Posts

Morning Rituals

Day 1: " The   tanka   is an ancient Japanese poetic form. In contemporary English versions, it often takes the shape of a five-line poem with a 5 / 7 / 5 / 7 / 7 syllable-count – kind of like a haiku that decided to keep going.  Some recent examples include L. Lamar Wilson’s “ Aubade Tanka ,” Tarik Dobbs’s “ Commuter Tanka ,” and Antoinette Brim-Bell’s “ Insomniac Tankas .”  Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own tanka – or multi-tanka poem. Theme and tone are up to you, but try to maintain the five-line stanza and syllable count." I do like a challenge with structure, and the tanka is a relatively new form for me. But what to write it about? True to my usual style, this is about the pleasure found in the everyday, and the differences between my husband and me.  Morning Rituals After the coffee Enjoyed tucked cosy in bed We decant downstairs; You solve your logic puzzle While I catch the day in words. © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reser...
Post a Comment
Read more

Wanting

Early bird challege: Read Debt Ritual: Oysters by Katie Naughton . Write a poem in which you refer to a specific writer or artist and make a declarative statement about want or desire, set in a particular, people filled place like a restaurant, bus station, museum, etc.   Naughton's poem is about giving in to desire even though you can't afford it. Truth is, I can't afford to give into certain desires if I want to achieve my long term aim. I'm attempting to ignore the existence of chocolate at the moment as I'm trying to lose weight before an operation and it's strictly off limits.  This morning I went to the supermarket for a few bits and found Easter goodies ramped up to the max!  Wanting The purple, red and gold boxes revealing precious foil-wrapped eggs are stacked high and wide,  filling the shelves like a fragrant Warhol painting,  beguiling shoppers with an offer too good to pass by: Buy Two Get One Free. This year my grandkids wanted cash in place o...
Post a Comment
Read more

Sunshine

I put my washing out on the line for the first time this year.  It only got direct sun for a couple of hours, but this ritual always marks the start of spring for me, the time when the sun finally makes it over the horizon of the hill and falls on our garden.  I share my seat with the bright dome of a ladybird, Warmed by the sun on my face, The squat mug in my hands, The trilling of birds in this year's mating ritual, The washing wafting in the soft March breeze; All making the most of long awaited sunshine.   © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
Post a Comment
Read more

Catch the Tide

We got up early today to witness the high tide coming in along the Severn estuary, from the Tower Hide at Slimbridge.  It was meant to flush out the thousands of plovers that overwinter there,  but most had already moved on and only a few hundred were left.  Despite that it was a magical place to be in the early morning light.  Under unfamiliar bright blue skies two dozen or more pairs of eyes watch for golden plovers to ride the incoming spring high tide. Scopes and lenses held up high swing to the left then to the right, following any bird in flight, their constant haunting cries. Classic plover Vs slice the sky, above Russian white fronted juveniles, curlews piping, all the while,  two cranes touch down in graceful glides. The water spreads the river wide, its greedy jaws gnaw the estuary's side,  it creeps towards the Tower Hide, where we stand gilded, in morning light.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
Post a Comment
Read more

Telephone times

Kids today just don't know how lucky they are,  carrying their own phone around in their pocket!  The late '60s saw our very own phone installed. Dad made a telephone table, fixed to the wall in the hall: A slim white melamine box with gold stick-on trim, Holding the Yellow Pages, local directory, notepad and pen, Spring-loaded black book of special numbers, with its matching dial.  In pride of place the polished ivory phone sat on top, Each number dialed clockwise round to its stop, Then let go to click back before dialing the next. Its round dial centre inscribed with our home number, Ready for us to give out with our name when it rang; Etiquette important, we were coached on how to answer. No chair. Calls should be short, to the point. No more walking to the phone box on the corner, But we didn't have money to burn.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.
Post a Comment
Read more

On Reaching The Age My Mother Died

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.
Post a Comment
Read more

Cutting back hard

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 ...
Post a Comment
Read more