Rainbows

This poem was written on a plane between Alicante and the UK for Paul Brookes' Ekphrastic Challange in April 2022. Inspired by seeing the Northern Lights and a comment about it by my brother-in-law Dunstan.

Rainbows

The magic of rainbows never left him.
Even after he learnt it was pure light
dispersed across the spectrum.

Even though he knew the Northern Lights
came from solar bursts, dancing
on the Earth's magnetic field, he gazed

upwards like a child in wonder. When lightning
crackled in the skies, when thunder groaned.
When the moon blocked the sun and darkened

the day, when comets seared through the night.

Tim Fellows April 2022 

Image by Susanne Stöckli from Pixabay

Announcements

 

One I wrote a year ago in November 2021 - several Prime Ministers and Chancellors ago now but we seem to be heading towards tax rises and a slash and burn of public services.

Also in solidarity with the striking rail workers. 

Announcements

The next train on platform 3 is for Cockfosters.
Mind The Gap.

The Brexit Gravy Train is for Hedge Funds only.
Mind the Gap.

Rail services north of Birmingham will terminate at the 20th Century
Mind the Gap

Standing on a platform of lies is The Prime Minister
Mind The Gap.

The next Tax will arrive soon, destination Working Class.
Mind The Gap. 

Tim Fellows November 2021

Image by Andrew Martin from Pixabay

Daily Haiku 2021

Here are all the haiku that I posted on the Daily Haiku facebook page in 2021. I was doing one a day at one point, but it was starting to get obsessive so I just dip in occasionally now. The page offers a prompt for that day, and one for the week if you like.

I find now that haiku are good warm-up exercises before starting to write.

 

Anyway, here they are. Some are better than others, some are closer to the spirit of haiku than others, but sometimes the subject matter is hard to map onto the haiku philosophy. 

Elections

 

Sleet falls in May; like
broken promises, it lies
on the frozen poor

Bluebells

Bluebells coat the floor

of ancient woodland, as far

as my eye can see.

Wind

Wind swings westerly
Faint raindrops spit in my face
Harbinger of storms

Books

Dust collects. Pages
of thoughtful words, well crafted
but rarely well read.

My Life / Waves

Smooth sine; jolting square -
flow until energy stops
then decay and die

Warmth

My window lies; shows
sunlight, blue skies, a mirage
disguising harsh cold. 

Undergrowth

In the undergrowth
all feels safe; dark, warm and soft.
Light filtered by green. 

Reflections

Deep pond. Cool mirror
reflecting me. A stone splash
and I disappear.

Gather

The bird gathers twigs,
a nest grows. Fills with eggs. Chicks
fly. Gather more twigs.

Musical Instruments

Unique melodies
Throats open at break of day
Nature's orchestra

Sea (the Evergreen gets stuck in Suez)

Plough, mighty tanker
through storms and crashing waves but
beware the canal.

 

Old Tower

This was written in Torrevieja, Spain, and was inspired by Miguel Hernandez and his time with the anti-fascist fighters during the Civil War.

 

Old Tower

The sun gleamed on the Old Tower.
Winter hid in the shadows as the sea
slept. I closed my eyes and let the warmth
wash my face. 

With cat-stealth the cool breeze spoke.
Tales of crystal lakes, of the snow mountains
where you lay. Panting shallow steam breath.
Stomach empty as your gun. Hunger and despair.

It whispered old stories. Allegories.
Carried me to where the dead cried.
A seabird's call brought me back.
Salt had dried on my cheeks.

My arid thoughts.
Your mortal wounds. 

 

Image by mtomasel from Pixabay

The Old One

In September 2022 I had the immense privelege of feeding and walking with elephants in South Africa. I also saw them in the wild on safari. Their power and beauty close up was extraordinary.

The elephant I walked with was called Sally and she was the matriarch of the group. While I was there my Auntie Christine passed away, following on from the death of Queen Elizabeth II.

This made me think of our own matriarchs and how their leadership and influence is underestimated. 

The Old One

The sun beat on her mud-baked back.
With languid swish of tail she paused
as others padded on towards the pool
where winding trunks would suck and squirt

fresh mud applied and thirsty mouths
could drink. She watched them dimly
through her ancient eyes, daughters
and their daughters. Sons somewhere

gently treading through the fecund bush
with small ones of their own. A long
and quiet life, each heavy step
landing on her wrinkled, cushioned feet.

She flapped her ears, listened to the birds
and lifted up her trunk towards the sky.
For one last time she sensed familiar scents
before she turned her wise and giant head

and pushed her way into the waiting bush. 

Tim Fellows September 2022

The Hare and the Sun

 

       

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Hare and The Sun

He stood, head erect,
face to the morning sun.

His dew-soaked feet,
white belly and laid back ears
welcomed its morning warmth.

With closed eyes, he let
his delicate nose twitch
and a thousand scents invaded his head.

The sun rose higher and observed
the hare, ears pricked,
clawing its mad fight.

Photo and artwork by Dave Elsom @Sombrero Printmaking

Bleached

Written in Spain in August 2022. 

Bleached

Your hair is slightly bleached
by the sun, your skin tanned.
This is your time of year,
you have bloomed as the red flowers
in the trees around us. 

And, like them, you will fade
with the summer heat, cocooned
as autumn and winter enfold you
in their scarves, gloves and coats.

In spring you will wake, a soft smile
turning to a June laugh.

I watch your lips now, the corners
turned up as your eyes close
in the hot August air.

We do not speak. The sound
of waves on the rocks
is all we need.

August 2022

Image by Martyn Cook from Pixabay