Sunday, September 25, 2011

Sestina

Attempt at a Sestina.  Be gentle.  I probably got it wrong.  :)

He said, 'Obsession.'
and I said, 'That's right up my alley.'
Method as a form of madness,
Calenture of the brain
and I've never been much for medicine.
I'm not looking for a remedy.

You offer me your remedy
to cure me of my obsession.
I swallow hard your medicine,
and find myself in your dark alley.
Thoughts warp inside my brain
and I wonder what is madness.

Sanity or madness,
gives your supposed remedy?
Take an image of my brain,
It's part of my obsession.
The way to get there is the alley.
What effect has had your medicine?

Bitter is this medicine,
inducing only madness.
I arrived through a back alley,
and now I need a remedy
to heal me of my obsession,
freedom for my brain.

I need freedom from my brain.
I need to know who has the medicine
to lighten this obsession,
this certain type of madness.
Who can offer remedy?
I've been searching in the alley.

I must escape this alley.
I must escape my brain.
Looking for a remedy
Looking for some medicine
to stop this sort of madness,
let go of this obsession.

The remedy's right up my alley.
to cease the obsession in my brain.
I'm in need of medicine, I have to stop the madness.


Submission at dverse- poet's pub

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Lost










Source: None via Nicole on Pinterest


Lost in your forest
If I see these trees as yours
I can then escape




submission at haiku-heights

Friday, September 23, 2011

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Bubble Vision

In bubble vision,
Reality, the vapor,
We create fiction




submitting at Poets United and Haiku Heights

Monday, September 19, 2011

My heart yearns

Light as a feather,
My heart yearns to be as such.
God, calm my spirit.

submission at haiku-heights

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Who was charmed?



I had intended to tame,
            to charm
but
    the strength of a snake cannot be diminished and now the moon's weak light, all I have to see by.
                                                                                  Who was charmed?
                                                                                    What was conjured?

submitting at Magpie Tales

Bold

Bold is the ocean,
Bold, too, the land she tramples,
I, timid as sand.

All Else Corrodes

Do not deteriorate me into a poem.
Yes, I move.  I am
          Moved but I do not ebb and flow by your
          Moods. 
I remain intact despite your efforts at reduction. 
I am truth and if the image
 is distorted, it’s your mirror that is broken. 
                                                                     Beauty cannot be perverted, spoiled or defiled. 
                                                                                                                                     It is
 as I am.
Man’s depravity, adultery has nothing to do with me. 
        Stain not
my words. 
All else corrodes but I cannot be shaken.
                                   The world lays waste, cities crumble,
Motheaten.
     Time
            Eats only man.
              And your poem - faulty, rusted.
I am not a poem. 
I am the Poet.

September haiku

September comes soft.
Subtle, yet I know her scent.
She sings to me joy.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

A sensation, if you will

I have this feeling, a sensation, if you will.
                                                 You touch me and the impression left
                                                                                                    lasts for days, wearing a hole in my skin,
                                                                                                                                                    my heart.
I stay in bed when I wake to let it linger.  If my eyes stay shut, you're still here.
    The sun rises and my vision fades.
                  I stretch, unable not to, like a cat and out,
                         through my limbs, my fingers, you move, back into your own world.
                         The world where
you and I do not exist
                        together.

Birth

Slippery and wet,
Furious yet
At the perceived indignity of birth.

Soon, wails die,
You’re resigned to sigh,
As I whisper to you of your worth

And I’ve waited so long,
To hear the song
That I know your life will compose

Only your arrival,
That cry of survival,
Could inspire such glorious prose

But for now just rest,
Knowing the best
Days, are so well before you

I will hold you tight,
And if I have to - fight
To give you all that’s true

For there were months I prayed
Fearing you’d fade
Before you came to be

But I held on to hope,
And He helped me cope
And now through you, it’s Him I see

Only His glory,
Could weave such a story
Of miraculously answered prayer

That’s why now,
I kneel and bow
And place you back in his care

He sent you to me,
And now I can see
Life holds no more meaning than this:

That you are His child
But mine for a while
So I promise, not a moment, I’ll miss





Thursday, September 15, 2011

I'll Wait





I'm not going in those woods tonight.
I may not ever.
I'll wait.
Wait until the draw is undeniable.
Wait until the strongest creature in there
comes and takes my hand.
I want, I need that protection.


Linking up at Poetry Jam.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

The Story


Written for my teenage niece:





The story is of old.
 Boy meets girl.
Girl gets hurt.
Life goes on.
The story is of old.
The plot
       Persists,
 Albeit, thickening,
Thinning by reader’s interpretation, culture’s translation,
                                      Still passing down like a sin
Generation to generation.

