Long Metered Poems
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Groundhog day 2021 - Tuesday, February 2nd
Coincides with astronomy's cross-quarter day,
marking the midpoint between
winter solstice and spring equinox,
which will occur at 5:37 AM on
in Northern Hemisphere
Saturday, March 20.
Small consolation old man winter
spans fewest days
of all four seasons,
especially when massive nor'easter
predicted today January 31st, 2021
including within neck of woods
named Perkiomen Valley Pennsylvania.
Yours truly remembers
when spry Jack (hoar) Frost
(just yea high -
both arms stretched to sky)
came early, left late and bossed
vernal equinox
rattling barenaked branches
obviously inapropos
to budding friendship.
Now (courtesy global warming/ climate change)
mother nature experiences feeling strange
within valleys and atop many mountain range,
wherein goods traded away on stock exchange.
Fortunate concerning yours truly
versus daring to brave
inclement weather
getting stranded in the process
(possibly becoming gratefully dead)
risking life and limb venturing forth
amidst near whiteout conditions
creating debacle perilous and grave
shoveling snow lest he get buried
he can remain holed up
(in tandem with the missus)
snug as a bug in his mancave.
While nestled inside warm abode for awhile
(at least until temperature upwards doth dial
safely ensconced against elements (of style),
I stopped at metaphoric woods edge
trekking until... for no rhyme nor reason
the poetic metered equivalent,
viz another mile
then stopped for coffee break
burst of energy gave me cause to smile
fording imponderable stream of consciousness
impossible (airy) mission to dodge regarding
aforesaid daunting task to craft worthwhile
poetic endeavor to entertain anonymous readers
gleaning how one bard (with his shaky spear)
evokes fiction being snowbound
as if cast adrift within Siberian exile.
Straightaway I continue writing askew
aware how literary trademark modality
characteristic of Matthew
unwittingly indelibly embedded
analous to mine Caucasian
versus swarthy melanin hue
man automatically confers eligibility granting
innumerable known mighty opportunities
(privileged skin color - how unfair)
bigoted prejudices shade those,
either hashtagged as black, brown
naturally copper toned gentile and/or Jew.
An abode you can drive down a road is a trip,
but the learning curve’s steep. It’s a help to be rich,
strong, and good with your hands (for things often go wrong
that you will not expect). All support’s a trip too:
fun can stop for repairs - your transmission goes out
at some watering hole where you’re barely a guest.
A rebuilt one located takes days to arrive.
You’re hung out on a limb with relationships cash-
based, though credit cards help. With a vaporware smile
and some luck, a motel has a room you can wait.
At some point, you’ll be glad a towed car’s on your plate
for just parking a motor home can take a while.
Overnights on the streets of a city are rash,
but a grocery store parking lot helps one survive
for a night in a pinch. Cops uncalled, let you rest.
If you buy some supplies, it will give you more clout.
I am happy I bought mine though big trips were few.
A gas engine, no slide-outs, I stole for a song
in year slide-outs and diesel were salesmen’s fresh pitch.
But low tag fees, no property tax floats my ship!
Farms have Quonsets to soften Dakota through time,
hide from hail, sun, and blizzards, a part of the year.
Coach revives, as my residence, when I am there
with the usual hookups, propane, and TV.
But one April, the snow where it parks saw a drift
that eclipsed a man’s height more than corn grows (rains bless).
Weeks would pass till it melted, ground firmed, spring wheat drilled!
But the highways kept clear, a spot found I could park
where Missouri’s clear waters reflected cloud’s path,
and fish leaped as they struck hard and tasted hook’s bait.
I’m a poet who frequents cast lines till they rhyme
and replace my lost bait with a new thought as dear.
Souls and poems will bloom that we offer our care
though we see droughts occur and earth’s water’s not chi.
May some readers drift with me when words are a gift,
have a color they own that eclipses their dress.
Bait rejected? God bless! If you chow down, I’m thrilled.
Who would want to burn rubber alone in the dark?
With a transparent purpose, I don’t fear God’s wrath.
Pray rhymed sojourns bring respite, share love, and not hate.
Brian Johnston
12th of September in 2021
Poet’s Note:
A new metered poem that uses what I call ‘distant rhyme.’
HANDMAIDEN OF MOON DANCING
fly me to stars in the thrill of one swan night
over a crescent arc to feel a flame of sighs,
teasing dreams so silent yet ever wild
and like a neon light, speak through your feet ,
your ribs twirling in drips of summer’s rage : throw
away the restraint of confined movements
dictated by a body unmoved; of a flower
keeping her flutters from crawling freely on grass
give me a sway through leaps unto ocean’s swell
without need for thought or reason, rather,
lift the flesh made from love or hate, to burst
with primitive heat; fingers liquid in motion unbidden
by a sacred place that doesn’t exist on earth, when
all but the fragrance of a naked skin expresses
the very force that writhes in the faint of depth,
licking the cells inside out.. weightless, bold, soft
dance the crazy dance with me just because
such passion needs to flow along rhythms
burning within… till a weave of spin breaks
into a trance blending a wanton glide with
pirouetting flights raw in some meadow clearing,
pious pose under the tangerine of touch…
handmaiden of moonlight dancing on flames
pluck those eyes ,rise above mortal remains.
