Her goal
to live a pentatonic life
like the piano’s black keys,
always in harmony.
Her Name Was Melody
Relationships
Juxtaposition Tales
He laughed at the brightly colored
bird mobile above his head,
crib swaying slightly
each time his chubby legs kicked
inside the pajama bag.
The premature butterfly,
monarch colors still pale
fluttered lightly, insistently,
beginning to outgrow its cocoon.
She was plump with curves,
delicious for his taste
and he wondered if she would be interested
in a bloke like him.
The tabby cat slurped milk
knowing she could use her paws later
to lick off vestigial drops.
The moon lead him down the path
until he reached the dock’s end,
a point of no return in his fogged mind.
The cricket struggled
to rub his wings together one more time,
his sweet song coming to an end
with the killing frost.
Photo Credit: Juan Sole
Diamond in the Rough
Oh
So
cold
Immune
ToLoving
RoughTimes
ColdShoulder
HurtMeDeeply
ColdHearts
ColdLike
IceAnd
Dead
To
Me
WP Writing 201: create a CONCRETE/SHAPE poem employing the word/meaning of COLD, and employing the device of ANAPHORA (repetition of same word at the beginning of multiple lines of verse).
Elegy for Childhood
Do not grasp or fear the sifting sand
savor instead, sweet memories.
Tippee cups and imagined friends
popsicle sticky smiles.
Unabashed big bigger Balooka bubbles
popped on freckled nose.
High pitched yells with a Mary Jane stomp
knock knock jokes giggled silly.
Proscenium now disappeared, curtains askew
props and costumes gone.
Mourn not the little ones of yesteryear,
loose your hand and revel now.
Their roots are strong, let go the sieve
tis time to change the scene
WP Writing 201 prompts: the word “flavor”, enumeratio (listing), and the elegy form. Elegy: usually in couplets, first line longer; can be a longing, loss, mourning, and/or a celebration of life.
Behind the Myth
The myth behind the woman loved by many,
richly layered flavors, cultivated to impress.
Miss Popularity, Miss Luther League
years later, a doctor’s wife
mother and choir member too.
Chameleon of many faces.
24 hours. 10 stories.
A runaway drama, no one really knew.
Instability lurked behind her masks
until the show of the week
forever changed her life.
Ripple effect
wider than a tidal pool.
Knife in hand, surge of passion
husband prostrate at her feet.
Murdereress. A new role.
Impromptu, adlib,
shocked by the script.
Prompts from WP Writing 201: faces, found poetry, chiasmus. Found Poetry: scissors and newspaper in hand, cut out words and phrases and arrange them in a poem. Words from THE WEEK, September 18, 2015 edition. Chiasmus: a reversal, an inversion (title to first line).
Secret No More
Like a bruise on peach skin
her flushed face was mottled
from too much handling.
He stood across from her
tapping his spit polished
wing tip shoes.
Quiet, festering
until his fist slammed
into the glass table top.
Cornucopia upended
plastic fruits
clattered to the floor
as she stood, silent
eyes cast down
waiting for the barrage
she knew
would come.
WP Writing 201 Prompt for Day Four: Limerick, Imperfection and Enjambment (poetic device where grammatical sentences spill into next verse. It seems I’ve slipped to the “dark side” with this poem, using the idea of imperfection and enjambment. Obviously, this is not a limerick – for that, go to the Humor Category and see the G-tarian poem.
Street People: Man One
He was a thick-skinned old coot. And no one knew his history.
He just seemed to appear one day. On the park bench. He sat there
with the pigeons, newspapers crumpled in his lap. Never talked,
never flinched when the kids hit baseballs close or when the rain fell.
I’d rush by and he just stared. At the newspapers, in his lap. All that summer,
he sat like that. And then he was gone. Like the summer’s warmth. Just gone.
WP Writing 201 prompts: Prose poem, skin, internal rhyme.
Caught in the Blur
Pointillists paint millions of dots
until one image appears.
Up close blur
becomes meaningful
with three steps back.
Even a merry-go-round stops
lets passengers on and off,
provides a straight steel pole
to ease the way
in its calliope whirl.
Perhaps the answer then
is a palette or a shiny black steed
to guide me through
and make some sense
of this place you call life.
Paring Knife
Onion skin not tracing paper
artichoke leaves and banana peel
burnt sienna letters from a crayon stub
nun-born guilt and corn silk
flame licked bark on tossed in twig
all these things she became
each time his words
peeled her raw.
Cool Waters
I lie perfectly still, face to sky
on a clear plastic air mattress
plumped with my breath.
Sea breeze ruffles tendrils,
flutter-touch my forehead
warmed by afternoon sun.
Softly bobbing near the shore
fingers trail in cool waters
while ocean croons its song.
I drift, eyes closed
through barriers of time
afloat in my mother’s womb.
This was a challenging prompt in my September 21 Day Challenge course: Use description but notice the difference between language that shows the reader a world, and language that tells a reader what you (or your speaker) think about it or feel about.
lillian the home poet 