Southern Seasons...

November heralds summer heat

where cool and warm entwine and meet

with plans for weather hotter still.

Clothes from winter are stored away

blankets fewer on beds today

as birds begin to sing and trill.

Christmas goods displayed to entice

have you been naughty or quite nice

 with children's stockings soon to fill.

Grace at dverse poets, has prompted us to pen a seasonal/November poem in the Nove Otto style.

Here is the link: Nove Otto Poetry

 

 

Game Over...

Many moons of long-ago

 dragons flew the skies;

from their lairs in lofty peaks

soared these dragonflies.

With fiery breath and clawed feet,

mean eyes plus barbed tail;

they ruled the skies far and wide,

 scale by scaly scale.

One day the peaks roared to life,

 with fire and with flame;

all the dragons left for dead,

'OVER' said the Game.

Kim @ dverse poets has prompted us to pen a poem about 'dragons'. Here's the link: Legendary Creatures

 

At the Going Down of the Sun...

What would you do

 if war came for you

hide in a box 'til done? 

You may be scared

 the blasts and the red,

blood baths tactically run.

One way or another

 a mother or brother

in a box at the red setting sun.

De Jackson, at dverse poets, has given us todays prompt for our 44 word quadrille. It must contain some form of the word 'what'.

Here's the link: What's Next?

'Til Death Do Us Part...

 September was the month that caused the old man the most grief. He sadly remembered when out of the ninth month midnight had forever darkened his soul. Happiness was no longer attainable as far as he was concerned, for his wife had shot through with his best mate that dark night, leaving the man bereft. He vowed he would never forgive her. Never, ever!

Thus, alone he lived and alone he remained, until one particular day when there was a knock on his door. Upon opening the door, he found his wife standing there, bold as brass. She looked him in the eye and announced that she was back! No sorrow or regrets were expressed, nor did she seem bothered by what she had put him through.

Slowly the old man reached for the rifle that he kept behind the door...

Dora, at dverse poets, has prompted us to pen a prosery of 144 words, or less. We must include the line:

'out of the ninth month midnight' ~ which is from Walt Whitman's poem 'Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking.'

Here's the link: Prosery Today