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Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

bonus post: a sestina

April, as you may know, is National Poetry Month, and in honor of the event, erotica/horror writer Bliss Morgan has set up NaPoMoFo on Google+. Every day she posts a set of words to kick off a poem (which can use one or more of the words, all the words, or none of the words). Today’s set of six words fell together as a sestina:

How could you allow yourself to be caught in a position so unsuitable?
Your downfall will be absolute
How very unwise! No matter his charm
no matter the glamor of the party
you should have allowed the night to expire
you should have been strong to resist

But youth and folly are hard to resist
Even when you’re with someone suitable
With a man like that, rules and prudence both expire
swept away in a cloud of Absolut
and wilder things, I’m sure, at that party
Of course you fell captive to his charm

He’s loaded with charm
he wags a finger and women don’t resist
I’m sure he’s had every girl at that party
It’s true he doesn’t care about money, or what’s suitable.
He wants control. It must be absolute.
He’ll smother you until you expire.

Believe me, child, fires such as these expire
What once delighted quickly loses charm
the loss you fear is not so absolute
Nor is desire so terribly hard to resist
It’s as easy to fall in love with a man who is suitable
as it is with a raffish rakish party

an impoverished illiterate ill-mannered party
whose lust for you will soon expire
he’ll think satin and mink isn’t suitable
for soccer games, and he’ll doubt the charm
of Versace, Gucci, and the other names you can’t resist
the death of love will be quick and absolute

Which do you prefer, love? Johnnie Walker, Abolut?
There’s even Dom P left over from the party.
You know I’m right, darling, please don’t try to resist
Chase your dreams before they expire
While you’re still young and full of charm
live your life to the fullest: that’s what’s suitable

give yourself to joy absolute before these tickets expire
let yours be the party, yours be the charm
they can’t resist you; your conquest will be most suitable

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poem for the day

At Sunset

 

you will die when the sun sets

beyond the sea of endless hope

when the shadow at your door blots all direction

and home becomes a blur

unremembered though you stand at its threshold and its pigs squeal all around you

though the smell and the taste and the touch are as near as your own skin

no matter how many times you click your heels

you will never find Oz.

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This is still not quite right. I don’t like the tercet and some of the lines are rough. But overall, I think it works. I wrote this for Bliss Morgan’s #Nightmare_Fuel project, based on the Day 3 picture. I can’t get a link to work — don’t know what’s wrong. If you search on nightmare fuel day 3, you can find it.

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They should not have left her there alone
with only the ghosts and the wolves
She should have played among the flowers
Until, flowering herself, she let love bloom
And gave her heart to love
As the prophet says, to leave father and mother.

She loved the tales told by her mother
Of the time when banners flew where towers now stand alone
Of the princess who died of grief and love
Leaving the ruins to be a den for wolves
How every spring when the lilac blooms
Her ghost walks and frosts the flowers

Where she has stepped, no fruit tree ever flowers.
“Do the shadows come for people, mother?
Do wolves spill our blood upon the blooms?”
“No, dear, never. Though the towers bloom alone,
God loves all creatures, even wolves.
He keeps all alive with His love.”

The fever came. It gave no thought to love.
Pale forehead, burning cheeks like flowers
Winter’s burning, the time of wolves.
“I hear them at the door. They’ve come for me, Mother.”
She held her tightly. “I won’t let you go alone.”
True she spoke. She went with Death, to where no blossom blooms.

In her hands they placed a single bloom
A hothouse rose, the precious reminder of love.
“Where are you, Mother? Why have you left me alone?”
On the snowdrift, the wolf’s fresh kill bloomed like a flower
She clung to the rose. “Oh Mother, Mother!
Don’t leave me here! Don’t leave me as food for the wolves!”

In the night she hears the howling wolves
Rising to run when the full moon blooms
Calling beneath the windows, “Oh Mother, Mother!
Hear me, Mother! How I cry out with love
and longing!” Her mother weeps over the decaying flower.
She sits in the kitchen and weeps alone.

Two ghosts walk, seeking love.
Frost blooms behind them and the flowers wither.
Her mother should not have left her alone.
#

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Poem

based on a photo prompt at Nightmare Fuel on Google+ that I can’t get to from here — it shows a sandstone statue of a boy’s head — it appears to have been repaired with concrete in two places. One strip goes where his mouth should be.

I am broken, it’s true
split open from heart to soul
my head cracked so everyone can see
the blood
the splattered gray matter
the shame

But why did they need to muzzle my silent screams?

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weekend haiku and tanka

A miscellany of this weekend’s haiku and tanka, in no particular order:

the language of geese
flying too high to be seen
do you understand

welcoming blankets
his hands, his mouth, familiar
the rhythm of the night

in the space
between night and day
we linger

Quadzilla* wakes up
kids stampede to the lift line
snowboards catch big air
pond ice too thin for skating
temperature rising fast
——————–
* Quadzilla is the name of the lower-mountain chairlift at Waterville Valley
———————

small creamy spider
centered on her sparkling web
waiting for her lunch

elegant tall woman
wasp-waisted means wasp-hipped too
her feet are tiny

the evening star rests
above the mountain’s shoulder
secret temptation

water always takes
the path of least resistance
flows around the rocks
evaporates in the heat
and falls to the mountaintop

hummus and crackers
chocolate-covered cranberries
lunch fit for a queen

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Ever want to write an epic poem?

Oh, I want to do this! National Epic Poetry Month in May. Write a 5000- line epic poem! Come on, you know you want to *g*

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haiku

the flowers of spring
aging, fading, edges torn
may yet bear good fruit

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