they scurry at night
i hear them
not real footsteps just
faint scrabbling sounds
on low pile carpets
they hide from me
somewhere under the furniture
i see movement
out of the corner of my eye
was it them or just
a twitch of the dog's tail
i don't see anything now
and the dog is
nowhere in sight
quiet nights i could swear
i hear giggles
from under the recliner
where i am reading
i stop to listen
was it imagined
or is it them mocking me
they escape all efforts
but i know they are there
those minutes of life
that add up to hours
then days and then years
they are the last ones left
The goal is to write a poem in the classic form of a sonnet that is also a short story with characters, plot etc. Here is my attempt. What do you think? Care to give it a try and post it as a reply? Just to review, 14 lines of ten syllables. One quatrain introduces the subject. Second quatrain expands. Third quatrain introduces a new take or twist in the story. Final couplet brings a conclusion. In my poem, I chose not to rhyme. I also varied from the tradition of iambs somewhat.
"She Begins Again"
The spider, living in her solitude,
sits waiting at the corner of her web;
The new one that she worked on all day long,
With never a pause in her endeavor.
Now comes the new dawn of a bright new morning.
She waits with the patience instinct demands.
Dew drips from new spun strands of heavenly silk.
She waits for that all-telling vibration.
He, not knowing her, unaware of her,
He, not caring to know her or her kind,
He, who lives in another world only
Different in scale but still part of hers,
Opens the garage door, destroying all.
As the sun warms her, she begins again.6 AnswersPoetry10 years ago
streaks of phosphorescent dawn
skim the snow like darting swallows
oblique bands of January sunlight
dance with youthful grace of motion
clear air bites like hungry wolves
where wind and wilderness meet
like the two halves of a muffin
baby it’s cold outside
"Where Did You Go To Church Today?"
form a stockade at
the margins of the marsh
they murmur in slow winds
like a congregation
in humble prayer
one frosted old pine
stands before all
and whispers the homily
under the weight
of overnight snows
a choir of cedars sings psalms
from their crowns
clumps of snow they shed
drift silently down
dimpling the drifts below
it’s sunday5 AnswersPoetry10 years ago
fine old New Years with snowy hair
ruddy face and all the other
colors found in rounded sloping drifts
piled up from a year of living
a season that seems to mean well
but one that can fool you with tricks
of time that flow in dark rivers
filled with mispent days and hours
choirs of hopeful human faces
singing supernatural songs
at that magic hour of midnight
to a fickle old man New Year
Time with his mighty slow-beating heart
never made a promise to spread
his blessings of another year
evenly to every hearth and heart
...that doesn't involve anybody bleeding, crying, dying. No boyfriends leaving, disappearing or lying. No hearts torn asunder or ripped from any chest. Just a simple poem with imagery and some meter.
"A Book I Found"
I picked up a tattered volume
missing cover and title page
an amazing antiquity
at first glance not an enthralling
book but of generous margins
suited to notes made in pencil
dog-eared corners missing pages
one abandoned not on purpose
a book that must be read slowly
with complex tables, charts and
illustrations to be studied
and poured over late into the night
exposing pear-shaped mysteries
I’ll read it, study it, think on it
memorize parts that seem essential
‘til at last it explains you9 AnswersPoetry10 years ago
I posted a simple photo essay earlier today. Each photo was given a caption and when I strung the captions together they sounded quite poetic. In my essay they read:
So this form, which has no name, consists of four lines: Noun Verb/ Noun Verb/ Noun Verb/ Noun Verb.
So write me one in your answer and see if you can think up a name for the form.
Here's the link to the original photo essay if you want to see it:
"Does Your Species Have A Name?
The Earth spins and spins
on wobbly legs,
a drunk careening
down a badly lit sidewalk.
With each wobble
comes a new round of extinctions.
The Earth doesn’t care
if your species even
has a name,
never mind who your god is.
Scratch and Dent People
They're the scratch and dent people
With thrift shop
Bargain basement dreams
They carry in black plastic trash bags,
The pockets of oil stained winter coats
Or orange back packs
Salvation Army racks.