It is read, heard, told, seen, felt, and witnessed.

Tellers and listeners alike, each character,
                Author, villain, hero—all have sought
                     to change its ending but though
                     the setting, the circumstances,  these, may alter, nevertheless, the denouement wavers not.                                          

He said, she said,
His fault, her fault,
He hungered, she denied,
She thirsted, he fought,
He didn’t fight, she cried
He died, never though to self.

And the villain slithers away, unperceived.

If you know this story,
Do Dive in.  Absorb, experience, turn the pages, listen attentively to
                                                                  the words.

Are you brave or wise enough to try
and end it?

It is a mystery, a romance, a comedy, a drama, a tragedy but never a farce.

One said,
one wanted,
one fought ,
one cried,
one died. 

He is the True Hero.
He is not a boy.
He is a lover.
He became a man.
He was and is
the beginning
and the end.




Monday, September 12, 2011

Rewrite


The Write on Wednesday Rules: Get creative with the exercises. Don't worry too much about right or wrong. The aim is to Get Writing. Do try to visit the other writers linking up and leave a comment. You can grab the Write on Wednesday button from my sidebar.

Write on Wednesday Exercise 14 - The Mighty Mighty Rewrite...
Zanni: I did a workshop with literary author Mj Hyland, who teachers Masters in Creative Writing at Manchester University. She asked us to choose our favourite book, take the first paragraph and then write our own content into the paragraph, keeping the structure, tone, language etc. It's really helpful!

No time limit. Let's keep up the focus on making each word count. Ready? Set? Write!




Original:

By bedtime all the faces, the voices, had blurred for Charlotte to one face, one voice. She prepared herself for bed, very slowly and deliberately, cleaning her teeth with the new green toothbrush, undressing awkwardly because she did not like to hide herself in the washing-cubicle with her fellow new girl, Susannah; but she was on the other hand much too shy and strange to undress as openly as the other three, Vanessa, Janet, and Elizabeth.  Vanessa wandered about for ten minutes at least, in just her vest and navy blue school knickers.  She had freckles all over legs.  Charlotte had never seen anyone with freckled legs before.

Mine:

By bedtime all the faces, the voices had blurred for Charlotte to one face, one voice.  She prepared herself for bed, very slowly and deliberately, but struggled to keep her heavy eyes open as she cleaned her teeth with the new green toothbrush, undressing awkwardly because she did not like to hide herself in the washing-cubicle with her fellow new girl, Susannah; instead she changed into her nightie in the open room but with her front to the wall for  she was much too shy and strange to undress as openly as the other three, Vanessa, Janet, and Elizabeth.  Vanessa wandered about for ten minutes at least, in just her vest and navy blue school knickers.  She had freckles all over legs.  Freckles all over her arms and face, as well.  Charlotte had never seen anyone with freckled legs before.  Charlotte tried not to stare.

(From Charlotte Sometimes by Penelope Farmer.  My favorite book as a child.)


Write On Wednesdays

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Art

She grabs her pencils of many colors and she grabs their essence, adding randomness.
 Her hand flies almost as
quickly as her muses
                     move and she finds freedom
                               as never before.

The hues no longer harness but rather create a chaos
            she then tames.
            She lets go of all preconceived ideas and rules, allowing the paper and the medium to discover treasures, stories
     and hidden meanings.

Her heart
has opened to a novel joy; one that comes from within, or maybe from above.

The settings-normal, sometimes mundane- home, space, but the space is theirs.
Where they laugh, talk, eat, play, learn, sleep and she captures its life, its glory.
They compose their songs and she plays them with her colors.

In their gracefulness, she recognizes His supreme grace and now she believes if He can do through her,
    He can do for her.



 He can make art out of what she cannot yet see.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

We, poems

We, poems.
Do we know it? 
How like prose transformed to poetry with flourish, with flowering words,
                                                                                We, too may bud and blossom. 
                                                                                               
                                                                                                As a poem may both bludgeon
  Or bolster beauty,
                So, too,
                 Our words, our lives speak out and over creation,
selves created, selves creating chaos, peace, death or life. 
The poem sees what we seek, expresses concepts like eternity, expands on ruminations of reality,
transports us to where the Poet placed us. 

We, poems of infinite form and choice, yearn to know the Poet’s soul.
Grappling with lines or years, we portray profundity, pose and answer questions of the deep as we are
all the while
stilled or shaken
in or by a poem.