sea breeze

Tuesday Poetics: Endings

Bogna Regis?

Oh, which Bacon bap? Sausage bap?
Washed down with coffee, strong milky coffee.
Not a soul in sight, misty morning quiet,
Waiting, waiting, waiting. Chilled out.
A coach shimmers and rattles up the hill,
My seat awaits, Phoenix driving.
Bogna here I come, Bogna here we come
Sea side adventure calls.
Loving the excitement as old timers chatter,
Youngsters giggle, demanding are we there yet.

Seaside rendezvous with fish and chips.
Loving the anticipation of coastal vibes.
Bogna Regis, Bogna Regis you disappoint,
Filthy streets, empty hotels, run down vibes.
Sea breeze and pebble beach empty,
Empty of love, full of lost greatness.
Back on the coach, escaping the rotten Bogna,
The smell of the driver,
Was phoenix a dirty fat girl?

© 17/09/2024 rog leach

Future Harvest an extract

Quadrille #208 – Undead to the World

Wow Dora what a choice of words for the #quadrille here @ #dversepoetspub.

This will be added as a diary extract into the diary of a lead character in a novel I have been trying to write for over 30 years. it is the story of how the aids virus effects the vampire race.

Slayer.


From the tomb he walked,
Darkening my life of man.

Uncorking blood,
Like a fine wine,
With every meal.

Wooden stake,
Holy water,
My faith.
All I have in defence.

A defence against,
Vampire kind,
I am,
My destiny.


A slayer I must become.

© 16/09/2024 rog leach

The call of the sea!

By the Beautiful Sea . . . .

thank you lillian for a wonderfully prompt @ #dversepoetrypub this evening.

The call of the sea.

woosh

2 am and alone,

Woosh of a wave breaking,

The smell of the sea beckons.

Woosh.

One shoe tumbles onto the sand,

A second shoe joins its partner,

The last three years fall away,

With the held back tears.

Woosh.

Holy socks join worn out shows,

Folded trousers laid over shoes,

As the siren calls.

Woosh.

Torn shirt, screwed into ball,

Falls onto sand splattered in your blood.

Woosh.

Counting the waves till I paddle,

Counting the footsteps to the waves.

Counting the last of heartbeats.

Woosh.

I am sorry my love,

For how I left you,

With a knife in your heart.

Woosh.

My Salty tears joining,

With salty sea spry,

My salted heart swallowed by the sea.

SWOOSH.

shh not tell

Welcome to know

here at #dversepoetrypub we have been given the line “I am haunted by how much our mothers do not know” from Tina Chang’s poem love to include in a prose of 144 word.

thanks Melissa for introducing me to Tina Chang

Shh don’t tell.

A single child of a single mother I am. The last of our tribe.

Our history was oral, never written down for the sake of history.

We built pyramids and worshipped the stars.

Breaking with tradition to take a wife of human origin I must.

My mothers, grandchildren will not be of our tribe. The uprising saw to that. I am haunted by how much our mothers do not know about what is to come.

Our history will be lost to our descendants leaving nothing but confusion. Other tribes from the stars have visited but not left any DNA behind.

We had no choice our home was lost to the death of our solar system. Just two ships where here orbiting Earth, now lost in the pacific. The Bermuda triangle created to hide them.

A single child of a single mother was I.

44 pens #quadrille.

Quadrille #207 Poem Spin Cycle

44 pens.

Idea spinning, counting words,
Counting the joys I’ve witnessed.

44 pens spun out of ink,
Sharing the joys I’ve encountered.

Counting the sun rises,
Counting the moon rises.

44 pens spinning this quadrille,
Sharing the joys I’ve observed.

Joys witnessed, joys written, joy shared.

© 03/09/2024 rog leach

thanks #dversepotrypub for another great quadrille prompt.