Some say that the poetry is dead
That it doesn’t reach the minds, they said.
Yet, the wily part resides with ease
In the underpinnings of its devotees.
Goverse when you pedestal the stars
Noverse, in the metastable dark.
Candles burning, wicketized and bright
Little ball of omnicating light.
Wordornate the comical, amuse
By parasailed and floated words you use.
Poetry’s not dead, as vilers say
It simply waits to sing another day.
In Ketchikan, the totems watch
In all directions, there and such.
The rain falls nonstop through the day
Then stops enough to start again.
The settlers were brave pioneers
Who built their homes and commandeered
The land, the Tlingit called their home.
Ketchikan, it’s far from Nome.
A bit of a throwaway verse I’m afraid. Today’s NaPoWriMo.Net prompt was to write a review-like poem. Maybe it will lead to something.
Trebuchet a stone, a weight
In duplicate ways
Triplet if you try.
Another absolute attempt that
Never needs triumph.
If cast away over land
Underneath the vaulted sky.
Trebuchet the burden
Equally far, throwing
Sunlight to the end of the day.
Tomorrow gives back
Everything that yesterday
A challenge to use the words “titanium testes” in a poem…I supposed an acrostic might work, but not sure. 😉
When embers flare
and float beyond
of fire –
whose lights shine
long after they extinguish
We recall their place.
which will reside as an echo
from just the moment before
after they soar away
with the breeze
that comfort brings
to our memories.
If I spent my last moments
on this planet
indespant and shrense,
would you finally open up
and breathe me some barthey verses.
juncted words –
brandished in copper,
metable to your heart
and knotted into mine.
Sometimes in the silence
beneath an oak tree,
words are salvings
the indespant and the shrentic.
At the reception, I was soaking up the surroundings – sounds, facial expressions,
body language – all of it swirled inside my head
as I walked around the room.
When I empty it onto paper, all of this may
or may not come out intertwined with other words
to make an event that never happened
I spend the afternoon vacuuming the area rugs –
the ones that are burgundy with geometric framing
that direct me around and around the perimeter.
After I’m done, I empty the canister of its contents –
All the dust particles are grey
except for the black pet hair from the hallway runner
where my dog sleeps.
The moon is parting
And venus has begun her descent
Through the mist of the morning
To the top of the pines
The extent of their tryst
Left churning and warming,
Until the evening
Brings them together
In later shadows,
Craving to assent.