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Books
by
Angela Greenfield
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Foreword with inspirational quote:
"If the wind will not serve, take to the oars."
-- Latin Proverb
List of Chapters
Prologue
Words upon words written in paragraphs. Prose style bets as the best style. Words satiate your curiosity. Words carry meanings . . . not always literal!
Most books harvest seasons of knowledge. Other books dim your brain while dimming your destiny.
Ripped page within this:
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Some books print their messages in black and white. Other books scribble their words in red, white and blue.
Books never crash, books can only burn. Each book whispers its message.
Epilogue
Author Bio
He helps me untangle these binding chains
Of my old lingering depressive growing pains.
His love warms me like the blood in my veins.
He loves me despite me crying heavy rains.
He holds me like he holds himself to his word.
I begin to feel free and less like a caged bird.
His devotion manifested from my foreword.
He helps me see how my negativity's absurd.
He soothes with simple yet true proclamation:
He'll never abandon me, as he has dedication.
He tells me to think of him in each affirmation.
He teaches me I needn't suffer self-affliction.
He speaks to me in terms of soul to soul.
His love always making me feel so whole.
Someday for us our wedding bell shall toll.
His love perfectly fills my heart's empty hole.
I fall into a deep infatuation of divine origin
That shall soon lead to our true satisfaction.
I fall into a Kamadeva-Rati incantation,
As I sooth my racing heart with devotion.
I fall into your eyes and tender expression,
As I lean closer to give the utmost affection.
I fall into trance of Divine Love's inspiration,
While you show me every true interpretation.
I fall into a deep, magnetic attraction,
Becoming each other's equal fraction.
I fall into your soul's reflection,
Aligning with who I should've always been.
I fall into a love slowly spirally upward,
Finally met you, who is no coward.
My poems for others were my foreword
Of you, the only man, to go with me forward.
Frightened by what I have written,
Still I move forward past my foreword.
My spirit released
set free to fly
seeking in wonder
what I do not know
so long ago
so far from I
when for time
they went down to the sea
bending the back
a smooth strong pull
and gathering breath
in a foreword lean
beneath open sky
among the waves
for how many days
how many weeks
I strongly pull
another stroke
and I wonder
about them
what did they think
upon the sea
as they did row
someone like me
Murder on the Orient Express--just?
Shorter the fuse tighten the screws,
sharper stuns the rushed, drug delays the hushed,
marker trashed refuse, clues confuse.
'Morning after sharpened scours the given,
charming entertains the witty,
earning their forthcoming thwarts admission,
forming and sorting out gritty.
Straightforward clues like manna from Heaven,
page foreword; Farmer's Almanac,
date onward, sow-reap, from whence transgression?
Came forward all, the common task.
Burdened heavily, labored the righteous,
incessantly drew in favor,
descendancy ends by the impious,
death penalty, all-signed ... waiver.
Adieu, Poirot
i ask you random questions out of the blue because i want to know you.
everything about you.
every piece that makes up your beautiful self.
why do your eyes light up when you see sunflowers?
what do you look foreword to?
why do you look at me when someone makes a joke?
why are stars so important to you?
what makes your day?
who makes you the happiest?
because then when i know these things
maybe i’ll be your answer to my last question.
Here I sit on this night so still,
not a rustle in the leaves
nor a stirring in the grass.
No whispers intrude; naught but mine.
Ill news after days spent ill,
unwelcome foreword to grief
inexorable more like than not.
No answers come; naught but malign.
A thirst I can never quell,
a gulp seeming to smash the silence
whilst whiskey spars with the fear.
No solace is on tap; naught but fake.
A call from inside breaks the spell,
an urging for sleep's cocoon
next to a lover's warmth.
No closure can I find; naught but striding on.
[Foreword: spring in the UK is delightful
But it isn’t all sunshine and roses!]
