On Aching Feet - 2nd draft - a Roundel

On aching feet, he shuffleds dust

On his regular outback beat

A never ending wanderlust,

On aching feet.

He passes empty stalks of wheat

And wilted crops, all ruined by the rust

No croppers left to meet and greet,

Yet he still he wanders as he must

The lonely roads and outback streets

To In this brown land he shows proves his trust,

On aching feet.

On Aching Feet - 1st draft - a Roundel

On aching feet, he shuffles dust

On his regular outback beat

A never ending wanderlust,

On aching feet.

He passes empty stalks of wheat

And wilted crops, all ruined by the rust

No croppers left to meet and greet,

Yet he still wanders as he must

The lonely roads and outback streets

To this brown land he shows his trust,

On aching feet.

The Battered Suitcase - 3rd draft - a Roundel

The battered suitcase served him well

As he moved on from place to place

Carrying goods for him to sell,

The battered suitcase.

So what had caused Yet suddenly, this fall And yet one day he fell from grace

From valued friend to bagatelle

Slipped beyond his hand’s embrace.

When wear and tear and age befell

And scrapes and scuff marks dulled his face

No longer will he show and tell,

The battered suitcase.

The Battered Suitcase - 2nd draft - A Roundel

The battered suitcase served him well

As he moved on from place to place

Carrying goods for him to sell,

The battered suitcase.

So what had caused Yet suddenly, this fall from grace

From valued friend to bagatelle

Slipped beyond his hand’s embrace.

When wear and tear and age befell

And scrapes and scuff marks dulled his face

No longer will he show and tell,

The battered suitcase.

The Battered Suitcase - 1st draft - a Roundel

The battered suitcase served him well

As he moved on from place to place

Carrying goods for him to sell,

The battered suitcase.

So what had caused this fall from grace

From valued friend to bagatelle

Slipped beyond his hand’s embrace

When wear and tear and age befell

And scrapes and scuff marks dulled his face

No longer will he show and tell,

The battered suitcase

Born in a Mist - a Roundel 1st draft

Born in a mist of social shame,
to the world I could not exist
forbidden to even know my name,
born in a mist.

It is my right and I insist
the truth of self I will reclaim
and challenge all who still resist.

I never will accept false blame
from interfering catechist
by whose deceit I then became,
Born in a mist.

Love in the Mist - a Roundel 2nd draft

Love in a mist, the adoptees’ flower
Often born of careless tryst
Blooms on beneath the shaded bower,
Love in a mist.

And yet to some they don’t exist
Lost to the single focussed plough
Of the legislated nihilist.

Yet never will these petals cower
They will forever coexist, under government's heavy fist
In open fields they seize their power,
Love in a mist.

Love in the Mist - a Roundel 1st draft

Love in a mist, the adoptees’ flower
Often born of careless tryst
Blooms on beneath the shaded bower,
Love in a mist.

And yet to some they don’t exist
Lost to the single focussed plough
Of the legislated nihilist.

Yet never will these petals cower
They will forever coexist,
In open fields they seize their power,
Love in a mist.

When Children Play - a roundel 1st draft

When children play, in open spaces
Voices ring out loud and gay
Joy of life etched on their faces
When children play.

Would we could forever stay
In that happiest of places
Cares of adulthood still so far away.

Time and tide together races
Toward the closing of the day
Childhood leaves such fleeting traces
When children play.

A chat

I'm absolutely out of creative poetry ideas at this time so I'll just take time out to have a chat about the process. I have begun and discarded many poems over the past few days, mainly because the rhyming required with this form of poetry means I frequently ended up with misshapen limericks, or doggerel of the worst kind, both with obvious forced rhyme. When this happens it's like having a song playing over and over in your mind, making it difficult to get back on track. Not that all is lost in the world of writing, as I've been revising The Little Mongrel - free to a good home and formatting it as an ebook, adding pictures as well for a second print edition. It just goes to show the need to concentrate on one task at a time if it's to be done properly.
The temperature is very cold in this last month of Autumn, nipping at fingers and leading them astray in the hunt for words. I know many writers have almost starved, half frozen in garrets of their creativity, but not me. I prefer the image of open fires and rugs over knees and the warm glow of well-being to release the poet within. Cocoa anyone?

If I should speak - 2nd draft

If I should speak what’s on my mind
Giving language to my pique
Would others think me too unkind,
If I should speak?

What trouble do you think I’d wreak
If I chose to so unwind,
An unexpected uprise from the meek

My inner thoughts are well defined
For eloquent critique
Yet fear presents a double bind, Yet others may feel so inclined
If I should speak.

If I should speak - 1st draft

If I should speak - 1stdraft


If I should speak what’s on my mind
Giving language to my pique
Would others think me too unkind,
If I should speak?

What trouble do you think I’d wreak
If I chose to so unwind
An unexpected uprise from the meek

My inner thoughts are well defined
For eloquent critique
Yet others may feel so inclined
If I should speak.