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 |  Poems for years 4 and 5 of the Promptly Poetry Challenge. |
| A year's worth of poems, every week for 52 weeks, spanning 2023 and 2024, plus the year following, from August 2024 to August 2025.(provided I live that long, of course). |
| The Seasons The seasons being the template of so many things in life, the daily round eternal bringing echoes of the the dawn till brightest noonday sun, to be followed by the evening shade with darkest midnight promised, so winter speaks of that misty, dreamlike place, our home, mysterious land of formative, forgotten phantoms from which emerge the first beginnings of the person we are meant to be, growing into the one we know as me. And spring is like those years we find when awareness blooms in full, our arms embracing all that comes enticing within our reach and clear eyes lead plans and schemes of all that can be grasped in reaching what we choose to call maturity. The summer comes with certainty, in greatest confidence, completed child and basking in the heat of summer’s bounty, with life burgeoning with positive assurance, no thought of year’s end, the longest days deceiving. Then the fall in so many ways, as autumn spreads its cloak of golden times as rewards for work, now slower pace invading, the dying leaves reminders all that nothing lasts forever and celebrations muted now in shortened days. Return to winter and those colder times, the bones are aching, breath frosted with the waiting knowledge that life grows thin, the wasted body struggling now, indecision ruling thought, and so, at last, it’s over. Line count: 24 Free verse For Promptly Poetry Challenge, week 34 Prompt: Use the following words in your poem: Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn. |
| Mysteries of the Night From the black emptiness of the darkened window comes the sound that freezes the soul, a shriek of such anguish and sorrow that the listener, no longer safe and ensconced, curls up in the bed with dread and fear, while nightmares toy with the thoughts riding upon the echoes of that tortured cry and questions arise from the deep. Is it the wail of a lost child, hungry and far from home? The scream of a wandering banshee wrenched from a heart of stone? The shade of a long dead traveller set upon by brigands? A last hopeless call for aid from some soul entrapped in the night? No, that sound that haunts your dreams ever after is but the hunting call of the fox. Line count: 14 Free verse For Promptly Poetry Challenge, Week 33 2025 Prompt: Use this title for this weeks poem: Mysteries of the Night. |
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