Quincant

(Quincant is a new form of poem developed by myself, having a maximum of fifty words, spread over ten lines of five words each).

Mourning

What curious souls we are

fed on grief we thrive

then complain about the flavour,

the world gifts bad news

most of it sparingly wrapped

on which we dine lavishly,

never hungry and never sated

we gorge on others misfortune

sympathy and pity our condiments

what curious souls we are

Ode.

Woodsmoke fires, season matted earth,

hoary silvered tensile webs, drip,

reddened nostrils sting keening north

sated summer loses her grip

kaleidoscopic colours blush then fade

vigour mellows, nights draw short

jams, curds, cheeses and marmalade

carefully bottled by the quart,

for autumn equinox has passed

another year thus closes fast.

Bob.

A dear friend lies dying

he knows it as do

I, this might be my

last visit, we talk of

many things but never mention

death, I ask if he

has retired to bed early

or else late to rise,

both knowing he is bedridden,

my dear friend lies dying.

Bea.

You deftly swipe the unkempt

locks across your flawless forehead,

like a camera lens shutter

revealing huge perfect grey eyes

for an instant, an exposure

before the errant strands settle

back to retake their station

as Alice bands are shunned,

slides too are equally rebuffed,

I await the next snapshot