Archive for the ‘Triolet’ Category

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New follower, abandon your white cross.

Upon the battleground which is this blog.

Gouge black heart, of impenetrable rock.

New follower, abandon your white cross.

Comprehending life, death, loves and loss

Through words of introspective dialogue.

New follower, abandon your white cross.

Upon the battleground which is this blog.

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© Paul Nichol.  2015

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The rising moon, the setting sun.

Around the fire, songs were sung.

With aching arms our tools were flung.

The rising moon, the setting sun.

The nights were ours, we crafted fun.

We laboured hard, our work was done.

The rising moon, the setting sun.

Around the fire, songs were sung.

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© Paul Nichol.  July 2014

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I have failed yet again, to change my ways.

Solitary habits, etched on my brain.

Social interaction a passing phase.

I have failed yet again, to change my ways.

With best of intentions I start new days.   

Eyes on the future, discarding chains.

I have failed yet again, to change my ways.

Solitary habits, etched on my brain.

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© Paul Nichol.  April 2014

A good read

Posted: January 19, 2014 in Poetry, Triolet
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Firm fingers run down your long slender spine

As your words enchantment and snare my mind

Holding you close and knowing  you’re mine

Firm fingers run down your long slender spine

How lucky am I to find you divine

After searching that bookshop, what a find

Firm fingers run down your long slender spine

As your words enchantment and snare my mind

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© Paul Nichol.  January 2014

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When flesh and bone was incinerated

As rockets exploded on our houses

The souls of the dead were liberated

When flesh and bone was incinerated

Are warfare ethics deliberated?

By fighters whose acts are celebrated

When flesh and bone was incinerated

As rockets exploded on our houses

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© Paul Nichol.   January 2014

Various poems can be found on my blog, please take a moment and explore.

The Farmer (triolet)

Posted: December 29, 2013 in Poetry, Triolet
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Sweat beads are mopped, from the farmer’s hot brow.

When ploughing his fields, when harvesting crops.

From planting his seed, to milking his cows.

Sweat beads are mopped, from the farmer’s hot brow.

His natural labours, instinctive know-how.

He gathers Earth’s bounties, to fill our shops.

Sweat beads are mopped, from the farmer’s hot brow.

When ploughing his fields, when harvesting crops.

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© Paul Nichol December 2013

Various poems can be found on my blog, please take a moment and explore.

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When I was fragmented, and no one came,

I listened to the ticking of the clock.

Were you refrained by a sense of your shame?

When I was fragmented, and no one came.

Through long lonely days, my world was unchanged,

Tick-tock.  Tick-Tock.  Tick-tock.  Tick-tock.  Tick-tock.

When I was fragmented, and no one came,

I listened to the ticking of the clock.

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© Paul Nichol December 2013

Various poems can be found on my blog, please take a moment and explore.