Death

Hunting gent lays broken, gasping,
thrown from horse at bramble hedgerow.
Grinning fox appears at last
to whisper 'tally-ho'!

Hiker with binoculars is
mesmerized by bird call echoes.
Unaware, she meets a bear
and bird sings 'Cheerio'!

Rimy limey falls from rigging,
passing mermaid hums calypso.
Partnering his drowning jig,
she murmurs 'Yo ho ho'.

Thief lies, pumping blood and dying,
stabbed by shard from jeweler's window.
Friendly copper chances by,
'hello, ‘ello, ‘ello'

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poem by Diane Hine
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Ceasefire

Believers, stoked by a thirst-quenching fire
scale mountains with hope-braided rope.
Atheists, being damper and drier
tackle gentler slopes of Mope and Cope.

Some ride a pendulum high, to inspire
music and art beyond mortal scope.
Others, content in a logical mire
wash layers of mud with plain soap.

Unflinching believers aspire, won't tire
aligned by an inner gyroscope.
Less particular atheists acquire
bits, here and there in a whimsical grope.

Once, creation myths were shaped by desire
like a slow turning kaleidoscope.
Advent of printing fixed faith to require
no deviation from dogma's tightrope.

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poem by Diane Hine
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Bold

Prior to Seventeen seventy-one,
Law forbade any newspaper relate
lively words spoken in earnest or jest
in British parliamentary debate.

An editor charged with a printing offense
was judged by the Mayor, who radically took
a supportive stand in the man's defense
and let him off the hook.

Brass Crosby, the Mayor, was condemned by the House
to the Tower of London's grim space,
but the people's ire could scarce be contained
and several judges refused to hear the case.

Ever since Seventeen seventy-one
the Press have been free to print every day,
but ironically, now that they've won,
the members find nothing incisive to say.

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poem by Diane Hine
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Redgate Beach (A Villanelle)

Between opposed currents, it's easy to slip,
though a safety sign stands at Redgate Beach.
I pay no heed and swim into a rip.

Hooded plovers skip the sea's frothy lip,
which lisps an ebullient welcoming speech.
Between opposed currents, it's easy to slip.

A sand-laden gust flays shins like a whip.
A seagull forewarns with a wind-tossed screech.
I pay no heed and swim into a rip.

Effervescence spills as blue waves unzip.
Broken shells in tide swept scallops gleam peach.
Between opposed currents, it's easy to slip.

In lime-weeded rock pools, olive crabs nip.
Against Isaac's Rock, great rollers full breach.
I pay no heed and swim into a rip.

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poem by Diane Hine
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Confession of Obsession

A new word entertained my hearing
which was geoengineering,
and just exact as I was fearing
I counted fourteen letters.

No sooner had I set upon it
I knew I had to make a sonnet,
a ponderous acrostic misfit
I'm chained by mindset fetters.

GEOENGINEERING
G lobal warming plows on full steam ahead
E ven new bearings won't alter her course
O nce, had a chance if we'd stoppered the source
E missions of CO2 climbed instead.
N ow mitigation alone can't be pled
G iven positive feedback counterforce
I ce is a shrinking albedo resource
N o match for oceans' absorbing dark spread.
E nter the geoengineering fix

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poem by Diane Hine
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Bird Life

Perched upon an old wheelbarrow-
Scrutinizing Crow,
commentated long, on all he saw.
Feathered friends, who came to wallow,
splashing in the bird-bath hollow
disregarded Crow's bizarre guffaw.

'Are you starling, from the meadow'?
asked the puzzled crow.
'You fit the bill and yet I see a flaw'.
'Tail feathers, long and narrow,
sharp as swallow's twin-pronged arrow,
force me to admit, I'm quite unsure'.

'I'm the Swarling from the plateau',
bird replied, 'Hello'.
'My plumage is unique and furthermore'-
'Meet my friend, the warbling Starlow,
deft in flight as dancing shadow,
blessed with starling beak and swallow claw'.

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poem by Diane Hine
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Pectoral Sandpiper

Pacific vacationer flies north to nest,
parades on some high arctic shore.
Puffing his fine feathered, stippled grey breast,
persuasively seeking rapport.

Provided with radio tags which attest
perpetual day may ensure,
Pectoral Sandpiper's sleep is suppressed,
perhaps for a fortnight or more.

Perusing she sandpipers swoon for his chest,
percentages measure the score.
Pedigrees prove that deferment of rest
profusely enhances l'amour.

TANKA
How pleasant it is
to winter in sunny climes.
Holiday abroad.

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poem by Diane Hine
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Will and Elle (a villanelle)

'I don't believe in free will', ventured he,
debating philosophy themes widespread.
' I do', she countered, 'I'm wilfully free'.

'My genes and enviroment do for me',
tracing her forearm to see where it led.
'I don't believe in free will' ventured he.

'If that were the case, you'd just be a tree',
cutting his argument clinic'ly dead.
' I do', she countered, 'I'm wilfully free'.

'Yet quantum mechanics acts randomly',
(thinking- that gives me some Heisenberg cred) .
'I don't believe in free will', ventured he.

'Testosterone's clouding your wits, you see',
spouting some snippet she'd picked up in med.
'I do', she countered', 'I'm wilfully free'.

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poem by Diane Hine
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Assassin

I only hunt killers,
web weavers, trappers of innocents,
tormenters and destroyers,
my conscience is...nonexistent.

My instincts are attuned,
I'm hungry for this work- my missions,
as if by nature assigned,
incapable of contrition.

No disturbance,...no waves,
a slight presence, conservatively clothed.
I can fit in tight spaces,
take precise and painstaking steps.

Avoid warning tripwires,
my targets are so well protected.
I'm ultra-professional,
agility is essential.

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poem by Diane Hine
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Unanchored.

You adjust to the circumstances
and then they go and change on you
and you're all at sea again,
seasick with worry.

Keep reality at bay as best you can,
at bay- safe from pursuing hounds
in bay- safe from drowning waters.
So...let's play poetry.

L ay rules to follow firmly one by one
E quip with standard aids and tools of trade
T o squeeze from life a modicum of fun
S elect a game not previously played.
P lay fairly, cheating renders all a farce
L uxuriate in incremental gain
A crostically abridge the next impasse
Y et aim for pleasure, past the pools of pain.
P erhaps tomorrow hounds will catch the scent
O r overnight the mooring rope may slip

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poem by Diane Hine
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