Dumpster diving denizens
Of alleys and streets
Named after presidents,
heroes and trees,
They sit warming in libraries,
Stand smoking hand-rolled humility
And rest on benches
Covered with snow and futility.
They're from everywhere, nowhere
And points in between.
They once had fathers and mothers
Sisters and brothers
Some have forgotten who
Doesn't think about them anymore.
Most never will trust us
With their dreams from before.
How did they land here
And Why do they stay
In freezing cold climates?
Who are these hungry
Scratch and dent people
We see on the bus?
If you want to know their story
It's the story of us.7 AnswersPoetry10 years ago
I'm sorry we can't post this sort of thing here. I like to caption my photos with poetry. Here is a Haiku for your comment. Both photo and verse are from this contemplative morning.
I mean I don't think this poem can stand on it's own without your reading the explanation of what it's about. Read the poem first. Does it make any sense at all? Probably not. Then scroll to the bottom and read the explanation. Got any suggestions on how to make it make sense?
I carry a death chime with me
Everywhere I go.
A gentle chime that chimes,
With two tones softly, often after midnight,
A favorite time of dying.
While I’m asleep
It sits patiently silent
On my bedside table.
Then when it’s time
It gently awakens me,
It signals the passing
Of mortal men and women
Who have been waiting.
It lets me know someone’s
Wait is finally over.
The chime is not a morbid sound
When I hear it
I know there is rest somewhere
For someone and think how
One day I’ll wait for it to chime for me.
Okay, here's the thing. I work on-call 24/7 for a Hospice agency. I wear a cell phone that has both phone and email service. The chime is the email alert. During the day there is often just regular old email traffic between nurses, aids and social workers, but after hours the only email that comes through would be about a death. We do that right away so that when the work day begins anyone who has a scheduled appointment with the patient would be aware and not go to the home. So how much explaining to do or just abandon this now?7 AnswersPoetry10 years ago
I live on the coast of Lake Michigan. Every day I get to see the mood of the lake change.8 AnswersOther - Society & Culture10 years ago
Makers and users of tools
Miners of Earth’s treasure
Burners of carbon
Creators of bizarre gods
Founders of agriculture
Husbanders of animals
Workers in stone and metal
Conquerors and murderers of each other
Harnessers of the universe’s power
Writers of history
Thinkers of great and wonderful thoughts
Evolutionary dead end.
Loss floats on the slow
Current of bereavement
For life taken from us.
The Earth, broken by grief,
Sits half in darkness
And moans very low.
F. Lee Bailey
Peace or hate
Get it straight
Take the final
Bust your %ss
Take a job
Middle class2 AnswersPoetry10 years ago
Better than a mirror
Or more often.
I don’t look like that.
I’m not old.
My cheeks don’t sag that way.
That’s someone else.
Who is it that’s wearing that stupid look
On a ruddy face that resembles
The full moon in shape?
The expression on my face
Doesn’t look like that.
The expression on my face is wise.
If you saw it you’d want to talk to me.
And my neck is longer too, and thinner.
With one chin less than that and a nose
That doesn’t look like it was shortened
On a grindstone.
My eyes look nothing like those.
They aren’t dull or tired looking.
My eyes betray my intelligence,
Not hide it.
I know my own face
Better than any mirror does.
Better than a mirror.
Nothing and no one.
Dark near-Earth object
I know your out there somewhere...
Waiting to get us
Cyrus the Great, Alexander the Great,
Chadragupta, Demetrius I, Mahmud Ghaznavi,
Muhammad Ghori, Genghis Khan,
Outlugh Khwaja, Tamerlane,
Babur the Tiger, Ranjit Singh,
Humayun, Shah Jahan,
Ahmad Shah Durrani, Nader Shah Afshar,
George Pollock, Sir Donald Stewart,
Valentin Varennikov, David Petraeus.
Nothing’s there but stones soaked in blood;
Why the %uck should we add
My son’s or yours?
Can anyone aswer this question? My son leaves for Afghanistan the first of the year. Why?1 AnswerPoetry10 years ago