A New Poem - Daffodil Destruction

I am usually very much against poetry that doe not rhyme. Of course when I put this view to friends and others alike, I am inundated with examples of non-rhyming examples. But today, I was in a hurry to complete a poem and found that rhymes were not forthcoming. And so, I found myself writing what I would normally call a piece of prose. OK, it is based on lines and at least it has a metre of sorts, but I feel that I have failed. It is a compromise which I am not really happy with. You might say it is out of my comfort zone but I was desperate to get out of the "Slough Of Despond" I have found myself in over the past couple of weeks.

A vase of floribunda daffs, blown down by a storm

So, aims achieved, I present a new poem. Actually I used the same prompt for this poem that I used for the poem in the last post. Of course it was a prompt which could be interpreted in a very free way. It was provided once more by my friend Monna Ellithorpe, one of her weekly writing prompts.

Make up your own mind and please feel free to criticise, or otherwise, in the comments section below. The poem is called ................

Daffodil Destruction

Yesterday, 

We had a beautiful array

Of daffodils in our garden.

People passing

Had commented on the colours,

Of the late spring display.

But that wind

Blew up fast, from out of nowhere

And kicked the best for six

The floribunda,

With their heavy heads bowed;

Were no match, and fell prostrate.

I found them,

Their heads in the dirt this morning.

Wistfully, I collected the fallen heroes.

An assignment

Beckoned, to make them proud;

A gift for a mothers grave.

   

A Crumpled Sheet Of Paper - A New Poem

Another difficult poem. I selected a prompt for this with an idea in mind. It is not quite what I had planned but it is what it is. A very untenable / illogical metaphor. I offer the poem with no further eplanation and make no apologies if it seems to make no sense.

A crumpled sheet of paper

A crumpled Sheet of paper,

It has no use, no more.

It's final destination,

That trash can on the floor.

A page so full of memories,

A story barely told;

Well written, but forgotten.

Disallowed from growing old.

A faded, yellow page.

The words no longer clear.

So difficult to read now,

But it still brings forth a tear.

But I cannot bear to lose

that which had meant so much.

In better times, supporting me,

an undeniable crutch.

I'll make a promise to myself,

I'll find a way to free

That crumpled sheet of paper,

Bring it back, as it should be.

Winding Rivers, A New Poem

Winding Rivers

                                       water colour painting by the author

Winding rivers

Sending shivers

Mental quivers

My life withers

Raging torrents

Stormy comments

Constant torments

Makes no real sense

Understanding

So demanding

Notwithstanding

Lifelong stranding

What's the meaning

No redeeming

Constant screaming

Pain repeating

Inside my head

A new poem from a prompt which surprised me, kinda came from nowhere.  Without further comment this time.

A little more nonsense from a poetic prompt

Well now I was missing my regular weekly writing prompt due to Easter and so I turned to google this week.Well I looked at many different prompts before I found one which seemed to turn my head. It was actually about morning being the best time for magic (?) well who knew, but I added a soupcon of another prompt and this poem developed on the page (or screen as it happened).

You might know that the weather is a standard, fall-back topic of conversation for us Brits because of our wonderfully creative weather and a the fact that we are really quite reserved when meeting and talking to people. In fact I have written many time before about various aspects of the weather. For example:- A Blast From The Past,  My Poetry Takes A New Direction,  The Wind And I.

In fact just browsing thru this blog for these few examples I realise I have written more poems about "Morning" and different aspects of a new day. I find that I have sadly forgotten many; I guess I need to sort out another book of poems.

Anyway where was I, oh yes - a title? What else but, "Morning In The Rain". Not very catchy, but I always have problems with titles. Usually the last thing I do with a poem.

Morning In The Rain

Another rare morning

Spring in the air

A red sky is warning

I'd better beware

You know what they claim

The weather could turn 

A whole new ball-game

Will I ever learn

Don't trust the weather

Mom always advised

You'll find that its never

worthy of compromise

So dress for comfort

But back-up your choice

You know that you ought

To heed mom's good advice

Another thin morning

It's cool, beginning to rain

Can't stand here talking

Nice to meet you again

Well that's it, hope you liked it. Hardly cartries an earth shattering message but then that's me. Down to earth and real.