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- 04/30/2016
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Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Occasional Poetry - 22. NaPoWriMo 2016, Week 4 and 3/7
i>With thanks to Val, and Tim and AC. You are muses and inspirations. But the errors I make are my very own.
APRIL 22
The partial differential with respect to x
has more to do with function z;
as y is held as constant, this is what protects
the coefficient y, you see?
Now do it once again, but with respect to y,
a different planar slope obtains.
The two define just where the tangent plane may lie,
though this may overtax our brains.
Despite confusion, onward go another round,
a second differential take.
But when you do, you're at a stand, what have you found?
More partial layers, for heaven's sake!
Four choices wait, use x or y with each or none,
two branches off each first attempt;
by now velocity in three dimensions won,
acceleration now must tempt.
Now Pascal tells us there are eight that we can take
in different permutations wise;
and if the student still remains at all awake,
the fourth is left for exercise.
APRIL 23
I built a verse upon a solid rock;
I would not have it rise upon the sand.
My syllables lay strewn upon the land,
and seemed my roll of blueprints there to mock.
Foundations measured in iambic feet
and formed in brief accented beats to lay
We used as moulds for mortared words and clay,
while slowly poured my images concrete.
My poem's house rose framed in quatrains three;
it's spacious rooms pentametered and bright;
while windows help bring metaphors to light.
This is the place I hope for us to be:
A home we build within a worded vale,
a place we live so we can tell our tale.
APRIL 24
Is it too humid?
Go check the weather station.
I'm just in a sweat.
Are these clothes all right?
I should wear something different.
Why is it so hot?
Why did I agree
to go out with you tonight?
A knock on the door.
What time did we say?
This happens every first time.
Anticipation.
APRIL 25
Hear my cries and hear my curses,
it is time to write my verses,
but I haven't got a single thing to write;
for despite my cogitation,
I've not had an inspiration,
and frustration put my puny thoughts to flight.
Late last night I tried a sonnet,
told my brain I'd get right on it,
but of all my noble thoughts I made a wreck;
and my rubayat, salacious
sounded clumsy and not gracious,
and I'd filled the page pretentiously with dreck.
Later, crafting verses blankish,
my results were still more rankish,
as my trochees were despondent as the rain;
so I downed a liter lambic,
switching to the foot iambic,
and I set upon my poet's quest again.
Though I aimed for something serious,
filled with meaning and mysterious,
every fit and start made worse my shameful plight;
now instead, I wrote a ditty,
and it isn't very pretty*
for the drivel that I wrote was only lite.
*(my original draft had: "and it's altogether...awful")
APRIL 26
The span astride the creek is wide enough
for vehicles to pass, and for a man
to cross without the trip becoming rough:
at least, that's in the bridge designer's plan.
The Chevrolets and Fords go to and fro
as once the civil engineer foresaw;
but did the builder in his office know
that I would stand and watch a winter thaw?
I do not think the plan accounted much
for phoebe's place to nest and greet the day,
or yet the course where kingfishers and such
might race along the bank to hunt or play.
He did not think that I would stand and gaze
upon the Milky Way as I walk home,
and from his bridge see heaven all ablaze
with galaxies and planets as they roam.
Such unimagined uses as he missed,
his bridge would take a person to the stars;
and just beneath, a place where lovers kissed -
his bridge is so much more than trucks and cars.
APRIL 27
What you see of me seems solid trunk,
though there are softer spots that you can find;
and all that I might do is branching bravely for the sky.
You think you see my actions in the wind,
but none can guess emotions running high
and summer will mask their meaning.
But while my arms caress the breeze
which carries every kiss your way,
my heart will beat around a granite block,
and draw upon its deep, dark distant histories
to make us twine together.
APRIL 28
Have I an honest choice to sleep or wake?
Perhaps may I declare, for pity's sake,
tormented restless slumber at an end,
lest sleeping cause my sanity to break?
Release me, please, oh Morpheus, I send
a fervent prayer; through twilight may it wend:
that some more worthy sleeper you embrace,
while all your servants carefully attend.
I cannot rest, my nightmare gives no grace,
it patently refuses to erase
the images burned on my inward mind,
or leave me in the dark without a trace.
I never knew the morn to be unkind
so as to tarry long enough to find
me wholly given over to that ache,
and in the bedsheet hopelessly entwined.
APRIL 29
My body is an old house,
a sad, ruin, overgrown;
neither historic nor worth a detour,
and ripe for demolition.
But I picnicked here once,
and danced with my lover
in the green, growing garden
under the afternoon sun.
My body is an ancient suit coat,
worn and hopelessly outdated,
missing buttons, with gaping holes in the lining,
which no tailor's art could improve.
Yet it is a favorite of mine,
as I inherited it from my father;
it fits me perfectly as it did him:
I wear it everywhere I go.
My body is a discarded tire
abandoned in the tall weeds.
Its cracked tread worn down to nothing
lets broken steel belting peek through.
Once I carried a thousand children
safely on their varied journeys.
Perhaps another life awaits:
a planter,
or a swing stretching far out over cool, shining water.
APRIL 30
Come, friend
and teach to me
the art of poetry.
I would unlock the secret door
of words.
Inside,
we'll dance with syllables all dressed
in finest metre sewn,
and trade looks of
meaning.
APRIL 31
A poem rumbles in the distance
like a summer storm.
Its black clouds may pass by
to the north
leaving the earth bone dry,
or with a sprinkle of little worth.
But the thrill of possibility remains,
a downpour to fill the drains,
and lightning to clear the mind.
em>If you feel so moved, write a review. I'll only think the more of you.
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Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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