They wander, and yonder they go in the dark
with glow sticks, beyond
them the moonlight, and barks
the taffeta, heavy-set makeup and screams-
the night of the beggar, of horrors and dreams.
The rustle of paper, the rattle of chains-
Billy and Molly fight over the brains.
The princess and pirate, too shy to speak up
the conjuring words while Dad just drinks up.
A drop in the bucket-a thump in the night
the blood of the ghoulish departed from sight.
The clown with the paste face, the witch all in black
the ogres and goblins all stomp and attack.
The flapping of ravens, the quiet of stares
at once-a-year play acting- acute and with scares.
Then beating the pavement and swarming the lawns
the tidal rush crushes, and then they are gone.
All manner of monsters and bold super-kids
Just listen for drumbeats, like Gene Krupa did.
Soundtrack prior to writing/reading this poem: Sing, Sing, Sing.
I do not wish to know
tomorrow’s faint and slow
ascent, nor do I care to see
if yesterday was lithe with glee –
Wasn’t last year so obsessed
We can attest.
And back ten years, if sighted, could
we not have worried where we stood?
To keeping in the ‘now on scene’,
I hope that all my words are keen
and opening new each day
-as morning glories say –
that past affronts have gone to sour
and I embrace a blooming flower
that opens with the sun.
Rolling on the floor, a speckled ball of yarn,
chased by cats, and batted back and forth;
’round the chair and wedged so not to budge.
Provocateur, unravel as you will-
the line of thread that travels here and yon-
a serpentine attests your elegance.
A moment’s play- your coil and path supply
diverting pleasure – here and there – unwound
around and ’round the floor you dart.
Between the wall and shelves, in spaces thin
since come to rest – and sameness- yet again
Await to wind and wrap – your future holds
another track, unfurl and ring and flaunt.
I set out to write a sestina this morning – quite a challenge for a Saturday morning- but the word scheme never quite worked out for me. I ended up with this, which has no formality to it, other than 3 line verses and some nice lines, alliteration, and hopefully some back and forth in the poem. I don’t own a cat, but I suspect watching one play with a ball of yarn might be enjoyable. I was thinking that the yarn might get bored easily if all it had to do was be batted around and unwound until it found a resting place – waiting to be rewound and put into play again.
In a variegated way-
it whispers, being
between the green and cerise.
The faint curls into light
The noise and resonant hinge-
lingered ’til the next breathing sound,
upon which it leans
hasty and crimson into
collections of cadence.
And hushed, redemption
mixes with the blushed-
a new shade of stillness.
Poet’s note – Lest someone reading think that I can’t spell. I wrote this, and then couldn’t think of a title. The poem seemed a bit uneven to me, as I attempted blend sound and color and feeling. I’m not sure I achieved any of it. The whole thing seemed very erratic to me…oh wait… a pun. Great idea.