Rewrite, rules bent.
Invite to consent.
Aright, we dissent.
A fight? Ambivalent.
Recite and relent.
Acolytes give assent.
Respite. We fall content.
Despite our diffidence,
some incite resistance.
Alas, sans consequence.
Despot... acquiescence.
Dost we protest too much?
Nay, methinks we protest too little.
Bold jumping spider’s cheeky grin
inhabits not his fuzzy chin.
Indubitably not rude nor snooty,
you’ll find him smiling on his booty.
An aerialist, short facile leaps;
satin sacs in which he sleeps.
Eyes galore, vision intact:
eight plus the pair upon his back.
dVerse prompt: write a quadrille: (a poem of exactly 44 words) and include a form of the word Jump.
I once cared
how others perceived me,
whether I fit in,
if I was loveable,
if I was enough.
Now I couldn’t care less.
Now I care
about my own priorities and values.
And in loving myself, I find
I’m far more than enough.
Unfolding like spring itself,
phacelia morphs from
ram’s horn to barbed-tailed scorpion to
cat’s tail curled at the end
in a wary twitch.
Anomalous to neighboring
bright-faced poppies and asters,
unpretentious in muted greens and beige,
she nonetheless shimmers with
foraging bumblebees;
nature’s cornucopia.
Neither shy nor shrinking,
vibrant orange blooms
jostling with neighbors for territory.
First to show in a bed not yet
reclaimed from winter’s neglect;
last to go, refusing extinguishment
by autumn’s bluster.
Wallflower, who ever thought to name an
awkward, peripheral introvert after you?
dVerse quadrille prompt: bloom: write a poem of exactly 44 words and include the word “bloom.”
In my cell I’m imprisoned,
I touch no one, none touch me.
Defined by this rectangle
beyond which I cannot see.
There are others: I can sense them
just beyond periphery.
If we’d only lift our eyes
from our cell phones we’d be free.
“Crabs in a bucket.”
Anthropomorphized with ill intent,
they pull one another down
such that none escapes
ahead of another.
People in boxes.
We stereotype and generalize,
avoiding the rigors of thoughtful discernment.
Outside of buckets, crabs cooperate.
Without boxes, how might people be?
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.
Careening go I to the depths of my soul
To deliberate questions upon me bestowed.
Ponderous options, I’m bowed with the weight.
Considerations not dared left to fate.
The myriad choices, I –
“Ma’am? Your decision?”
“Chocolate. No. Vanilla. No. A scoop of each, please!”
Low clouds loom, dooming twilight
into gloom, dusk into the blackness of a hidden-moon
nocturnal tomb.
Garish winds grow more incessant,
effervescent, iridescent;
raging, though irrelevant as I
insist on lingering, beneath the skies that ravage me;
notwithstanding tendencies to
gravitate toward calmer seas.
What Rhymes with Stanza? 