This week's contribution to Ronovan's Decima Challenge #54 with BIRTH as the prompt word on the D rhyme line How We Mythologise When Joseph found his wife with child he was suspicious as she'd not found time to let him have the lot; he thought she may have been defiled. She claimed that she had spent a wild night sleeping with some holy ghost, but being young, inclined to boast, and noticing her growing girth, invented tales of virgin birth; because otherwise, she was toast.
For the Rononvan Decima Challenge with CHASE as the prompt word on the C rhyme line.
Blessed are the Cheesemongers
The Soviets were first to send
a cosmonaut beyond the air
we breathe. Gagarin had a rare
resolve, was slightly round the bend
not knowing where his flight would end.
So then began the thrilling chase
to fire some men to outer space,
be first to land upon the Moon,
discern from which cheese it was hewn.
A Gorgonzola carapace?
Retirement and Beyond For Avis Tenacity of the tiger, ferocious in your calling, constantly seeking a better way, how to live a fuller life; sometimes fierce in your cajoling, always kind for kindness sake. You've danced your way though working days without tiring, never stalling, to build a world where all are equal, where justice triumphs over greed. We sometimes feel, in that, we never will succeed, but each act links to every other, every sister, every brother, everyone that you have known who cared enough to struggle on. For us, we will continue, partners, lovers, friends, so many sparkling days and moon drenched nights lie stretching out before us, these hours transfixed with light. And for all of our remaining years we'll write a simple syllabus of love, a plan of dreams and aspiration, hand in hand, heart in heart.
Here’s a go at Ronovan’s Decima Challenge #52, with Noise being the prompt word on the B rhyme line. I’ve done a couple….
Mortals Inc. I wake. Somewhere there is a whine not so unlike those clockwork toys that children wind up for the noise; but could, perhaps, be endocrine secretion from those glands of mine in need of oiling or repair, some maintenance, mechanic care. Bodily organs, failing fast, (although they are not built to last) infrequently come with a spare..... Immortals Inc. Jim said, You know the haunted pub, the one out there in Theydon Bois? The landlord swore he heard a noise, a voice spoke of Beelzebub! They filled their knapsacks with some grub and travelled on the Central Line, arriving there at closing time. The darkness came, they waited, mute, both fearful and irresolute. Next morning, they were Scene of Crime.....
A contribution to Ronovan’s Decima Challenge #51 with CAUSE being the prompt word on the A rhyme line.
The Cause I've long been faithful to the cause, the striving for a kinder world, a pregnant blossoming unfurled, capitalism's menopause. Arms dealers, with their rabid wars, consigned to tilling common land; beachcombers on the long sea-strand picking over long lost treasure, that pure, ancient, human pleasure of reaching out a helping hand.
Here’s a contribution to Ronovan’s Decima Challenge #50 with Dance as the prompt word on the D rhyme line.
Let's Dance The Tango from the Argentine, the Salsa with it's Cuban thrall, the Cha Cha, Rumba, Samba all pervaded with their Latin shine as minds and bodies intertwine. The Waltz, the Quickstep, Foxtrot too, are more sedate, yet couples glue their lower trunks intact, perchance to move as one throughout the dance. Enrapturement! Love's rendezvous!
We've marched so many times against it's excesses;
for miners, their futures' black as coal dust;
for printers removed from their pungent presses;
for the pickers of fruit, the decaying must
of strawberries, sweet as nostalgia.
We broke our innocence on picket lines,
those working class machineries of hope,
and played the game of seeing better times.
But in the bramble patch of Capital,
it's anarchistic growth a tangled path
of easily commissioned cruelties,
we foundered. Yet still we feel, like Chartists
and the Communards, we fought for love.
Listen. Over the horizon. Hear our songs.
With Chirp and Twilight as the prompt words.
Astronomical dusk full of final chirrups our night birds settling
Each New Day What do I bring to each new day? A trail of notes and books I keep for comfort; a rarely played guitar filled with unsung songs; an angry sadness at each cruelty so easily committed and dismissed; but, most of all, the love I have for you, your bright laughter filling each day with light.
For St. Patrick's Day and my ancestors who made the long trip from Ireland to New Zealand in the 19th century.
However tall your ships were, how long
they took to reach your chosen shores,
could they contain intact your beating hearts,
swollen with leaving, aching with imminent
arrival; the slow salt haul on following seas?
Were prayers said daily, attempting to appease
those catholic saints, their shapes reminiscent
of wet lands you left in colder parts
particularising rain? Did you pack your laws,
clutch them closely, like an Irish song?
How do we feel the sorrow leaving brings
but by a return in our imaginings.