#52weeksofnaturepoetry, Poetry

The Weavers – Week 38 #52weeksofnaturepoetry (A fundraising project for RSPB)

Silks ripple in the breeze,

heavy with sparkling dew;

every droplet

contains a speck of golden sunlight.

These fresh crystal balls

barely cause the tapestries to droop,

yet the intricate strands of each piece

are nearly invisible to the naked eye.

Crafted by master weavers

who calculate and consider everything,

down to the very fibres

best suited

for each section,

such wall hangings are among the best

nature has to offer.

For the overall frame

and anchors,

the strongest thread is used,

swapping to durable reinforcement

spiraling straight to the artwork’s centre.

Inner elements call for sticky coatings

and responsiveness,

enabling vibrations more delicate

than those of the finest tuned harp,

allowing immediate notifications

of newly arrived dinner guests

(or indeed, the main course).

Finally, neat additions of soft, plentiful gift wrapping,

placed here and there, create storage pockets

for perishable goods.

Unless all visitors have…departed,

in which case, the weavers work it

into cosy padding

to plump up their nurseries.

After finishing last-minute touches,

they tiptoe across their tightropes,

lounging at bullseye

or retreating to a nearby leaf

to admire their handiwork from afar.

Caring little

of what other species may think of their creations,

or whether the dew

might prove too weighty – for, of course,

it rarely does.

This poem is part of a project I’m doing to raise money for the RSPB, a UK wildlife conservation and protection charity. If you’d like to help, please share this poem to encourage others to take joy in nature, and if you have the time and means to donate, you can do so here. Let’s help keep our wildlife wild!

[Apologies for how these poems are formatted. I do write them in stanzas, but WordPress rarely decides to keep them, no matter how much I argue with it.]

#52weeksofnaturepoetry, Poetry

Beetle Quest – Week 34 #52weeksofnaturepoetry

Almost as content

in tended gardens and hedgerows

as amongst their favourite homely oaks,

hard-shelled stags wake

alongside May,

discarding worn duvets.

On warm, rich evenings,

the antler-jawed males

venture from protective shrubbery

into the open,

seeking Miss Right.

A quest worth any number of duels,

tough mandibles bashing together,

locked in combat with other eager suitors.

Yet victory celebrations are short;

barely opportunity to enjoy a round of sap

before setting off  –

time does not dally.


Days cool; fair ladies ensure

the new generation

lie protected in suitable nurseries.

All checks complete, they

and their weary knights

make ready for the ultimate rest.

Plump larvae hatch,

feasting on the lifeless wood

their parents chose to house them;

pinning badges of excellence

to their fleshy bodies

for being such good decomposition helpers.

After six years in training,

a lengthy nap is required,

along with a set of armour,

and for some, their experience sprouts

into antlers of their own:

the cycle begins again.

This poem is part of a project I’m doing to raise money for the RSPB, a UK wildlife conservation and protection charity. If you’d like to help, please share this poem to encourage others to take joy in nature, and if you have the time and means to donate, you can do so here. Let’s help keep our wildlife wild!

[Apologies for how these poems are formatted. I do write them in stanzas, but WordPress rarely decides to keep them, no matter how much I argue with it.]

Poetry

Rival

She places her feet down

with stubborn steps,

head on.

Cut, angled fringe, red eyes, ice lips.

Fingers curled, uncaring, in the waistband

on her hips.

Eagle grip.

 

I place my feet down

with weighted steps,

heavy lids,

creased, fluffy jumper, wet hair, dry lips.

Fire up as I catch sight of her with a match

to my manuscript.

Solar eclipse.

 

Mirror says,

take a step back.

Don’t give me that.

 

This is my war and I’ll wage it as I please.

Even if I’m the one

bringing me to my knees.

Poetry

Ce’Nedra

The vivid crimson locks crowning her head

speak only a fraction of the fire inside.

 

Small of stature, but tall and fierce

of will,

leaping onto the highest platforms to deliver her address.

 

All those waiting

wonder how this tiny being can hope to think

she can move the parade with only a few words.

 

Once she opens her mouth,

her voice soars,

thunderous compassion forcing their hearts to pound as one.

 

Their feet march without order,

the cause more true and just

than any they have heard before.

 

No longer a spoilt princess.

A leader, brighter than the sun.

Poetry

Imprint

I stand now in a green field,

greener than any around it.

I stand now in a mass grave,

more drenched in blood than any quiet churchyard.

 

Touching the soil, my fingers catch

on the lip of a twisted belt buckle,

and the last moments of its owner illuminate my shadow,

their pain becoming my own,

as if centuries have not passed

and we are twins,

sharing the same blood, the same heart.

 

Flowers around me.

Cornflowers, daisies, Lady’s bedstraw.

Bones around me.

Long trampled and hidden, only ghosting up

to those who bother looking.

 

The long grass stains my hands as I pull at the blades,

thinking only of how other blades

drew out crimson:

a stain that would never wash out.

Poetry

Battle of Monsters

You’ve seen them before,

noses pressed up against you,

moist breath on your skin.

One side is right. So is the other.

They ask you to be the judge as they battle it out.

Please stop, you ask.

Your voice doesn’t work.

The lawyers do. Settling the disputes.

Settling the money.

Now, young one:

who would you most like to live with?

Poetry

Tiny mite

Regarding Pip, the love-fruit dream of a bookish mind who haunts the dust speckles papering the bookcases – duck-egg pimples on the fingertips. It lurks, d r i f t i n g between SOLID TEXT and verse rising on inhales to nostrils intent on devouring must and ragged ink. Only to be sneezed out into the particle storm; sunlight is the only pair of spectacles strong enough to see them fight the plastic dinosaurs battling for shelf space on the brain.