Just A Musing

Poetry – rhythm, rhyme and meter

– there are so many forms

that one can




Vocabulary is another puzzle

because some poems are

written in conversational style

while others are stuffed

with words that one would

never use

in real


And so I wonder

as I sit at my computer

who am I writing poetry for

and what is my voice

because it is


to be


I think that my mind

must be too literal

to speak in metaphor,

or string together

extravagant and

sometimes meaningless

adjectives and nouns,

just because

it may sound


And even if I could

learn that trick

do I




Photo by Vardan Papikyan on Unsplash


Hello to poetry!

I love it here
this is the place
to try my hand
and show my face
but I’m afraid

so many here
have much to say
write lovely words
I read and pray
that I may too

and know my words
might touch a heart
or prompt a laugh
or tear apart
some thought that’s blind

finding friends like this
a special way
to meet and greet
so come what may
must learn my part
make bid to stay

Ode to a fickle spring

when seedlings from the nursery

are chosen in variety

timing is key


we wait for spring all winter through

when plants make plans to grow anew

and hope does too


but when to plant is quite an art

this year our spring was late to start

and all lost heart


some plants were killed off by the frost

through savage winds more blooms were lost

we count the cost


Poppies (1914 – 2019)

a poppy seed flies in the wind
and landing lightly on the earth
lies waiting for sun’s energy
to germinate and give it birth

a droplet falls from rainy skies
weak sunlight warming with its rays
until in spring new growth begins
it’s bloom sublime on summer days

blood red a field of poppies shine
each one a hundred others yield
these symbols ever in our hearts
for all who die on Flanders field


Voyage Revisited

Having reached three score years and ten (and passed it) I like to think that this particular poem reflects what living a life means for many people.



Light and Dark

When casting off we have no fears,
with youth and strength well fortified,
inside we’re older than our years
with dreams as yet to be denied.

Flags flying we set sail at speed,
horizons beckon far ahead,
of compasses we have no need,
forgetting all our parents said.

Foul winds may blow us far off course,
yet breasting powerful waves with zest,
no time to stop or feel remorse,
we tell ourselves it’s for the best.

We hit the doldrums now and then,
time hanging heavy on our hands.
Such stagnant doleful days are when
we feel no other understands.

But then a fresh new breeze will start,
and ease us forward carefully,
as gladly we again take heart,
and launch ourselves against life’s sea.

Yet over time strength fades away
until at last there is no more
and inwardly we spend our days
just drifting to that unknown shore.

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Remembering Grenfell 2 years on

ScreenHunter_600 Jun. 19 14.33

On 14 June 2017, a fire broke out in the 24-storey Grenfell Tower block of flats in North Kensington, West London at 00.54 am BST; it caused 72 deaths, including those of two victims who later died in hospital. More than 70 others were injured and 223 people escaped.

Remembering Grenfell

where escape routes were none

where there was nowhere to run

where the flames lit the sky

where they prayed not to die


how they screamed while we cried

how come so many died

how come nowhere to turn

how come ‘jump or you’ll burn’


what a loss for those living

what they feel – unforgiving

what horrors they saw

what hell can hurt more


who fought against flames

who’s still searching for names

who still digs where fire laid them

who was it betrayed them


why were people not heard

when they passed on the word

where those dangers might lie

– who turned a blind eye?

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