Everyday Poetry

Although expected, given the results of recent blood tests, this morning's consultation with my doctor brought a shock. I'm only just over the threshold for diabetes,  but it seems the current approach is to shock you into action - they call you by the name of the condition - you don't have diabetes, you are now diabetic - and you are put on medication in the hope that in 6 months time you'll once more be back on the safer side of the threshold.   It seemed appropriate to revisit the poem Good News (about my Achilles tendonopathy) to reflect on the other side of the coin. That moment When they tell you the bad news And realisation hits with a punch to the gut And frail hope vanishes with the doctor's words, And the weight of the burden of worry You've been denying was there Shooing it away each time it appeared  Suddenly settles with a thump, As panic gives way to sadness,   And thoughts scatter, like shards of ice. © Copyright 2024. Chris Auger. All Rights Rese

A limerick, written for the Uley Show Competition. I'm not expecting this one to go down so well!  The bulge in St Giles' Church wall Is twice as broad as it's tall It's the souls pressing out,  You can hear them all shout, If you walk past alone, at nightfall.  © Copyright 2024. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

I've written this 'almost sonnet' for the Uley Village Show,  in the hopes that it might flatter the judges into giving me a good placing!  Nestled in a valley, between two ancient towns, Lies a sleepy old village cars pass through too fast, Residents give thanks that the ups and the downs Of its once busy wool trade lie far in the past. Its gently rolling hillsides, flanked by trees Lure walkers with footpaths, through woods, across streams, The climb up the Bury makes the others a breeze, The view always worth it, the stuff of dreams. The heart of the village is a true wonderland, The houses glow golden, whether brick-built or stone,  A medley of shapes, from the small to the grand, Stone walls bulge proudly as if pregnant, overblown. With a shop, doctors, brewery, Old Crown pub, Café, church, school, Prema centre for the arts,  There's a lot going on in a wide range of clubs, With the village hall sited at the community's heart. And despite being built on a weari

One of the prompts in August's Writing Magazine is a list of words.  The word 'obscured' leapt out at me,  as I've found it hard to find the right word a couple of times recently.  Twice today my brain has let me down.   I've lost a word, floundered around it,  Nibbled close, couldn't immediately find it.  The first, you asked of me, having just lost it yourself Midway through an explanation:  The word for a set of rules a club might use. I kept thinking 'constituency', knowing it was wrong,  Discarding it, for it to reappear again and again, With fuzzy edges as if it was hiding what I needed  Behind its teasing shape. Minutes later I shouted "Constitution" - pumping my fist in triumph. The second, I sat staring at a tree in a pot,  A wedding gift from friends; it's name escaped me.  I knew it well, its leaves I use to flavour stews, pickles. An edible relative of the laurel, begins with a B.  Bee, baa, I try to jog my memory. It's name

These were a favourite when I was a kid, known by us in the 60s simply as cheesecakes, before the biscuit and mousse kind were even dreamed of. Perhaps that's why they're now known as London cheesecakes.  Juicy fat squiggles of coconut,  Set deep into thick white icing, Tempted me as a child. I'd pick them off one by one,  Eating those delicious 'worms' first,  Licking off any icing left behind,  Then biting into the pastry base, It's delicious hit of frangipane -  A taste as familiar as its name unknown - Set off by the sweetness of strawberry jam.  Of all the treats in the baker's shop These were the ones I coveted most, Eating my fill before my time in London Disappeared into my memories.   © Copyright 2024. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

It's not just Proust who can have a vivid "Proustian moment". The memory of reading on the floor while my mum did the ironing has stayed with me for 60 years!  These wintry afternoons, shut in against the wet, Darkness held at bay by soft electric light, Take me back to the iron's hiss and pop, its bang and swish As it smoothes my father's shirts, our school uniforms; Back to the forest of chair legs rising up around me, To the smell of the scratchy wool, slightly dusty, carpet,  The comfortable scorch of the open fire against my cheeks, As I lay, chin in hands, propped up on elbows, Lost in pages held between red and yellow hard covers, Living a life of adventure with Robin of Sherwood, Or swashbuckling with the Knights of the Round Table. © Copyright 2024. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved