Category: poetry

poetry

In my hand

Sally9 Comments

The nothing weight of a bird
(the word is zero zilch nil)
In my hand, I thought it dead
But its head moved. Later still

The indigo bunting flew
Brilliant blue away on wing
Wonder, marvel, such splendor
I surrender to this thing

This idea that beauty
(nature’s duty) is oft found
In small overlooked moments
Whose components astound

When examined or seen
Like the green praying mantis
Spindly legs folded in front —
A hunt? Or holy practice

The wooly bear in my palm
A psalm of security
As it curls up –in that pose
Choosing to trust surety

I would get it ‘cross the road.
I sing an ode to efts (or
Are they newts?) turtles, toads
Crossing roads. Yes, I adore

The fact that I can hold them
Avoiding mayhem of cars
Moments of peace in my hand –
So grand – if we but stop, ours

This is a Welsh form: Awdl Gywydd (pronounced “ow-dull gee-youth”)

  • Four lines
  • Seven syllables per line
  • The final syllable of the first and third lines rhyme with the 3rd-5th syllable of the following lines
  • The second and fourth lines rhyme.

It’s my response to the W3 prompt this week. Selma Martin (the poet of the week) challenged us to write a poem of any form on the theme of the beauty and perpetuity of the natural world that surrounds you. I am a nature-rescuer, in my own very small way, helping small cross the road on a daily basis, and very occasionally, like the indigo bunting, being surprised at life where I assumed death.

Faith · poetry

In Church

Sally11 Comments

Praying in a pew on well worn kneeler
Darkness flickers while light streams
Sinner. Beloved. Which?

That shadow in the back — did I see something?
Tiny glimpse of disquiet
Lurking, lurking, lurking

Yet, there is light casting rainbow colors
Through tow’ring stained glass windows
Overwhelming peace

Praying in a pew on well worn kneeler
Tiny glimpse of disquiet
Overwhelming peace

This is my response to this week’s W3 challenge — to write a Garland Kimo on the theme of good vs evil.

The ‘Kimo’ is a short syllabic poetic form of three lines. The syllable count per line is 10/7/6.

Also, the kimo is focused on a single frozen image (kind of like a snapshot). So it’s uncommon to have any movement happening in kimo poems.

The ‘Garland Kimo’ is a series of four ‘Kimo’ verses, in which the fourth Kimo verse is composed of lines taken from the previous three Kimo verses, using the 1st line from the 1st Kimo, the 2nd line from the 2nd Kimo, and the 3rd (last) line from the 3rd Kimo.

    Earliest Memories · family · poetry

    One fish, two fish

    Sally21 Comments

    You may have tangible wealth untold;
    Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
    Richer than I you can never be–
    I had a Mother who read to me.

    ~~ Strickland Gillilan

    My mother read to me.
    She read and read and read.
    She taught me to read, maybe so I would stop the pestering.
    One memory, small but big, was a time I asked her to read One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish
    For the 729th time
    And she sighed, like she didn’t really want to read it, but she did.
    I loved this book.
    It wasn’t the intricate plot.
    It was rhyming words, silliness, and a mother who read it to me over and over.

    One fish
    Two fish
    Red fish
    Blue fish

    Love to look (fish)
    In a book (fish)

    Love to read (fish)
    “MORE!” I plead (fish)

    Snuggle, snuggle next to Mom
    Dr. Seuss? He is the BOMB!

    Reading ’til my eyes grow bleary
    Marguerite Henry, Beverly Cleary
    Jim Kjelgaard, H. A. Rey
    I think I could read books all day

    Late at night, late at night
    I get out my big flashlight
    Hiding underneath bedsheets
    I wander down literary streets

    Mixed Up Files,
    Desert isles,
    Big Red, Misty
    Bring me smiles

    It all began with
    One fish, two fish
    My love for reading
    Grew and grew (fish)

    The W3 prompt this week is to base your piece, a mix of prose and poem, on a childhood memory. I remember my mom reading to me.

