Sisyphus (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Compelled to roll a huge rock up a hill.
A hill, steep and resisting.
The maddening
nature of punishment reserved,
for his hubristic belief
that he was cleverer than the gods.
Bad blood built in Hades,
by a fool who tried to avoid death.
Bound by Zeus to an eternity of frustration.
Polly Robinson © 2013
Trip trap, I’m a goat
on a wooden bridge,
a troll lurks below where
the stream trickles, teasing
trout in the sunlight.
A stroll past blowsy blossom
in the formal Gheluvelt garden,
casting eyes at crenelated conifers and
poplar rows standing proud.
The conservation garden calls.
Bluebells dip in dappled shade
beneath sycamore and beech,
fragrance green, fragrance fresh,
and the river beckons,
it’s quick, logs and twigs
swirl by lickety-spit
on currents flowing downstream
to Bristol and the estuary.
Now sit on a rough wooden bench,
hear the crickets, they leap, and
geese wheeze overhead.
A bug lands and waves.
The breeze stirs, ignored
by a buzzing busy bumble bee,
as willows bow to the bank
on the other side.
Polly Robinson © 2013
English: Gheluvelt Park, Worcester Wooden bridge leading from the main park area to the children’s playground. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
They want to bite her legs, the pigs,
who eat anything, everything, all …
They’re voyeurs of the worst kind,
they wait and watch and growl.
The noise continues through twilight,
as she sits quiet, in reflection,
but, hark, is that them coming through?
She grabs a broom for protection.
They charge the fence and mire the field,
rattle buckets, stare,
they groan to make her stomach squeal.
Gimlet-eyed malevolent glare.
Ghastly grunts and hawking coughs,
yellow hair on pink piggy backs,
blighted, boorish, ghoulish black spots,
windy, snotty, snuffling, wuffling, dirty, shirty pigs.
Now, what good she thinks the broom will do
is a very perceptive question.
Maybe she’ll ram it in their maws
and ruin their digestion.
Evil pig
Polly Robinson © 2013
La la la la la, li li, li li,
La la la la la, li li, li li,
La la la la la, li li, li li,
La la la la la, li li, li li,
La la la la la, li li, li li,
La la la la la, li li, li li,
La la la, la laaaa, la la laaaa, la la la la la la la, da da.
Di di di di di, di di di di di, diddly di di, diddly di di,
Di di di di di, di di di di di, di di di di di, di di diddly di di.
Di di di di di di, di di di di di di di, di di di di di di di, di di di di di diddly di diddly di.
Polly Robinson © 2013
… and there will be apples this year 
by Geoff Robinson 2020zoom 2013
Pre-formed walls,
clutched in orange crane
maws,
waltzing
‘The Blue Danube,’
a ballet she
danced as a child.
The architect cries
when she sees
above the trees, houses
and hills.
She weeps.
Local miners,
golden clay,
~ 18,000 tons ~
each year,
a face,
a veneer.
‘The Blue Danube’ plays.
Strauss hums
as the house
sighs,
satisfied, complete.
Polly Robinson © 2013
What a reception!
The bride glows pink, hair awry,
wilting at this end of day,
it drifts across her shining face,
she lifts a ringed hand,
brushes a strand away.
We catch a glimpse of
what’s to come,
her gesture echoes
that of mum, who’s
not here, she’s had to go,
with mother-in-law ~ a tale of woe ~
she’s taken ill.
It’s all the thrill
of organising
such a do,
the 60s music, 60s food,
cocktail sausage, pineapple, cheese,
damp ham sandwiches …
Fairy cakes and boys on
the dance floor,
young men,
twitching arses,
and girls,
fat ones, in
very, very short skirts.
Polly Robinson© 2013
The monster killed my brother and
torched DeLacey’s cottage.
He wants a companion.
Is that it?
They say he killed Clairbol,
will kill his new wife.
No, they’re wrong,
his sister is next,
and then Frankenstein will die.
I ask you, is the monster
Frankenstein or his creation?
Evil to kill children,
evil to kill,
evil to create a monster.
Polly Robinson © 2013
Promotional photo of Boris Karloff from The Bride of Frankenstein as Frankenstein’s monster. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Sorcery!
It bewitches the heart,
bewilders the head,
leads to where
good times are had.
Delusions of clarity,
[thoughts of parity].
Let us carouse
on a vilified glass.
Give us a spoon,
sugar, iced water,
succumb to the spirit.
La fée verte.
Sorcery!
Polly Robinson © 2013
I stand at the top of the stairs and glare
through the glass across the fields where mist lurks
in the morning rays. And there! runs a hare.
Polly Robinson © 2013
A line of stalls,
a place to perform
stories and poems,
the sun was warm.
A ‘poet-tree’ was found,
promo stuff placed on the ground.
People walking into town
with a purpose,
‘No time’ with a frown.
People walking home again,
with no time to linger then.
So the answer was to read them poems
as they walked through the throng.
‘Would you like a poem? It’s just four lines long,’
and some said ‘Ooh, yes, that’d be good,’
and some said, ‘No thank you,’
[they weren’t in the mood.]
The poets did their very best,
gave out leaflets, performed to the rest,
accompanied walkers and gave them a poem
asked them if they wished to join …
but you can’t stop folk when they’ve things to do,
their minds on shopping for outfits new, or
Sunday lunch, fresh veg and fruit,
they saw the stalls, and [what a hoot]
saw nothing to make them loiter
or enter
a writing competition.
Their attention held for less than
the moment it
took to give them a flyer,
maybe they’ll enter
at home …
maybe they’ll tire of
the words on the page and
sling them away.
No matter,
we
had a good day
with amicable spirits willing
to stand
in the sun and
enjoy good fellowship.
Polly Robinson © 2013
Aw … just look what I found covered by overgrown shrubs …
They’re so beautiful …
Here are some photos of our garden, sort of ‘before’ and ‘after’ pics
We are the gardening people,
happy boys and girls,
secateurs, we wield them freely,
stems and stalks are in the wheely …
Slugs and snails are enemies,
pigeons, rabbits: pests,
organic gardening is for us,
[though pesticides would mean a rest!]
Double digging gets earth ready,
nurturing the seeds,
using spades and gardening forks,
veg and flowers in our thoughts …
Clearing up the winter debris,
building a bonfire,
causing backache, crampy legs,
and, in the sunshine, pounding heads.
On earth and compost we are keen,
no merrier people can be seen,
because we all do gardening,
we’re happy boys and girls.
Polly Robinson © 2013
To celebrate the festival of Beltane ~ a rewrite of Persephone.
Radiant beauty,
Goddess of the spring,
Scent of the rose
Against your brow;
Fertile maid of life … and of death.
She meandered in meadows of
Fragrant flowers,
Roses, violets, hyacinths in bowers.
Seized, snatched,
Carried off,
Stolen by Hades
In a golden four-horsed chariot,
As Demeter wept.
Odysseus at the House of Death
Sees a wraith
To make one ache
For those who have been.
Persephone now the
Curse of dead souls,
Men distrust her
Six months here, six months there.
It is said:
“This is no deception sent by Queen Persephone,
This is the way of mortals when we die”
Feel the horror queen’s light breath.
But wait!
A kindness yet,
To let
The souls return.
Springtime Goddess of Rebirth,
Mystery initiations,
Sudden depressions,
Give way
To the
Mysteries,
A better life
A different fate after death.
Repeat to the beginning,
Seeds of the
Fruits of the
Field.
All shall return.
She is the
Painted winecup,
She is:
Life and death,
Wife, daughter,
Innocence, wisdom,
Death and rebirth.
And she stole the beautiful Adonis!
Oh yes! A psychopomp …
With pomegranate seeds
And blessings,
For wisdom and tranquillity.
Death is not
Evil
‘Tis a cycle for
Good.
Polly Robinson © 2013
My Sweet Rose (or The Soul of the Rose)
John William Waterhouse
Written for Trip the Poem Fantastic (Poetics) at dVerse, and as it’s also Day 28 for Napowrimo, this poem takes you on a fantastic journey.
We’re going on a walk,
a ‘Words on Water’ walk,
with WLF and writers,
around the waterways
of Worcester.
A trip – not literally –
no accidents, please,
no bodies falling in the wash,
being swept downstream,
to pass through the estuary,
in Bristol, into the briny,
cold currents rushing you further
to the Atlantic Ocean
and across to visit friends
in America.
Polly Robinson © 2013
Thinking about Flash Fiction writers on Napowrimo, Day 27.
Flash: a quickly written,
smitten – writer on a mission -
short, short story,
flash fiction.
Get those fingers flashing,
brain dashing,
mind mashing,
pen writing,
brain fighting to
work a twist into
the tail – rail against
time – get it down,
get it down,
get down,
down.
Flash.
22 June 2013
Polly Robinson © 2013
Day 26 Napowrimo ~ an etheree, very romantic [heh-heh], about the garage … with thanks to Kira for the form.
A
garage
is so much
more than a store
a used bottle bank
waiting until there are
sufficient to take along
to the recycling plant at the
rubbish tip and we know that we have
done our duty to the environment
Polly Robinson © 2013
new garage / workshop setup (Photo credit: riebschlager)
The Etheree is a simple progressive syllabic verse. It is attributed to American poet Etheree Taylor Armstrong.
The Etheree is:
o a decastich. (10 line poem)
o syllabic, 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10 syllables per line
o unrhymed
o focused on 1 idea or subject
It’s Napowrimo, it’s Day 25, and a triolet for the birds on the seed feeder was born.
Finches cling to full seed feeder,
grounded thrush pecks yellow mealworms,
pigeons play, ‘follow my leader,’
finches cling to full seed feeder,
as earth, the garden weeder, turns,
throwing worms to redbreast cheepers,
feels warmth in soil and from it learns.
Finches cling to full seed feeder,
grounded thrush pecks yellow mealworms.
Polly Robinson © 2013
Birds Fight at the Seed Feeder (Photo credit: dagnyg)
A triolet is an eight-line poem. All the lines are in iambic tetramenter (for a total of eight syllables per line), and the first, fourth, and seventh lines are identical, as are the second and final lines. This means that the poem begins and ends with the same couplet. Beyond this, there is a tight rhyme scheme (helped along by the repetition of lines) — ABaAabAB.
Hay Barn (Photo credit: dbnunley)
Day 24 of Napowrimo dawns grey and misty here in the heart of the UK.
Mist on the hay barn
hangs in the morning,
dew underfoot bathes
my boots.
Even though early,
and unusual, overhead
a Little owl hoots.
Polly Robinson © 2013
