the tapping sound
of dancing echoes
rain upon the ground,
and glistens –
opens now the heart
to christen
quavering in time
-just listen.
oscillation
2 Replies
Tag Archives: Rhyme
The Caretaker
I’ve planted my gardens, the seedlings are nestled in soil.
Their placement in sunshine and shade impacting the toil
of the growth and the fruit that they bear.
All I can now do is tend to the water and care
of the ground and the branches where the issue resides
and pray that fair weather and gain will intensify.
That one day these young for which I’ve aided and viewed
will grow with abandon, and with their sustenance accrued
plant their own gardens and remember the day
of planting and harvesting love in their own unique way.
****************
Not sure of what to call this yet. And I think it is a sonnet in the making. Right now, though, it expresses a profound sentiment in this poet’s life.
ingrained
My poems seem like a recipe
for whole grain bread.
The water and oil,
though critical,
don’t mingle – dissimilar things
have no bound surfaces- but you add salt and sugar anyway-
Having faith in the mix.
Pouring in flour and seeds
can appear chaotic, yet it is
purposeful to the blend. Some flour
is white and smooth,
some of it is wheat and coarse
– textured-
with grittiness of flax seeds,
and oats, and rye.
A small divot in the pile
is home to bread yeast, a catalyst, an ache,
that fuels the rising dough over time.
If using a machine, then you’re done.
The poem can bake and rise, and still be tasty –
but it misses an opportunity.
A need.
Something you add.
Handle the dough
Grasp
Folding the blend
Feeling the texture
between your fingers.
Press into the bowl
massage and cajole-
form and remake
this merger, new
with each tumble
and clutch.
This wielding power comes from you
to make the poem combined and mingled
and mean something that will not dwindle
with time.
And the bread will be just fine.
*************
Trying to jump back in the saddle of writing again. I’m not so sure that this is best, final version of this. I enjoy breadmaking for the robustness of the bread and the physical handling that makes it such an individual creation, much like poetry.
After reading the completed poem, I like the additional symbolism that this offers as well.
second hand
I heard the words
and their correctedness,
in picturesque suffectedness.
She spoke them with such emplity
and vocal resnoguity.
I could not dare not write them down
and use them later for colored sounds
To poke at the sentence
bruskly and paciously,
or converse on the gartan
defendled loquaciously.
And if the strunogrammatic skills that I now display
cause you to mattle or otherwise say,
What silliness falls from there on page?
My stars! This is nonsense.
It’s nothing so sage.
It’s second hand outwisms
pure and just plain.
So read and enjoy it,
my emplitious refrain.
Gratifying
The morning revealed
as an imaginary hand
pulls a coverlet back
to unconceal the skies.
And though stars
of a poet’s versifying
fade into the light
-the day undenying-
they remain watchful
for hopes and wishes and dreams
gratifying.
Singing the moon
In a twildly dusk, I see
a flaxum and her mimbles, we
open talk and loydal sing
with sunbeam-laden mulbering.
The verse rafeals a higher cause,
and willently, we sing then pause,
our fragenotions echo there
as we chorus contricare.
As just as then, we breathed and stopped,
fixembled, stable, clembed and swapped
A song sincerely wooed, then freed
and flaxum/poet now agreed.
Then in mirist silence found,
tracing back with embered sound
songs at dusk- the most revered
The ferrel-maried moon appeared
and strummed the night to denser aires
with open chords and fortunes fair.
first law
its ordered stacking
melts and dies,
recapitulates
then coalesces-
to epitomize
a reformation in this wise-
to begin again, displaced another’s
demise.
Under the strentberry tree
Come, and go wand’ring for churier times,
away from the riptin and rinants, their crime,
the villor and vagell in all their retorts,
The jumb-poling penguity, wanstier sort.
Observe the small paregallow sat on a twig,
that tweets a small tune, with a purintly squig.
Clasp hold my hand without chuberous thought,
and pick up the footspeed, with clip and with clought.
And when we have reached, with flooks and with guills,
the strentberry tree with its tassles and twills,
we’ll lay in the greenier grassles that wave
and meekestly coddle the songs that we saved.
Singing through tassles, and loring through twills
with our hands embraced tightly, and our giggles that thrill
the logus with all its galand and its hue.
Your grin and my smilishness, baylishly soothed.
Come and let’s wander a churier time,
clasp my hand, coddle and purintly rhyme.
*********************************
Should you be wondering “what does purintly mean,” I used a random nonsense word generator to help me with the words for this poem. The innocence conveyed by the silliness of the word choices was my goal. I often search for the greenier grassles that wave, just to have some quiet time, under a strentberry tree.
How to move through the rain
Into each life, some rain must fall – H. W. Longfellow
Use an umbrella, preferably compact
and easily stored.
Use an umbrella, preferably full-sized,
with a six foot diameter.
Cover your head:
Use the Plain-Dealer
Or the Times-Picayune
Or an old copy of the Post-Intelligencer
Don’t use the Sun-Times
The Sun-News,
Or the Standard-Examiner
Move like Gene Kelly,
and sing,
sing and tap,
sing,
and tap and sway.
Pirouette,
in comfortable shoes.
Swing at raindrops with a Katana sword.
Be like a petal, opened
and rediscovered
in the spring.
Let the rain kiss you on your head,
as it must,
and even though a-washed in dreary
and cold, silver, liquid drops,
revel in the
-slishity slosh-
Calculate the horizontal velocity and random path
required to pass through a normalized distribution of water drops
falling
at their terminal velocity,
and walk
between
them.
Avoid the puddles.
Dash through the puddles.
Hold hands.
Soak,
and watch the water
drip from your fingers.
Down to the ground
and wash away.
and so will you, soon
see the world
while walking there, alone;
the sky will open or the wind might blow
and send you forth along
with words and pictures,
clever rhymes and songs.
And the words might fill your soul,
(or send you down a rabbit hole);
or cast your sail into the wind
(then pause in stills, to wait…again)
the song might fill your empty heart
or send you in a deep’ning dark.
a rhyme could tickle, opening up your eyes
(then raise a laugh, with tears not improvised)
While ruminating thoughts echo between
the cascade sounds and tranquil scenes,
this symptomatic curse draws me to a close
and so it will to you,
soon, I suppose.
Taps and Ratamacues 