©
*i tweaked this free verse with a sonnet’s volta
in the last two lines (10 syl rhyme count instead
of the usual 8 syl pattern)
----------
*Martha Graham is the pioneer of modern dance. As a ballet dancer
and choreographer, she introduced inner movement emphasizing
emotion, spontaneity, and an exploration of psycho-social themes
( feminism, political protest, and labor unrest)through free -flow
of innovative steps, thwarting cultural control over conventional,
metered dance. Her last performance on-stage was in 1970,
at the age of 76; she was working on the choreography for the Olympics
when she died in 1991 at the age of 97.
Graham was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1976
by President Gerald Ford and cited by Time Magazine as
"Dancer of the Century" in 1988, aside from her other accolades.
*Source: Wikipedia.com and www.voanews.com
*Please watch
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUoMc5Am_c0&feature=related
‘ ‘’’’’ ‘’’’
For Cyndi Mac Millan’s Maverick by nette onclaud
Flowing downstream, over the well washed stones
The water carries the newly fallen leaves
Beautifully corroded in colors of yellow, red, and brown
Belonging to the stream and to the earthen bliss
The remnants of the mighty tree’s glorious statement
Offering its only poignant ways of life’s given theories
Those of the Autumn desires to bring with it deliverance
That of being in reality of one’s own self, versus sending
Pieces of nothing, which the tree never harbors truthfully
In any avenue of the streams desires to wash ashore
The banks of its only pebbles and stones which keep
Some of the leaves as souvenirs, reminders of times
And days which the Earth brought weather gracefully
To its own self metered, sun bathed, water splashed
Equally spaced sounds of a trickle, downwards it flows
And holding a form of what once was a majestic
Plant, stronger than most of the Earthly sages
Lovelier is its descending powers of light emitting colors
Washed with Earth mud, and dirt, and the life giving
Water that supply’s all living things with support
In which to live, Autumn carries much delight in its dance
Of the married leaves, those that grow to become
The great ones, those that make it to full yellow
Or to extreme red, or even to complete orange
These wild leaves, hold a true, non-self-centered degree
Of existence, blending in with all other leaves of gold
Bringing about it a masterpiece of joyous sounds
From the smells of the insect markings, to the raindrops
That leave their own scent, blessing in its own sense
Lifting higher than the wind, when blown skyward
Then laying perfectly on the water, to be moved down
The stream, to find the pile of leaves packed at a log
All dressing up to be their best in appearance for anyone
Who happens to find their way to this happy spot
Where the water meets the log, and the leaves congest
Just like love flowing in the Fall, accepting its target
And resting place to pledge its devotion to its harbor
Where all the leaves of multicolor to congregate and hear
Their words beaming true and feeling their veins please
One another in a blessing of the leaves, on an Autumn day
Autumn Colors Contest
20 September 2017
When soft colors of
the amethyst twilight,
dance amongst shadows~
swirling through forlorn forests,
I count sparkling syllables of
pirouetting peridots,
looking for metered refrains
from the emerald empyrean,
while wondering,
what am I but a
speck of astral dust;
garnet silhouette of
desert orchid dusk,
hanging on thin threads
of lilac-laced lines,
seeking sanguine
streaks between
black and white realms,
composed with rhythmic reasons,
that reveal pristine pathways
to still wander,
like a soulful sojourner,
sleepwalking through pilgrims
perfumed with peace,
to attain eternal nirvana,
there, I’ll no longer
be a wingless bird,
but will soar like a golden eagle,
feathered in fragranced faith,
and porcelain-tailed promises.
And as the pink pearl moon
unveils its hyacinth halo,
I twirl to the tamarind tenors
of twinkling topaz,
that fall upon healing hills
thriving with buttercup bliss,
below funeral fogs,
where melanin phases of faces
lurk in sweltering silence,
stimulating my quill to release
pastel pigments of contentment,
like glowing galaxies of gratitude.
Yet, I am an unfinished poem,
completely incomplete,
comfortably rhyme-less,
misplaced in a melancholic
meadow of magnolia metaphors,
too vague for the eye
that sees not beyond
my sun-kissed skin.
While from ethereal verses,
scattered across
seraphic spheres, I strive,
wishing that phrases I weave
across midnight skies,
would calm the soundless storms
beneath lunar-pillowed oceans,
as this glistening ink on
the ceremonial canvas
of life and beyond,
longs to be the epitaph
that immortalizes my voice
amidst ashes and stones,
skeletons and bones,
there I’ll slumber with
light still flowing
through poetic veins,
amidst the
piercing pandemonium
and turmeric tranquility;
yin and yang of existence,
I am both, earth and water;
aura of intuitive seas~
and cathartic currents
mirroring the crestfallen crescent,
soaked in infinite luminescence
from aesthetic lanterns.
Before we look at iambic meter you must understand syllables, how they are used to break down words into separate sounds, an example, 'un/der/stand; a three syllable word. The latter, (word), is a single syllable one. Iambic meter uses 2 syllables, the first unstressed the second stressed. Together they are called a foot. Now if your feet are not suffering we have 5 foot to go. Iambic pentameter, a line 10 syllables long or 5 feet with the rhythm de//dah
/ de//dah / de//dah / de//dah /
de//dah. the bold dah being the stressed syllable. Of all the metered forms, (there are a few). The one discussed here is the form most commonly used by English poets, its said to follow our speech pattern. The rhythm is, (if writing in iambic meter), a must. A point I have not made clear is in 2 syllable words the second syllable is the one stressed! As for 4 syllable words, it is the second and forth. For 3 syllable words go see the poet Doctor, joking aside I try to make it the middle one, seriously I try to avoid them, for me, they are hard work! An example of iambic pentameter from William Shakespear's Sonnet XVII: Shall I compare thee to a sumers day? Just the first line, again the bold text represents the stressed syllable. The whole sonnet has the rhyme pattern ababcdcdefefgg. If you have read this far then you too must have fun writing, composing poetry, I do, I find it therapeutic, hope it helps to you too.
Pentameter, two syllables equal one foot, ten equal,
five, seems to stress some folk when the
stress should only be on the last sequel
of two words like this you can see
applied to alldouble syllabe words like treacle,
here the stress in bold text made easy,
the third line up in iambic meter sequel,
of four iambic feet, iambic tetrameter, da de,
da de, da de da de, the cycle,
triple syllable words, heed, yes, choose very carefully
Edited 7/8/18 - 24:27.30hrs
READS LIKE MUSIC - haibun look Poetry Contest, sponsored by Line Gauthier
7/8/18
Gnarled and twisted, gangly, forlorn,
the mirror encompasses the product of scorn.
A large withered beast, the scourge of the earth,
stands in view of himself without mirth.
Heavy of heart he's been forced into exile,
once a renowned litigator of beguile.
Seduced, himself, by the warder of threes,
he now resides in amongst a copse trees.
For thrice he was cursed as the deception bearer,
for knowingly thieving from the ruby carer.
And lied in abundance did this litigator,
but deception does stain; evident to the weaver.
The souls meter is tarnished and you cannot hide,
from the prophecy that we cannot confide.
Yet the theft was apparent and cause metered out,
so thrice he was cursed, as there was no doubt.
The weaver herself, set the challenge three folden,
and removed the gentry from the place he beholden.
To live the life with insatiable hunger,
as he took from the carer all that he could sunder.
But the hunger does not slake, and he must transform,
in the nights luminosity his physical shape takes form.
Nails, bleed through the tips of his fingers,
he screams through the agony but the pain still lingers.
Arching his back as his skeletal impression shifts,
to transform this man into the nights hungry glimpse,
A savage rendition of a once man,
reclaims the stance of some unseelie brand.
He searches the forest for fodder to sustain
as taking a life; in this form he will remain.
The double curse now has been explained,
yet the third has a loophole carefully ingrained.
Thirteen moons he must refrain from live flesh,
and bring to the carer all she requests.
Not one drop of blood must he spill in this time,
or the punishment will be eternal for his crime.
For to beguile the enchanters with a fraudulent smile,
the price exacted is not worthwhile.
Yet redemption is held in their greatest esteem,
and the litigator apparent, knows the clause it would seem.
In the polished silver disk, he considers his reflection,
and takes a deep breath of introspection.
He moves through the night, devouring old carcasses,
and comes to the Ruby and does all she asks'.
Verizon router won't connect to internet blues
(alternately titled: ma bell heave hubble
telecommunications gone south).
Best sung courtesy rotten dull liver:red worst
after words which, I gotta quench mine thirst
whereby think Botox lips zipped and pursed
hence impossible linkedin mission Mary Jane
and Buster Brown kisser darn it result socked
hermetically resigned, resealed and cursed.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Atheistic credo fuels (fossil)
jeremiad ordaining undevout
finds me cybersurfing phishing
for poetic effort to tout
March sixth tooth house sand twenty two
presents reasonable rhyming lit writ scout
herewith risk averse longfellow
on his figurative er... route
along information superhighway.
