Tanka with the Mush
Fed up of this now
Forced words on parchment, no fun
Give me a crayon
Let me colour days gone by
When life was not survival
Copyright © JRFC February 2019 Image from Pixabay
Tag Sad
A Little Bit Down
As you all know I’m a little bit down
You can see on my face I wear a frown
But don’t you worry for my today
It’s not permanent I’ll be okay
I sometimes wonder where this gloom comes from
Past misadventures, a vengeful maelstrom
A pack of white lies chasing after me
Bearing teeth hysterically
Universal retribution for the bad things I’ve done
A metaphorical jail sentence, an illusionary dungeon
An itch I can’t scratch, a thorn in my side
Similes and metaphors; can’t seem to avoid
So I’ll step back, sigh; count to ten
Just you watch as I take back my Zen
With psychic barriers and charms for luck
I’ll be up and at em causing mischief and havoc
Copyright © JRFC February 2019 Image from Pixabay
Voices in My Head
White noise in my ears
Attempting to drown out
The voices in my head
Taunting and teasing
“You suck!”
Out of its cage
Depressions grip takes hold
Its talons digging in
To soft matter
“Nobody like’s you”
Lifting the mania high
And dropping it in to
The barbed nest of dejection
To be swallowed
“You can’t do anything right”
Is there no release
No cure from this hideous
Invisible entity
That strangles the soul
“Don’t bother trying, you’re rubbish”
Copyright © JRFC November 2018
Image from Pixabay
Remember
Remember
It was all patriotic
For King and country
Ringing in their ears
They were prepared
Until the day came and the rains fell, mud caked, cold bit and the gas choked
Whistles blew for them to climb, breach the trench walls and blood began to flow
As they felt the thousands of metal shards speeding by, slicing, piercing; killing
In their prime; on those fields they ran out of time far too early, far to young
In our celebrations remember them
In our freedom mourn them
As their families would
Mothers, Fathers
Wives, Children
Those soldiers sacrifice
Their bravery, their deaths
That gave us our freedom
A heavy price to pay
Remember
Copyright © JRFC October 2018
Image By Pixabay, modified by JRFC
My Special Guest tonight is…
R S Thomas and Evans
Ronald Stuart Thomas was born in the March of 1913 in the Welsh capital Cardiff and published as R S Thomas. This little welsh number is from the book Poetry for Supper first published in 1958.
When I read this poem my first thought was for poor Evans, on his death bed, alone. Where were his family, friends; neighbours?
Then the macabre in my came out and made me think about the person in the cottage, talking to us about Evans; what was their story? Doctor, Stranger or…
Evans
Evans? Yes, many a time
I came down his bare flight
Of stairs into the gaunt kitchen
With its wood fire, where crickets sang
Accompaniment to the black kettle’s
Whine, and so into the cold
Dark to smother in the thick tide
Of night that drifted about the walls
Of his stark farm on the hill ridge.
It was not the dark filling my eyes
And mouth apalled me; not even the drip
Of rain like blood from the one tree
Weather-tortured. It was the dark
Silting the veins of that sick man
I left stranded upon the vast
And lonely shore of his bleak bed.
