THE BORED BARD
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Hi there welcome to my web page. I have been living in South West France for the past 12 years. Much of my inspiration comes from my travels in the Charente and the Dordogne. I have a love of poetry although I do not follow any set rules. I have a page called Nouvelle-Aquitaine so if you would like to submit a poem or a short story then I am more than happy to publish it on this site. Lots of people will see it, so give it your best shot and have fun with it. Or you can just flick through and see if anything you like. All feedback is welcome but keep it positive. So put pen to paper and see what you come up with.......ronsenac@gmail.com

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poetry by the bored bard


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"COMMENDED"FOR THE PEN NIB INTERNATIONAL WRITING COMPETITION-POETRY 2021    Katherine Gallagher - Judge 30th January 2022

Cape Cod morning 1950. Painting by Hopper

in this blue house
there is a woman

looking out of a window
time is her only currency
the morning sun
fills all the spaces
right up to the edges

the green trees are leaning
they do not look real
the coarse pasture struggles
in this saline soil

she recalls the oceans gentle swell
its watery ripples riding shotgun to a stop
as they return 
she slaps down the creases 
on her red dress

in the distance grey clouds
cold and lonely


​Toccata et Fugue in D minor
2021


the wind is ushered in
from this arpeggio sky
lays down black notations
onto the cathedral walls

you can hear the air
decompressing
t
he clappers wrapping
​filling all the spaces

pulling out all the stops
treble quavers clefs quivering
overlapping and rewrapping
this sheer weight of pipes

It’s been a long time 


I have been avoiding you 
all this time
but when we finally met
after two and a half long years
you issued me a moth’s kiss 
plucked from parted lips
a dewdrop from your moist breath
wafted down from that lover’s tree
And so it began

my throat now hot as an iron monger’s forge
my bellowing cough like mallets 
striking the broken slats of a glockenspiel
my head a steady gas mark nine

I saw your initials
carved into the lover’s tree
Covid 19 🖤’s everyone 2022








​
Published 2020
Poetry Kit Anthology Poems in the Plague Year

​
​

Supermarket


the food aisles look like long hospital corridors
where we play trolley-dodgems
under the bright theatre lights

we are masked up like surgeons
with psychiatric intentions

our washed hands are now as dry as shiny paper

I see the mask less
a touch of the cuckoo about them?
I can't help but think that they could be
laying their eggs in other people's nests

they could be spreaders
for they do not know
the difference between
margarine and butter

the checkouts workers
are safe behind their see through screens
for they operate the clinically clean conveyor belts
they too continually wash their red sore hands

slowly the country reopens
the tourists trickle in
and when they come
and they will come

I pray to god
the we don't have a second coming
not just yet


all we can do is wait for the “all clear”

​
​
Neil Armstrong lunar pilot

Neil Armstrong lunar pilot
certainly knew how to fly it
nearly running out of fuel
programme alarm 1201



​

Published 2020
Poetry Kit Anthology Poems in the Plague Year


​

​Now


the days are shrinking
the end of summer is nudging
unwillingly into Autumn

stiff sunflower stalks
curtsy their heads
to a silent applause


the yellowing corn
stands to attention
in Napoleonic lines


the sun's flares
light up the landscape folds
the straight Roman roads
create the illusion of forever


the cafe shutters push open
slow on rusty hinges
round tables and chairs sit empty
on the village square


the post van pulls up
she smiles a
bonjour!


the day is now open
the clock begins its tick


Maize


they stoop low like prisoners of war standing still, slightly bent and rigid.
well past their sell by date

the cutting machine
flitter-flicks and fracks through the stems like an old 6mm film
running on broken sprockets

later the machine takes them all away. tomorrow the remains will be
ploughed back in.
next year there will be sunflowers




​

covid days

And that we are
THE BORED BARD 2020


and that we are once again
pushing our trolleys
down the food aisles
our infectious hidden smiles
concealed

and that we are now
echos of who we used to be
hiding behind luke-warm masks
our muffled voices having to shout


and that we have become
a two meter long distance runner
with all those new hurdles to jump
there is hesitation in our dance


these foggy thoughts
these stay-at-home dreams
how quickly we get used to
the way we weren't


who we see and how we breath
has become the stuff that nightmares are made of


Now
THE BORED BARD 2020


the days are shrinking
the end of summer is nudging

unwillingly into Autumn.