    SCN_0276
    Peter, Mom, and me
    poetry

    Garden Fresh

    Sally18 Comments

    Summer foods
    Summer eats
    Fresh wholesome
    Tasty treats

    Green beans – yum!
    Dangling down
    Pick and eat
    Best all ’round

    Cucumber
    Love to munch
    Garden yield
    Fresh raw [crunch]

    Yellow squash
    Sliced, sauteed
    Seasoned well
    Makes the grade

    Corn on cob
    Freshly picked
    Butter, salt
    So perfect

    Summer foods
    Summer eats
    Fresh wholesome
    Tasty treats

    This poem is a Cethramtu Rannaigechta Moire.  I can’t pronounce it, but I can tell you that it’s an Irish poetic form that requires 3 syllable lines in quatrains. The second and fourth lines rhyme.

    The W3 prompt this week is to write a food-related poem in any form. Okay, I thought, I’ll just write down everything I eat for the day and make a poem about it. Here was my first verse:

    Farmstand egg
    Whole wheat toast
    Smoked Gouda
    It’s the most

    But I realized that almost everything else I ate was garden-related, so I nixed my egg sandwich and just put verses in that involved fresh produce.

    fiction · poetry

    Cloudy Gray Dullness

    Sally11 Comments

    The sky was a cloudy gray dullness making dreary the town.   
    The sun in that nondescript dismal wore no smiley face but a frown   
    The road was a convoy of autos over the drab green moor,   
    And the snake oil man came driving—
    Driving—driving—
    The snake oil man came driving, up to Hotel Moderne door.

    He’d a cowboy hat on his forehead, a bolo below his chin,   
    A coat of angus leather, and Levis of blue denim.
    They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots had those pointy toes.   
    And he drove his Lexus Hybrid,
    His shiny red Lexus Hybrid,
    His brand new Lexus Hybrid, thus none could admire his clothes.

    Through the streets he piloted and steered his pretentious wheels.
    He waved out the window and honked his horn, but no one fell head over heels.   
    He parked his car at the hotel, and who should be waiting there –  
    But the town’s lone policeman,
    Jeff, the only policeman,
    Ready to write a citation and do it with quite a flair.

    The con artist’s brow – it furrowed – as he looked at the cloudy sky
    Then looked at the Jeff, the policeman. “I’ve got something you want to buy. 
    It’ll make the sky turn sunny on such a dismal day.”  
    But Jeff wrote out a citation
    A rather costly citation
    Yes, Jeff wrote out a citation that the shyster had to pay.

    What’s the citation for, you ask? Could be a bunch of different things. You know the type.

    Honestly, I don’t know though. I write not knowing where I’m going. Then that dang 250 word limits bites. I hit 227 words and knew I couldn’t squeeze another Highwayman verse in with only 23 words remaining.

    Yes, this is my contribution to the Unicorn Challenge. Write no more than 250 words using the photo prompt.

    My apologies to Alfred Noyes who wrote the amazing melodramatic poem, “The Highwayman,” the first long story poem I fell in love with and memorized.

    poetry

    Hip Pain Sucks

    Sally11 Comments

    When I rise up from sitting down to standing
    My hip protests, “No! No! You can’t do that!”
    But I’m active — and I’m sick of where I’ve sat
    I actually love the physically demanding!
    My hip protests, “No! No! You can’t do that”
    When I rise up from sitting down to standing

    This was a tough challenge for me! The W3 challenge this week is to write a biolet. A biolet is a six line poem in which the first two lines are repeated as the last two lines, however in reverse. The rhyme scheme can be expressed as ABbaBA (with the capital letters representing the repeated lines).

    Additionally, Sadje challenged us to use the theme of love/hate. I love being physically active. I hate the way this stupid hip pain is keeping me from being as active as I usually am.

    poetry

    Kittens?

    Sally9 Comments

    It hit me when I saw them play
    That fuzzy tumbling adorable ballet
    Of baby animals. I was smitten
    But — they’re just a kittens!

    Okay — not kittens. Tiny webbed feet
    Downy feathers, little bills, complete
    The picture — Gosh! I’m smitten!
    They COULD be a kittens

    Actually, I could call them a litter
    But they’re a brood, all a-skitter
    In the lake. I’m smitten
    But no — not kittens!

    These ducklings make me laugh and smile
    No agenda. No politics. No guile.
    Just joyful play. I was as smitten
    As if they were kittens.

    I’ve been swimming in the lake. Of course, I can’t take pictures of the ducklings while I’m swimming, but sometimes when I see them, all I think is that they’re just like kittens — except they don’t have fur and claws and whiskers. Instead they have fuzzy feathers, webbed feet and bills. Other than that they’re pretty much exactly the same.

    This is in response to David’s W3 prompt to write a poem about something that amuses you. Ducklings amuse me. So do kittens.

    poetry

    The Story of a Clock

    Sally17 Comments

    There once was a clock FULL of faces
    In a restaurant — sheesh — of all places
    So loud and so rude
    While folks ate their food
    Non-existent was homeostasis

    So the chef there (whose name was Bill)
    Finally reached his fill
    Of its public emotions
    (louder than oceans)
    That he “accidentally” dropped it on the grill

    As the clock sizzled and screamed
    Bill literally stood by and beamed
    Ahh — peace at last
    (It happened quite fast!)
    Ambiance returned, redeemed

    Well, look at me — whipping a limerick or three on the day the prompt was posted.

    This is in response to the W3 prompt — and what a great one it is! — to write a limerick based on the photo prompt.

    poetry

    (not really) a Cento

    Sally11 Comments

    i have never traveled

    So much depends
    Upon
    The fog
    a ribbon of moonlight
    the dew on the morning grass
    the snow carefully everywhere descending

    somewhere, gladly beyond
    a smaller gift — not the worn truth
    here is the deepest secret nobody knows
    the world offers itself to your imagination

    Line 1 and Line 8 — e.e. cummings — together these two lines make one complete line “somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond”

    Lines 2 and 3 from a William Carlos Williams’ poem that nobody understands but is forced on high school students across the USA.

    Line 4 Carl Sandburg — first line of the first poem I remember intentionally memorizing

    Line 5 Alfred Noyes — not a full line, but from The Highwayman, the first poem I voluntarily memorized just because I liked it and was smitten by the tragedy of the story. Anne of Green Gables also memorized it, but I didn’t even know AoGG existed at the time.

    Line 6 Billy Collins — not a full line, but from Litany — just a poem I love

    Line 7 e.e. cummings again

    Line 9 also Billy Collins — not a full line, but from The Lanyard — a poem one of my sons sent me for Mother’s Day one year.

    Line 10 e.e. cummings — I LOVE e.e. cummings

    Line 11 Mary Oliver — not a full line from Wild Geese — a poem one of my sons read at my father’s funeral

    A weak attempt at the W3 prompt this week: Write a Cento on the them of Love.

    A cento is a poem formed of lines from poems written by others. I didn’t use whole lines most of the time.

    poetry · swimming

    Where I learned to swim

    Sally12 Comments

    Those twenty
    Yards – chlorinated plenty –
    Were my haven after school.
    Cool

    Wet refuge
    After the social deluge
    Of people pressure and the strife —
    Life!

    Yes, water
    Is life-giving. The hotter
    The peer interaction hash
    [splash]

    The increase
    In joy! To dive in, release
    All the heavy weary stress –
    Yes!

    Go swimming!
    When your day has been brimming
    With all life’s too-muchness – get
    Wet.

    This is my response to the W3 prompt this week which is to compose an ekphrastic poem inspired by any image of a body of water (ocean, waterfall, lake, etc.). The Poet of the Week (Sarah David) also wanted us to include the image that served as inspiration.

    The photo is from the pool where I learned to swim. The pool itself is long gone, converted into office space. When I walk past that building, I try to remember what is was like inside, but it’s a struggle. I can’t picture the pool.

    Then, I found that photo in an old yearbook at a used bookstore. The picture is at least 15 years older than I am, but the memories that flooded over me when I saw it — well, let’s just say I HAD to buy that yearbook for a ridiculous price for that one picture. That pool was such a happy place for me.

    The poem is an Irish form called Deibide Baise Fri Toin. It’s made up of quatrains with an aabb rhyme scheme. Syllable count 3-7-7-1. Lines one and two rhyme on a two-syllable word; lines three and four rhyme on a monosyllabic word.