Echoes
A mound of
words
lost in
a white shag-pile carpet.
bubbling on
the edge of a pristine beach,
toes sinking
in. Her prints echo in the sand,
a route
for others to follow.
sailing on
the backdraft,
voices transported
on the wind.
where wild
goats clamber on the diagonal,
mounting invisible
steps with ease.
its environs
inconducive to man.
watching a
faraway scene on a video screen.
Bark whisperings
Whisperings
of bark cracking, pink streaks of light writing words in
arching skies,
cradled in
cloud hands. Dew glistens on veined leaves, their sides curling up
into a beating
heart, nature’s prize. Listen
to the budding breath, the distant sigh of
the
undergrowth, roots spreading out
beneath the earth carrying currents
between
the trees,
an underground network of truth, communicating
through moss.
we can’t
understand, but we can place an ear to the peeling bark and contemplate.
of sap streaking
through the vessels of the saplings, from the trunk up to the
leaves
swishing in
the breeze. Hear the heart of nature pumping from the inside,
transpiration
and exhilaration a chase of water, the lifeblood of the
trees,
and wait for the blackbirds to land, cosy
down into their twig nests on high.
echoing from
the treetops, songs leaking through
the skies to wake the morning.
leading us
in, into the recesses, light
streaking the ground from above
into the
verdancy, into the hidden places, into the dark where the earth smells green.
Just been reading the news and about the coming vote on the Hunting Trophies (Import Prohibition) Bill to outlaw the trade. Sir Ranulph Fiennes is quoted as saying: “British trophy hunters are killing lions that have been snatched from their mothers & reared as pets. They are then shot in enclosures.” So I wrote a poem about it. I’m against trophy hunting and this poem is my personal view on that. I know some people reading this might disagree, and I’m not attacking you, but sticking up for endangered species who don’t have a voice.
Trophy
He’s dreaming of the things he should have had.
Freedom.
To think. To be. To roam.
Family.
Peace of mind.
Relative safety.
He would always have stood a chance.
He could always have made a getaway.
But they stole him from his mother
when he was too young to roar.
They took him home, pampered him,
treated him like one of the family,
this human replacement,
but their humanity was just an act.
The cage was built just for him.
It fitted his dimensions exactly.
In silence, he raged against the bars,
trod the edges back and forth,
shook his mane, muscles rippling.
Eyes watched him through the lines,
sized him up,
saw him as the enemy,
easy pickings.
His gut instinct told him
it was all wrong,
yet no one came to free him
until the final hour.
He could have outrun them,
but there was nowhere to run.
He might have beaten them
if the fight had been fair,
and they were all unarmed.
But it was weighted against him.
Cornered.
Shot.
Dead.
His head is on their wall,
above a wooden mantelpiece
filled with family photographs.
Below, there’s a gathering with wine.
They forgot to toast him,
too busy planning their next kill.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 16, 2023.
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If passed, the Hunting Trophies (Import Prohibition) Bill will prohibit the import of endangered species as hunting trophies into Great Britain, helping to reduce the threats that these animals face.
This Bill builds on previous acts such as the Ivory Act.
In the last 50 years, global wildlife has declined by 60%.
An estimated 25,000 trophy animals have been brought into the UK since the 1980s.
Trophy hunting increases the threats endangered species face, with its impact, for example, on African lion populations – which have declined from an estimated 200,000 in the 1970s to less than 20,000 today – found to be the “single most significant effect,” according to Oxford University research.
Other animals shot by British trophy hunters include African elephants, hippopotamuses, black bears, leopards, zebras and chacma baboons.
Wrapped
This gift
is 6 years old.
Turn it
over and the cover changes.
Twist it
back, it’s as it ever was.
without any
shimmer.
a portal
to a place you won’t want to know,
the hall
of painted mirrors,
the expressive smokescreen,
the footprints
trapped in snow.
where you’ll
search for Mr Tumnus,
loiter beside
the giant iron light,
waiting for
the sun to thaw.
Hi! Happy #Caterday! I have some books for free in the Smashwords Sale today. So head over there to grab your free reading gift. One of these books is Kiwi in Cat City, which was the first book I finished (unless you include my teenage efforts). Put your fee up and escape into a world of cats and fantasy. I hope you enjoy them.
Other freebies today are The Sea Inside, Day of the Living Pizza and more.
Crossing
water (a rondeau)
they say your
journey is a sin.
Our beliefs
are who we are, not the things they sow,
they’re standing
on the high-brow.
Those
crossing need a way of being.
talk cheaply
of life choked of air,
but the people
have nowhere to go.
We are
listening.
but to the
victims they’re not listening.
Compassion
is something we all know,
so surely empathy
can only grow?
Who is out
there listening?
The rock
pool
In the
rock pool
we listen
to the sound of being,
exchanging
our breath, our thoughts,
protected
in our invisible bubble,
this
living womb of water
with its feather-touch
energy of knowing.
Our skin reddens
under a yearning amber sun,
potential
of a missed dawn.
In their distancing,
the heavy Nimbus warn us
of the darker
energy of rain, the conjurer,
its sprightly
fingers waiting to
dance upon
our rock pool.
Happy International Women’s Day!
I was planning to write a poem about women down the ages and their fight for equality, but I found that nothing I wrote really said what I wanted to say or gave the issue full justice. I ended up finding a lot of facts such as: in 2021, 26% of all CEOs and MDs were women, compared to only 15% in 2019. So, instead, I spent a happy time reading some of my favourite female poets instead. In the end I wrote a poem about ageing, living, nostalgia and just life in general.
wildest dreams
and bygone years
remembered.
Star bright and sky burn,
some lives lived
too close to the sun.
collecting alternate
patterns to stand out,
colours full-raze,
imitating a craze,
and languid days
we draw resplendent.
aloft, clear
waters, reflecting our real selves.
We glance
back from our fast-forward,
thankful to
have known those we miss,
opening
doors and closing the well-worn,
to bring us knowledge
and fulfilment
on our journey
to the edge of the world.
The storm
of the storm
as the rain screeched down,
read them
from the Register,
while someone
twisted Rosary beads.
It ripped
right through.
overcame everything
in its wake,
a 20
mile-per-hour gush
of boulders,
debris, mud and branches.
Every
building sank beneath the tonnage,
roofs and
structures swept away,
photos depicting
a lifetime.
but not
all were accounted for.
So they carved
their names in wood,
so they
would be remembered.
But we remembered
them all.
Every
single one.
