That Evil Night

A winter tale of gusting winds
the might-have-beens
his tale of woe
forsaken beau

She left him ‘neath the midnight moon
collapsed in swoon
his feet like stone
his heart didst moan

Her kiss did curse his soul that night
his monstrous plight
’tis blood he needs
on necks he feeds

fear-653629_1920Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets.  Today Frank asks us to write a Minute Poem. Another poetic sudoku!  Entire poem contains three 4-line stanzas and a total of 60 syllables. Each stanza must have 20 syllables and a syllabic structure/ rhyme scheme arranged in this manner:
Stanza One: line 1 = 8 syllables, end rhyme word A; line 2= 4 syllables, A again; line 3 = 4 syllables, end rhyme word B; line 4 = 4 syllables, B again.
Stanza Two: identical to above EXCEPT rhyme scheme is CCDD.
Stanza Three: identical to above EXCEPT rhyme scheme is EEFF.
And to throw in one more constraint for good “measure” — it should be in iambic meter
which is short, long accent; short long accent; etc.
And of course, the challenge is to have the sense of the poem outshine the form!

Perpetuity

Come roundabout with me.
Twelve months
January then January,
again and again.
Hours one to twelve repeat
add A to M or change to P.
Teeter up must teeter down
hinged to teeter up again.
Perennials are as annuals will.
Your hands are theirs and ours
to fold, to point, to plant and pray.
Stones cast upon the waters
ripple out toward the morrow.
Time copulates where we are
and when we’re not.
I am. You are. We are will be
small arcs within the world
go roundabout with thee.

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Fib Poetry X 3

She
said
I do
and he said
tomorrow I will.
No happily ever after.

Fib
me
tell me
you love me
never let me go.
False hopes are my down comforter.

Lie
with
me now
and we’ll live
a love of fool’s gold.
Shining ore not, craving your touch.

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Just introduced to this fun little form. Fib poetry:  6 lines that follow this mathematical formula for syllables:  1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 6 thus totalling 20 syllables.

 

 

Character Study

Elderly woman, invisible to passersby.
Lover of lines, grammarian of old,
cast off indirect object.
Homeless: predicate adjective.

Drawstring wale-worn bag  clutched in lap
holds one ruler, three pencil stubs,
and one frayed hankie from genteel days.
Diagram her a lost soul,

sitting on birdshit encrusted bench
invisible to passersby.

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Shared with dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time.
It’s open link night so stop on by and share some words!

Solitude

My lineage lies in bleached bones,
ash commingled with soil and sea.

I am the living
happily paired,
wed forty-seven years
progressing still.

Mother of two
grandmother of five.
Eleven total
in raucous revelry.

This crowded world
my species’ millions
and millions more,
multiplied by the unknown.

In the midst of all,
I savor oneness.
Scraps of solitude
contemplative discovery,

and recovery.
Sips of silence
to be and to know
who and what is me.


Posted from Bermuda. We are in midst of TransAtlantic crossing and will not have access to Internet for five days. I shall post again from Lisbon.