Poetic society for all active poetry lovers
Dear Poets,
as we’ve been through very special times these days… we decided to offer a corresponding topic. Let’s try to write poems on the topic of Masquerade.
Stay well, take care and let’s hope it’s over soon.
We look forward to hearing from you.
Marie, Adam and Jarek
Seducing nocturnal
Darkness
Infernal
Caress
Angelic demon jailed
The guard failed
I stole the key
To set you free
And let your flower reign.
I’ll be the rain.
Dear Poets,
after some time we are back with a new topic called Color(s) of February 20, 2020. In other words, please share a poem inspired by a color / colors. We look forward to reading your colorful poetry.
Marie, Adam and Jarek
Your house with doors of English Oak,
Handcrafted lovingly, bespoke,
Lay open wide for all dear folk.
Light a candle for those present or past,
Feorgiveness in your heart will surely last.
Give support for those you love,
With the knowledge, strength comes from above.
Breda Ware
1994
Love(s) Lost
“Love? Two hairpins
On the bottom
Of my backpack’s pocket.”
Karel Kryl: Zbraně pro Erató (free translation)
Love? A sense
Of perfume
Of a leather jacket.
Love? A picture
Of a snowy
Mountain peak.
Love? A chalet
In a snowstorm
Won’t last a week.
Love? The first kiss
In the school hall
Goodbye.
Love? A letter abyss
A farewell
No try.
Love? Confusion
Desire less
Uncertainty.
Love? Illusion
Nothingness
Vanity.
Love? The sound
Of words
Unspoken.
Love? The wings
Of birds
Got broken.
Love? Two hands
That touched
In the forest.
Love? Just a shadow
Of an innocent
White wrist.
Love? A gap ‘tween
The audience
And the stage.
Love? A poem
From the Diary’s
Last page.
2019
Love(s) Found
(quarter of a century later)
Love? A lover
A companion
And a friend.
Love? A relationship
You wish would
Never end.
Love? Two little
Suns calling
You father.
Love? Boys,
The best girl of all
Is your mother.
Dear Poets
we were inspired by the series The Young Pope where the pope writes a letter about love (see below).
Love lost, love found….. we can’t wait to read your ideas and poems on this topic.
Marie, Jarek, Adam
What is more beautiful, my love? Love lost or love found? Don’t laugh at me, my love. I know it, I’m awkward and naive when it comes to love, and I ask questions straight out of a pop song. This doubt overwhelms me and undermines me, my love. To find… . or to lose? All around me, people don’t stop yearning. Did they lose or did they find? I can’t say. An orphan has no way of knowing. An orphan lacks a first love. The love for his mama and papa. That’s the source of his awkwardness, his naiveté. You said to me, on that deserted beach in California, “you can touch my legs.” But I didn’t do it. There, my love, is love lost. That’s why I’ve never stopped wondering, since that day: where have you been? Where you are now?
And you, the shining gleam of my misspent youth, did you lose or did you find? I don’t know. And I will never know. I can’t even remember your name, my love. And I don’t have the answer. But this is how I like to imagine it, the answer. In the end, my love, we have no choice. We have to find.
Poetic ghost
The lady from within the walls,
Has no need of wooden doors.
Freely roams from room to room,
Poised in silence ready to loom,
With dark intentions to consume,
No other reason I must assume.
Her incessant taping upon the wall,
Terrified, unable to cry out or call,
Was she invited? No! Not at all.
Silence ensures but wait there’s more,
As she appears from within the wall,
Dark as ebony, slender and so tall!
As she glides towards my bed,
Straining to hear what’s being said,
Persistent whispering in my head.
Paralysed, unable to move a leg,
Fear ensued, filled with dread,
Confronted by a living dead.
Breda Ware
Bronwyn’s Tale
Mist swirling in across the moor,
Shrouds the walls of the Great Hall.
A silhouette; childlike at the door,
Stands trembling unable to take anymore.
Swiftly running across cobbled ground,
With Stealth; mindful to make no sound.
Her plight would seem a torrid tale,
Placed in service put up for sale.
Condemned if found to a living hell,
To spend her life in a prison cell.
Escape she must; she cannot fail
Whom to run to whom to tell?
Fleeting feet cross frozen ground,
In the distance baying hounds.
The forest briefly mutes the sounds,
On she runs; fearful of being found.
In the distance, a tavern outside of town,
With a stable to rest in; to lie down.
Almost at once the warmth of dry straw,
Allowing a brief moment to withdraw,
To relive events that took place before.
That fateful night; a hand on her door.
Bleary eyed ignorant of what was in store.
Her weeping mother she’d see no more.
Rancid sack placed upon her head,
Dragged screaming from a comfy bed.
No words are spoken, nothing said,
Why hands are bound and being lead!
Bungled into a beer soaked dray,
Clatter of hooves, she was sped away.
A hand gently placed upon her head,
Eyes open slowly, ‘there’s old Ed’,
Sleeping contently on her bed.
Blissfully, aware to what’s being said,
‘Nay, lass tis now ten years or more,
They’ll be no knocking on our door’.
Breda Ware
As I scan the twilight sky, eagerly searching with my eye, for squawking seagulls keen to dine.
Their manic manner such a sign, of trawlers returning from the sea, with nets of fishes we’re guaranteed: a hearty supper for you and me.
Gently chugging into the bay, exhausted fishermen; with nothing to say, look forward to a restful day.
Those with children watch them play, their wives wishing they could stay. Others with hard earned pay, get out eagerly to ‘make hay’,
Breda Ware
Wealthy, unashamedly I may not be,
But a truly proud grandma,
Brings much more pleasure for me.
Simple treats not expensive teas,
Romping about, climbing trees.
That’s the world you’ll get from me.
Plenty of hugs and genuine love,
In time watched over from above.
Breda Ware
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