| CARVIEW |
I wrote a poem of eight lines:
each line eight syllables comprised.
Each poet then a scheme assigns
to written poems of eight lines:
each triolet true rhymes combines –
a tricky task! Don’t be surprised
I wrote a poem of eight lines!
Eight syllables each line comprised.
From Katmandu to Casablanca,
racing back to yesterday,
or heading off to reach tomorrow
— Kazakhstan to old Cathay —
crossing and crisscrossing oceans
— Carlisle to Kalamazoo,
then Canada to Kuala Lumpur —
what’s that date that hoves in view?
Let’s confer on global warming,
here, in Kowloon, then Kigali.
That’s why we all have to globetrot
– Kabul, Cambridge, Kansas City,
Quito, Khartoum and Karachi,
Cairo, Kyiv and then to Qatar —
Let’s address our climate crisis
Jetting off to far Kolkata.
Want to know how hard we try?
Watch our contrails cross the sky.
First posted on 19th September, 2025.
Hundreds of conservationists gathered yesterday in Abu Dhabi, the capital of the UAE, for the IUCN’s congress, where the fate of many of the world’s most at-risk wildlife species was on the agenda. — Patrick Greenfield, ‘Summit on extinction crisis held as losses in bird species revealed’, Guardian, 11th October 2025.*
* The IUCN [International Union for Conservation of Nature] estimates that 61% of assessed species are in decline.
For one last time she looked round the flat with barely concealed distaste. Bakelite doorknobs in the main room jarring with chrome and bronze door handles elsewhere. Mismatched furniture, their colours clashing; MDF chests and wooden stools; an ancient dilapidated two-seater paired with a newish sofa bed; a geometrically-patterned rug rucking up over an offensively plain yet obnoxiously beige carpet.
Then there were the windows – an unopenable wooden sash window with chipped off-white paint on the left, on the right an ugly double-glazed PVC-framed opening, its panes blown or misted. And, my dear, the pictures! Faded prints, once popular a few decades ago but with little artistic merit, are barely held in place by thin clip frames and displayed on magnolia walls, in places stained almost mushroom by damp.
It was just so offensive – anyone who showed such a shocking lack of style shouldn’t be suffered to live. In fact they should, by rights, simply … suffer.
Judith’s sneer was subtly tempered by the faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth when she gave a final glance at Hugo. He lay back, apparently asleep, in the two-seater sofa which now sank even more in the middle. Peaceful at the end.
The thick cord still in her hand, she silently stepped into the corridor and gently pulled the lock to. It gave a slight click – at least the door functioned as it should, smoothly closing without sticking. Now she could smile unreservedly. On to Number Three, she thought.
When lying in view of the ocean,
do plaster on suntanning lotion:
a lobster-like red means no rest in bed,
but lots of some pharmacy potion
to counteract one foolish hour
avoiding a cool shady bower,
where blessèd relief would change your belief
in Sun’s fake benevolent power
to make you a buff, bronzed Greek god
(or goddess!) with the perfect bod.
In direct sun staying? It’s pain with no gain,
and suggests one’s an ignorant clod!
So slather on gunk of high grade,
or rest in the cool of some shade.
Now climate’s extreme do stay safe with some cream
— that burnt look takes eons to fade!
For E. L.
So when you asked if being deaf or blind
which one I’d choose, if choice I had to take,
the options offered hurt, made my heart ache
to realise I’d have to be resigned
to sight or sound; the question was unkind.
Not hear her voice? What, no, for heavens sake!
Or not see her each morning when I wake?
I think I would soon start to lose my mind.
Between the devil and the deep blue sea
or that hard place that stands against the rock
you’d have me lie. Well, I won’t take my pick,
I’ll have them both for surely both suit me.
Until the final tick comes out of clock
against such awful choices I shall kick.
The homework for the poetry writing class was to write a sonnet; I chose to write a Petrarchan sonnet, with a rhyme scheme abba abba cde cde.
First published 24th May, 2018.
