloom from either our politicos, or the Orange Baboon.

AND >>>> a Sandringham Staff Memorandum (this was a day or two after the wretched Andrew lost his Princeness):-

To the Butler, maids, cook & va-let >>>
To the Butler, maids, cook & va-let >>>
Please don’t forget the switch today –
Please don’t forget the switch today –

“H.R.H” is now just “Mister” –
“H.R.H” is now just “Mister” –
And don’t let him anywhere near your sister . . .
And don’t let him anywhere near your sister . . .

🤗❤️👍

Thanks for sharing your great poems. 👍

Blackberrying.

Eating the last of the stored blackberries, in the dead of winter, is a sorrow,
As if someone has stolen what little sun remains to us.
Thus, you crave to feel it on your face, as when you walked in summer lanes.
Finding a prime patch, with berries as big as the ball of your thumb! A joy!
Claiming its bounty for your own, to defend against all who might come -
The blackbird, the squirrel, and the coy wood mouse.

They gleam like glass.
At each pass, the rich scent of them; and the way their juices stained your fingers as you took your greedy fill, a memory still;
Cursing at each precious jewel dropped, and each thorn that struck, drawing blood.
Sharing the good companionable silences.
Together but not together. My bush, your bush.

A song thrush, singing
One more, one more, one more…..

Keep writing your lovely poems, all

There's a World Poetry Day on 21 March.

NanKate 😂

Bella my poem came third in my WI competition. However there were only 3 entries 😉