Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Laura asks us to consider couples, writing a poem in couplets. She presents a number of forms that are based in couplets including the Rhopalic Couplet. First used by Homer in the Illiad, the Rhopalic Couplet contains two lines. In both lines, each word progresses adding 1 more syllable than the preceding word in the line. The lines need not be rhymed. So for example x xx xxx xxxx x xx xxx xxxx
I found this quite tricky to do! Another poetic sudoku for me. Image from Pixabay.com
She was a pluviophile, born in the monsoon times. Overcome by strikhedonia she fled her village, sought solace in the woods.
A sturmfreisoul was she, content to burrow away on bright clear days. Her cottage well hidden from prying eyes.
She lived for the darkest of storms. Aroused by lightning strikes, thunder her love-struck mate. They danced together in downpours, her hair drenched, clothes clinging.
Townspeople burbled about her, bumfuzzled by her ways. Over time she became the Other. Easier to will her out of existence, they stayed inside during heavy rains.
Mish is hosting Poetics today at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. She asks us to consider memes in a unique way, providing us with a number of unusual words and their definitions. She asks us to use at least three of them within our poem. I’ve chosen the following from her list: pluviophile (noun): a lover of rain strikhedonia (noun): the joy of being able to say the hell with it sturmfrei (adjective): the freedom of being alone; the ability to do what you want burble (verb): to speak in an excited manner bumfuzzle (verb): to confuse or fluster
*In ancient Roman religion, Tempestas is a goddess of storms or sudden weather. Image from Pixabay.com
She falters, steps lightly, lightly asserting herself again. Again he beats her, denies her being. Being a brute, how can she win?
How did this happen, happen to her, create such fear? Fear is the impetus she finally needs. Needs to act quickly, her path is clear.
Miles away she laughs aloud, a loud guffaw that signals she’s free. Free of his violence, while he lies dead, dead by her deed near the old oak tree.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Grace asks us to consider Loop Poetry, a form created by Hellon. There are no restrictions on the number of stanzas nor on the syllable count for each line. However, in each stanza, the last word of the line 1 becomes the first word of line 2. The last word of line 2 becomes the first word of line 3. The last word of line 3 becomes the first word of line 4. This is followed for each stanza (4 line stanzas). The rhyme scheme is abcb. Tricky. Took me a while to get in the rhythm of it and for some reason, this poem from the dark side was the result.
Chipmunk cheeks, chubby knees toddler toddles unsteadily. Plops down on diaper padded bum eyes surprised at sudden landing. Spies round unknown object in midst of packing boxes. Left-over, missed by movers, his to explore and claim. Metal globe on brass colored axis, somewhat dented but sporting what looks to him like gaily colored splotches. Blues and reds and blacks and yellows and greens and shapes that fascinate. Pudgy fingers reach out, touch cool round surface and tentatively push . . . then more . . .and more and ooooh spinning colors. Faster, faster, faster, round and round and round. Squeals of delight draw me to the door. I see this happy child, the world, a spinning top for him. Unaware of famine, wars, discord, and oh so intricately drawn borders. Imagine whirled peace with colors spun into one. Boundaries blurred and gone and laughter the only sound. Or just as suddenly, what could be. A world in shock, tipped off its axis and the only sound, disappointed screams.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics.
For the prompt, I’ve provided a list of sixteen Ben and Jerry’s ice cream flavors, many of which have been retired. Writers must include the name of at least one flavor from the list of sixteen in the body of their poem – and the poem cannot be about ice cream! I’ve used the flavor Imagine Whirled Peace. It was a Ben and Jerry’s ice cream flavor from 2007 to 2013.
Writers cannot change the order of the words in the flavor, or the tense of the words. They cannnot change the words of the flavor into plurals or possessives. They cannot add words between the words in the name of the flavor. Of course, folks are free to use more than one flavor from the list. After all, who doesn’t like a double-dipper or triple-dipper ice cream cone????
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us – it should be fun!
it must be a dream . . . or time-machine . . . or machinations of an addled brain.
Used to be a woman’s road to pregnancy and through pregnancy was determined by men. Their genitalia and their laws. Used to be coat hangers bloodied in cavities, did more than hang up coats.
It’s not a dream . . . or time machine . . . or my septuagenarian brain. Once again, a woman’s body her insides, her uterus are ruled by men. Their genitalia and their laws.
“I’m melting, melting.Ohhhhh, what a world, what a world, destroy my beautiful wickedness.” Wicked Witch in the Wizard of Oz
I planned it. Me and Rudy. It was all fixed. The machines, the ballots. All a disaster.
Millions believed me. They didn’t drink bleach but they believed I won because I said so.
This commission. These videos. These emails. My people spilling it all. Gutless.
This witch hunt . . . closing in . . . my battery is low and it’s getting dark.
Laura provides a unique prompt for today’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. She provides seven quotations of famous departing words. We must choose one and include it in a “deathbed poem of our imagination.”
The line provided by Laura: “My battery is low and it’s getting dark.” Mars rover ‘Opportunity’
The prompt got me thinking about Donald Trump and the January 6 Commission. May the vast amount of evidence presented be the demise of the Big Lie and expose the danger Donald Trump presents to democracy and the well-being of this country. May his power and cult-like status among otherwise sane people melt away, similar to what happened to the Wicked Witch in the Wizard of Oz.
. . . shadow me to sleep. Hush headlines, past regrets, and lists of tasks undone. Toss full moon behind gathering clouds. Snuff stars until dust drips silently crusting my eyes. Sink me into primordial seas, ombréd in shades of grey that I might rest in peace.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sarah asks us to include the word “sleep” in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
Photos taken last night from our deck here in Provincetown, as the moon was rising. That’s my husband’s hand. Unfortunately, it did indeed totally cloud over and we never saw the eclipse or infamous blood moon….but this was an amazing sight as well.
When I think about myself there is a deep brooding. The day hangs heavy no sound falls. I see you, shadows on the wall just beyond my reaching.
Lying, thinking I almost remember when you came to me, unbidden. Your smile, delicate a young body, light, your skin like dawn. We saw beyond our seeming.
One innocent spring it occurs to me now, the dust of ancient pages.
Every line in this poem, is the first line in one of Maya Angelou’s poems. The poems are listed below, in the order of their appearance:
When I Think About Myself My Arkansas Greyday After Thank You, Lord Life Doesn’t Frighten Me Slave Coffle Alone I Almost Remember When You Come to Me Woman Me To Beat the Child Was Bad Enough Passing Time We Saw Beyond Our Seeming Now Long Ago Changing Communication II: The Student
Today’s prompt: Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem in which you muse on the gifts you received at birth — whether they are actual presents, like a teddy bear, or talents – like a good singing voice – or circumstances – like a kind older brother, as well as a “curse” you’ve lived with (your grandmother’s insistence on giving you a new and completely creepy porcelain doll for every birthday, a bad singing voice, etc.). I hope you find this to be an inspiring avenue for poetic and self-exploration.
Caught in his maelstrom she survived a winter’s tale. Fighting against his blizzard of heartless demands, she left when the crocus bloomed.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Ingrid asks us to consider the bard, William Shakespeare. We may choose a title from a list she gives us, a partial list of his plays. I’ve included A Winter’s Tale within my poem
lillian the home poet 