April, again. (D30 #NaPoWriMo FINAL DAY)


April, callous cold, bound
By seasons cadence,
Not cruel, but cold,
No warm embrace,
In sun that shuddered
Seed and spore awake,
And shattered dreams
Dark stump, with phantom hope.

The Old Man lay
Swaddled in grass,
Sheathed in pollen,
Enveloped by plants
A garden of his cold
Lifeless corpse,
Blowflies, worms
And beetles’ bounty.

The Young man slick with sweat
Birthed in springtime sun,
Lay shivering under Ancient Elder,
One hand held an Elder Switch
The other an hourglass
12 notches, set at 4.
Leaves filtered through
The waist, and fell to mulch,
His feet reeked of mould
And rank decay.

© Greg Richards
Day 30, Final Day, themed to write a poem about something that happens again and again, and a little fun with a no doubt familiar theme of April … and of course Il migliore Fabbro ^^

He remembred (D29 #NaPoWriMo)


Wind gusted fitfully.
Rust-hued leaves,
Like thoughts, blown at random, by,
In the forest where he sat,
Against an ancient wrinkled oak,
Waiting for the sun to set.

Buried deep, in dark, a place
As dry as bone and dust,
One bright candle fluttered,
Wax bound wick afloat,
And shadows danced, disturbed,
In that dark and faded place,
Where his memories, interred,
Had lain at rest.
He remembered.

He remembered,
Ice and Snow,
Hair white, wreathed, afloat,
In wind laced snow,
Eyes like ice, frosted grey,
Reflecting all she saw,
And much she saw,
Red berry lips, a wound,
Whereon a smile incised,
A smile that cut him, deep,
When she inflicted it on him.

And he remembered hounds, coursing,
The river of that hunt that took him, quarry,
Far across the forest, glen and fields, away,
And once returned, his world, a dream, an echo,
Of Faerie splendour once endured,
His heart encased by her, no other.

He remembered then, as breath, expired,
And he was still, soft sun gently probing,
As dark within descended, relief,
His eyes, now stilled, empty and opaque,
The candle sputtered, wick expired,
All bladed thoughts of her, at last, excised.

© Greg Richards

Theme from D29 2016, a Poem of things remembered a little a la Brainard, but only slightly

Blodeuwedd (D28 #NaPoWriMo)


It screeched, a bitter broken sound that rent the air, and heaved itself alight, and silent went its rage, into the night;
Her fate, flower-faced, bane of birds, consigned to night;
On knees, hair wet as if from rain, she trembled, not with fear,
Her eyes like burning coals watched him weave his spell;
The wizard stood before her staff in hand and thunder on his brow,
Meadowsweet and broom beside her as she ran, her scent like summer in the autumn wood;
A cloud of feathers stumbled in the sky, and feathers fell to earth were lost in leaf and bough, she saw not where they fell;
She watched the spear fly true and strike her love, and her heart too felt pain as if a knife drove deep within;
She whispered in his ear, what magic, method, contrivance would his fate undo, her hair like shadow on his face, her breasts like fruit, ripe against his chest, hunger in his eyes;
Old Gwydion, brittle boned and loins as dry as dust, held oak, and broom and meadowsweet, and for a moment felt a tremble in his hands, as if from lovers touch, but shifting like the seasons;
He sighed, no guarantee the spell would hold for magic, like love, never came with guarantee.

© Greg Richards

Day 28 from 2016, A Story Backwards …

Taste (D27 #NaPoWriMo)


It was not bitter
This acrid taste
Endured, as
City fell and dreams
Like paper curled
And burnt, charred
Black and crumbled
Whilst buildings fell,
And warriors sank,
Face first, into the
Tainted, soot-stained earth;
But acrid, hope like
Wine turned sour,
I let it linger
Lest time, resolve,
And circumstance
Obscure it, and I forget
The geas the fall
Of City kin and friend
Had singed upon my soul.

© Greg Richards

Day 27, A poem that explores a sense of taste, of an experience rather than a thing.

Echoes (D26 #NaPoWriMo)


I flew between the sun and sea
My wings upheld by wind
And warmed by summer sun.

I flew for hours until the sea
Withdrew and birthed a plain
Of salt laced sand and mud.

I flew until the sand and mud
Expired and spent arose as dust
And parched the land and air.

I flew through dust that left
My normal senses blind,
But still, I sought the rivers end.

I flew until I saw its mouth
An open wound, a silent shriek
That dry heaved up its empty ancient bed.

I flew between the broken banks
And barren twisted frames
And rocks stained red from rust.

I flew through swirling dust
Sand scoured sky shrouded light
And only echoes led me up the ancient bed.

I flew past broken banks, spectral shifting shapes
And voided broken stone and quartz fused glass,
A ghosted flow that echoed up the ancient river bed.

No light or wind-borne water laden river wind,
But only dark, arid dust, imprints and echoes,
As far as even my augmented eyes could see.

© Greg Richards

Day 26 – What future archaeologists, whether human or from an alien civilisation, might make of us? In this case an ancient river bed.

Glade (Day 25 #NaPoWriMo)


The bird flew over patchwork fields
Golden stalks of corn swaying
In the lazy afternoon sun,
Ripples in a sea of green and gold.
On the horizon a dark shadow,
Twilight and Forests edge.

As dark crept out from trunks
Bowed low, beneath the crooked
Boughs that barred the light
And lush green fecund fields,
The bird flew in and left
The days remains behind.

It plunged beneath cool shaded balm
And swam through whispering leaves,
It passed the dragon’s flies that
Skittered in the breeze and flashed
Like arrows in the gloam
Jaws like pincers broke
The beetles floating there,
Ripe juice like berries dripping on
The bough’s they lit in gloam upon.

It breasted waves of leaf and bough
Disturbed by evening breeze
Until reached the bluebell’s glade
Emerald tufts that bore
A weight of fang and fur,
A monstrous mound that
Panted pained by light
And pined for night
Shrouded dark, relief, release
To guide the maw,
And keep the light
And man at bay.

In a cottage near
The Forest’s edge
A young woman
Honed her blade
And on the table
Blood red bright
An Apple shone,
Bright in the flickering
Smoulder of evening

© Greg Richards

Day 25  The Poetics of Space, about the emotional relationship that people have with particular kinds of spaces – the insides of sea shells, drawers, nooks, and all the various parts of houses. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that explores a small, defined space.