In this verse you will find my love story, where the ocean feels like home. We met when the horror movie, “The Fog,” was at the theater. I have also used imagery from “Peter Pan.”
FIND ME THEN
Find me then, where history repeats —
your sure smile trustfully pulls me in!
I boldly sit amidst bullrushes —
the pounding of a crocodile heart!
Find me then, where passion rolls me o’er,
great adventure framed, by wild waters.
The shallow tick of time scares me so!
As the fog dissipates, find me then…
6/11/2020
REPEAT THE PHRASE Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
8 lines/9 syllables each line/repeating phrase
Used repeating phrase and title: Find me then
Checked syllable count with howmanysyllables.com
THE ANGLER and THE WAITING GAME
Along the shallow sloping winter bourne
The water trickles to the stream to drain
The rain-wet fields on bone cold winter morn
It’s life held brief by seasonal refrain
All summer long it played the waiting game
In breath-held stillness trees unmoving stand
Except where twig is touched by drip of rain
With oaks and elders all across the land
A premature tumescence they restrain
For sun’s return they play the waiting game
Aligned along the margin of the lake
Bullrushes stand in arid martial lane
No longer from the water do they slake
The thirst that will return at Nature’s deign
For satiate quench they play the waiting game
The angler - bent and clothed in woodland green
On river bank he sits alone, no name
An allegory of patience, ever seen
He troubles no one, none would seek to blame
Through seasons all he plays a waiting game
along the toll path, worn by footfall,
I walk as a water colourist
tracing the canal's hidden track,
hewn blocks are daubed,
washed by mildew green
silver weals etched like faded liver spots
on its pock marked granite face.
The shore's serrated edges
leach into reed beds
when a heron on stilts
swivels in still-life freezes
stranded
where he brushes
elbowing bullrushes
bleeding corn-yellow rustlings
with stone grey-blue ripples
straw stiff legs
poke through marshiness
bubbling micro bubbles
splattering in varnished water
poses in profile taking a selfie
on the lake's mirrored lens
piercing light with inked beak
I dismember my easel's gauky frame
flinging over stiff shoulder straps
bending sharp wooden joints
as the heron cranks its kite like wings
pummelling the air with its tints of blue
cutting the sky like a palette knife
along the toll path, worn by footfall,
I walk as a water colourist
tracing the canal's hidden track,
hewn blocks are daubed,
washed by mildew green
silver weals etched like faded liver spots
on its pock marked granite face.
The shore's serrated edges
leach into reed beds
when a heron on stilts
swivels in still-life freezes
stranded
where he brushes
elbowing bullrushes
bleeding corn-yellow rustlings
with stone grey-blue ripples
straw stiff legs
poke through marshiness
bubbling micro bubbles
splattering in varnished water
poses in profile taking a selfie
on the lake's mirrored lens
piercing light with inked beak
I dismember my easel's gauky frame
flinging over stiff shoulder straps
bending sharp wooden joints
as the heron cranks its kite like wings
pummeling the air with its tints of blue
cutting the sky like a pallete knife
rough wooden background
light behind your laddered frame
woven bullrushes your seat
unbroken staunch stiff
what spinsters have you held tall
with locked knees and fallen heads
*5/7/7/5/7/7 one of two possible structures
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