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.
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.
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.
“The sun is blocked by something and that makes the shadow.”
“There’s no sun inside and there are still shadows.”
“Okay — light is blocked, and that makes shadows.”
[quiet thinking]
“Light is a funny word, isn’t it, Mom?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Light is like a light bulb and shines, but it’s also like something that’s not heavy.”
“Those are called homonyms. Like ‘I’ [points to herself] and ‘eye’ [points to her eye].”
“But those aren’t spelled the same.”
“No, homonyms just have to sound the same. Sometimes they are spelled exactly the same – like a bat that flies and a bat that’s used in baseball. They are two very different things.”
[laughing] “It would be funny if I played baseball with a bat bat.” [flaps arms] “I found one yesterday.”
“Don’t touch bats if you find one.”
“Not even a baseball bat?”
“What kind of bat did you find?”
“A bat bat.”
“Don’t touch them. They carry rabies.”
“What’s rabies?”
“It’s a really bad sickness.”
“Like the flu?”
“Kind of, but –“
“WAIT! That’s a homo-thing! ‘Flu’ – like when I was sick, and ‘flew’ like the bat did.”
“The bat flew away? Did you touch it?”
“Dickie did.”
“Dickie?”
“The new kid. Richard. He wants to be called Dick.”
“I need to talk to his par–“
“WAIT! That’s a homo-thing, too! Dick, like his name and dick, like Mr. Dinkleheimer sometimes says about his –“
“Enough. Let’s talk about the shadows some more, okay?”
My contribution to this week’s Unicorn Challenge. The Unicorn Challenge is no more that 250 words based on the photo prompt.
I rather strayed from that photo prompt and tried to make my way back to it, but dog-gone these kids!
Of course, I didn’t get homonym-homophone right either. Don’t judge me.
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.
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.
There’s a poem I’ve read over every morning for the past week or so — mostly because I’m still not sure I’ve unpacked it. I probably never will. It’s called “No accident” by Norman MacCaig. Here are some bits from to give you the gist:
Walking downhill from Suilven (a fine day, for once) I twisted a knee…
I didn’t mind so much. Suilven’s a place … [where] a heaven’s revealed, in glimpses. Grace is a crippling thing. You’ve to pay for grace.
The heaven’s an odd one… …hiding Forevers and everywhere in every thing — including A two-mile walk, even, and a crippled knee.
You reach it by revelation. Good works can’t place Heaven… …in the hard truth that, if only by being First in a lower state, you’ve to pay for grace.
“You’ve to pay for grace.” I think those words bothered me, because Christianity teaches that grace is free.
But Sunday’s sermon was from 2 Corinthians 12 where Paul talks about his “thorn in the flesh.” I’m sure it wasn’t a twisted knee. I know the scholars propose an eye affliction. But I don’t think Paul is saying anything much different from Norman MacCaig, though, when he says that God’s grace is sufficient and that power is made perfect in weakness. (1 Cor 12:9)
My take-away from the sermon was this quote from Fr. Nathan — “Our weaknesses, our scars, our really big wounds — these are the places where God can work in our lives.”
I needed to hear that reminder. The challenges in our life are how we pay for grace — or God pays for it. It’s where He works.
Connections: yellow, purple, blue, green. No mistakes.
Crossword Mini: 56 seconds. Under a minute, but, dang, not much under a minute.
Dordle. Quordle. Septordle.
Sheesh. My back hurts from hunching over this phone.
I’m tired of these games — in more ways than one.
I walk over and check the monitors. Again. Nothing is arriving at 10:45 AM. Why did he give me that time?
It’s 11:15 now. The next arrival is noon. A few folks have trickled in to wait.
Stupid games. Stupid waste of time.
I should just leave. I should go for a walk. I should call him.
No. Way.
I am NOT going to call.
“Be there at 10:45,” he had said. It’s 11:22 now.
Scroll. Scroll. Scroll.
I’ve looked at everything on my phone 27 times.
The ball is in his court. I did my part. I’m here. He needs to show up.
Or call.
Good golly — why doesn’t he call?
It’s 11:28.
I look. A few more people have trickled in.
A guy gets out a guitar and starts strumming.
Another guy pulls bongo drums from his bag. I kid you not. Bongo drums. He starts playing.
A girl pulls out a whistle and starts playing.
Wait — I know that song.
A fiddle starts.
In he walks. Singing to me, “Will you marry me, lassie, at the Kirk o’ Birnie Bouzle?”
I start to cry.
“Sorry, I’m late,” he said.
Okay, okay — I know it wouldn’t be a guitar, but a bouzouki. And it wouldn’t be bongos but a bodhrán. A tin whistle — yes.
Honestly, I didn’t know where I was going with the story. Those really are word games that I play on my phone. I started writing about them — and the boredom of waiting.
Then about 223 words in, that song popped into my head. I kid you not.
Edit. Edit. Edit. Here’s what you get: 250 words of a marriage proposal that almost didn’t happen.
My response to the Unicorn Challenge — no more than 250 words based on the photo.
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.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 