Tag: W3

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A Hell of a Scary Crack

Sally12 Comments

I think you need to read yesterday’s Blather to understand what’s going on here. In short, this strange, strangely-formatted poem, is because I could hear it, almost like a song with three distinct voices. This is in response to the W3 prompt which called for using a line or two from Leonard Cohen’s Anthem.

Gosh, I apologize. If you were to meet me in person, you might think I’m normal. However, after reading this, you won’t think that at all.

Okie-dokie — Here goes:

Must be a hell of a scary crack

That’s how the light gets in
That’s how the light gets in

A hell of a scary crack

That’s how the light gets in
That’s how the light gets in

I was sittin’ with my coffee
In the hotel breakfast room
When a homeless guy walked past me
He was headin’ for the food, for the food

Must be a hell of a scary crack

That’s how the light gets in
That’s how the light gets in

Mmm… it smelled so delicious
He closed his eyes just to drink the smell in
But his hands were a’trembling greatly
Like a leaf at the end of a willowy limb

Must be a hell of a scary crack

That’s how the light gets in
That’s how the light gets in

Hunger moves a man to do a scary thing
He’d been thrown out before, thrown out before
Still he braved it all again
When he saw that crack in the door, crack in the door

Must be a hell of a scary crack

That’s how the light gets in
That’s how the light gets in

Lights and smells both beckon
But not to those who have everything
If we aren’t hungry, we miss them
We miss it all, yes, we miss it all.

Must be a hell of a scary crack

That’s how the light gets in
That’s how the light gets in



poetry

Olaf the Cat

Sally21 Comments

I
Don’t sing.
My cat of
many years, Olaf,
Is always glad
To sing, to meow and yowl and
act like he is big

The W3 prompt for the week is to write a poem based on the piece of artwork show above, and, if possible, make it a Golden Shovel poem.

In a “Golden Shovel” poem, the last words in each line are, in order, words from a line of another poem. I chose an e.e. cummings poem. And struggled. Or should I say, i struggled

be-
causeif
ever
there was a poet
whos(tyl)e
set him
a- – – -part
it
was

eecummings

I wrote about an entirely fictional cat. I’m not really happy with it –the poem, that is. About as happy as I would be if I had a cat that yowled all the time. But I wanted to participate. [sigh]

The poetry form is called a Cadence. The rules are that it be written in 7 lines, that the lines follow this syllabic pattern 1-2-3-4-4-8-5, and that the end words be strong (no articles or prepositions). Well, two out of three ain’t bad, right?

poetry

Bagpipes — A Love Story

Sally26 Comments

The bagpipes loved the little girl
O skirly, whirly, twirly, sklirl
He hoped that he could catch her eye
As she went traipsing merrily by
She barely slowed, and so he sighed,
O skirly, whirly, sklirl

’twas lonely waiting to be seen
O skirly, whirly, twirly, skleen
The blue-eyed girl was now long gone
Off in the distance he could hear the song
Of bagpipes playing nrrrnn nrrrnn nhawn
O skirly, whirly, skleen

But who should now come into view?
O skirly, whirly, twirly, sklooo
The little girl tugging her mother’s hand,
“Mama, I want to be in the band!
To play these pipes would be so grand!”
O skirly, whirly, skloo0

She picked him up, nestling him dear
O skirly, whirly, twirly, skleeer
“Please, can I take this home with me?”
Mom started to say, “Let’s wait. We’ll see.”
But didn’t. She heard the lassie’s plea.
O skirly, whirly, skleeer

And now the rest is history
O skirly, whirly, twirly, skleee
Each is the other’s sole desire
Scotland the Brave, Mull of Kintyre
Making music all day — a girl-bagpipe choir
O skirly, whirly, skleee


This is in response to the W3 prompt this week: Write a nonsense poem with at least one invented word of your own.

poetry

Pantoum for My Child

Sally13 Comments

I wish I could see inside your head
The swirl of thoughts all tangled there
I would take one tiny thread
I’d follow it to who-knows-where

The swirl of thoughts all tangled there
Twisted, matted, snarled, knotted
To follow one to who-knows-where
To open that which has clotted

Twisted, matted, snarled, knotted
Hopes and hurts and harms and healing
I want to open what has clotted
To understand what you’ve been feeling

Hopes and hurts and harms and healing
I wish I could see inside your head
To understand what you’ve been feeling
I would take one tiny thread

Any parent would understand this, but especially parents of older kids, parents of adolescents, parents of introverts, parents of kids who struggle for words.

This is in response to the W3 prompt — write a pantoum with at least four stanzas. A pantoum is a interwoven poem with repeats lines circling through the stanzas. Here’s the rhyme scheme for mine:

ABAB BCBC DCDC DADA

photography · poetry

Dragonfly

Sally16 Comments

Dragonfly
In my hand
Delicate
Fragile and

Beautiful.
I took you 
From the cat —
Still you flew.

I’m awed at
Your mettle.
You shimmer,
You settle,

And then you
Fly away —
The nothing
That you weigh

That fluttered
In my hand
Lingers — so
Fragile, grand

This is my second attempt at a Cethramtu Rannaigechta Moire, an Irish poetic form that requires 3 syllable lines in quatrains. The second and fourth lines rhyme.

