Refuge required


Refuge required promptly

Refuge away from insanity

Ridiculousness threatens

Roughion spouting anti poetry

Rideculed for my poetry

Refusing to be bullied

Refuge required promptly

3/12/2020 written on my lunch break after finding your refuge prompt.

FOWC with Fandango — Refuge – This, That, and The Other (


dVerse — Quadrille 117 — The Dude Abides | dVerse (



Photo by Anna Shvets on

No more ghastly plague info,

I can abide it any longer,

This pandemic can go jump,

I tolerate fear no longer,

Conspiracy theories,

 adding more unease and distrust,

To this world’s cauldron of discontent,

Researchers chasing cure for us,

Vaccination will triumph for all.

30/11/20 rog leach

human harvest

Haibun Monday: Being But Human (


burnt orange hues

The starling’s murmuration over roost joins the spectacle,

As the sun says it’s goodnights in burnt orange hues,

The other birds singing their lullabies.

Will the virus add me to his human harvest tonight?

Stomping on my enjoyment of another mighty dawn chorus,

In the pink and red glow of tomorrows sunrise.

The bird’s lullabies reassure my tired

 lock downed mind as sleep creeps up,

this summers lockdown birdsong has kept,

bad head company at bay,

as the virus took its human harvest.

Human Harvester.

Hiding behind Autumn song.

Bird Song Saving me.

23/11/20 rog leach


Look into my eyes you whispered,

Here I sit my programming failing

Society Automaton not I.

Your oil-slick eyes showing nought.

Programmed to fail at their thinking

Your eyes raven blackness doing the programming

Programmed not to watch, listen and learn

Hypnotised by your gold rimmed pupils,

Programmed to think the same. small

As everyone else

Programmed to think romance is good

Your eyes lack of inner beaty

Program us to believe god knows best

 A wink and I am

Programmed not to question

Your eyes close believing me,

 Programmed to follower their power

Follow your programming not I.

Automaton no longer

Starting to see their thinking

Seeing, hearing and thinking for myself

The small not viable anymore

Romance a fake to hide their control of you

The universe too small for deities

Question it all

 Start by toppling their totem of mythical power

Their program iced up and useless

No longer required by me

Started 16/11/2020 rogleach

Finished 17/11/2020 rogleach

This peice was started after a discussion with my day job colleages. This evenings prompt helped me add the finshing touhes thank you Mish.

“look into my eyes, if you dare”


The rioters and I. we go in different directions down the imperturbable street.

but we want the same things peace,calm and love .

The rioters and I ,we agree that the old ways are wrong and no longer fit. They want to smash, break and burn. Me a hater of violence does not want the old ways turned into martyrs but into lessons on how not to from history.

The rioters and I we agree that we are of one spiecies. We have diferent ways and diferent backgrounds. But one day we will find one calm, one love and one peace. where we can all live in peace as one down this imperturbable street.

The street will never be the same ,only better I hope! No more the rioters and I just love and peace.

when the old ways are no more, relegated into history.

written for the dverse prose prompt using

Draco’s response

In response to Ingrad’s promt on dverse tonight to write a poet as narrter narrative. i have written a response to my first verse “epistle” my Dearest Draco. Which was written for an earliear dverse prompt. the first half of this is the first written. tonights effort is the second half. My Dear Draco My … Continue reading Draco’s response

CHAPTER 1. Loomings

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation.

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.