Flickering on lanigerous mind’s screen slightly out of focus, hazy memories she inhales sharply the recollection of being blindsided by affection spurned lifts the veil of blurriness snippets of past haunt her monochrome life she waits impatiently for the credits to roll.
Chocolate eyes gaze steadily My eyes ask, “Me?” He thumps his tail My innards quail
It is colder than a witch’s teat Chilly poor feet Wait, my eyes plead He pays no heed
My eyes rebuking, out we go I can’t say no He lays warm head On raw feet dead
Written for dVerse. Today’s host, Grace, says: write the minute poem.
The elements of the Minute Poem are:
1. narrative poetry. 2. a 12 line poem made up of 3 quatrains. (3 of 4-line stanzas) 3. syllabic, 8-4-4-4 8-4-4-4 8-4-4-4 (First line has 8 syllables of each stanza. Remaining lines has 4 syllables in each stanza) 4. rhymed, rhyme scheme of aabb ccdd eeff. 5. description of a finished event (preferably something done is 60 seconds). 6. is best suited to light verse, likely humorous, whimsical or semi-serious.
“Yes, in the predawn black the slim slip of the waning moon.” Jim Harrison
At night my terrors are watered by my tears every passing second diminishing me I know not what the dawn will bring the fire that fed on the familiar wood is now all but a mere shadow along the bare willow boughs, wind sighs softly am pared beyond recognition my breath is slow tortured release the fire-folk I relied upon for company have all left. Leaving my slim sliver self shivering I want to shine fiercely like a flame does before being extinguished. The predawn black promises the pinkest dawn in its wake my destiny is to wane quietly.
Written for dVerse poetics. Today’s host, Linda, says: So today I am sharing with you lines from eight different pieces in the book Songs of Unreason. The challenge is to pick one line and use it as an epigraph for a poem inspired by the line. You may write your poem in any form you wish.
All alone, with my eyes closed I sense you quietly coming and sitting across I can feel your bourbon eyes intense with passion resting on me.
Startled, I open my eyes a curtain flutters, the cold draught makes me shiver and my lips quiver.
Written for dVerse. Today’s host, Merril, says: Use shiver–or some form of the word—in a poem of exactly 44 words. The form is up to you. Shiver in rhyme, or shiver in free verse. Shiver in the past, present, or future
we were young and the times were heady the future glowed rosily through the beauteous rose-tinted glasses as giddy-headed clouds raced against time we lay squinting at the sun lacing our fingers, weaving sugar-spun dreams
sadly we forgot to bottle and preserve those sunny times lugubrious clouds of discontent hang heavy hiding the affirmations badly needed harsh realities of living are the sodden blanket that leave us shaking and vulnerable sitting on the edge of twilight zone of living I wonder if the luxury of oblivion will envelop us if only for a while!
When we held hands we believed our destinies were entwined our paths were the same, so was our destination our eyes set on our goals.
The dreamer that I am was entranced by those I met on the way I wanted to play with the butterflies and sleep with the fireflies run on the dew drenched green grass and dance with the wildflowers ready to lie low and not rush past time; the journey and my follies were my guru.
The go-getter you are, you remained single-minded and focussed; not given to dawdling ready to postpone joy in favour of ambition oozing confidence, you moved ahead I fell back; our hands no longer entwined our paths became different.
Today you stand precariously on the twin peaks of success and loneliness surveying all below with suspicion and unease there is no room for happiness there and contentment is the price you paid for the top spot.
We have the freedom to choose our destiny but our choices define us; my journey, as important as the destination your destination more important than the journey two destinies entwined two hearts estranged.
When fractious clouds of uncertainty bellow and roar then quivering counsel timidly whispers and disappears
My heart, in dissonance with my mind, rip-roaringly points at you I surrender in peace to the vociferousclamour
You are the microcosm of all the learning that is there The minder of words, the doubt-tamer guiding me forever
Your dulcet tones are poetic melodies to my eyes Euphonious tonality smoothening harsh edges
Words gurgle happily as I turn the pages Sometimes yelling capitally to attract my attention
I beseech them to prettily embellish my writing They intone lazily it is banal and too simple!
Written for dVerse. Today’s host, Laura, says: Write a SOUND POEM which includes AT LEAST ONE from EACH of the FIVE HEARING CATEGORY SELECTIONS below: (reference the hearing words you chose in your post).
Looking at the young, fresh faces she felt a rush of enthusiasm. Teaching was not the occupation of her choice, but her love for literature and the challenge of teaching troubled teenagers had made it her vocation. In the quest to become a better teacher, she had become a learner again. She opened the book, glanced at their disinterested faces, then put it away.
“Come on, everyone! Let’s go out to the playground. And bring no book, for this one day we’ll give to idleness.”
They looked at her in surprise. One smart alec at the back remarked sotto voce, “I am sure she is quoting a poet or an author!”
As the backbenchers sniggered, the young teacher’s mocking voice rose over the hubbub.
” Can you identify the poet?”
The class erupted in laughter. She was relieved to sense a thawing in their response.
Written for dVerse. Today’s host, Ingrid, says: Use the line “And bring no book, for this one day we’ll give to idleness.” from Wordsworth’s ‘Lines Written at a small distance from my House…’ in a piece of Prosery. The rule is that Prosery should be no more than 144 words, excluding the title.
ben Alexander, who blogs at The Skeptic’s Kaddish, launched Poetry Partners a while ago, inviting fellow bloggers to send him a poem of theirs. He publishes it on his blog alongwith a personal poem inspired by each featured piece.
This is the poem I sent him.
I am a poem
I am a poem, read me syllable by syllable let the vowels roll around your tongue at will immerse yourself in the free flow of rhythm undulating whimsically in its own rhyme the meter; sometimes measured. But oft not!
Read me at leisure recite me aloud let me suffuse your entire being with joy come alive as you discover hidden nuances let my darkness illuminate your soul cry in empathy at my pain allow giggles to spontaneously erupt.
Don't try too hard to unwrap the enigma I am study me sip by sip then come back to gather more in gulps let the meanings remain couched in obscurity savour the beauty of words strung with care the more you imbibe the more you will come back addicted to unravelling me bit by bit
Decipher me at dawn devour me at dusk peruse me compulsorily as you breathe once you become one with me you will realise life is poetry to be carried in your heart.
A poem in two parts by ben Alexander of ‘The Skeptic’s Kaddish’
I. Blank Verse
The note was left taped to my computer screen; 'We've got your Verse,' it read, 'If you want her back, you'll do exactly as we say. We'll be in touch soon.' Poet that I am, I immediately knew contacting the police would bring about a cliché (actually... dare I say, 'prosaic'?) storyline. I'd have to free Verse myself.
II. Free Verse
I fancy myself a poet, even teaching my child to rhyme words in different languages, sometimes across different languages; words being the primary currency I p(l)ay with for understanding ~ pushing them into thin metal slots, pulling the little levers, watching as cheap balls with comprehension and assembly instructions roll their way around and out my mouth.
Smooth plastic capsules, with neat cracks through the middle, perfectly round, entirely unnatural, of course, but so easy to spit out through my teeth, lies that they are.
I've been trying to stuff foreign terms into vending machines, even filing them down to size - it never works for me.
Worse yet, I was once beyond excited to see a malformed plastic spheroid, dented into an uneven, ugly crescent, wobbling down the tube, but it got stuck halfway down, and the blasted machine wouldn't express it.