Everyday Poetry

Another sonnet, this time made from sayings,  proverbs and clichés. I'm not sure it works particularly well,  but it was fun to do.   They tell me,  for winter most birds fly south,  A bird in the hand's worth two in the bush,  To never look a gift horse in the mouth, But I wonder, did shove really come from push? They tell me many hands can make light work,  While too many cooks will spoil the broth,  They say once bitten, twice shy (what a berk) So why does the flame still attract the moth? I've heard good things come to those that wait Though camels can't pass through a needle's eye,  A black cat may have an effect on your fate Either good or bad - but no-one knows why.  These sayings can make life more easy to bear,  A trouble is halved when that trouble you share.  © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

This week we're looking at sonnets and variations on them.  This exercise gave us the end rhymes for a sonnet and asked us to write the rest.  I've chosen to stick to the traditional iambic pentameter rhythm,  but have ignored the idea of using the form to shape an argument.  The last two lines provide the traditional summing up.   It might seem odd that we decide to ring to book more time upon another boat, but this will be a very different thing to cruising on a liner. We will float, gently moving past the shore, the breeze in our hair, sun on our faces, seeking the shade when warmth begins to heat and burn our skin, avoiding leather-look to stay peach-skin suede. If time allows, we'll stop at some new beach,  admire the way the sea and sky merge blue with blue,  the horizon always out of reach,  I'll dance,  far too timid to dive with you.  The sun,  the sea,  rum punch,  a reggae band -  a potent drug. I...

More memories of childhood and teenaged holidays in Woolacombe. This has been altered a lot since i first posted it, and now forms a type of modern sonnet.  Play acting Weeks of playing on golden sands, Building castles with our young hands, Swimming, shrieking in roaring waves, Exploring dark and dingy caves, Slurping ice-cream in biscuit cones, Hair tangled, knotted, sea-wind-blown, Skin sore and red, then turning tanned, From long hot days spent on the strand, We waved goodbye to beach life, and our toys, As we dared each other to flirt with boys, Posing and pouting, jukebox cool, They never noticed us playing the fool . As teen-age found us on those grassy dunes, We left behind childish, summer afternoons. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

For those who are interested, here's a poem in iambic tetrameter!  Lost in Books At six I was an unformed child, A tabla rasa, teachers’ sponge, I read their books voraciously, From farmland tales, Janet and John, Until those sets were left behind. The library became my friend, The long and tiring walk no trial. Three beige card tickets were a gift, A key to worlds unknown to me, A way to mix with people who I’d never dare to meet for real; It hid my shyness, as a swat. My love of books led to a course In English Lit at Lancaster, And words became my raison d’etre. It took until my sixties ‘til - Imposter syndrome cast aside - I gathered poems in one place, My first in print collection. At last, my name appeared in print, Now other readers shared my world. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

Not as Planned Growing up is never planned Your friends are those who live at hand Next door, round the corner, at street’s end, The same-aged child of your mother’s friend. As you get older, and change your schools You begin to play by different rules, Befriending those who think like you You shed most later, hold close a few. Beliefs absorbed from Mum and Dad, Start sprouting leaks, aren't ironclad, The words of teachers, fresh and new, Re-define what makes you, you. Forks in the road, the choices made, Good and bad roles you have played, All polish smooth, like carborundum, Reveal the person you'll become. You hear it said, ‘ to get to there I would not have started quite from here ’; It takes some time to understand, But growing up is never planned. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

Here's the first of the childhood based poems I've written since coming on board.  I've never forgotten blond, blue eyed Neil.  Broken It had happened at last, the boy in my class blond, messy side-part, he'd   invited me along to his eleventh birthday party. I would be in the house I walked past playing it cool, on my not-so-fast way to school.                              I had it all planned: as the kiss chase started, I’d run off slowly, half-hearted, as he increased his pace, I’d turn my face, he’d catch hold of my hand, snatch his first kiss, and we’d be in bliss together, forever, in a fantasy land.                                  Alas!  on the day, it didn’t happen that way. The grass, once wet, hadn’t dried out yet, was long and quite slippery, before long it tripped me. The romance I’d lo...