skedaddle!

Meet bar soundly with Onomatopoeia

here we are at #dversepoetspub having fun with our silly words thanks Bjorn for this prompt . reminded me of this poet I wrote after my first trip to the dogs as a part of a family gathering.

Skedaddle!
(This was written after my first visit to a greyhound race meeting. Some of the words used are Loosely based on the names of the dogs’ names.)
Vacant tote skedaddles away with loot,
Westfield Eleanor going like a bullet,
Wreckit Rolo ruins his run,
Splaattt,
Winners for your two slippery rascals,
A golden wind blowing for totes.

Bombay puzzle tree felled,
By waste of space on race card 115,
Whoosh,
Romeo Wolfe beating oh so sluggish,
Wiping out the tote’s banter,
Their personal service defunct.

Race course sponsors still believe,
Fabulous glamour still lives on,
Blisterfeild Bullet taken out at last,
 Kerblammy
Lemming forced rioting in the stands,
  Future unsure fun memories made.

© 27/05/2024 rog leach

Leake Street

dVerse Poetics — Pilgrimage, Wandering, and Walkabout

I have taken a pilgrimage see the Leake street Tunnels under London’s Waterloo rail station that has been on my bucket list since I first heard about them. one of a few places where graffiti art can be legally sprayed here in the UK. the photos below where taken on my visit. they are just a few of those I took.

it has been legal for street artists to leave their mark here since 2008. when Banksy organised an event there. #Banksy , #leakestreet .

https://www.bing.com/ck/a?!&&p=59926010a06e5131JmltdHM9MTcxNTA0MDAwMCZpZ3VpZD0wZDRkNzBhMy0wNzhiLTYwZmQtMjU3Ny02MjVmMDY1NjYxNTYmaW5zaWQ9NTIzNg&ptn=3&ver=2&hsh=3&fclid=0d4d70a3-078b-60fd-2577-625f06566156&psq=leake+street+tunnel+history&u=a1aHR0cHM6Ly9lbi53aWtpcGVkaWEub3JnL3dpa2kvTGVha2VfU3RyZWV0&ntb=1

so for tonight’s #dversepoetspub poetics prompt from Lisa. I have used a line from the poem Pilgrimage by Natasha Trethewey. “here the river changed it’s course”.

Leake street.

The tunnels they do beacon,
Painted walls, painted ceilings,
Painted floors, painted railings.

Here the river changed course,
Away from repression of expression,
To its acceptance of the street artist’s ability.

A pilgrimage of art,
To view an ever-changing 300m canvas,
A bastion to art since, 
#Banksy festival 2008.

Take a wander, take a meander,
Through the tunnel of colour,
Stop for a bite, Stop for a pint,
Soak up the atmosphere.
Smell the spray paint, love the artwork. 

© 07/05/2024 rog leach

Q#200 ablaze

Quadrille #200

Q#200 ablaze.


You set my heart ablaze,
Firing up a lust I cannot fight.

My blood is burning,
Firing my desire for your company.

I am craving your heat,
Your warmth within me, driving me mad.

 Cannot get enough of,
Curried goat with rice and peas.

© 29/04/2024 rog leach




Thank you  Mish for such a fun for the 200th #quadrille ' #dversepoetry pub

Frustration#Pantoun

MTB: Repeating Lines in Pantoum Form

tonight @ #dversepoetspub we are writing Pantoun poems which have a certain pattern of repeating lines. this was suggested by Merril as their prompt for hasting tonight’s meeting the bar.

Frustration. #Pantoun

Frustration grips my mind,
Dragging me down into darkness,
Willingly trying to find,
My way out of this blackness.

Dragging me down into darkness,
A lack of opportunity persists,
My way out of the blackness,
Is to hang on in there and resist.

A lack of opportunity persists,
My minds way of fighting,
Is to hang on in there and resist.
While I keep on writing.

My minds always fighting,
Willingly trying to find,
A way to keep me writing,
While, Frustration grips my mind.

© 18/04/2024 rog leach

the last 144 star’s

Prosery – Amy Woolard

The following prose is based on the line “What does it matter, that the stars we see are already dead.” from a poem called Laura Palmer Graduates by #AmyWooland. written to a prompt @ #dversepoetrypub for a prosery prompt set by dorahak.

The last 144 stars

Starlorn* and blue we sat as the last two. knowing we had destroyed our home. We started with the whales. Then we moved onto the forests and everything within them. With our chainsaws and palm oil plantations.

Starlorn and blue we sit whishing for love from the stars. When they can only scream in despair at their child’s death. The last 144 stars set into action a plan for our demise. Becoming extinct in the production of such a deadly radioactive energy for our consumption.

Righteous we are not. Dishevelled is our home plant, our morals torn and rotten to the core. The universe rejects our entitled thinking and our take, take, take.

What does it matter that the stars we see are already dead as we pass from this universe as the bad guys. The next universe is better off without out us.

*Starlorn- a sense of loneliness looking at the night sky. Feeling like a castaway marooned in the middle of an ocean. (From the dictionary of obscure sorrows.)