Everyday Poetry

I've been challenged to write a poem on the theme of whimsy. An odd word,  but one you can play around with rather whimsically.   I'm not a fan of whimsy I find it rather mimsy Even verging on the grimsy. My appreciation being flimsy The likelihood is slimsy That I'd ever welcome it insy To my poems. © Copyright 2021. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved  

I'd like to be quirky Wacky,  unorthodox,  original,  Have people smile at my eccentricities  At my devil-may-care, outlandish,  offbeat attitude.  But I fear I'm really quite run-of-the-mill  Predictable,  average,  beige. (Apart from my obsession with waste My extensive collection of dangly earrings And a tendency to turn everything into poetry. ) © Copyright 2021. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved  

Yesterday I had to face up to yet another sign that I'm not as young as I was - to be honest it's been creeping up on me over the last few years,  I've just not been ready to accept I don't do heat as well as I used to.  Her body still thinks it craves the sun Taking her outside every bright day Making up reasons to be out of doors.  Her body forgets that years have passed Since that schoolgirl in her bikini  Lay dripping in the garden all day long Revising for exams in the summer heat. Years since sunbathing was a ritual Her towel like a sundial, Her body turning as if on a spit.  Years since her group of friends Made acrostic holiday t-shirts, hers: Crazy hippie really into sunshine. She should have been listening that last trip abroad,  When it was too hot - stomach clenched,  Head swimming - to force herself onto the lounger. These days she'd do better to seek the shade,  Wear a hat, sunglasses, carry water,  As she is forced back inside,...

The triversen, or three verse sentence,  is a poetry form devised by William Carlos Williams.  It consists of six verses of three lines,  each verse being a complete sentence. There is no rhyme scheme or strict metre,  but must have a count of two, three or four stresses to each line.  We hang their daily larder -     seeds, fat balls, nuts -       in the shelter of the lilac.  The back door closes as    the first acts arrive,       no first night nerves for them. Bluetit, bullfinch, chaffinch    all take their turn       waiting in the wings. Woodpigeons provide the comic touch,     clumsily clinging, and swinging,       greedily outstaying their welcome. The garrulous greenfinch gang    in fours, and fives, and sixes,       flash red and yellow, and are gone. Our feathered cabaret    disappears with the dusk; ...

I am poet Word shuffler, phrase juggler, Mind painter, image conjurer, Forever searching for a way to connect,  Yearning to communicate, To share my vision with you, Groping for the exact words That will leap,  bridging the void Between your reality and mine. © Copyright 2021. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved  

Memories make us who we are.  These snippets from my childhood and teenage years definitely formed my character.  I remember Wading in plastic sandals in the lake,     chasing tiddlers with a net and a jam jar.  The high steps up the slide in the park,      sliding headfirst,  backwards,  for a dare.  Warm milk in tiny bottles,     waiting in a crate outside each classroom door.  Not making it into the nativity play,     the indignity of the tambourine.  Country dancing in a homemade dress,     dozens of teams from schools all over Havering. Friends in the same street,  or round the corner,     birthday parties with games,  cake and lemonade.  The timber framed library on the far side of town,     books with tickets in their brown card pockets. A trip with my aunt on the tube up to London,     my thumb trapped...

 We live close to Owlpen in Gloucestershire,  which lives up to its name.  Pulling my covers tight,  My first night alone in a new house, I tell myself I'm safe, locked in,  Each creak and groan that makes me start Is the house settling into the cool night. Whoo-oooo, whoo-oooo The owls of Owlpen are talking tonight,  Lulling me to sleep with their questions Whoo-oooo is this city dweller who has moved here? A soft and gentle welcome.  Then - Tuh-weeet! Tuh-weeet! The strident female answers with a shriek Its unsettling cry piercing through my doze.  I pull my covers tighter,  The owls of Owlpen are hunting tonight.  © Copyright 2021. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved