Everyday Poetry

I've just treated myself to a lovely little book which illustrates an example of native flora or fauna each day.  Today's was a list of grasses - I've had a grass identification guide on my Amazon wish list for years - perhaps it's time to order it! in my childhood the waist high grass on the disused airfield was for wading through slowly the seed heads slipping through our fingers tickling our bare legs,  sticking in our sandal buckles until we caught them under our nails and stripped them from their stems. it was for squashing down flat into dens our own special place where we could hide for hours  plaiting the tallest stems into ropes for bracelets,   making catapults, each heavy seed head thwacking satisfyingly into a friend it gave us darts to stick in each other's clothes -  it was the bane of our mothers' lives.  in adulthood  the fascination with those different grasses  the myriad ways they flower,  and seed, morphed into a need to classify,  to name, t

Our parents teach us many things,  but those skills are not all they leave us with; their very essence is left behind with us for a long as we live.  Lily of the valley,  an Avon set of scent and talc,  Wafts of Hamlet, with the impossible sophistication Of an Air on a G-String, Strong arms holding,  then not holding, Onto the back of my bike, Warm arms holding me safe from nightmares,  Fried bread houses soaking up sunny siders, Sunday roasts climaxing the culinary week, The thwack of a cricket ball before being called in for tea, The clack of knitting needles -  Magic knitting, always knitting,   Never looking at the needles -  The fuggy hiss of the iron. On the beach he built no castles in the air But sculpted cars, boats, planes for us to steer,  Spent hours on our hall stairs, with a cardboard clock,  Teaching me the passage of time. Walking me to school with friends and their mums Until the route was second nature and we could go alone Across the fields,  along the roads. Always

It's such an iconic sound,  I've always loved hearing the blackbirds song in the early evening each spring/ early summer.  One was singing as I walked back home from the jubilee celebrations yesterday,  and the first two lines almost wrote themselves.   A blackbird sings from the top of the tree It's liquid song floating across the valley,  Each trill slicing through late afternoon heat The song varies, then pauses,  some phrases repeat,  Its beauty's uplifting,  thrills the stoniest heart,  A signal each spring that the evening can start.   © Copyright 2022. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

This morning I was reading the latest Writing Magazine, sitting outside in the sunshine.  Each month they publish a writing challenge - you can choose whether to complete the fiction,  non fiction,  memoir or poetry challenge,  with the stipulation that you can only take 20 minutes!  The poetry challenge was to write an updated version of Beachcomber, a poem by the Scottish poet George Mackay Brown,  which you can read at:  https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/beachcomber/.  Twenty minutes is not long to do justice to the challenge,  so I took an extra 20 minutes.  It could do with some more editing,  but it's amazing what you can do when you are focused.   Monday,  I found a bright red flip flop, Its toepost broken,  It limped its way one-footed into my litter sack.  Tuesday, half a garden chair Missing an armrest It's seat worn shiny by countless sitters. Wednesday,  an empty 2litre bottle of Fanta, Filled with salt water A miniature ocean,  no longer neon orange.  T