stiff sunflower stalks
curtsy their heads
to a silent applause

while the yellowing corn
stands to attention

in Napoleonic lines

the sun's flares
ligthts up the landscape folds

the straight Roman roads
tree lined
create the illusion of forever

the cafe shutters push close
slow on rusty hinges
round tables and chairs sit empty
on the village square

the post van pulls up
she smiles a
“bonjour!”

the day is now locked down
the clock begins its tick

but for how long

Published 2020

Poetry Kit Anthology Poems in the Plague Year




this stretched year
By THE BORED BARD 2020

Everything is too quiet
but not quite right
we have been wronged
abandoned and left too it

mass misinformation
eyes glued to the media
fake FOX, CNN, SKY and BBC
it's hard to know who to believe

my neighbor had covid
what of that?
each day his body
stood trial
in two weeks he got his reprieve
you might say he was lucky
that's the name of his cat

as I write the r rate is  over one
so we are still passing the parcel
waiting to the music to stop
while the survivors survive

we wear our tags
our attestations our mobile apps
and again we push our shopping trolleys
down the never ending hospital corridors

only this time
this stretched year
we wait in long lines
for a vaccine

only then we can exhale
and breathe once again
and hope
that this post-covid world
will change humanity
beyond recognition

for we are no longer individuals

if community be the food of life
live on


there's a hole in my neighborhood

there's a hole in my neighborhood
where the pied piper plays

on the stairway the leads
to the edge of the world
where we all live in fear
of the immunity herd

there's a hole in my neighborhood
where the clouds are sucked in
the moon is inside
is waxing and waning
pulling everything in
with a tinnitus din

there's a hole in my neighborhood
where the present comes in
the black hole inside
is sucking everything in
the churches and mosques
are being pulled in

there's a hole in my neighborhood
where the water flows in
icebergs and rocks
are all falling right in
dead bodies in bin bags
are getting sucked in

now
there's covid inside the rabbit hole










Picture







The snowman has a carrot for a note and a mask for the mouth
By THE BORED BARD 2020


the covid snowman
melts patiently
for the ICU monitor
to flat line



Death of a poem
THE BORED BARD 2020

see how my words
fall off this page
when my poem finally dies
I look in dismay
all those long forgotten words

I wait for the rhym

I read two or three
and set one free
the rest are poured into the formatted tubes
of
      b
              r   o
                   ke
                    n
                 kal  ei
             do
        sc   o
    pes



a moth's kiss

BY THE BORED BARD 2020

this virus ticks
like a slow running watch
a moths kiss gentle
touching your lips

mark my words
use a highlighter if you must
for it is the past
that makes the future tense


now
THE BORED BARD

the days are shrinking
the end of summer is nudging

unwillingly into Autumn.

stiff sunflower stalks
curtsy their heads
to a silent applause

while the yellowing corn
stands to attention
in Napoleonic lines

the sun's flares
light up the landscape folds
the straight Roman roads
tree lined
create the illusion of forever

the cafe shutters push open
slow on rusty hinges
round tables and chairs sit empty
on the village square

the post van pulls up
she smiles
Bonjour!


vaccine nation street
BORED BARD 2021

its ravaged skin
slumps stark against
the sterile shop-fronts
of “buy-me-avenue”

on thin cardboard
propped up against
a red telephone box
it shares the street
with the scent of dog pooh
and stinky kebab

a wide winged pinched-eyed seagull
pulls apart abandoned happy meal
the toy tossed to one side
left unopened in its plastic bag

the street lights up siren blue
they lean over it
its blue lips
its eyes fixed

it had no mask
what of that

“one milligram of epinephrine”

“stand clear”
  ____________________ .....


































2020 is a year that most people will not forget.
A.Kirk
Owner - The Bored Bard
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