Life in Poetry reading, writing, reflecting

Life in Poetry reading, writing, reflecting
April showers bring May flowers

Friday, 18 December 2020

⌗WEP-IWSG Challenge UNMASkED December 2020, trilogy of narrative poems

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Quote of the Day : 
L'humanité qui devrait avoir 6000 ans d'expérience, retombe en enfance à chaque génération.  Tristan Bernard (French playwright and novelist, 1866-1947)

Man who should have accumulated 6000 years of experience, falls back into childhood at every new generation.

It's time for another Write Edit Publish Challenge of 2020, writing on a word and picture prompt with the Insecure Writers' Support Group.
If you'd like to know more about WEP and IWSG,  or join the Challenge go here and here

IWSG in the 100 best blogging sites

The WEP site

The joint WEP-IWSG Challenge 2020

Announcing the 2021 Challenge

This Month

A third narrative poem to complete my trilogy


The Banker

His long coat swishes across the macadam.
The gaslit streetlights throw the shadow
of a Stetson onto the lovers' bench.
They gaze up and see the deep scar;

it forms a curve, a coma, like a tear
frozen at the corner of his eye.
His iris is contracted as if from an intense
glare. She gasps in surprise.

They scuttle off towards the cover of the trees;
he swooshes on his way, disappears
round a brick corner. A cat shrieks
from a trash can in a dead end.

A whore whistles a walk down the alley
and smiles absently at the tall, bizarre hat
and cloaked passerby. She recoils
on glimpsing his face.

The man approaches the unlit bank;
he leans against the stone wall
and lights a cigar, pulling
his watch from his pocket. He waits.

When Mr Hacklebaum locks the side-door,
the mysterious stranger steps closer.
As they brush shoulders, the man
swipes a blade across the banker's throat.

The moon grins at the scene,
casts long shadows over the pavement,
the bench, the wood. The murderer
slunks into the night, coat flapping.

FCA 185 words.

Grave Mistake , a narrative poem, following on from Long Shadow in August. read here 

on Wordpress here

Grave Mistake

Leaves tugged on slashing branches,
flew over the stones and settled on
her lace-up boots. She bowed her head,
a tear trickled down her nose, joined
the rivulets of rain cruising the crease
between cheek and mouth.

Burnt grass from August heat was bright
green, now, in the damp, cool air.
She glanced behind her slumped
shoulder towards a crisp crackle
to her left. A long shadow blocked 
out the failing light.

The felt hat covered head advanced
to her father's last resting place.
His long cloak swished, his boots
sloshed in sodden mud. His mouth
whispered in the wind:

" It was a grave mistake, what your
banker father did. I was only the arm
executing." She jerked her head,
saw the curved scar, " Who are you ?"
The man fell silent,

as though he had never spoken; eyed
the stone. To the Memory of an Honest, 
Loving father and Husband.
" Honest , he was not; thought he could
double-cross the boss: grave mistake,
grave mistake." 

She felt a pang of anger mingle with
the pain in her breast. Her fist clenched
upwards, hammered down on his chest:
" What are you talking about ?"
" The truth, Milady, the truth. No escape,
no reproof."

She screamed in his dark face,
she trampled the soil. He caught
her wrists and shushed her brow
against his heart. He was a good man, 
a loving grandfather, she thought;
but where did all the money come from ?




He sat in the shiny pew
freshly waxed cedar wood;
his breast was pumping up
the courage to speak all.

His head turned left, his gaze
met the sparkling eyes
of Anna,by his side every step,
every twist, rise or fall.

Roger chirped, his stubby legs
swung in thin air. "You're not
a bird," stern-faced Megan shot
at her brother.

The parish church was slowly
crowding. The scarred-faced
father tensed his fists, as
momentum gathered.

Even his family knew nothing
of his double life.
The encounter at the graveyard
had opened a door to atonement.

The possibility had grown
in his thoughts, then in his guts.
Christmas Mass loomed as an ideal
venue to unmask his true self.

From the organ rose Bach;
from the aisle, the last rustle
of coats, bonnets, gloves, died.
Reverend Bates spread his palms.

Our killer dwelt on his words:
gather, forgive, sin, hope, redeem.
His wife and children performed
the Psalms, sang the carols.

He patiently awaited his cue.
Reverend Bates, forewarned,
had left a space of time
for him to come forward.

Face to face with his peers,
his family, eager 
or surprised expressions 
of the community, he spoke.

"My dear friends, I stand before you,
contrite and in shame for my
wrong doings. I am a hired assassin.
My clients lose their lives at my hand."

The crowd gasped; his wife cried out,
his son wept, Megan scowled, tears
of anger firing her pupils. He recalled
the features of the Banker's daughter.

He had done it.
Uncovered, unmasked.
he braced himself for the quake
of rebuke, scorn to come.

The assembly grew misty; he felt
a warm wetness invade the crevasse
of his scar. It rolled down and gathered
in rivulets; he tasted salt on his lip.

A faraway scent caught in his throat:
the odour of guilt, peeing his bed
at the orphanage. As a long shadow
settled across the transept,

he realised his grave mistake
at standing unmasked, bare.

A breeze carried the scent
of the Christmas tree
beyond the window,
 the rooftops, to flocking swifts.

Lights winked at sparkling baubles
while the Snowman grins
at his reflection. Clouds gather,
a promise of silent flakes.

Song for a Guy tickles my tear
ducks as my hubby potters
among the kitchen cupboards,
market goods home.

May your family time
be merry and warm,
close to the crackle of fire,
the canapés spread.

And a shiny New Year
sweep under the worn
carpet, all your
troubles and woes.

Thank you for visiting.

Wednesday, 2 December 2020

⌗IWSG, Wednesday 2nd December, Seasons and Inspiration

  Welcome to another monthly post for the Insecure Writer's Support Group.

If you would like to know more about this very encouraging and supportive writing group

Anyone can join, budding writer, published or unpublished, writer of poetry, short stories, novels, essays ... So give it a go and visit the other members , read their contributions and don't hesitate to leave comments.

Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG Day post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.

The awesome co-hosts for the December 2 posting of the IWSG are Pat Garcia, Sylvia Ney,Liesbet @ Roaming About Cathrina Constantine, and Natalie Aguirre!

Remember, the question is optional!!! 

December Question

Are there months or times of the year when you are more productive with your writing, and why ?

Spring is my favourite season. It lends bounce to my inspiration; when nature wakes up and the air is bright, promising.
Mornings all year round have the same effect on my writing. Sunshine and tender music also help. Every season is precious though as I couldn't live without four clear-cut seasons for too long, in an Equatorial or Tropical country for example.
Nature is always a boost to my moods: creativity flows with the energy from the light, birds, trees, flowers, the scent and taste of the outside air.
That's why I capture all these atmospheres with my camera: to enjoy them on a rainy day.

here are my latest photos from October and November and some music I'm listening to at the moment

Uzerche in the Massif Central

The Loire at Amboise

Autumn colours, Elie du Bois, Dordogne

Incredible mushrooms from the meadow

Morning writing with the sunrise

Thank you for visiting and Merry Christmas to all my faithful followers. Take care and keep writing.