My pale skin elbows perch on bridge imposing,
upon some ample urban gurgling river’s surge,
a heart palpitating in nostalgic rhythmic vein,
as I recall my auntie aglow in treasured haunt,
who focussed without minimal falter or delay,
at a remote mist enshrouded mystery peak,
lady who communed with transcendant summit,
with rippled laughter, bouncy sumptuous rapture,
she dreamt of sculpting velvet prose in praise but alas,
a woman’s early passing this sudden thwarted foil,
perhaps I might fulfill that sapphire cloud aspiration,
oh how I yearn profoundly for such charisma now,
her colourful asides, witty tinted “INK”-lings,
whose temperament exuded pink pastel
brushstrokes,
petrichor of poignancy that lingering whimsical, spark from my boundless auntie,
a red hue’d stimulus I inherited
Youth distracts
from truth,
But she
abides
Whispering
asides.
They know
she’s there,
And feel
the essence
Of her
presence.
anticipating
anxiety
wandering
riddled
with
images
emitting
consciousness
a
metaphor
for decay
in
a moment
of crisis
of
palletted
shadows
in nostalgia
a snapshot
concealed
revealed
flowered
in
disconcerting
imagery
just
an
intriguing
episode
though long loftier are visited much
like space empty needed seeing some stars
your wisdom scales twice thrice at least as such
brings peace ends bloody loud proud wicked wars
less more deeply thought seals the sentence fought
upfront counting costs gains what matters most
asides any passions which wrath has wrought
humbly speaking what all others would boast
exceptions abound all you only one
heart once longing can no longer endure
when love finds disappears passion's deep fun
or holding true forever fixed and sure
falls victim arbitrary disease death
builds wall thick long tall none can ever climb
memory pain lingers each ev'ry breath
capacity drops words cease out of time
quiets all long-winded pseudo gravity
calms hears soothes sighs sees always brevity
Rayland Givens is getting old.
He's still quick on the draw,
but now he's more internally aware,
more thoughtful as he shoots
his Glock 19 into hearts and guts.
He's grown, matured,
i hate that,
in his youth he used to quip
humorous asides as he shot the bad guys.
He had anger, I mean real anger,
and that made him interesting.
Now he's older
and looks like he wants to go fishing
or write a poem or two.
I am almost overwhelmed
with sadness.
I still like his hat.
Suddenly he is gone
His words unspoken
And, more sadly,
Unwritten
Some said he’d been a preacher
He could certainly hold a crowd
Teasing them and pleasing them
As he spoke his words aloud
A painter of word pictures
Spoken with verve and style
With asides and interjections
Every random once in a while
A spoken word performer
One of that select band
Who could hold an audience
In the palm of his hand
A raconteur and humorist
A veritable bright spark
Love his work or loathe it
But he certainly left his mark
Now suddenly he is gone
His words unspoken
And, more sadly,
Unwritten
Rest In Peace
I see, looking through a novel read long ago
that most of the story I had overlooked
or misunderstood.
Strings of decades are often a compendium
a journey disjointed by sinkholes and rockfalls;
a digest often left undigested.
If I perused that old book again
went back with a red and blue pencil,
it would no longer be an autobiography
but an 'us' book.
Fact is, you were my collaborators
in these diverse plots,
blameless participants in a tale
I was creating heedlessly
with not a few omissions and fictional asides.
Froggy is croaking
Somewhere where it’s boggy
He’s steering them clearly
A lighthouse, that froggy
Yearlings are frisky
Delightful, these dear things
But dawn is right risky
So fly, flee, you yearlings!
Morning is breaking
It’s sounding a warning
An astounding sunrise
A marvelous morning
Dillo is rooting
She’s billowed the pillow
Oh man, that’s the missus
Sounds darned like a 'dillo
Toady's exploding
A regular roadie
No stopping his hopping
He's touring, this toady
----------
Irish quatrains with 5x/6a/6x/6a, 2-syllable end rhymes, alliteration, internal and/or cross rhymes, and same start/end word. Seems like they sort of work for children's rhymes...
https://www.writersdigest.com/poetic-asides/breccbairdne-poetic-forms
On he goes
Lazily
Where he ends?
