A Riposte, perhaps by Daniel P. Stokes

Kampus Production

A Riposte, perhaps

Blithely unaware
of espionage, 
I packed my beach bag
(books in sequence, paper,
pencils, specs in separate slots)
till - as if a gate I hadn’t
opened banged behind me -
“You’re slowing down.”  Detached,
peremptory, “Half a week
It took you this time” - sigh -
“To slip into a routine.”
I shuffled through the doorway’s 
sudden sun glare, “Ready?”
Then, leaving her to follow
in her time, dumped bag in boot.

I wasn’t irked but thought,

she’s got this wrong. You slip

into ruts. Routines

are created to do the things

you want the way you want to.

And, Madam Mistress Mine,                              

perpend: each morning                                             

as you wake and press,                                                  

against me, I wrap                                                      

my arm beneath your arms 

across your breast and, synched,

we wallow in our warmth.                                

If routine must be ruled                                

innately vicious,

this warrants censure.

© Daniel P. Stokes

Enjoy other posts by Daniel P. Stokes HERE.

Daniel P. Stokes

Daniel P. Stokes has published poetry widely in literary magazines in Ireland, Britain, the U.S.A., Canada, and Asia, and has won several poetry prizes.  He has written three stage plays which have been professionally produced in Dublin, London, and at the Edinburgh Festival.

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Chant du Cygne by Daniel P. Stokes

Karol Wiśniewski

Chant du Cygne

November is notoriously

contrary, but this delicious afternoon

I headed for the beach. You’d not suppose

that marching to the tide-edge, preceded                          

by a fifty-kilo brute buck-leaping backwards,                            

would trigger musing.                                                

But as he sniffs my pocket, woofs                                     

and circles, frantic to play fetch,                                                

I find myself by chance upon a busman’s                                       

and, scanning sea and shoreline, seek                            

an image, insight worth my while to work.                                    

But worthwhile you might argue is contingent             

for, tilting from the light, I hollow,                                    

conscious in a heart-gripe that I witness

the old year’s chant du cygne.                      

And it’s not half a pang to self from season,                                                 

from autumn’s brazen flourish                                      

to…a fresh barrage of disaffected woofs.

“We set out to make the most

of what this moment offers, 

not drag clouds that haven’t formed

across the sun. Now, for both our sakes,

refocus on the game plan.

And throw the bloody ball.”

© Daniel P. Stokes

Enjoy other posts by Daniel P. Stokes HERE.

Daniel P. Stokes

Daniel P. Stokes has published poetry widely in literary magazines in Ireland, Britain, the U.S.A., Canada, and Asia, and has won several poetry prizes.  He has written three stage plays which have been professionally produced in Dublin, London, and at the Edinburgh Festival.

Follow Feed the Holy