Details |
Limerick
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Jet Li, with his wushu so grand,
Tried fixing a faucet, unplanned.
He kicked at the wrench,
Then got a wet drench,
"This 'plumbing' I don't understand!"
©bfa031925
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Details |
Free verse
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Cars are the wind on the streets
semi-truck wheels shriek thunder,
rain shatters against stone and brick walls
on dusty roads, oak trees fence with twigs—
wushu wooden clatters.
Dreadful arrays of dryads
azure and amethyst gossamer haze,
sleek, silken strikes gist an opera of wisteria,
as they sway to silver breeze's sibilant rustles.
They chant lullabies in lyrical lilts of hued iridescence,
of hearth and opals back to my scarlet nest.
Angelus silver trills, the sylphic sways of pure rays,
Coral rosary—incense strands of aurulent rimes
hum, endless hymns echo as choral evensong
alleluias softly peal out—doves with wet eyes
that drift upward on whispery—ethereal wings.
Ocean's plea emerges from apothic abyss,
a voice conveys the core of faxed shores and stars,
with earth and wind in a solemn tone.
A cosmic biography—in loud squeals and sighs
sea vernacular hinges on nature's lasting awe.
Breath goes to fog—snow melts into puddles—rain returns,
a china-white grave—encases the deceased deer,
before thawing in the morning—icy skin lies frozen.
An eerie distance holds my hand in a purifying blizzard.
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