Cannot see
How’d he get
Front of me?
Wait, that’s me?
Seems to be
What the heck?
Turn around
Let him be
Backward bound
Up ahead
On the path
Me again
Time to laugh
Round the hill
Round and round
Time to find
Higher ground
----------
fancy name for 3-syllable quatrains with xaxa rhyme scheme
https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/cethramtu-rannaigechta-moire-poetic-asides
Rabbit brags
crazily;
Tortoise plods
lazily.
Rabbit gets
sleepy, see.
Tortoise wins
Easily.
Work ethic
is lacking;
Rabbit gets
shellacking.
Relentless,
forward, there.
T’s out front
by a hare.
Nonfiction
or fable?
Decide if
you’re able.
----------
Using more dactyls seems a good match for the form...
https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/cethramtu-rannaigechta-moire-poetic-asides
Though it seems
that somehow
things are not
quite right now,
When the end
is in sight,
He will put
all things right.
Is life fair?
Thank God, not.
We misjudge
our dire lot.
Standards used:
others’ wrong;
shadows cast:
dark and long.
Gravity:
where begin?
Misperceive
weight of sin.
Cast our cares
upon him;
comes the day
He’ll stand in.
Our chief end:
enjoy Son
for all time,
praise works done.
----------
Kind of bizarre - this is an Irish quatrain called a 'Cethramtu Rannaigechta Moire', but it just appears to be a quatrain with xaxa rhyme scheme and 3-syllable lines... A bit of a mouthful for something so simple...
https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/cethramtu-rannaigechta-moire-poetic-asides
I have no food.
My stomach rumbles from hunger.
My body reacts in weakness,
Sending the message of pain to my brain.
My heart beats in rhythms,
Making me aware of being alive
I have no shelter.
My body constantly gets
Drenched in the sun
And in the rain,
With sweat and cold
As my logo.
But still, the awareness of life
Rises from within.
I have nothing but rags
As a covering for my nudity,
Not any of the necessities.
No food,
No home,
With rags as clothes.
But still, I'm aware I'm alive.
In everything, give thanks.
Poverty or riches,
Happiness or woes.
Asides hell, what could be worse than death?
In life, hope is born.
Be thankful.
TREASURES
mesmerising
asides
reside
to
display
the
extraordinary
&
delicate
blooms
a choice
narrative
survives
gently
resides
in
patterned
fragments
swirling
in the
spectacular
detail
so
apposite
&
contemporary
a foraged
signifiance
monumental
precious
of
intention
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
GALLERY
a
splash
of colour
&
joy
brought
exhilaration
a repurposed
compulsive
fascination
with
intensity
an affectionate
motifs
so
graphic
in
a light
hearted
brief
of
accessibility
a lifetime
opportunity
in
nuanced
space
a
conceit
of
created
vanity
original
entire
a
sound
comparative
so
self-effacing
& dismissive
accolades
of
asides
out loud
of
inspiration
stretches
so
far back
an obvious
connection
between
vision
&that
of
colour
to draw
attention
to a show
of
the
scale
&survey
the
gaiety
so
playfully
ornamental
topped
with shards
of turquoise
like
delight
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
A thousand words later
we’re still talking.
I know I’m being reflexive,
this banter a transparent way
to paint clowns on speech bubbles;
ripostes that ricochet off any real wit.
Later still, alone in my head - the replay,
the should have said and the unsaid.
Witty repartee are invented,
not only as late additions
but as inserts, addendums, and edits
in an ongoing discourse.
Some words still hang in the air,
digitized like finger bones.
A back and forth exchange
of words ping-ponging along
as afterthoughts.
Next time we chin-wag
my comebacks and rejoinders
will be better timed and scripted,
unless of course you also
have been rehearsing yet more
retorts and asides.
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