They drew a line in the sand
to mark the point of no return.
They said, “Thus far and no further,”
for this was our Rubicon,
our tipping point, our event horizon.
Once we’ve crossed that threshold,
the door will be slammed shut.
And after we’ve burnt our bridges
the world will go up in flames.
We can’t say they didn’t warn us.
Againe one time my friend did me entreat
Perforce to ever speake both straight and true,
Renouncing all dissembling and deceit,
In honoure of the loue that is her due:
Loe see then how my heart doth beating falter,
For feare that in old age or mispris’d youth,
Oppos’d to honesty I failed to alter
One word unfair or false, to speake a truth.
Let mountaines fall and earthie crusts be riv’n,
Ere loathesome falsehoods steal past mine owne tongue:
To conquere guilefull art none more hath striv’n,
Headlong to shun than I, nor traduce wrong.
On holy relickts swere I soon’st to die,
Upon the wicked utt’rance of a lie.
Maybe
until common
sense infects muddled minds,
in melodies might we all be
consoled.
The cinquain, devised early in the twentieth century by American poet, Adelaide Crapsey, is distinguished by the number of syllables in each of the five lines: two, four, six, eight, two.
Interestingly, the following counting rhyme almost fits the scheme: Two, four, | six, eight, Mary | at the cottage gate, eat- | ing cherries off her plate. Two, four, | six, eight.
My cinquain is also alliterative and acrostic; I was inspired to write it by this post from Michele Lee.
When I tire of conversation,
when I want to be alone,
working or in contemplation,
one thing always sets the tone.
Whether solo, band or drone,
fugue, sonata, golden oldie,
folksong, classic (known, unknown),
jazz: each has the power to hold me.
Music, reaching to enfold me,
speaks directly to the brain.
Right from childhood music called me,
smoothing pain and soothing strain.
Music speaks, not words but phrases.
What it still tells me amazes.
First published 26th May 2018 this Spencerian sonnet written in trochaic tetrameters: homework written for a creative writing course. Its discipline made it quite hard to not sound forced while continuing to convey an authentic emotion. The rhyme scheme is abab bcbc cdcd ee.
Politicians data-driven?
Pressed for details they ignore us,
dates of easing seldom given,
days of lockdown stretch before us.
Better to ignore the chorus
of demands to ease restrictions:
Covid-19’s bounds are porous,
plague rides free of firm predictions.
But uncertainty brings frictions,
tempting some to break the rules,
claims that virus facts are fictions,
those who credit them but fools.
Data comes from sense-led asking;
until then let’s keep on masking.
* * * * *
A Spencerian sonnet first published 4th March 2021 in the aftermath of Covid-19. Written in trochaic tetrameters, the rhyme scheme is abab bcbc cdcd ee.
Coronaverse: an alphabet of terms related to Covid-19.
They say swearing is a sign of intelligence, but I don’t know about that. Also that profuse swearing relates to creativity – the more swear words you know the greater your vocabulary – but I only regularly use a handful of expletives.
Does swearing affect the ability to tolerate pain? I’ll test that by stubbing my——
An exercise in Flash Fiction Fifty Five #FF55 – a brief narrative in 55 words (including the title).
“I’m the winner!” shouted Romulus (or was it Remus?) as he teasingly leapt over the stone wall that Remus (or was it Romulus?) had made round his new city.
“No, you’re not,” said the other crossly and knocked him down dead. “The first shall be last,” he said, and laughed. “Or should I say … late?”
________________________
This post was first published 4th November, 2016. According to tradition, on 21st April 21, 753 BCE Romulus and his twin brother Remus founded Rome on the site where the two orphaned infants were suckled by a she-wolf.
My first attempt at Flash Fiction Fifty-Five, where the whole story, including heading, is told in fifty-five words on a given theme, here provided by Leslie, late of Colonialist’s Blog. Rome’s founder is, of course, Romulus who according to one account by Livy killed Remus because his brother belittled his new city wall by leaping over it.
Zenrinji