Imperfect, Limerick, Enjambment Scarecrow You wrapped yourself in some foreign cause and drenched your thoughts in strangers’ applause hoping to line the story across your lips and add some gravity to your kiss… Yet all that stiffens your spine is straw.
Leaves fall this season. I’ll watch trees shake off their coats, face the winter bare.
In ancient Japanese, Chinese and Korean cultures, a practice was used at the time of death to capture the last words spoken. This practice was called jisei (in Japan) or death poem Written below are my entries for DVersePoets’ most recent prompt. Written By Grace from Bodhirose’s Blog, the challenge is to write a haiku or tanka in the theme of Jisei. Check out her fantastic post about them on the DVerse Poet’s Pub here! ——————– Jisei – A Tanka You can fall further than your heart would have believed into your own mind. It eats you alive this thing, mind, body and soul, all gone. Jesei – A Haiku In part it’s for you, all these words scattered around, they will outlast me.
I think Spring is flirting with me, lurking around the lilac tree giggling just like the chaffinch sing whispering me promises to soon of warmer winds and flower bloom softness that she can not yet bring for morning still dawns harsh and cold still frozen in King Winter’s hold. No mercy for usurper Spring. Last night I was discussing December Form Challenge with a fellow poet in Shrewsbury, and it struck me that last December I didn’t even attempt it. It slipped by me completely unnoticed. So here is my attempt at what would have been December first’s challenge. A Nove Otto, created by Scott J. Alcorn. It is a nine line, one stanza form with eight syllables in each line. The rhyme scheme is a-a-b-c-c-b-d-d-b.
Another word count, post it note pinned into place watching time slip by.
Last year gone in smoke. A nose against the window. Goodbye and welcome. In bed we listen to neighbors’ celebrations. Our own more muted. Auld land syne we sing with no care for key or tune with smiles and good cheer.
The paint brushes only came out in winter. Caked in last years residue she would pull them from the box tucked into the stairwell cupboard and air out her smock like musty Christmas decorations. Stringing the half crumpled tubes out in the same order as she’d done the year before. “I thought,” said her husband, arms crossed against his chest and shoulder resting against the door-frame of the open patio doors, “This time, that you had given up for good.” Ankle deep in snow she shakes her head, the snowdrifts on her shoulders disintegrating into dust again. “I couldn’t,” she tells him, paint poised above the canvas. White on white. “I haven’t captured it quite right yet.” As children we’d hope For snows to fall thick and fast. Grown, that joy has grayed.
Words from a year past still turn as fresh in my mind as when they found ink.
Fairy Tale Tell me are there maidens to save?Princes seeking the dragon cave?You laugh and tell me no,these girls can land a blowand have proved themselves more than brave.
Words trickle too fast, floods of imagination; leaves only ink blots.
