HWWP 5.1 Assignment – The Turn

This week’s assignment for How Writers Write Poems is the Turn: Write a poem featuring a major turn in logic, situation, or voice.


The brick wall
by the milking shed is old.
Older than anyone’s
memory goes.
And ferns sprout
between the gnawed bricks,
like ledges of wild eyebrows,
all that green growing
without direction or restriction.
And the sun rises over
that wall in the morning.
Slowly. Slow
as the neighbour’s
green-eyed cat
when its name is called.
moves at its own pace here.


inspired and remixed from “Bleak House,” by Charles Dickens.


The Cock Crows


The Cock Crows

It’s already half-past eight, and I feel the morning gone but the day presses, as if I am tied to it, like it’s made a claim that I’ve forgotten, you know that feeling, waiting to be surprised by a jack-in-the-box, like you’ve lost your keys, locked yourself out of the house, and where did the day go, and when did I lose it….

a day lost

time ticks a rhythm

the cock crows




Written for MLMM, “Poetic Form Haibun”

A Narrow Passage


A Narrow Passage

The steps sleep deep as winter,
and the trees, they sob with rain.
Fresh air kisses me as I make my

way down Church Lane. I walk
that narrow passage where north
wind bites memories thin,

and the brilliancy of winter sun,
reminds me of how quick the years
have been. Time it does us under,

and I wonder for my boys, each now
grown, each tall and towered o’r me.
All this, in that year when I turned 43.





Found and remixed text from Bleak House and my
Winter 1991 Journal from Bletchingley Surrey.

A Fugue for a Clock


A Fugue for a Clock

My ears embrace
the thin-skinned throb
of the clock’s voice today.
A petulance. That tick tick.
Drop drop. A perpetuance
of time rising on a wave.
Tick tick to cranking rhythms.
A fugue. Dance dance, let’s
pour ourselves into its echo
and rattle right into tomorrow.




Inspired by Bleak House, Charles Dickens
The term fugue refers in this instance to a
musical fugue, at in http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fugue

Lost In Church Bells

Lost In Church Bells

The church bells strike the hour. I’ve lost count,
and I waste myself sitting here but I cannot
find any movement within me. I am a niche.
I am a ripple of stagnant wind,
and I swear I shall not become a distant

solemn sound that’s lost in the soft pile
of curtains. Nor lost in church bells. Nor the hum
one hears in an empty church, as if tombs
breathe audible murmurs amongst their own.

And the air feels rigidly damp today. Silver.
The frosted ferns shivery, and the lead-latticed
windows set for my restraint. I dress for cold,
then step outside where shadows fall behind me.
I breathe giddiness, and warm with happiness
as the church bells strike the hour renewed.







Found and Remixed text sourced from personal recollections
of the Winter of 1990 and The Mystery of Edwin Drood
by Charles Dickens and prompted by NovPAD Day: 6, “Happy Now”