Tag Archives: Rhyme

Sometimes unusual wins

Wiping my soles of a green gradoo,

Wishing for catenate rhymes to accrue.

Columnar phrases we whisper at night,

Jointing and cooling, crackling on sight.

Opening comments come up the next day

Out of our comfort, then die away.

Though smiled in response, your eyes will avert

Gathering mettle you hoped to assert.

I’m always hopeful for those might-have-beens,

But with the gradoo, the unusual wins.

*****

Picture by me: basalt formations from The Giant’s Causeway, Northern Ireland, March 2019

Gradoo = cajun slang for “stuff you scrape off your shoe.” Also, a delicious side dish with spinach, onions, cheese, and garlic.

Bring your own

I cordially invite you to make this sandwich order with me soon;

read  from the post-it note I found on my walk

last Tuesday, just before noon.

It’s for a cheese-steak sandwich on sesame,

using both American and mozzarella cheese.

Laden with onions, probably red, and banana peppers, yellow,

the pungent and acetous toppings combating the cheesy marrow.

And if this weren’t enough acescent taste,

with lots of A-1 sauce, as told, the sandwich should be graced.

Likely you will thirst upon it’s completion,

this sandwich activates the salivary gland secretions-

and since I cannot offer what you seek,

bring your own preference of beverage, then, to drink.

***********

This poem was written in response to #summerofprompts entry 3 by Mary Biddinger and generally inspired by a found post-it note.

Coffee For (In the Style of John Masefield’s Sea Fever)

I must go down the street again, to the coffeehouse near the Y,
And what I need is a yogurt scone and a grande latte chai;
With a mule’s kick and a banshee song and the white milk that’s shaking,
There’s a grim look on the barista’s face, and the coffee press is breaking.

I must go down the street again, for a caffé mocha, iced.
It’s 2 pm on a Wednesday, this cannot be denied;
And here it is a promotions day with the caramel clouds flying,
And soccer moms with their matcha green, and the frappuccinos vying.

I must go down the street again, this vagrant caffeine strife,
For the blended way and the fruit juice way where the drink is a whetted knife;
And all I ask is an espresso shot that keeps me stone cold sober,
And doubly-steeped herbal mango tea or a smoothie I could go for.

**********************************
A “Terrible Poem” written in response to Chelsea Owens weekly prompt to destroy (my words, not hers) a classic poem at https://chelseaannowens.com/category/terrible-poetry-contest/

This one was written in the form of Sea Fever, by John Masefield – the first poem I recall having to memorize in eighth grade English. Thanks Miss Dunn.

Echoing

I’ve got no poem today, but it must be okay,
I’ve thought about monkeys, how walruses play.
how the color blue is my favoritest hue,
and wishes are best when they really come true.

I’ve got no poem today, and really do wish
the words on the tip of my brain would assist-
sounding out songs or echoing tales
of beauty transcendent, like the sea from a shell.

I’ve got no poem today, and no thoughts transcend
my own disappointment I fail to contend-
Yet here in the darkness, I draft and forestall.
I guess that I’ll gather more words, lest I pall.

I’ve got no poem today, but I venture to guess
Tomorrow will happen, and words may address
some loftier thought, some grander design-
while playing with words that I thought to combine.

Seasonal

The leaves lay spread amidst a coverlet of snow-

one a bit early, the other late in season

past reds and yellows – some time ago.

They were once green, connected stem to root –

and spring and summer rains

dripping from their tapered ends fed them –

their flowers and their shoots.

The rains that came in maelstrom or set in calming mist,

now fall glissando-like in frozen silhouette.

Lighting on the grass and ground,  setting to persist.

The time between these spells now hardly seems unfurled

and yet the leaves, now consummated, are ensconced in winter pearl.

 

The issue

The paper product, emergent from the box-
standing at attention, waiting on the swap,
when a user has to clean their glasses or to sneeze,
then pulls the tissue out with seamless ease.

And doing so, this draws a sibling sheet
up to the outside world with no retreat.
There, in place, arisen from the fold
a new page stands now, vigilant and bold.

This act is oft repeated in response
in times where sudden need is vital, the ensconced
leaflets follow on – each one the same.
Standing firm to meet the need is their acclaim.

And this should be a model for our deeds:
pull up those who follow us, to lead.

Devils, you know

Hoppler and Ickle
give winklets and snorts,
callous and curmudgeon troubles of sorts.

Beleaguered daydreams
seen grousing in gloom-
colloping seeds of an impending doom.

Walking their cretins
on boardwalks of bread
opening quand’ries, revealing their stead.

Driving the demons
all gone malcontent –
cavernous morass of judicial intent.

Watch well the swindlers
and give them no sway
shine light upon them and thwart their foul play.

Hoppler and Ickle
won’t deal with the fact
the devils you know is just what they lack.

Paragon

The frost that abides on the blades of grass
in the early morning darkness,
will sublimate as the sunbeams rise and amass
and reveal the work of the artless.

The light will envelope a verdant day
and warm where cold was belated,
then tarry with a lush and capable stay
just as salvation created.

Listen

I’ve spent the week listening to songs
and paying tribute to old movie stars.
Ol’ Gator and the Crewe are gone,
the coffee pot is growling on.

The songs I heard are old and true,
yet still they sound like yesterday.
I send them out from me to you.
The coffee pot is growling on.

Ol’ Gator fought the crooked law
and justice served the Crewe at last.
Even bandits fight against their flaws.
The coffee pot goes growling on.

What could happen, which is worse?
Posed a voice I recognize.
Are our leaders so accursed?
the coffee pot goes growling on.

Where did all our heroes go?
I ask aloud – inside my head.
The lonely people – they all know
the coffee pot’s still droning on.

Songs and stories will often tell
us who we are to be:
Poet, lover, bootlegger rebel.
The growling pot has stopped, it’s done.