I love writing short stories and poems and have had a couple published, though recently I have lost the muse!
I'd love to be inspired again in a safe environment, so thought a little bivouac in the woods for us writers might do the trick.
One form I particularly love, is the Villanelle.
Here's one of my attempts
Dawn over the ocean
Day breaks, to the rasp of the seagulls’ cries,
mewing and wheeling through the spume flecked gust,
as the orb of the sun begins its rise.
Cherry-blushed clouds, racing 'cross windswept skies,
dance, bob and billow, as with youthful lust,
day breaks, to the rasp of the seagulls’ cries.
The sea, whispering tongues in breathless sighs,
glows with tints of ochre, gold, red and rust,
as the orb of the sun begins its rise.
Bright stars fade, when light on his charger flies;
as azure hands give Dawn her mighty thrust,
day breaks, to the rasp of seagulls’ cries.
Fishermen, salt caked lips and rheumy eyes,
head for home, sharing silent, secret trust,
as the orb of the sun begins its rise.
It’s the circle of life that never dies;
sure as ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
day breaks to the rasp of the seagulls’ cries,
as the orb of the sun begins its rise.
And here's one by the master, Dylan Thomas, who was born 100 years ago.
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
So come and join me in this little hidey-hole, pick up your quill and share your writings.
Whether it be limericks, haiku, jolly rhymes, free poems, join in here x
I'd love to be inspired again in a safe environment, so thought a little bivouac in the woods for us writers might do the trick.
One form I particularly love, is the Villanelle.
Here's one of my attempts
Dawn over the ocean
Day breaks, to the rasp of the seagulls’ cries,
mewing and wheeling through the spume flecked gust,
as the orb of the sun begins its rise.
Cherry-blushed clouds, racing 'cross windswept skies,
dance, bob and billow, as with youthful lust,
day breaks, to the rasp of the seagulls’ cries.
The sea, whispering tongues in breathless sighs,
glows with tints of ochre, gold, red and rust,
as the orb of the sun begins its rise.
Bright stars fade, when light on his charger flies;
as azure hands give Dawn her mighty thrust,
day breaks, to the rasp of seagulls’ cries.
Fishermen, salt caked lips and rheumy eyes,
head for home, sharing silent, secret trust,
as the orb of the sun begins its rise.
It’s the circle of life that never dies;
sure as ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
day breaks to the rasp of the seagulls’ cries,
as the orb of the sun begins its rise.
And here's one by the master, Dylan Thomas, who was born 100 years ago.
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
So come and join me in this little hidey-hole, pick up your quill and share your writings.
Whether it be limericks, haiku, jolly rhymes, free poems, join in here x
, yet another talent you've kept well hidden!
( author unknown)
