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. For this one I had to make up a new rhyme scheme - can you work it out? Play acting Days of playing on golden sands Slurping ice-cream as it melts, Skin sore and red, then turning tan, Swimming, shrieking in roaring waves. Exploring dark and dingy caves Undiscovered since time began, Since iron-age, bronze-age, Picts or Celts, All fresh unearthed by our young hands. Building sandy graves on grassy dunes Daring each other to stare at boys Drinking fizzy drinks instead of squash Posing and pouting, feeling cool. Those boys never noticed us – life is cruel - Gauche incomers, perhaps thought posh; We left the beach behind us with our toys, Bidding goodbye to lazy, sunny 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 Choosing those who seem the same as you To realise later that isn’t true. You take on beliefs from Mum and Dad, Then throw them off as simply bad, The words of teachers, fresh and new, Soon re-define what makes you, you. Your life choices, forks in the road, The good and bad life will bestow, You accept much, and discard some, But all create what you 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 who'd stolen my heart,  he'd   invited me along to his eleventh birthday party. I would finally 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 grab me and catch me, and snatch his first kiss, and we’d be in bliss together, forever, in a fantasy land. But alas on the day, it didn’t happen that way. The grass, once wet, hadn’t dried out quite yet, it was long and quite slippery, and before long had tripped me. The romance I’d longed for, for so very long with my ten-year-old heart was over and gone before it could start. Maybe it was fate, but the weight of the plaster cast kept us apart. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger...