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