Writing poetry is never easy.
Starting has always been hard.
Ideas rarely flow smoothly
Distractions leave the paper marred.
Thoughts confuse the writing
And never let me think.
Contradictions result from this
And drive me to the brink.
Meter and tone must be perfectly right
And rhyme must be even better.
“Proper Form” should be used,
On down to every letter.
The most difficult part of all
As some may quickly see,
Comes when trying to finish.
It is to end my poetry.
C-ontemplating
H-eart's
E-choed
R-hythm
R-ecollects
Y-our
E-xperiences
S-o
T-he
R-eminiscence
E-difies
L-onely
L-ife
A-new
©bfa051425
Monocrostic (Birthday of Cherry L. Estrella)
In twilight’s hush, where dreams commence,
I wandered lost in limerence.
A glance, a spark, a breathless flame,
Yet never once he spoke my name
Love lived in ache, not permanence.
Who am I to wake a beast
Dressed up in stark reality?
For all the signs I could not read
And all the signs I did not see,
Love left within a vacancy.
Who am I to stir the storm beneath
A fragile mask, a velvet sheath?
I danced with ghosts in memory,
Chased echoes in the elegy.
Love, once a fire, now absentee
A whisper lost to vacancy.
I sould not stop for Death—Impatience—
Spurred my footsteps on—
His carriage lingered at the gate—
But I had long since gone—
--
The daisies whispered at my heels—
The wind implored me stay—
Yet Time unbuttoned from my grasp—
And swept the road away—
--
I met the dawn with breathless haste—
Too swift to turn—too late—
A sentence or two, nothing more.
Five rhymes, and then back out the door.
A meter that’s strained,
Some topic profaned:
Ah me! What’s a limerick for?
Peter, Peter Pumpkin eater,
I wish I never heard of meter.
Lots of books, lots and lots of books
ISBN numbers and the special book-calling in style
Once after reaching puberty, how to see Maria Shriver
is among these, (almost a right-angle question).
After liquor, a loud unspoken indecisive moment to
decide on portion of sugar and milk.
I recalled, totally two passenger moments with two celebrities
The husband of one went to Cann festival.
Another close to the heavenly "Wadood"
One of them pressed the emergency button, too!
As the lift got stuck, for a moment or two.
How to tell the lift or the lifted high in the past
Not to waste time anymore!
Nothing is here, anyway!
A very novice poet am I,
a fledgling, just learning how to fly.
My thoughts may climb as I flap my wings
but my anchored feet to this earth still clings.
I hope in time these wings won't teeter
and I can soar in a different meter.
Today I feel iambic! I would say
of all the meters, I like it the best.
An iamb starts with some soft sound to say
then ev'ry second syllable is stressed.
Trochees likewise, alternate their stresses;
even-numbered syllables are muted.
Nowhere near as popular (my guess is) -
Trochee fans, though, fervently dispute it.
Feet are the units of meter - such fun!
Dactyls have syllables STRESSED/, un-/, and un-.
"T'was the Night Before Christmas" is in Anapest:
that's a foot with three syllables: un-/, un-/, and
STRESSED.
The meter is the pattern of the beats within a line
"Iambic" and "Heptameter" describe this line just fine.
Anapestic Tetrameter: four anapests;
and the best part of THIS lecture series? No tests!
Trimeter has three feet
Tetrameter has just four feet
Pentameter adds one foot, making five
Hexameter adds one: six feet in this beehive
Heptameter has seven feet, but now it's getting late;
and so I'll close with this (you may have guessed):
Octameter has eight!
written 1 July 2023
Cadence
Nature dances in the cadence of grace
In hypnotic snows descending
Or raindrops steady patter
In symphonies of metered tides
That match the rhythmic heartbeat
Drawing spindrift of the heart into fusion.
Grace never slumbers in hibernation,
Nor does the pulse of consecrated mercy sleep
Abiding in the orbit of the seasons
Harmonic vibrations of celestial seeds
Flow from the eternal’s pulsing passion
In steady beats of melodic call and respond.
Grace breathes in measured breaths of compassion
In the tempo of prevailing winds
In sync with chirping poetry of avian songs
Like forgiveness breathing in then out
In even patterns of enduring peace
Nature dances in the cadence of grace.
2-3-23
Contest: C Words
Sponsor: Constance La France
I truly apologize to any reader.
I've run out of change for my poetry meter.
Please send me some quarters or a quartette.
The meter maid has not been by yet..
Life is a journey
It is not a hundred meter dash
It is a marathon of curves and twists
That unfolds in stages
Every phase serves a purpose
In the university of life
No matter how brilliant you are
You cannot be given double promotion
You must undergo and pass every course
For every course is for a purpose
As you ride through life stop-overs
Refuse to be stuck at red lights of life
Keep your eyes on the ultimate price
Be focused and resilient
Persist and become winners
Quitters can only lose
Keep your hands fasten on the plough
Let go only when you try just one more time!
Ruled by Meter, Ruled by Rhyme
(A Poet of “What’s Next”)
I love both metered verse and rhyme, the discipline they bring
that guides the output of my muse (their voices help heart sing
without restraint). They elevate mere prose, grant harmony
to speech that gives it shine. They decorate mind’s symphony.
Free verse, of course, inhabits space, mysterious this tide
that sweeps the shore of consciousness; muse-slave, its currents hide
fact gravity enslaves us all. No atheist lends voice
to protests that Its Will’s not fair! Does Truth give one a choice?
How silly is the vanity, that God does not exist,
while we sing ‘truth’ like troubadours to ONE that can’t be kissed?
Should heart prove greatest fool of all, still infinite are ways
I hope to live in gratitude to Grace that RULES my days.
If death is just a final sleep, then let me praise its door!
But till that day (if that is all), I live in faith there’s more!
Long Tooth
June 15th in 2022
He said, I don't know why you're acting like this.
Yoou trow the cornbread on thr table
and it fell to the floor. I got up and left.
you hit me with the Hoe, on purpose
again I left.
When you took the credit card
and put it back in mthe draw with
nothing one it:
I didn't say anything.
But yesterday I went
to the Women at Beat- ah- Bytch.
And hired sum Protection.
you gonna get your honey.
They gonna get you!
Told them E'ery thang.
You don't know who you dealin wiff!
How bout that!
How do them apples grab you?
Bet not be mad cause you pregant:
I asked you if
I could do-it!
You say yes Baby!
You said Yes!
Bet-knot be!
Excepts from "Your Mean Mother" or " Une mere Phussier"
written by Vargue Howarth, New Tile press. Ny, New York.
written with permission from
Gabby Noitall and Bet knot Mister who appears courtsey
of Prestige and money, Fame of wealthy men Inc.
call Brime Stoney for music rights.
Brime appears courtsey of gumout tasting bbq
with watered down ketsup Music Company.
Things Fussing People say: recorded live
with permission from Fussy and Them.
From Damn fool Record Company.
Godbout Canada.....
A street meter thief, Peter Jeter
Would saw off the head of one meter,
Take it home in his sack,
Keep the coins, bring it back,
Which was pointless by that time, of course, having
completely destroyed the meter.
Written 27 Feb 2022
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