Sweet peas    (c) R Macdivitt 2009

Of all the flowers ever grown

these delicate flowers, often shewn

bring joy of eye and scent to please

when dancing delicately in the breeze.

Strong of colour and pastel shades

all mix together in natural parades

of God's creation and man-mades

combine before their glory fades.

Oh how I love their heady scent

in cottage garden their presence meant

that in the vase they would prevent

temporary depressions becoming permanent.

Their tendrils climb and cling and fix

their stalks and leaves to mesh and sticks

the bee he visits and butterfly licks

the loveliest of flowers sweetest tricks.

Frequent picking fails to stem

the flowers from coming, encouraging them

to grow some more of natures gem,

the jewel of flowers, a diadem.

A garden full of shrubs and trees

can, like nothing else, the senses please

but nothing brings me to my knees

like a bowl of glorious, scent-rich sweet peas. 

I probably wrote this to annoy my American/Canadian friends.

I say colour and they say color, I say because, do they say becase?

We English like our letter u even if we use it in funny places, bild, build oh well, here goes

Lots of u’s here. It’s just my sense of humour. I’m horrible aren’t I.

Because   © Roger Macdivitt ‘08

Because, it’s just because.

Because it never was.

Because we wish.

Because we fish.

Because, it’s just because.

Because the sky is blue.

Because my love is true.

Because I’m me.

Because I’m free.

Because the sky is blue.

Because, oh just in case.

Because it’s such a waste.

Because it’s there.

Because it’s fair.

Because, oh just in case.

I wrote this poem after visiting Edinburgh Castle in 2008. It was an excruciatingly cold day in October. It caused me to consider the weather conditions under which much of this city’s past has happened.

The very cold of the climate and the castle’s exposed position above Edinburgh seem to be trapped in the very fabric.

Edinburgh Castle(c) Roger Macdivitt  2008

It’s a cold October day,

And the freezing, slanting rain

Descends like thin steel arrows

Onto the glistening cobbles.

Volcanic ash and lava

And the freezing, slanting rain

Have etched the heritage of geology

Onto the glistening cobbles.

A plot, cruelly plotted and committed

And the freezing, slanting rain

Mixes with the blood of kings

On the glistening cobbles.

The thunder and lightening

And the freezing, slanting rain

Sound like the boots of a thousand soldiers, echoing

On the glistening cobbles.

A thousand years of sun

And the freezing, slanting rain

Have etched an invisible history

Onto the glistening cobbles.

The children of monarchs

And the freezing, slanting rain

Have all run like quicksilver

On the glistening cobbles.

Photo flashes, foreign tongues

And the freezing, slanting rain

And the tourists spill from the souvenir shop

Onto the glistening cobbles.

Another  thousand years of tempests

And the freezing, slanting rain

Will record, no doubt, the chequered past

On the glistening cobbles

So much of Scotland’s history

And the freezing,slanting rain

Is represented with it’s indisputable struggle

Upon the glistening cobbles.

Poet of the month

An invitation, thoughtfully offered,

A chance to shine, to individuals proffered.

Four weeks to show a wordsmiths skill,

Both prose and verse submit until,

It’s time to pass the chance to shine,

To another pen to write a line.

An audience with a special skill,

For making folk at home at will,

Give comments filled with love and care,

To budding bards who give and share,

Their words  from inspiration flowing

The skill, the love, their passion showing.

Who gains the most from this fine forum?

Well, as long as contributors show decorum,

The readers gain the joy of reading,

While poets’ egos intent on feeding,

Gain rewarding comments, praise, and in turn,

Feel the urge to write and to return.

This is just a silly idea that came to me one night. I just sat up and wrote it straight off.

Hence the poor scan of some lines, well no-one’s perfect, I’m not a Super Hero

Super Heros

From the muses of children

And from the needs of men.

From the dreams of spinsters

To the power of the pen.

These spirits, these figures.

These myths all in one.

In numbers, with associates

Or just acting alone.

When came they? Whence? Why?

Oh, where did they spring from?

To rescue to help and

To return to their kingdom.

Super Heros, bold and daring.

Holding out, focussed,

And attuned to a cause

On papers, tv and radio discussed.

Sometimes ordinary, sometimes supreme.

From humble employee to oligark?

In one bound to react,

The ray of light to conquer dark.

If imagination didn’t form, then who?

Who are these friends of humanity?

Their very presence just had to attract

Those rogues of  doubtful sanity.

Are they really needed?

Do they fulfil a trusted role.

Or are they just escape

For the bored and lonely soul.

One thing is certain, I am sure,

That from now until eternity

And even beyond that unimagined time

That more of these will swell a fraternity.

Super Heros need no praise

They know their role and stature

But their position in the hierarchy

Is beyond human manufacture.

So up and away, take off and fly

And casting their nets up into the sky

These heros of ours still continue to live

And then they leave us asking, Why?