Tenth September Blog

From my back door

From my back door

Tenth September Blog 23-9-14

I have recently read that poetry is not well liked by the mass populace. That people who write poetry, true or false, are wasting their time as no one wants to read their work.
T
Is this a truth?

I have written poetry most of my life. It isn’t all I write, to be sure, but it has equal sway with my other writing. I write poems because, well, because they need to be written. I hope to publish a book of poems one day. If no one wants to read them, then that is their choice. But they will be there on offer, as it were.

Be that as it may, I shall continue to write poems for as long as I want to write them. Are any of you good people out there of a similar mind? Do you feel that, no matter what, you have to write down your poetry? Be it for posterity, to make money (though that is debateable), to just put it out there in the hope that someone will read your poems? Whatever the reason, please keep writing them. I know I shall continue to write poems as often and for as long as I want to, or are able to put pen to paper, finger to keyboard.

Here is one poem to show scope :-

Arrows. – A poem

Arrows are piercing the heart,
Stabbing sharp, as they go.
Coursing through such bright fire,
Launched from the warrior’s bow.

He cares not that you heed him,
Worries little that you are low.
His only concern are straight arrows
And how far a flight will they go.

One is nocked, ready and waiting,
Its trajectory pointed and sure.
The Poison tipped missile is homing,
The beating of heart is its lure.

You weave, you turn, and you hide now.
Like a rocket, hurtling with furore.
It flies true, straight to your aura,
Like a molten outworld meteor.

Flames stream from its metal
As it hones in, beat on beat fast,
Smoke fades into the ether
Silver gliding, right to the last.

The hole in your heart is just bleeding
With anguish, and rage at the blame.
The warrior sees not the innocent,
His mission, to turn you to flame.

The arrow, ejected and lying
As you lay, fading fast, nearly gone.
Its assignment is finished forever.
The warrior’s mission is done.

Copyright. Evelyn J. Steward. September, 2014

And something in a different vein :-

Hedgerow Harvest. -a poem

Down at the edge of the
wheatfield,
Where corn grows tall in
the sun,
The scuttles, the whispers
abounding.
Show little ones having
fun.

Dormice, brought over
by Romans
For food, when meat was
too scarce,
Kept in amphora and fed by
the hand,
To Britains, it was just
a farce.

So domice escaped, found
a nest spot,
In hedges and places
like that,
Out of the way of the
crafty old fox,
Then later, the hungry
wild cat.

There are robins making
nests in the springtime.
Above, the wild hawk spies
the ground,
To see if he can find his
dinner,
His sharp eyes keep looking
around.

The field mouse climbs up
on the wheatear,
So tiny and delicate,
he,
Then scurries away to his
burrow,.
He must not end up
as Hawk’s tea.

Chaffinchs high in the
branches
That grow out
protectively,
They sing, then go gather
the berries
That gleam, orange-coated
you see.

And Misslethrush, singing
so sweetly,
A joy to be heard every
day.
The farmer gathering his
crop in,
Listens whenever he may.

When haymaking time
is all over,
And little ones find places
to sleep,
To sprend a cold winter
just dozing,
Outside, you can hear
not a peep.

Copyright. Evelyn J. Steward. September, 2014

And another :-

Summer’s Slip.

The Solstice points the midway mark,
We joyously sing, like a summer skylark.
We pray the days will endless be
And the sun to shine for eternity.

But over the top of Solstice high,
A few days on, a change in the sky.
Its blue has a different coloured note,
Not cornflower bright, but a greeny throat.
“It’s autumnal already,’ my daughter cries,
‘You know I can tell it from the skies.’

And sure enough, A greeny hue
Bedecks a sunlit sky of blue.
The heat remains, it comforts me
That autumn days have yet to be.

A shortning of the daylight hours,
The disppearing of brilliant flowers
As if to say, well, soon enough,
The wind and rain, a chilly bluff.
All this time, we hold most dear,
When spring is past and summer’s near.

At least that’s how I do behold
A summer day, a dawn of gold.
But as the seasons gently merge,
I fear the coming winter splurge.

The icy tendils, a winter storm,
The frozen patterns in windows, form.
I love the warmth, it cossets me,
Dispelling summer, it has to be.
For living in this temperate clime,
I wish it were summer all the time.

Copywrite. Evelyn Steward. July 2014 .

I tried to find shorter pieces, but these are what came up.

New poem I have just written.

Autumn. Changes – poem. – 25-9-14

End of September,
A weak sun graces trees
Starting to turn,
With the increasing breeze.

Leaves hurtle down
To carpet the earth.
Red/gold and brown,
For all their worth.

Rich chestnut conkers,
Splitting their skins.
Sharp prickles, white inner,
As they fall down and spin.

Squirrels that seek them
Abound at this time,
Racing ‘cross tree boughs,
See how they climb.

Over the forest,
They race in a frency,
Mouths full of acorns,
Their chittering makes you dizzy.

They bury their nuts
For a wintering store,
Forgetting some places
And searching for more.

Blackbirds and thrushes
Seek grubs that are fat,
Or peck at the Feeder,
Listen to their chit-chat.

Robins are spotted
At this time of year.
Their red breasts are gay,
They have little to fear.

So autumn moves on,
Inexorably so.
Down in the forest,
Stands a dappled doe.

Winter will come soon,
A cold icy blast,
And snowflakes will cover
The landscape, at last.

Copyright. Evelyn J. Steward. September, 2014

Sorry, was not a short one after all. Sometimes, poems are like that. You start, then it needs to go on and you are taken along in the flow. Not a lot of people are taken with poetry, but if more gave it a chance, I think their lives would be enriched. Only my humble opinion, of course. But then, what do we have but our opinions on these blogs?

Now to find a suitable picture!

Have a great weekend, good people,

Evelyn

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