Tonight, Frank is serving behind the bar at dVerse Poets Pub, asking us to provide an acrostic poem (you’ll just have to follow the link and read his descriptions). I wrote this at work today, and think it’s just fine in its original state. Contact me if you need a translation!
“If you board the wrong train, it is no use running along
the corridor in the other direction.” — Dietrich Bonhoeffer
CollegeHumor
Seven days I pondered this,
And nothing’s going to stop me now,
As I wax poetic on my happiness.
Seven days I labored hard
And no release did I ever feel.
So I consulted the muse of Abelard.
She said, “Remember the word, ‘Bliss!'”
I blame this on the letter M. M is for Monday, Middle School, and many, many synonyms that beg to be utilized… derivative as they are.
Björn is hosting Quadrille Night on dVerse Poets Pub, asking us to bring bliss to the fore. What for? For the sake of bliss; what more? Join us!
“We are caught in the devil’s bargain.” – J. Mitchell
Woodstock
Those on the left gather manure
And the right mounds up scat.
Those who serve as the chorus
Pile more on top of that.
We take it all in in noisy swallows,
Take in every morsel they serve.
Turn the wheel as far as it allows
and the ship of state will barely swerve.
If Adam hadn’t taken the fruit
they wouldn’t be blaming Eve.
And we wouldn’t have all these
awful, fucking political poems!
photo by Charley
I spent part of my childhood in the home of living history — people I referred to as “Grandpa and Grandma,” although they were not in any way related to my family. They never were mindful of growing old; never embraced the idea of “graceful aging.” They were only in their nineties after all! As I listened to their lives’ stories, I took in the amazing beauty of their parchment faces and hands.
This is for them.
My skin is paper.
Once was fine linen.
Inked scratches —
falls, bumps, scrapes.
Lines of epic battles
waged against antagonistic
kittens.
It turned in summer
to rice paper’s burnt umber
haiku that faded
‘Tis parchment now,
homemade, rough. Writing
is difficult to read across
such an imperfect surface.
But memory holds
what cannot be read
of the better, happier writing.
L. Burton — devious as she is — posted a half-sestina as her challenge piece for Jilly’s August Casting Bricks Challenge. Not that I’m not up to the task….
wikipedia
Sometimes those lemons that are squeezed from life
can leave a sour taste in the mouths of children
and adulthood thrusts upon them less time
than they had before to play and dream.
What they wouldn’t give for some special words
to carry with them, to hold and treasure.
Like the attic trunk overflowing with treasure
immeasurable memories before life
became chaos, before silence was words
before the steely grip of a child’s
nightmares tangled with hopeful dreams,
tripping along with the angry flow of time.
Resilient are they, and know in time
the importance of what’s to be treasured;
tap dance on the devil’s schemes, dreaming
on pale blue skies, contemplating life
as only the wonder of a child
can bring. Chalk-dust scribble all the words.
When mystery meets meaning, say the words,
the ones that had been trapped in time.
Amber-bound fossils. Children
who once upon a time were. Treasure
every coo-coo-clock crisp of life.
Treat life not so lightly, but dream
of playground chaos. Dream
those now nearly sacred words:
Hopscotch, Jump Rope. Before life
intruded, adulthood stole golden time.
It is chalked memories we treasure.
Remember what it was like to be children?
So much leaves a sour taste, children!
So long since we could play and dream.
Dreams we carry, hold and treasure.
What we wouldn’t give for some healing words!
Adulthood has thrust upon us, taking time
to deliver lemon upon lemon – a lemonade life.
Why are children infected with life?
Why do our dream bubbles empty with time?
We search for lost treasure, gaining only words.
photo by Charley
Our days of release
are uninspiring,
dusty cotton gray.
I recline half conscious,
murmur my desire:
describe without descriptors
the roll of the pond,
the nod of the trees.
This is my half-poem challenge for Jilly’s August Casting Bricks Challenge. To participate, find the link on the right-hand side of Jilly’s home page and read the directions. All are welcome!
This deserves a second look. Don’t go into sing-song as you read this… pay attention to what’s happening in the wording.
Written for: dVerse Poets Pub – Poetics: Musical Muse (posted by Mish)
Today for Poetics, I am asking you to choose some lyrics, preferably one line from a favorite song and grow your own poem from it. You are not limited to the original theme of the song. Instead, forge your own poetic path. Be serious or silly. Just be sure to highlight the line(s), giving credit to the song and artist.
She has diamonds on the soles of her shoes,
spotlight swirling as she moves–
dancing girl.
She glitters, she glows like a new moon,
only time she’s not consumed–
dancing girl.
Music lifts her to another plane
where she can put aside her pain–
dancing girl.
Now she’s spinning, a diamond top,
but avert your eyes when the music stops–
dancing girl.
(from Paul Simon’s, Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes)
Source
Darkest hours Labor pains
Patiently pacing Wanting to cuss you!
Dim-lit dawn Not again!
Life-embracing Celibacy!
Bald cry echoes Push one more time.
Through the walls One last time!
First born child’s Placed on me.
Entrance call. Precious life!
This is my attempt at completing Alison’s challenge for Jilly’s August Casting Bricks Challenge. To participate, find the link on the right-hand side of Jilly’s home page and read the directions. All are welcome!
Nymphe by Gaston Bussière
Lady loved the plants’ light green
With flowers brightly red.
Her face angelically serene
Had leaves to shade her head.
Desert days, her stems unbent;
Life’s water through her flows.
Sweet-talking plants her days are spent.
Smiles’ light: the flower grows.
This is my attempt at completing Frank’s second challenge for Jilly’s August Casting Bricks Challenge. To participate, find the link on the right-hand side of Jilly’s home page and read the directions. All are welcome!
Life in Portofino 