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Having noticed a few profiles that refer to poetry I thought it might be a good idea to have a group in  which we could share or comment on each other offerings or just discuss the subject of what often seems to be the Marmite of literary forms.

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I can't figure out how formatting works in these posts, so I'm posting a poem in a comment to see if that works.

Purple Witch
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   One of my more  recent  poems - which had  to  include   three prompt words and  be 100 words or less


Star-strapped, and bound with luminescence, curled around a speckled moon,

the orb-light, hangs, drooped and disappointed in devotion;

caught fast within the darkly crusted curl of sky.  

With graceful awareness, plucked secretly from the flow of years, 

the sphere stretches, distends, and curving,  sickle-sharp, neatly  

 culls comets, crackling and droning, and trailing low

 against the singing blade of darkness, rising and falling.  


Fragments, hard and ferrous, cascading

 bright as grasshoppers, soar over mothy mountains,  

  or roll into emerald seas, where  green light shadows into dark

  and the wheel of  time, crusted in gemstones; jingle-jangling,

portions out the passing of days.  

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Welcome to our new member, Curiously Enticing. It's a bit quiet on the forum at the moment so here is a bit of doggerel to keep us going.

The sad and unfeasible tale of Kevin the travelling gnome.

Whilst digging one day in the garden I chanced to encounter a gnome.
It was drab and dejected and battered and in need of the comforts of home.
I filled up a basin to dunk it
and wash it, with Fairy of course,
then I fed it on fresh fruit and junket
as it started a mournful discourse.

“I was gnome-napped.” It said. “As a young gnome.” Tears touched its painted blue eyes.
“And I travelled the world in a suitcase across wide seas and strange foreign skies.
Wherever I landed my picture
would be captured in bright Kodakchrome
and, with never a comment or stricture,
would be sent to my far away home.”

“I drew followers on Social Media with an internet page of my own
And my captors grew every day greedier as they monetised ‘Kevin the Gnome’.
The revenue growth was astounding,
from calendars, posters and books,
with Hollywood offers abounding
on account of my Gnomic good looks.”

“Ah, but fame, as friends go, is capricious. It may drip honeyed words in your ear
yet say other things, callous and vicious, when it thinks you unable to hear.
My image was used and co opted,
it was turned to political gain
plugging causes I’d never adopted
from the side of a bus or a train.”

“As such causes were shown to be toxic, their proponents withdrawn and recused,
the establishment made me anoxic and stifled my voice with fake news.
I was pilloried now, in the papers,
to ridicule ‘Kevin the Gnome’
and accuse him of scandalous capers
became quite the national syndrome.”

“My captors were thrown into panic at the thought of my imminent fall,
their behaviour erratic and manic, they disposed of me over your wall.
I was dazed and disorientated,
having bounced off the side of the shed.
My lovely red hat was truncated
And the dog did a pooh on my head.”

As I dig every day in the garden I look over at Kevin the Gnome.
He’s repaired and repainted and pardoned and the pond at the back is his home.
Home is always the place to come back to,
be it never so humble or poor.
He can fish here as long as he wants to
and Kevin need travel no more.

Gerry Fenge
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Go on then, let’s share a poem I wrote the other year. The game with a syncopated sonnet is to structure it like the Petrarchan original (ABBA ABBA CD CD CD rhyme scheme, ten syllables a line) but make it sound entirely different.

 Prom-Foolery: A Syncopated Sonnet

          (In which someone I know fails to behave

                   with the due dignity of age)

Well it’s a crash of the sea, and a leap

            Of the spray, and a soaking from on high

            For the thrill-seeking human passing by.

And it’s an arch made of foam, climbing steep

Climbing wide, and descending in a heap

            On the prom-fooling human who can try

            Staying dry but whose clothes are mighty nigh

To getting proper drenching from the deep.

And she is giggling, she is giggling, through

            The deluge she is giggling. Although she

Is no child, she’s behaving like a two

            Year old, instinctive in a symmetry

Of spray and self – for the explosion through

            The sea is the explosion of her glee.

                                                Scarborough, June 14th 2014


If you fancy seeing it with a picture and a nerd’s-corner afterword, then please feel free to click on:-


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As an opening offering here is one of mine:-


You always used to cheat at hide and seek,

peek between your fingers, count in tens.

I'd scuttle up the stairs, avoid the creak

on the third step, under the bed and then

I’d wait, not giggling, stifling a cough,

not breathing even, wait to see your feet.

You'd bounce upon the bed to squash me, laugh,

then drag me by the ankles from beneath.

We haven't played that game in many years.

You hid from me, I never thought to peek.

I'd peek now, but I can't see for the tears.

I'm counting now, in years, I'll find you soon.

This is our final game of hide and seek.

You have but slipped into another room.