This was inspired by Chelsea Owens but only I am to blame. I wonder, does it have merit? Or should it have stayed locked up? Poetry is a difficult subject, like parental sex and dissing the host’s attempts to create the perfect meringue.If you get the the end and still have the will to type, let me know if any of it appealed, caught your imagination. Thank you. There will be a picture of Dog at the end as a sort of incentive…

(Written after a walk in the local park with Dog)

I love the fresh blue morning.


I stare until my eyes narrow.

How can I describe that blue?

The sky is so pure,

No smeary cloud-stains.

Why is it blue?

Something to do

With sunlight and spectrums?

I read that somewhere.

But not why it isn’t red or green.

I can only define Blue by comparison:

With eyes and seas,

And flowers.

Or emotion:

Pure joy.

Endless hope.

My mood is anything but blue.

No doubt, not sad, not that blue.

It’s a shame

That an innocent colour

Can be burdened thus,

Dumped with meaning.

Inspiration can seep away,

Like a colour left in the bright sun.

I move on

Trying to hold my mood.


Dog meets dog, sharing arses.

The other dog is taut with expectation:



Its wag, trigger ready.

Above something swoops

Distracting me.

Indistinct birds,

Floaters tainting the sky’s surface:

Macula avianism.

Squashed flies on the sky screen,

Stippling the blue.

Visual pathogens,

Spots of mold

On the perfection.

The other dog


Its owner scowls

Mouth gurns.

She chunters her distaste.

The low point of her day:

A good walk soiled.

My nod is ignored

My smile no consolation.

Only my own shit-sacking will do.

We leave, no common ground here.

For me, shit-sacking is oddly satisfying.

When it’s done

It means I’m free

To ignore Dog and enjoy my walk.

Both Dog and I are relieved


Playtime after maths;

Another task completed.


I stop, while Dog snorts a line

Of fox.

The Tree ahead

Is still Winter-dead

Its crown a brittle-crackled afro

Fracturing the sky, flaked, distorting the pure



Close up

The trees show their buzz cut of buds,

Fuzzy green hope.

I smile

Inspiration still pertains.

Dog’s getting high

And I wonder at those not dead twigs.

The Tree,

Dissected of leaves

And all that remains

Are veins and arteries.

Pumping sap,


Rising for spring

Churning with hope and lust.

Does the tree hope, lust

Maybe over decades?

A slow courting?

Does it know joy, despair?

Is the tree ever blue?

Or always brown and green?

Is the Tree inspired by spring?


Dog moves on, suddenly animated.

The lake is ahead,

Reflecting the tree

But not the sky.

It is murky confused

Sick sheen and turgid

Calm, ominous


Dog’s target

Two Herons


Contour the surface

Rippling with lazy meringues in peaty hues.


By his animosity.

Away into the sky,

Like slow waving

Royalty escaping their disappointed subjects.

Dog turns back.

His work done

The republic attained.

The deposed herons

Seek sanctuary elsewhere,

Their silhouettes fractured by the tree.

They are soon small Black dots

Dissolving into the Blue.

Dog shits

And I don’t have a bag.

I’m no longer free

Or relieved.

For me, no sanctuary

Incapable of doing my civic duty.

I’m black and blue.


Despair and depression.

Where did my inspiration go?

The sky is still blue.

I’ve just read him this poem…

About TanGental

My name is Geoff Le Pard. Once I was a lawyer; now I am a writer. I've published several books: a four book series following Harry Spittle as he grows from hapless student to hapless partner in a London law firm; four others in different genres; a book of poetry; four anthologies of short fiction; and a memoir of my mother. I have several more in the pipeline. I have been blogging regularly since 2014, on topic as diverse as: poetry based on famous poems; memories from my life; my garden; my dog; a whole variety of short fiction; my attempts at baking and food; travel and the consequent disasters; theatre, film and book reviews; and the occasional thought piece. Mostly it is whatever takes my fancy. I avoid politics, mostly, and religion, always. I don't mean to upset anyone but if I do, well, sorry and I suggest you go elsewhere. These are my thoughts and no one else is to blame. If you want to nab anything I post, please acknowledge where it came from.
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37 Responses to Inspiration

  1. Great Post.
    Thanks for sharing this post.

    Liked by 7 people

  2. Violet Lentz says:

    I loved it. I think you have a real penchant for poetry, especially this near prose story telling type poetry. And why wouldn’t you? Your storytelling prowess is unmatched…

    Liked by 7 people

  3. Ritu says:

    Where oh where does your mind Go His Geoffleship 😳😜

    Liked by 6 people

  4. Geoff, I don’t know anything about poetry, but I enjoyed this enormously. LOL.. and dog snorted a line of fox.
    Hugs on the wing!

    Liked by 6 people

  5. Keep going. This was a hoot.

    Liked by 6 people

  6. It was fun – and it doesn’t rhyme

    Liked by 6 people

  7. Some great lines here Geoff…………….. memo to self, always have poo bags!

    Liked by 5 people

  8. I doubt if the current Poet Laureate is overly concerned for his/her — don’t keep abreast of these matters — position, Geoff. There are, however, a few nuggets in there:

    * ,,,while Dog snorts a line / Of fox
    My Bess — see avatar — would be far more interested in rolling in it…

    * A good walk soiled
    Reminded me of a SPAMku I wrote more than 20 years ago:

    SPAM definition:
    “A good pork spoiled”–SPAM Clemens
    (AKA Mark Twain)

    [ But I would have thought that ‘Divested of leaves’ was what you had in mind, rather than ‘Dissected of leaves’. ]

    Liked by 6 people

  9. willowdot21 says:

    Strangely he does not look Impressed. I seriously doubt a seasoned dog walker like yourself could be caught short …bagless, dog poo unattended.
    I love the poem you have it nailed especially this style of prosetry.💜
    Ruby 💖 Dog.

    Liked by 5 people

  10. Now why did you not have a bag, Geoff? If you don’t get the prize for sheer cheek and wit, you will get it for length.

    Liked by 5 people

  11. I actually understand how your mood can go from up to down over the lack of a poo bag – it’s a dreadful feeling when you realise your dog, who has already deposited and used the final bag on the roll is about to drop another one……. Clearing the ground of my dog’s deposits is a matter of personal pride. I think this is a rather good poem – some brilliant descriptors going on and it pulled me along in much the same way a walk does, as attention flicks from one thing to another. I don’t know how many times I’ve been knocked out of my reveries about trees, birds, plants, shades of green by another walker with another dog, the bouncy greeting of a friend, a dog squatting………. it all made perfect sense to me. Good stuff!

    Liked by 4 people

  12. Widdershins says:

    Beautifully done … I got a deep sense of your inner world as you walked … and of course the bit about Dog snorting a line of fox was sheer brilliance! 😀

    Liked by 4 people

  13. I think ‘twould also be helpful to have someone else read it aloud to you, on a first read, for your next editing step.

    Liked by 4 people

  14. Pingback: Happy Second Blogiversary! | Chelsea Ann Owens

  15. antonia_ says:

    Wonderful photo and poem!

    Liked by 2 people

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