Everyday Poetry

My mum died after an operation, just before her 69th birthday. It seems her superstitious nature has passed itself down to me as it has given me pause for thought.   My son gave me fifteen years - Four or five years ago. It made me laugh at the time, but ever since I've thought of it as a rolling fifteen,  The dark always there, waiting for me,  But edging no nearer.  There's so much living left to be lived, Each breath-filled moment precious -  Not put on hold until this or that.  We all must die sooner or later.  Just let it be later.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

It's been months since I've felt able to get out in the garden and tidy up the beds.  I've told myself I'm leaving the debris for the benefit of wildlife but as winter begins to warm and new shoots are pushing through the leaf litter I know it will soon be time to venture out again.  Whenever I get my secateurs out to cut back the shrubs in our garden I can hear my Dad telling me they will thank me for pruning them hard.  At winter's end he'd 'do the roses' Pace out to where they sheltered behind the garden wall, Look hard at each of Mum's prized rose bushes Eyeing up where crossed limbs crowded the centre, Where last year's growth veered away from view. His shears would snip and prune, lop and sever,  Removing the weak, opening up the space for air, Till each crown rose no more than six inches from the ground.  He'd stand back and squint, clip once, twice, pronounce it done;  Six spiky clusters where once a hedge had been. We always mourned ...

I sat watching the local rooks chasing the buzzard away from their roosting trees the other day,  and was struck by how their strength comes from banding together to beat off a bigger foe. Much like Europe did to the US over Greenland.  Rooks chase the bully boy from their sky Forcing him slowly away from their trees, Where their nests rest safely year to year. The buzzard encroached, nipping at the edges, Testing to see how much they would sacrifice Before they say: Enough! Each rook is small, individually defenceless Against his talons, his beak, his confidence, But together they beat him back,  One bravely jabbing, One flying close to force him to turn, Others raising their voices to jeer at his defeat, At his turning away in the face of unity, Back to his lush valley home,  More than enough for his needs. © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

I've been mulling this over for a couple of months,  trying to capture the weird feelings I experienced visiting the Taj Mahal for the second time.  The haiku I originally wrote isn't sufficient - they rarely are for wordy me - so I've turned it into a haibun, which is a blend of prose poem and haiku.   Setting: same.  Framing: same.  Emotion: flat.  Travel-tired after the Red Fort's massive morning splendour, the marble workshop's familiar afternoon soft-sell, the white mausoleum floating above its gardens' perfect symmetry illicits no awe, no momentary stop of the heart, no catch of breath. Instead, a green-painted bench affords a glimpse into many lives, conjured by conversations passing by. Second time around White marble no longer wows; Magic found elsewhere. © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

Our journey from Mumbai Airport to our hotel on Marine Drive was a wonderful reintroduction to India, and reminder of the sensory overload that Indian cities bring to the world.   That peculiar smell of somewhere new: heat, spice, diesel,  The pleasant heat of morning promising more heat to come, Traffic stretching to infinity through the coach windscreen, The constant cacophony of horns, scooters weaving between lines Drivers helmeted, their one or two passengers bare-headed, Yellow and black taxis jousting their little brothers the auto rickshaws, Buzzing around and between, busy bees searching the quickest route. The garish vibrancy of giant hoardings, buildings, glaring neon signs, The urgency of roadside shops offering all types of goods and services, The blue tarpaulin-covered slums making way for new reclaimed land. The dark of a tunnel waves a magic wand; the other side Emerges swathed in morning mist. New skyscrapers shine beside  The decaying splendour of a...

One of the things I enjoy about travelling is not so much the marvelous monuments and tourist sights we are travelling towards,  but what passes by the coach window on the way.  This is the real India, quietly going about its life while we sit and stare.   Travelling past our window, a sea of blurred impressions: Parched grass, tiny hedged fields, haystacks of drying rice, Brick huts, tin roofs weighted with rocks or gathered wood,  High-stilted shelters from the sun stand lookout across the fields,  Towards orange-flowered hedges bordering the road.  Brightly painted houses in the towns like a child's paintbox, Blues, yellows, reds, greens, purples shouting for attention, Corrugated tin awnings balanced on bamboo or metal poles, Ads on side walls: JK Super Cement, Build Safe, Build Strong, Building work everywhere, new extensions, new houses, Piles of bricks neatly stacked in between for future projects, Everything covered in the road's rich red dust....