It is in response to the W3 prompt this week from Sadje —

  • Write: a syllabic poem or: a poem in free verse;
  • Topic: “What inspires you to write?” or: “What inspires you to write poetry?”

It’s funny — but I think what inspires me to write a poem is often something that I can’t put into words. Like holding a dragonfly.

I scoured my photographs for dragonflies. Here are two:

family · poetry

Inheritance

Sally17 Comments

In
Eighteen
Ninety-four
Great-grandmother
Pedersen arrived
In the United States
From Denmark with three dollars
And four children under the age
Of seven to join her husband who
Was a tailor working outside Boston

Her super-power: hospitality
Her home became a hub where Danish
Women gathered to drink coffee
And converse with each other
Without all the mental
Gymnastics that go
With translation
They relaxed
And smiled
[sigh]

My
Mother
Received that
Super-power
Hosting dinners and
Welcoming newcomers
And people in need to our
Home, church, and the community
She made it look so very easy
I thought I had missed that DNA

One day I was sitting at my desk when
A person peeked around the corner
“Can I talk to you?” he asked me
“Of course,” I said, so he came
In the office and told
Me a small story
A wee sliver
Of something
That was
large

I
sat and
I listened
To his words, awed
That he had chosen
Me to share his thoughts with
One day a woman sat down
With me and she started to cry
She told a wee sliver of her story
And I listened, gently holding her tale

They come. I listen. So many people
Some sad, some angry, some joyful, some tired
They all share different stories
“You should get paid for this,”
One man said to me
He doesn’t know
It is my
Super-
Pow’r

This is a double etheree times three. Does that make is a sextuple etheree?

An etheree is a syllabic poem — 10 lines with syllable counts 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. A double etheree has 10 more lines, counting back down 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1.

For the record, I work at a gym and when I’m in the office, I sell memberships.

And listen.

This is in response to this week’s W3 prompt: Write a poem of any style and any length on the topic of “Power.”

Life · poetry

Rashness

Sally11 Comments

I was mad
He had done something
He oughtn’t
It caused work
Excess work for me, you know,
Now I have no time

Take a sec
Vacuum the carpet
Just sit and
Breathe, breathe, breathe
Go to his office to talk
Self-control takes time

When I’m rash —
Act impulsively —
Instead of
Taking time
Weakness rules instead of strength.
I need to be strong

This is in response to the W3 prompt this week:

  • Write a Shadorma of a minimum of 2 stanzas on the topic of strength (physical, emotional, mental, ethical, or of character…)
    • A shadorma is a poem comprised of six-line stanzas with a syllable count of three syllables in the first line, five in the second, three in the third and fourth lines, seven in the fifth, and five in the sixth.

This is also in response to a situation at work, where I chose not to immediately lambast the person who had caused the problem. I literally vacuumed my office and then sat for a few minutes before tackling the issue that needed to be dealt with.

The lesson for me (and maybe for you, too) — when frustrated and angry, it’s important to take a little time.

Waiting isn’t weakness; it’s strength.

Procrastination, however, is a different story.

poetry

Yoga Class

Sally10 Comments

Yoga class: “Take a deep breath in”
My lungs fill, inhaling slowly
The act of breathing is so holy
Inhale, exhale; there, time begins

Or does it stop? Air held within
Bronchial ducts, alveoli
Yoga class, restorative Yin
Lungs empty, exhaling slowly

Peace settles where tension has been
I engage mind-body wholly
On the floor, time passes slowly
Meditative haze, then again –
Yoga class: “Take a deep breath in”
My lungs fill, inhaling slowly

Yoga studio

This is my attempt at this week’s W3 prompt:

Write a sonnet or any other 14-line poem about “The concept of time and how it affects our lives.”

Side note from me: I got the 14 line part right and I said something about time. Does that count?

This is also my attempt at a Rondel. Lines 1-2 were supposed to be repeated at 7-8 and again at 13-14. I took a few liberties at the 7-8 version. I figure that I’m fairly new at these forms and can cut myself a little slack.

poetry

Rootedness

Sally15 Comments

While walking on the village streets
Showing a friend the sights and eats
I was struck once more
At my very core
For this shore
My heart beats

In response to this week’s W3 prompt: Write a poem in any style about a place that evokes emotion (a place where you find poetry) I wanted to somehow address the rootedness I feel toward where I live.

This is home. This is home. This is home.

  • River Street
  • Summer day
  • The Columbarium
  • Going over the bridge

Trying another Welsh form: Clogyrnach

poetry

On a Wire

Sally32 Comments

Five, six, seven on a wire
Whether to fly or stay, sway
With the breeze, watching the hawk
Soar and stalk mice on the brae

New word I learned this week: ekphrasis. It means “a literary description of or commentary on a visual work of art.”

The W3 prompt for this week was to write 1) an ekphrastic poem of no more than 15 lines inspired by the photo above, and 2) include the word “wire”.

I chose to have another go at the Awdl Gywydd form, a Welsh form with internal rhymes.

Then I tried to take my own photo of birds on a wire. Some days I see so many. Today, I spotted a lone red-winged blackbird.