Netizen (generic and garden variety) Cain
not, nor able to don virtualtourist Lausanne
guise, nor Kiev hen twitter among Ukraine
literati earlier today (aforementioned date)
afflicting me courtesy GMO webbed strain
iambic phantom metered node hissing drain
analogous to evaporating Lake Pontchartrain.
Cuz unwitting byte size complicit accessory ghost
haunts micro electronic components machine most
culpable, feasible, n invisible Internet Protocol host
laryngeal mucous phlegm wreaks (think) burnt toast
esophageal acid reflux analogous metaphor, I post
downplaying feeling any reason to rhyme or boast
spun words masterly sharecropped along east coast.
CHORUS:
verse one:
Now, I gotta cure dem rascally misbehavin
data packets between computer blues,
cuz internet fixation yaw truly craven
lobbying scattershot spewing colorful hell raisin
lingo (awk curse) strung expletive epithets
extraordinary Luddite across cyberspace will lose.
verse two:
Hence dial up local kindergartner to troubleshoot
while he/she whistles Mozart's The Magic Flute
or visit nearest zoo to hire nasty, and shortish brute
critical electronic hardware, cuz aye got absolute
zero ability and even less legal tender slangy loot
thus Internet loper feel handicapped as deaf mute
unable to hear auld Donald trumpeting slo vac toot.
Enervated and energized after cold shower
the perfect tonic to gin body though o'clock
wee hours August thirty one two thousand
nineteen - natural buzz to stave off relished
sleep, thus refueled with zest able to chop
chop thru printed material (dictionary seat
of pants newpage turner with a-z characters)
and no crock, but refreshing douse of chill
kept mien ole body electric able to dial back
feeling akin to soap bar man tiredness life
came to buoy quite some hours with joy de
vivre vigor analogous to morning dove (or as
if submerged smooth as ivory into Irish Spring),
until... bubbliness peaked than plunged yours
truly into fast shuteye descent lulled into land
o' dreams courtesy double fan tussy "white
noise," until I awoke with a start, (albeit heavy
grogginess clinging fast - thick spidery whirled
wide cob webbed glommed threads) unable to
offset toe tilly stark realization bare little feet
(plaintively oinking higglety pigglety) felt like
ice cubes, whereby skimpy blanket inadequate
to allow, enable, and provide adequate quality
sleep, hence inspiration piqued to attempt cob
bullying poem gifted (thank you watermelon
pickle) despite raggedy state, not optimal state
string words together rendering sense and cents
ability birthing feeble attempt to sweat out small
medium thoughts lodged within fifty plus shades
gray atrophied matter - begetting literary stillborn
whereby intensive care unit medical team resorted
to heroic measures applying revolutionary punk
chew weighted equilibrium until state of the art
poetic license intervention wrought sudden jaw
dropping miracle – whipped courtesy last ditch
Shakespearean divine resuscitation, (plus all the
king's men and all the king's horses) rendered
dead as a doornail absolute zero metaphoric
lifeless limp bizkit verse, neither lickety split
rhyme nor reason could explain tectonic shift
witnessing pluperfect (donned with little non hex
pence booties) manifestation vital signs, but
metered metrical blue feet in toto - oz needed
close monitoring to ward off 10,000 maniacs.
There were reasons we shouldn’t be together,
There were reasons we should have stayed apart,
But no reason could ever reason
With the passions brewing in our heart.
She was married to the mayor,
The richest man in our town,
I was an unemployed musician
For whom success had never come around.
She was fifteen years my elder,
Living in a mansion up on the hill;
I was playing guitar in the city park,
Passing around the hat for some coins and bills.
I sang love songs that I had written
About lovers that I never knew;
No one would ever stop to listen -
My notes rode on the winds that just passed on through.
I noticed her on the park bench,
Feeding the birds and tapping her feet;
I noticed the tears that were escaping
As she rocked to the rhythm of my metered beat.
I noticed how she started singing
The words she had heard each day;
I noticed how later into the evening
The mayor’s wife had started to stay.
I noticed how she started looking
Straight into my eyes as I sang the words;
I noticed how I started feeling
That my lyrics sounded quite absurd.
One day, she left early, after dropping something inside my hat;
I found a key to a motel room with a little note that she attached.
It said, “I can help you write a love song, about a lonely rich man’s wife
Who met a poor musician who gave her back her life,
And then when you sing your love song, people will hear it in your voice,
That it is a song that has real meaning and they will listen without a choice.”
We made love in the evening;
We made love into the night;
We made love the next morning,
At the first signs of sun light.
When I was writing down some music
For a new song, fresh in my head,
She left our room but didn’t go home -
She drove away from our town instead.
Now my hat gets filled up quickly
As people stop to hear my song
About a love between two lovers
That didn’t last very long.
There were reasons we shouldn’t be together,
There were reasons we should have stayed apart,
But no reason could ever reason
With the passions brewing in our heart.