Why do shadows blow away
when we whisper to the summer sun,
delirious within our bitter skin
only to shine purple and cool
like misty moons above a forest lake
as we lie sleeping, dreaming --
or is it screaming --
beneath the black waterless sky _
Yesterday’s poetry prompt over at the dVerse blog was to revisit the poems we wrote last year, and using the very first line of 11 poems (one chosen from each of the first 11 months of the year), combine them to make a new poem. The title of the poem is to be the first line from a poem written in December.
Since I barely wrote more than 11 poems, there wasn’t much (any) choice of lines to select. Hence, I humbly present my “found” poem:
Winter Resolve Reigns
When first we breached primordial ooze.
April buds curling
New buds dripping cold rain
Little cherub on mama’s lap
Sweet Violets in the garden grow.
It’s been a dry summer.
Cut boards apart, then reassemble.
Whose parking lot, I have no clue.
A lazy rain beat symphony
Boots sinking deep in mud-browned melting snow
Oh, to yet be young
The full set of rules for this particular writing challenge:
Poem Style:
• write a ‘Found’ poem from your own Jan-November 2023 poems
• write it as an 11 line list/catalog poem
OR
an 11 line verse poem (with or without stanzas)Poem Structure:
• choose from one poem per month
• select ONLY the first line of the very first verse of your chosen poems
• select your title from the 12th month or any of the previous months’ first lines
• if you’ve posted less than one poem per month for Jan-Nov 2023 then choose a month where there is more than one to make up the 11Poem Rules:
• your 11 lines can be written in any date order
• you must keep the original word order
• you may only change the tense or personal pronouns
• you may add a conjunction or a preposition for continuity
• minor erasure at start or end of the original line is allowed
• enjambment can be helpful
I had two useable lines left over:
Shall I compare thee to an iced latte?
and
A pig, a dentist and a cup of hot spiced wine.
I think I chose wisely.
Note to self: write more poetry this year.
winter resolve reigns
by springtime just a drizzle
summer cedes to drought
Cut boards apart, then reassemble. Drill holes, then fill them in. Brush on stain, then wipe it off. Break stained glass, then tack together. Melt solder lines so they will harden. Build a window to block the view. Artisans are fine crafters of contradictions.
It’s been a dry summer,
no word play to spare.
What little comes forth
dissipates in the air.
Pen poised above paper,
ink eagerly flows.
A doodle emerges;
no poems or prose.
A rhyme – ‘haps a reason –
to brighten my day?
But no, merely dust
on my laptop’s display.
Perhaps chalk on the sidewalk
if not paper or screen.
but when the dust settles,
not a word to be seen.
I’d settle for tropes
or cliches worn and frayed.
word choices so bad I
must rhyme “marmalade.”
I’ll spare you, dear reader,
‘til rains settle in, when
words fall from the sky
in a glorious din.
When parched brain receptors
rehydrate and breathe,
I’ll come waxing poetic,
my soul on my sleeve.
Day Eighteen of National Poetry Writing Month! Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo.net:
write an abecedarian poem – a poem in which the word choice follows the words/order of the alphabet. You could write a very strict abecedarian poem, in which there are twenty-six words in alphabetical order, or you could write one in which each line begins with a word that follows the order of the alphabet. This is a prompt that lends itself well to a certain playfulness. Need some examples? Try this poem by Jessica Greenbaum, this one by Howard Nemerov or this one by John Bosworth.
My offering:
April buds curling, dense earth frees ground-harbored insects. juncos, kits, larvae; Mother Nature opens, poetic quatrains rustle, spring’s timely unfolding, verdant waves, xenial youthful zeal.
Day Fourteen of National Poetry Writing Month. The muses at NaPoWriMo.net have given us this prompt for today:
…write a parody or satire based on a famous poem… take a favorite (or unfavorite) poem of the past, and see if you can’t re-write it on humorous, mocking, or sharp-witted lines. You can use your poem to make fun of the original (in the vein of a parody), or turn the form and manner of the original into a vehicle for making points about something else (more of a satire – though the dividing lines get rather confused and thin at times).
Since I too get rather confused (though seldom thin) at times, this prompt is a perfect fit. The poem I chose to work with is Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? For those of us who are bard-challenged, I will post Shakespeare’s version below. But first (since I control the quill), here is my rendition:
Shall I compare thee to an iced latte? Thou sadly in cup holder dost not fit. While coffee stains can really ruin my day, I can control the spillage with one sip. Sometimes you can be cold as latte’s ice, Complexion like milk curdled in the sun. I think it’s fairly safe if I surmise Your pull date has already come and gone. My latte won’t last long enough to sour Nor lose its taste if ice begins to melt. I tend to drink it up within an hour The liquid sloshing gently ‘neath my belt. I hope this verse has not offended thee. So long to you and your oft bitter tea.
And Shakespeare’s sonnet:
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date; Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st; Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
The gray sky is low, pushing down on me as my dog and I sidestep puddles in our path. A sense of sadness seeps onto me, settling like heavy mist on a wool coat. Unexplainable loneliness rises up as though from the rain-dampened earth and I am enveloped in a fog of… it almost feels like despair … that I know is not my own. My dog, a double-coated spitz, shakes his body in a spasm that sprays rain water off him in all directions. My pants leg is flecked with tiny droplets. Arriving home, I unbuckle his leash and dry him with a towel. He shakes again and the moisture from his undercoat surfaces. I touch his fur; it’s as wet as though I hadn’t wiped him down at all. If I were to sift my fingers through his thick coat down to the skin, it would be dry and warm. I, conversely, am cold and shivering and wet. An involuntary shudder courses through me, as my psyche tries to shake the melancholy from my soul.
A new April morning, a new prompt for a poem. My thoughts had gone hither – or was it thither? – to roam. And so I zipped off a quick five-seven-five, to keep my NaPoWriMo challenge streak alive. I tapped the blue button to publish my poem. At just that same moment I heard a loud groan. “Oh, hey there, Muse.” Quickly, I closed laptop lid. “Too late!” Muse cawed smugly. “I see what you did!” “You can toss words like salad; even frost them like cake. Count the syllables, divide lines, but it still does not a haiku make.” “You thought you could do this Na-Po-gizmo sans me. But this faux form space filler shows an obvious need. I’ve sat on that bookcase ‘tween Webster and Roget, my rhyming riffs roiling and ready to play.” “Are you through with the pep talk?” My sarcasm seethed. “I’ve muddled through without you, although not with ease. A sonnet on sunshine, triolet carved with care, and a shanty so swashbuckling you can smell the salt air.” “You’ve been absent for months now, with nary a sneer. My quill pen has molted; a goner, I fear. My blog has been starved, on it’s penultimate gasp, the only sound left: a lone cricket’s rasp.” “I took a hiatus,” Muse confessed with chagrin. “But I did it for you, so it’s hardly a sin. In the Andes I found adverbs; (in Morocco, great stew;) In Europe, interjections like, ‘Ach!’ and “Mon Dieu!” “Just stop!” I admonished. “Your excuses are worn. But at least ‘twixt us two today's poem has been born. Perhaps you will deign to remain here awhile?” “Just like the old times,” Muse agreed with a smile.
Day Twelve of National Poetry Writing Month. The prompt from NaPoWriMo.net:
… write a poem that addresses itself or some aspect of its self (i.e., “Dear Poem,” or “what are my quatrains up to?”; “Couplet, come with me . . .”) This might seem a little “meta” at first, or even kind of cheesy. But it can be a great way of interrogating (or at least, asking polite questions) of your own writing process and the motivations you have for writing, and the motivations you ascribe to your readers.
I didn’t quite follow the prompt, but hey, my muse isn’t always cooperative. Other posts featuring Muse:
What Rhymes with Stanza? 