Brighten Up
This poems wants to add a PoP
of color to its black and white lines
Maybe slip a pair of red shoes on its feet
Tie a purple scarf around its stanza
or meter out some magenta syllables,
shining like bubbles, just for fun.
The Quality of Dust
The Quality of Dust
The quality of dust is not measured in abundance,
but rather in the fineness of its particles.
True dust contains no lumps or identifiable
bits. It is silken to the touch and rises easily
on wisps of air. True dust settles silently
atop flat surfaces and collects in corners without
fanfare. It is a magical powder that appears
just before visitors arrive to keep us humble
and grounded. True dust is ever present,
waiting patiently in mid air, hovering over
our busy lives, until it finds stillness. It can not
be caught or trapped, or tricked into vanishing.
True dust is the constant in this human-made world.
In the Beginning
In the Beginning
Sounds had no order, no form
Each note played randomly,
like early morning birdsong
Chaos was the melody that filled the air
Harmony, just an illusion, a vanishing act
performed by strumming magicians
Instruments rang out in unrhythmic time
and there was no key to unlock the secret
Until someone began to bang the drum –
and music was born
–
No Frog, No Sound
No Frog, No Sound
This poem is a shadow of
its former self, shedding syllables,
leaving a trail of letters behind
as
it
fades
Its feet leave no trace of rhythm
There are no stanzas left, no
couplets standing in the moonlight
It can no longer count to 5-7-5
All that remains is an old pond
Day 15 of PAD has us writing a shadow poem
Think No More of Me
Think No More of Me
Forgive me for seeming timid
Or shy, or quiet, or rude
Forgive me for appearing to be polite
Well mannered, courteous, but
I ask no forgiveness for my feelings
I hold them in my heart where
They are guarded from judgement
They are the music of my soul
They belong only to me
They’re the percussive blow of grief
The vibrato of pulsating joy
The solo of winter-like loneliness
The persistent tinkling of hope
And I share them only with you
A Found Poem
A Found Poem
Where have you been little poem?
Your feet are muddy and you are
dripping syllables . You are covered in
worn-out phrases and inky smudges.
There seems to be no rhyme
to this form of yours. No line of reason
or hint of season in your wordy count(enance).
Let me wrap you in warm metered stanzas.
Let me embrace you with a loving simile.
Let me be the refrain in your rhythmic scheme.
Day 11 of NaPoWriMo
haiku
wrinkled brown toad
emerging from the dirt
sign of Spring
Day 7 of PAD has us writing a “small” poem
Finding Me
Finding Me
Stand in the moonlight, preferably in bare feet
Release a small cathartic howl
Intone a prayer and send it spinning
Listen for the chattering of the wind
Wait for stillness
Turn your face upward
Feel gentle moonbeam kisses
Stretch your fingers skyward
Trace pictures on the dark cavas of night
Close your eyes
Conjure up my being in your heart
Day 7 at Na/GloPoWriMo
Conjuring Memories
Conjuring Memories
It’s not the yeasty smell of
Freshly baked bread or
The peppery smell of roses
The bring her back to me.
Although her oven produced
Magical loaves and her garden
Simmered with old fashioned roses,
It is the sharp, medicinal smell of
Vicks Vap-o-rub that conjures up
My mother’s memory and her gentle
Fingers smoothing the chilly potion
Over my sickly chest, spreading love.
–
Day 6 of PAD
Words
Words
It’s not your words, filtered through your teeth,
tumbled by your tongue, that reach into my soul,
that quiver my heart, that spin my world. It’s
the rise and fall of your breath, the gentle tone
of love, the tenderness of silence, that reach across
this space between us and bring me strength.
—
I used the poem Kirum, by Eva Gerlach as my inspiration.
rhymeswithbug 