midnight shift

#tiki’sguild. 27th may 2023.

Midnight at the,

makers of boing,

quiet rumble,

of extrusion.

The winding machines,

Whisper to the night,

Twang, twang, twang,

As they drop,

Into barrels.

Rattle, rattle, rattle,

Of the trollies,

Moving materials,

From extrusion,


Winder wrapping to


Midnight shift,

 at the leapfrog

factory tedious,

dull, monotonous.

Midnight in spring manufacturing,

A mind killing exercise,

Suitable for automatons.

© 19/05/2023 rog leach

two hundred

Two hundred words.


The flames they call me and others to the fire pit. To the pit to show me the flames dreams. Selling me the images and feelings they wish to share. I wish I could respond to each and every call of the fire.  But life just keeps demanding that I live it. Stories do call from the flames. Craving the company of storytellers, I certainly do.

Here I am sitting looking for two hundred words while the world is asleep. Searching, seeking, rummaging and rifling my inner self for a tale to tell. Before the world awakes and demands my full attention. Grown they maybe but the family still needs dinner. My clothes still need washing and my home is looking oh so overly lived in. will I ever find these two hundred words for the Berkhamsted poetry society before todays living gets in their way.  My head full of slow cooker beef stew and washing machine settings hiding any story of woe, wonder and excitement. Chasing stars and watching sunsets not included here.

Sorry to you all who were expecting a bit more from these words.

Life is for living,

always one day at a time,

adventures on hold.

wistfully #poetics

welcome all to tonight’s #dverse poets pub where we are talking #windows.

This picture is the window in front of which I work. this winter it froze on the inside forming the pattern shown.

Wistfully. #winterblues

Here I stand cold and tired,

Wistfully waiting for warmth,

Melancholy overtaking my thinking,

Anticipating being warm again.

Staring through icy windows,

In need of a warm summer holiday,

Winter blues biting deep,

Freezing this heart.

Wistfully waiting an end,

An end to cold,

Cold damp drudgery,

Just wistful thinking.

View from window,

As frozen as my heart,

Craving an end to winters,


A permanent fix required,

The frozen windows bars of ice,

Breaking this heart as it knows,

 Of no summer holiday to come..

Knowing the melancholy,

Will follow me through,

To next winter’s biting,

Bitter cold wondering?

Wondering if I shall survive,

Another winter gazing,

Through a window of ice bars,

Without, without, without.

© 18/04/2023 rog leach

crows #menagerie

welcome to this evenings meeting at the #dverse bar.

the prompts have made my mind drift to this picture and I cannot get it out of my mind.

I am planning to use this in a book of poems and short stories I am trying to put together. but at present am struggling trying to edit. what to put in and what to leave out has me flummoxed.

Crows Water colour picture by Anousjka McDonald October 2022.

Inspired by and to accompany this poem.

Tolerance and apathy are the last virtues of a dying society- Aristotle


The crows are circling high overhead,

They are here for you and me alike.

Waiting and circling just for us,

Like flies above the putrid water of society,

Hearing your haunting cry,

To your mates the magpies.

To come join you in the feast.

As you swirl around within the bouquet,

 Of our death and disease.

Your calls and cries are spine-chilling,

Creating the exodus of life that feeds you.

Clouds of black wings, against blue sky,

Sending tremors along my dying spine.

The time of the Corvus is now

They come now and feast.

On mankind’s death at his own hand.


© second draft 30/6/2022