Week 54 -entries and results

Monday, 11 April 2016

Photograph – Chris Sims



From the shimmering poems written in response to the beautiful photograph above, the readers have chosen Poem 6, The Peacock’s Song by Susan Castillo. Congratulations to Susan and thanks everyone for the poems submissions and for voting.

Poem 1

Anthropic  Principle?


Does it all come down to this?

Look at the feather with two shades of blue;

Deep blue of distant galaxies

Seen through sky and sky blue.


Does it all come down to this

In a feathered field on a blue planet

Where something  perfect forms? When it

Attracts an eye this is


What it’s blue beauty means

And the future starts. Are such sexual scenes

Accidental  or meant? First, look

Then, look coyly away.


Either way they aren’t for you,

These scenes, this blue.


Then what does sky mean, the galaxies,

The blue, if it all comes down to this?


Michael Docker


Poem 2

Indifferent Iridescence


Look at the centre of my vanity

The heart-shaped core of my breeding plumage

Amongst the common backdrop of your life


For I am special, regal, distinguished

I am more than you, purely by my looks

Yet I add no value, just eye candy


I do not cure the sick or afflicted

I don’t educate nor feed the needy

I can’t stop the floods, famines or the droughts


Answers to the Universe are not here

Nor will you find answers to anything

Yet you’ll always be impressed and love me


Kevin Eagles


Poem 3

Silk and Feather Kisses


Is it enough to be a bird

no embellishment required

beady-eyed-beak giving point

to a face with only one expression


better to be naked under feathers

than naked with feathers


like those flirty-eyed girl-women

dancing in twilight and diamonds

faces set in the relentless smile

of hopeless predation?


Daphne Milne


Poem 4

Indian Rajah


Even a peacock

With his lapis lazuli crown

Must cross desiccated

Whispering savannas.


To frighten off

Those sleek assassin tigers

He trails a thousand glorious sapphire eyes

Upon his sweeping train.


Lizzie Ballagher


Poem 5

The last Dance

Dreams scatter in the sky

Red finger nails grasping

Stretching, never reaching

Never understood in its femininity

Then the rain

Washing dreams and rainbows

Washing life

What was left of it

Bringing relief to the pain

And the numbered hours

Lying still

Waiting for the sunshine


Then it came

Bright and warm

And he danced

Twirling in slow motion

In all his splendour

And radiance


He did not fall


But gently moved into the shadows

Leaving behind

Just the essence of glory


Anita Pinto


Poem 6

The Peacock’s Song


Juno stands on tiptoe, reaches to the sky

to touch my iridescent feathers

garlanded with starry eyes.

My jeweled plumage shimmers, floats

down to the forest floor.


She tells me not to envy nightingales,

even though they fill the night

with shimmering clouds of notes

and I am left alone with my harsh cry.


Susan Castillo


Poem 7

Mrs Peacock


She could be any bird in plain and dowdy clothes.

No one would trace her paces creeping round the place.


He’d only one intention:-  notch her on his post

and grab her admiration, sleeping round his place.


Beguiled at first, she found he took her breath away.

His charming ways were spent in sweeping round the place.


Then came the hours of loneliness when he stayed out,

her utter desolation, weeping round the place.


Her eyes grew dark as pansy hearts each time he strayed.

She hatched a plan that set her leaping round the place.


The knife was sharp and silent.  There’s a feather sign

abandoned in the grass grown deep around his place.


Sue Spiers


Poem 8

Wordless Whispers…


Accept this feather as my indelible gift,

Before the hurricane steals its joy.

Love embedded in its coloured shape,

Soft wind blows through big blue stems.

And let brightness of fragrance speak,

I am just like the feather to wither someday.


Denim Deka

—————————————————————————————————————————————–Poem 9


You swished so many

in your Beau Brummel tail

a single feather snagged,

fell loose

as it combed the grass.


It won’t stay unnoticed.


A morning stroller

will covet its flamboyance,

carry it home,

keep it in a jar

by the window


where season after season

its proud unblinking blue

will eye garden birds

flying their downy

new browns.


Sheila Jacob