Everyday Poetry

One of the poetic forms I decided to try this year was the Nonet, a form where each line decreases by one syllable.  It seemed to fit the theme of leaving port. The captain bids his time; he must wait for each check to be completed.  Once everything is shipshape,  and all are safe on board,  moorings are cast off; his shop leaves dock,  finds its home on open sea.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

This summer we went on a cruise to the Arctic circle,  visiting the Faroe Islands,  Iceland and Shetland. This poem was inspired by the rugged beauty of the Faroes.  I Houses huddle on treeless hills Following basalt strata, following the road,  Grey, black, red, white, Unique, hard-edged, all stand alone Facing the inlet, their backs to mist-draped hills. Roads follow contours, skirt lakes,  Tunnel through grass-covered mountains,  Delve under the seabed to link islands,  Serve up salmon farms, Faroe horses, dark, woolly sheep.  II Cormorants half-submerged, bob between sea stacks,  Witness the probing of sea on stone,  Where waterfalls rush blindly over sheer cliff walls,   Tumbling to the sea past narrow ledges Where razorbills patrol and puffins bodge bumpy landings.  This land where the strongest thrive.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

I was impressed by Dundee's waterfront, even if the gulls weren't.   Herring gulls hang in the Tayside wind Dipping and soaring in a shrieking gang Unimpressed by the architecture of the V&A Looming over the mainmast yardarms  Reflected in the shallow pool Where their chicks bob in safety. © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

On the east coast of Iceland,  in a remote glacial valley,  the author Gunnar Gunnarson had a house built of laval rock in 1939. He lived there with his family for nine years before donating it to the nation in 1948. I loved its atmosphere and its beautiful location,  but then,  I was visiting in the summer.  I could write here Sat at this desk, with that view, The mountain before me,  The glacier feeding the river.  It's quiet here, the air fresh and clean,  Just pink-footed geese and a dog for company.  I could grow old here,  Sat in this garden with the sun on my face,  The mountains dotted with snow -  If I could join the geese And fly south for the winter.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

I came across a prompt posted on Instagram by Todd Dillard, and thought I'd give it a try. He gives the first part of each line plus a prompt or how to finish it - why not have a go? I've changed the second line in my poem as it was too stark in the prompt.  Living Am I alive or am I a suitcase waiting to be packed? Am I asleep or am I a dormouse waiting out the winter? If love isn't a robin cocking its head in hope of worms, then let it be a greasy slice of quattro formaggi. Let it be a light linen dress skimmimg over my skin. Let it be brushstrokes of watercolour seeping onto the page. As the jaunty sunhat waits on the bench in the porch so too tomorrow waits for me to cram it onto my head.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved. Here's the prompt if you want to have a go:  Am I alive or am I [description of a chore you keep putting off] Am I dead or am I  [description of an animal you think is neat doing stuff] If love isn't [description of something...

We watched the aerial battles of two kites and the buzzards last week when the fields opposite our house were cut for hay.  The elegance of all the birds was a wonderful sight to see, but the beauty and tactical manoeuvrings of the kites won our hearts, and temporary possession of the field.   Lords of Flight The dips and folds of the corduroy slopes Draw in two kites, swooping and swirling,  Circling with the wind-ruffling breeze,  Effortlessly readjusting flightpaths To shadow prey amongst the drying hay.  As they dip and fold into the valley Bronze undercarriages flash red against clear blue skies,  Over the yellow ochre of close-cropped grass; Spitfires against Heinkels, they heckle three buzzards Until the fields are theirs alone.  Where do they come from; from how far away? How do they know tractors have exposed their prey? All we know is the dip and fold of russet and white,  The elegant presence of these lords of flight.  © Copyr...