Month: March 2015

The Eiffel Tower

Posted on

Today marks the 126th year since the official opening of that icon of Paris and indeed France – the Eiffel Tower.

Hands held transfer visions

of sunsets on choppy seas in

Ireland; like glowing orbs

viewed brighter on cratered

moons in space.

Kisses placed on lips like

French music playing in Paris

while standing neath the Eiffel Tower;

triste never farther like

ancient ruins to distant pasts

that I can smile on presently.

Eyes of bright teal like every

sky I could imagine; changing

hues in foreign lands and salt

air that I can scarcely taste…

Feathered visions placed like

warm embraces and I’ll never

pine for anything more than

what you place

within my soul

– Jasmine Rayne


The Morsel

Posted on

Some more poetry in recognition and celebration of this most sacred week in the Christian calendar – Holy Week.

A piece of bread
torn from the loaf
Exists separately
no longer part of the whole.

It has a solitary purpose
complete in itself
not passed over
Held closely, protected
until the fullness of time
When it is dipped and released
at the final feast
Broken for one,
not for all
Given only to the intimate one
who must go quickly
To do what he must do.

When Satan’s treacherous leaven
had fully risen,
Judas Iscariot accepted
the chosen morsel
And went out into the night.

A piece of bread
torn from the loaf
Exists separately,

no longer part of the whole.

 – Shelley A Soceka


Sonnet Written In Holy Week At Genoa

Posted on

I WANDERED in Scoglietto’s green retreat,

The oranges on each o’erhanging spray

Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;

Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet

Made snow of all the blossoms, at my feet

Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:

And the curved waves that streaked the sapphire bay

Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.

Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,

“Jesus the Son of Mary has been slain,

O come and fill his sepulchre with flowers.”

Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours

Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,

The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers, and the Spear.

– Oscar Wilde


Let’s Talk Cricket

Posted on Updated on

I talk of cricket quite infrequently,

as most would be nonplussed and mystified:

to them it is a total mystery.

If I said, oh the bowler bowled a wide,

you’d smile, then shake your head and turn away,

or what if I said,  caught on the on side?

A flipper or a chinaman I’d say,

while knowing that you didn’t have a clue,

as you would ask, bemused, well what are they?

The tail is wagging, will they see it through?

A common term when trying for a draw,

must seem like speaking double Dutch to you.

So now you’re stumped, you can’t take any more

and I’ve just hit you’re fastest ball for four !

– A Terza Rimma Sonnet, by Black Narcissus


British Freedom

Posted on

It is not to be thought of that the Flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flowed, ‘with pomp of waters, unwithstood,’
Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands,
That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands
Should perish; and to evil and to good
Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.-In every thing we are sprung
Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.

– William Wordsworth


I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud (William Wordsworth)

Posted on

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

– William Wordsworth



Posted on

The doctors don’t know
Why the symptoms just grow
Especially towards the end of the week
But there’s just a strange feeling
Something rather appealing
A sensation that we all want to seek

We all need the weekend
To go out and to spend
Time or money. For yes what’s right is
That doctor’s it’s simple
Not a spot or a pimple
It’s just that we aall have Fridayitis!

– Adrian Dobson