Everyday Poetry

This weekend I went on a girls' trip away - the first in years. It was so much fun,  we think we should do it again!  Four friends, each a Brian Bilston fan, Went to see that much admired young man Performing in a hall not far away One fine October, on a Saturday.  Jill booked the tickets and the B&B Judy drove us all to Clevedon on Sea,  Rosemary brought cookies to share with us all Chris won the prize for the suitcase most small. Jill brought a crossword, and we all did our best To fill in the answers, and looked up the rest, Then set out for a meal, with a bottle to share, Pasta course and desserts presented with flair. We almost got lost on our way to the venue - Always a danger at those times when you Trust in a guide with no sense of direction -  Google maps to the rescue with a safer projection. That evening with Brian made us giggle and groan At poems unfamiliar and those more well known, His dry wit entertained us from the first to the last Two hour...

 This Sunday we go through the biannual timeshift of daylight savings once again.   How kind is Autumn's falling back, The benison of that extra hour  To do with as you please? Another hour of sleep? No problem;  The day will wait for you to catch it up While gifting you a lighter morning. How mean is Spring to be springing forward With the penalty of an hour lost,  Gone to who knows where?  You miss that hour of sleep? Too bad; You start the day with groggy greetings In a darker than expected world.   ©  Copyright 2023. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

I thought I'd follow a prompt from the September issue of Writing Magazine,  and write a poem about a hitchhiker. It's something I used to do while I was university,  to save the bus fare into town.  The hitching point was conveniently sited opposite the underpass where the buses stopped, so if you weren't lucky enough to get a free ride you could always run down to the bus stop when you saw the bus coming.   In the seventies, Trusting, perhaps naive, I often stood on the grassy bank Opposite the underpass Thumb raised against the northern chill,  To catch the eye of each lorry driver Leaving campus for town.  More often than not one would stop, Fling open the door, and wait While I clambered up the steps To reach the cab,  Jeans, desert boots, duffle coat, beads Screaming 'student' in contrast To the driver's more workaday wear.  The fare: a conversation to pass the time It took to drive to Lancaster,  A chance for learning of a differe...

My Writing Magazine this months suggested we write a rhyming poem about an occasion which had been badly affected by the weather. What else could I do but write about our wedding day,  the day the heavens opened and Gloucestershire flooded.  We'd planned all year to make it just right Not knowing the rain was just biding its time, To let loose its fury in the dark of the night And scupper those plans for a day quite sublime.  The limo turned up,  windscreen fan broken, Impossible to see as we set off in the rain We held hands in the back, few words were spoken As my sister wiped it clear, again and again.  To the Register Office we dashed dodging the puddles,  Our guests were already seated inside, So no photos were taken of the disheveled arrival Of the pale-faced groom and his dripping bride.  Then back to the pub where our breakfast was waiting Too wet to take photos in the garden as planned The rain had set in with no sign of abating We squashed in...

I spent the day with my grandchildren yesterday,  and some of it was spent writing poetry with Skylar.  We decided we make a great team - no room for modesty here! Here's my take on the process,  followed by our co-written poem on owls - 95% of which Skylar should get credit for.  Writing Poetry with Skylar She's just like me when words flow from brain to pen to spill across the page  in urgent haste. No thought, no planning where the poem is going, she just dives in, allows the words to take her to the next line, the next rhyme.  Only when she gets stuck do I suggest what might come next -  a description, an action, a different turn of phrase; she clutches at it, catches it, runs with it, spins it  into something of her own.  Mostly it comes unaided, straight from her eight year old heart.  ©  Copyright 2023. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved Owls as you settle down to bed sounds of owls come in your head soaring through the sky at ...

Another sad one I'm afraid.   The mourners stand aghast, worried He's making inappropriate remarks,  Except they not, it's just dark humour.  It's who he is, lightening the mood,  Brightening the room, should it fall flat. It's what she most loved about him.  Now she's gone, he jokes 'She's not visited me yet.' Except he's not joking; He really wishes she would. He's waiting every night For her ghost to come calling.  ©  Copyright 2023. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

I've been to two funerals recently. I suppose it's inevitable that their frequency will increase as I get older,  and my peer group ages alongside me.  It makes you consider your own mortality, and prompts a resolve to use the days left to you more wisely.  But somehow you never do, preferring to think there's still enough time left.   The death of an elderly uncle is easier to bear. It's possible to reflect on a long life, well lived,  To remember the fun you had when you were small, How he made you shriek until you were breathless,  To consider the grace of his faith, which eased his end.  The death of my sunny, fun-filled friend Is much harder to balance. We are all too aware She had too few years to enjoy her joyful take on life,  Will miss out on too many evenings full of laughter,  No longer guide her grandchildren into adulthood. Both deaths celebrated as a release from pain.  Both lives celebrated as lives lived well.  ...