Everyday Poetry

September's Writing Magazine sets an interesting exercise - to write a poem about things happening at night in the form of a terza rima. This is a strict format: four three line stanzas followed by a couplet in iambic pentameters, like a sonnet,  but with the rhyme scheme aba bcb cdc dad aa. I chose a rural theme for this poem.  A shape appears in the silent moonlight Slinks sly across the fields beyond the copse  A flash of red disturbing black and white.  The wispy clouds reveal a hunting fox Intent on prey it scarcely makes a sound Hunger drives it towards the farmer's stock.  Reaching the coop it starts to circle round Seeking a way to dispatch a sleeping hen  Despite its need no entry can be found.  As it begins its circuit once again A guard dog barks; a torch shines bright Across the yard.  All thought of prey forgotten The fox freezes, crouches, takes sudden flight A scarlet streak, back to the safe, dark night.  Copyright Chris Auger 2020. All rights reserved. 

One for my ex-husband, prompted by hearing the Beatles on the radio.   When we were younger Full of love, and dreams, and plans for our future We laughed at the lyrics, Knew, with the certainty of youth, They'd come true.  Now we are older Both losing our hair We're no longer sending Valentines Share no birthday greetings,  Bottles of wine.  But now we've both found our cottages Have grandchildren on our separate knees, We do sometimes drop each other a line Share our points of view via What'sApp amd Instagram. It's nice to know we didn't completely shut the door Now we no longer need, or feed, each other.  Now we're 64. Copyright Chris Auger 2020. All rights reserved. 

I belong to a Facebook group which sets a creative challenge each day,  and this morning's suggested subject is "estuary". I grew up not far from the Thames estuary,  and now live near the Severn estuary, so it's a concept I'm familiar with.  For some reason I decided to create an acrostic poem.  Endlessly flowing,  in constant flux between Shimmering-surfaced depths and dull mud flats,  Through thick and thin you stay your course Undeviating from inception to destination,  Always reliable,  a landmark in your landscape Ready to steady those who may have lost their way.  You and me,  we have a lot in common.   Copyright Chris Auger 2020. All rights reserved. 

Hairbrush My hairbrush yeilds a nest of coarse grey hair Not sun bleached highlights,  Not swimming pool stressed, But unmistakable old woman's grey. My shower drain yields clumps of coarse grey hair Not a few stragglers washed loose  Not a mixture of yours and mine But unmistakable lengths of old woman's grey.  My hair has always been my crowning glory Sometimes long, sometimes short Sometimes auburn, a long time blonde But mostly light brown, and always thick and shiny.  I'm coming round slowly to this new me This old lady looking back at me from the mirror This inevitable morphing into my mum, my nan, But oh, how I long for just a few more years of youth.  Copyright Chris Auger 2020. All rights reserved. 

This morning I woke to a mist-filled valley - beautiful but also a sad harbinger of autumn when I'm not quite ready to let go of summer. Morning after morning The valley pulls on its misty muffler Like a cardigan on bare shoulders Still used to summer heat.    Mindful of the marching months Reluctant to sleeve my arms Or cover legs with trousers I seek my woolly mufflers Warding off the seeping chill at each day's margins Listening for the last hurrah of an Indian summer Before I pack my tan away.  Copyright Chris Auger 2020. All rights reserved.