Leaf-fall:
vibrant, vivid,
flaming, falling, rustling, dying,
multi-coloured woven carpet:
Autumn.
(Cinquain poem)
5 Lines – not rhyming
1st line – a noun, 2 syllables
2nd line – 2 adjectives descriing the noun, 2 syllables each
3rd line – 3 “……ing”words describing noun, 2 syllables each
4th line – a 4 word phrase about the noun, 2 syllables each
5th line – another word for the noun, 2 syllables
The year started very badly, it seemed to me,
when I lost my two dear friends to the great big C.
Our Winter seemed to go on and on forever.
We all thought that our Spring would arrive here never.
But then when finally bulbs burst through from the earth,
Mother Nature took over, blooming for all she was worth.
We could go outside and enjoy every day.
Pretty Spring was here at last, and soon it was May.
Then things changed back again and our weather was wet.
The hosepipe ban in April, we would soon forget.
But Britain was given momentous occasions –
the London Olympics and Jubilee celebrations.
For weeks it seemed we were all in such good spirits
as the Queen, and the Olympic torch drove our streets.
Union Jacks were flying from every landmark,
and we had street parties, or picnics in the park.
We all went around with huge beams on our faces,
for Chelsea Flower Show and the Ascot Races,
and the next good thing was, oh what a big surprise –
our Andy Murray won Wimbledon’s big first prize.
Life couldn’t get better – we had all had a ball
and soon we were enjoying a colourful Fall.
But all good things have to come to an end it seems,
but they will live on in our memories and dreams.
Follow that, Twenty Thirteen! What is there in store?
Then I wonder, do we really want to know any more?
Well, there’ll be a Royal Baby from Kate and Wills,
so we’ll all keep flags flying from our window sills!.
There they all are gathering dust,
so many memories of mine.
But let them go I really must.
I can do it, I will be fine.
I’ll have a go at the paper
that is piling up into hills.
It really will be a caper
to destroy those horrid old bills.
Then I will turn out my wardrobe,
clothes dating date back to eighty three.
They really have gone out of mode
and fitted a much smaller me.
Then there is my old bone china.
It suited me once I suppose,
but now I use some less finer,
I’ve gone off the old country rose.
We’ve been building and erecting,
while we let the family grow.
I’ve spent all my life collecting,
but now it’s time to let them go.
Those wasted years of spend, spend, spend!
I just cannot believe my eyes.
This gathering has all got to end.
It is time for me to downsize.
Green leaves turn to gold,
from crimson to russet brown,
until they gently fall.
It was Ladies Day at Ascot, and I wore my Ascot hat,
it went with the posh outfit I bought to hide all of my fat
I said I would never wear it again, it’s just too silly,
and I really feel stupid looking oh so very frilly.
“He’s not very smart,” I’ve heard them say
cos I’m dressed in rags, in an odd way,
but I’ve stood in this field ev’ry day.
Waving my arms in the summer breeze
I’ve stood in rain, til it’s made me sneeze
and I’ve nearly fallen to my knees.
August hols are here, and we’re hoping for some sun,
families have fled to foreign fields for some fun,
leaving us alone in our lovely Great Britain,
with half empty highways, and dull days in the rain.
Soon as they swanned off, the sun came out to play,
and it happened to get hotter here ev’ry day.
We hardly have rainfall ‘cept in a sudden storm,
during our heat wave, which we now know as the norm.
Dazzling dusty days spent in hot and humid heat,
as we walk our way to work down the stifling street.
Bodies barely breathe in our horrid hot office,
a faltering filtering fan just can’t suffice.
We went down to London for the day
although we didn’t have a ticket,
we thought we’d get one on the gate but
we didn’t bargain for the picket.
“No entry here without a ticket”
said the official with a scowl,
“Back to the highway you go forthwith”
as my friend and I stifled a growl.
(a Tyburn Poem)
Lifting,
sifting,
drifting,
shifting.
Caressed by Sea’s lifting, sifting hands,
sleep the beaches’ drifting, shifting sands.
A Tyburn Poem = 6 rhyming lines of 2,2,2,2,9,9 syllables. First four lines rhyme, last two lines rhyme and contain the first four lines in 5th through 8th syllables.
After a physically draining few days
of the great British summer heat,
I awoke on my sofa at seven a.m.
still in my clothes, shoes on my feet!
My T.V awoke me as it turned itself off –
one gets used to sleeping with noise
but silence penetrates the brain
more than the comforting sounds of a voice.
Was it to late to get into my bed?
I wondered as I staggered up,
perhaps I should make some coffee
to sup from my favourite cup.
I turned back on the TV just in case
there was some exciting news,
not that I wanted to hear of disasters
or of someone’s political views.
This summer we have all been cloaked
and quite often have all got soaked
with rainfall.
It started with the hosepipe ban
and what felt better back then than
some raindrops?
A family of long-tailed tits have come to visit me,
they’ve been here all day in and out the Eucalyptus tree.
They’re eating all the old nuts and fat balls that I’ve put out
I’ve not seen them here before, so I guess without a doubt
they like what I’ve provided more than the usual seeds
that all the birds sort through and drop down to grow into weeds!
Jubilee in June got well under way,
Just an excuse to all get together,
Jolly festivities on ev’ry day,
Jovialities despite bad weather.
Under our red, white and blue umbrellas,
Unusually gay, we dodged the rain,
Up went gazebos built by our fellers,
Usual barbecue weather again!
It’s here again for another two weeks –
a fortnight of bliss for the tennis freaks.
Now will the weather hold out I wonder
or will the heavens be torn asunder?
And will our Brits last out ‘til the next week?
Of our Andy I hardly dare to speak.
We’ll hold our breath each and every match,
as they all struggle on, while we all watch.
Too much Rain!
(Trois-par-huit poem)
Now at last
the fear of drought has passed.
They can now cancel the hosepipe ban.
We can put away our brand new watering can,
and forget any idea of a summer tan.
It’s never going to stop, it’s plain,
each day we get again
too much rain!
Some kids have gone to Sunday camp,
they’ve lit a fire, and lit a lamp,
it’s rained for days, their field’s a swamp,
It’s very damp, it’s very damp!
Spring flowers have faded away,
yellow’s gone ’til another day,
leaves on the trees are in full sway.
It must be May! It must be May!
Spring flowers,
days with much longer hours,
buds are sprouting on the bare-branched trees.
Butterflies emerging from the long winter freeze,
flutter around our gardens on the gentle breeze.
Spawn in the pond, frogs have been mating.
Birds all now sit and sing:
“Welcome Spring!”
On with my coat and walking shoes,
the dogs are ready to go,
but the sky has turned a dark shade of grey
and it looks like it might snow.
Here comes the rain –
and here I’m staying!
Off with my coat and settled down again
to wait for the shower to stop.
It’s now raining cats and dogs, and even hail
has caught us all on the hop.
Down comes the rain –
no walk yet, it’s plain.
Now the Winter snow has gone away,
the temperature is higher,
the daffodils raise their heads
and bulbs start sprouting up
ready to burst out
into flower
in time for
pretty
Spring.
A nonet poem has nine descending lines of 9 syllables, then 8,7,6,5,4,3,2 and finally 1. It doesn’t need to rhyme.
