Tag: acrostic

A Rude Awakening

Acrostic poem in response to Daily Prompt Fifty

Fifty shades of grey, these limp excuses – dirty words
Instead of virile deeds. And nation
Follows nation down the slippery slope
To flaccid impotence while
You lie doggo, feigning ignorance of what you really need.



Image: livingbettersmall.com


Only Yesterday

Before I bring the curtain down on my week of writing acrostics, here’s a final flourish based on today’s Daily Prompt from WordPress: Childhood

We are all experts when it comes to this topic. Happy or sad, or else the more common mix of both, what did or didn’t happen then has made us who we are today. It is our inner child who feels empathy for today’s youngsters unless we have contrived to repress that part of ourselves and can only feel jealousy or resentment. It takes a whole heart to recognise that we are all the same under the skin.

Come back with me to where we used to
Hide: homes made of deckchairs, secret clubs
In musty sheds, mystery dens in hollow bushes and
Leafy look-out posts in high and mighty trees. Ah,
Did we really care what grown-ups thought or said or did in their
Houses when we had our own grand epics
Of eager exploration and wild adventure to enact
Outside their petty rules and endless puzzles – beyond the
Dull routine we knew would come too soon, too soon.


Image: ask.extension.org


Advice from Alpha Centauri

Day 5 of my one-man AcrosticFest and I’ve been experiencing yet more interference on the Muse Channel. Curiously, the more I thought about today’s WordPress Prompt Purpose the more aimless my scribbling became.

In desperation I went down the pub – The Writer’s Block, do you know it? – and got talking to this old bloke who reckoned he could sort out all my connection problems. Turns out I needed more cosmic penetration. Now, he’s not the first person to tell me that so I started to pay attention.

And now I’m back in my study – well, my corner of the bedsit – with an empty wallet and THESE …

Look strange, I know, but the amazing thing is … they work. At first there was a whole bunch of big-bang static and then out of the aether came this, er … how on earth can I do it justice? … this ravishing music. Music of the spheres, you might say. My entire body began to, well, pulsate. For some reason I kept thinking, first kiss, first kiss

When I came round, I noticed something written down on my Junior Journo notepad. It read:

Please remember, earthlings, how new you are to the Grand Theory of
Universal Choreography you call Evolution. You are just one
Resident species among many millions, all
Perfectly fitted by Chance And Change to share the bounty
Of your beauteous jewel of a planet. Let all fantasies of foolish
Sovereignty slip away, for you and they can only ever
Exist together. Listen to us, who discovered too late how to dance.

Now what are the chances of that?



Image: lightinthebox.squarespace.com

Two Thousand and Eight

Here is my latest acrostic, in response to the Daily Prompt Angry

I was angry with myself for not being able to come up with this yesterday but I slept on it and – lo and behold! – the first line was there in my sleepy head this morning. And I thought of a twist on the old saying: always let the sun go down on your anger. This gave me the idea of ending the poem with another twisted moral.

After the lies, the promises:
No more of those bad old days when the rich
Grew fat and the poor wore out! But now
Reality's cold dawning brings bad news:
You once were shy and now have been twice bitten.



Image: mindblog.dericbownds.net

The Roar of the Greasepaint, the Smell of the Crowd

Day 3 of my week responding to the WordPress Daily Prompt, which today is Circus

A moment came to mind from my visit to a Moscow circus several years ago. I present it below exactly as it happened. The form is an acrostic, not an anagram as my two previous posts described it. For pointing this out, my thanks to stoneyfish whose excellent site is well worth a visit.

Here’s my poem. Cue feeble drumroll …

Climb! - and on command they mount a rusty motorbike,
Its engine spitting flame, those three bedraggled bears in 
Russian national costume: sidecar-rider, pillion, driver.
Circling at speed a ring of baying faces, they yelp and whine 
Until the crash. Hurt and scared, they rage at one another as
Sticks and harsh words beat them back to solitary cells.