Stow away the congeries of aches
overtly attenuating the life-force
Joints grinding bones as growing muscles waked
Oft, stomping like an apoplectic horse...
Under strained newness, a glum disposition
reeked nervousness, clamping a chest distraught
No diversity, glared their position
Such eyes that stabbed, could snap a breath taut...
Of schooling, what silent complacency!
Jailers with fingertip-busting dusters
or canes that cracked and smacked decency
Umber-burned bruises on smartened clusters...
Raking nails scratch to assuage a mind
New migraines need compulsory unwinds…
(4/23/21 For 'Aches Prompt' contest hosted by Constance La France)
If I may, to my fellow would-be poets,
Hereon pose an imperative query
(Yet mostly destitute of the greatest urgency),
Then I who, in the gross majority of my inditings hereon,
Am of quite a Shakespearean and Miltonian bent:
Yet in the years succeeding the terminus of my schooling,
During the everlasting course thereof, I learned many a thing
Indeed an immense preponderancy of such,
And among these congeries of learning, there can be accounted
Even a myriad of the manifold precepts of poetry
And the fiats and decrees, commandments and
Ordinances governing it;
Yet for all of the sufficiency and yet preponderance of
Poetic enlightenment and enrichment, I recall nary a thing
Thereof!
It may be inborn, inherent,
Ingrained, innate...
But do I, who is of a Shakespearean ilk,
To my fellow aspiring poets, writers, and poet-writers ask:
Is this, or aught of my other poems, in anything
Remotely likened to the metrical sort that he and Milton were
Wont to use?
And an it be so,
Beteem me to learn its name,
And an so, is't truly termed by that sobriquet
Known as "iambic pentameter"?
Is it in this that I write?
Are all my poesies thus enwritten?
Poetry is a simple ride
through back road rural country side.
Alive with gardens sprouting corn,
white puffs of cotton being born
fodder bales lazing countrified.
Each turn a treasure to the eye,
white egrets stalking incubi.
The rolling breast of every hill,
reveals a pleasured puerile;
majestic hawks soar in the sky.
Every mile of black twisting tar,
is filled with country insular.
Greening orchards and baked orange clay,
clear blue skies enhance the array,
in panoramic ocular.
On the horizon clouds cluster,
summoned to a graying muster,
raging into darkened night
frightened white egrets take to flight
lifting into this blackened sight.
Muffled thunder bellows aloud,
awakening a sleeping cloud,
as lightening scratches through the sky,
ruffling feathers as they fly
white egrets in a pitch black shroud.
Rain blurs colors in distant trees
while puffs of dust attend the breeze.
Torrential rain, that once was held,
within the grasp of this great meld
descends in fits on congeries.
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