***
’tis a word, oft heard, for March, April, May
The crocus enlivens the woodland way
’twas not to be seen only yesterday
Spring is the word that the birds sing today
Weeping the willow tickles the ripples
The angler most keen swigging Scots tipples
For frost isn’t distant there on the bank
Yet Bream ’neath the branches dance flank to flank
A tail on a golf ball, this is the wren
As an old friend, good to see him again
Venture in sweater to fend sneeze and cough
Yet should the breeze drop, the sweater is off
’tis a word, oft heard, for March, April, May
Spring is the word that the birds sing today
***
11 March 2021
Contest: Breath of Spring
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Foreword: we’re all aware of the ’pot ate oh’ and ‘pert arter’ debate... well, in some English accents (including my own) there is a third version: ‘per tay ter’. I lean toward this pronunciation in this poem... So please don’t throw stones... or pertarters.
Two cannibals went hunting humans one day
Hoping a decent meal might come their way
They came to a beach and there was a boat
A skin and bone man said, ‘I’m six weeks afloat’
Because he was boney with so little muscle
They skewered that sailor with barely a tussle
A fire they lit and then over it
They perched our survivor like meat on a spit
One cannibal said he was off to find wood
You keep him turning to cook him real good
And then in an hour he stood there aghast
He’d never seen anyone turn meat so fast
His mate was rotating the spit roast like crazy
His victim’s arms flailing so fast they were hazy
The other one said turn it slow or be sure
That damned skinny human is gonna be raw
Well, the cannibal cook said with undisguised ire
I’m having to spin him fast over the fire.
So he won’t be cooked till quite a lot later
’cause each revolution he nicks a potater
(Foreword: don’t know the score elsewhere, but the UK has a rule of six... which is the number of people who can gather as a group. Unless they’ve changed it... again).
My sister, my brother, my father, my mother
Came round Christmas Eve and we chose to stay in
We sat round the table with old auntie Mabel
She’s slightly unstable but always brings gin.
About half past seven to Jesus in heaven
We said a wee prayer then we drank until late
But thanks to the drinking, we weren’t really thinking
And some bloody fool lit a fire in the grate
With much drunken banter we talked about Santa
At midnight we all heard a sound on the roof
But with no sin in me, I called up the chimney
Don’t send Rudolph down or he’ll get a burnt hoof
Then out from the ashes poor Santa Claus dashes
And patted the burns where the fire had licked
Then there was a din and the door was kicked in
The cop said that’s seven and you lot are nicked
What these chosen poems mean to me
I put down plainly for all readers to see
Others may not think them very much
And in no way their hearts ever touch
For me they brought comfort and pleasure
And this they did gently in equal measure
Poets everywhere always yearn for a pen
Their inmost thoughts to brightly illumine.
So my poor offerings I do wish to publish
Even though critics may judge them rubbish
To all those who have leisure to read mine
You might find rich treasure in the odd line
For that very reason I send them abroad
Hoping they will not be put to the sword.
I feel the spiders touch of silken shirt on skin
Hear the hidden thoughts in words unspoke
I see beyond these eyes
And smell the past, present and foreword
as it lies prone at my feet
just the taste of me
Don't play
never lose
Laughing from last place
Foreword... the sort of daft rubbish I write in a effort to defeat writer’s block. No attempt to make any sense, just to get words on a page/screen. Normally I end up deleting such garbage... but I kinda like this one.
The Block
There’s a mule in my pool and he’s munching on a carrot
There’s a fool with a rule who is measuring a parrot
There are chicks doing tricks with some pogo sticks
And some ticks eating bricks with their weetabix
There’s a bunny selling honey cos he hasn't any money
And some blokes telling jokes although none of them are funny
There’s a ghost eating toast spreading butter with a rifle
And a fellow with some jello cos he’s gonna make a trifle
I got some goats in the post they came through my letter box
I got a present from a peasant, it’s a pair dirty socks
There’s a big hole in my bucket, now you know what made me chuck it
And it landed on the parrot so I think I’m gonna pluck it
So I find I’m writing stuff about a hamster in a frock
Cos it came as quite a shock when I got this writers block
But my back’s against the wall, I’ll write anything at all
’til I unlock the block and I write something really cool
Living being, tell me,
What do you do? When fate comes,
With tail in the air; head foreword,
Then picks your neighbor
The classmate; workmate
Up to heights they go.
And now, left low; but capable
You do not qualify to go
Because fate full of fetish
Has made its choice;
What do you do?
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.