A place for poems and pics
New Rules for Writing Poetry
Go to a library
Find an old book
The well- read kind with
a tattered cover and dog- eared pages
Gently shake it over a blank sheet of paper
until it has no more words to give
Spread the loose word evenly
Fold the paper into a crane and let it fly away
Wait
When the crane returns open it and read its poem aloud
Turn it into a small boat
Set it adrift on the current of dreams encircling the universe
Tell Me
Don’t tell me about your new car
with its fancy dashboard and back up camera.
Don’t tell me about your latest trip to
some foreign country with beaches and sunshine.
Don’t tell me how long you waited in the drive-thru
line for your morning latte.
Tell me instead about birdsong in the morning,
the male goldfinches singing their hearts
out, dressed in their brightest yellow feathers.
Tell me about the row of orange and pink
Zinnias, planted especially for bees and butterflies.
Tell me how much you care about this old planet
with all its light and darkness, its joys and sorrows.
Tell me the stories of its creation and the hope for its future.
Tell me love stories about you and me.
—
Day 22 of Poem a Day at Writer’s Digest
Cycle of the Cicada
She heard them before she saw them –
a high-pitched whirring sound, like a herd
of tiny lawn mowers. The nearby woods were the
scene of this emerging miracle, something only seen
every 17 years. Insects, crawling out of the ground,
shedding their outer shells to become winged creatures
with red eyes, like monsters in some scary book, read by
flashlight under the covers – the stuff of nightmares.
Amid the cacophony of their short lives, she prayed the
old woods would still be standing as silent witness
to the next cycle of the cicadas.
Day 25 of Poem a Day
https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/2024-april-pad-challenge-day-25
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
wrinkled brown toad
emerging from the dirt
sign of Spring
Day 7 of PAD has us writing a “small” poem
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
Time’s Up
This poem is not ready to move on,
but its adjectives have abandoned the rhyme
for warm, blue waters and sandy shores. The nouns are
running a marathon with the moon and it
finds itself no longer (verb)ose.
This poem is left with only two feet and no rhythm,
and the meter is almost on empty. It has become
un(in)formed and blank. Maybe now is the
time to stand(za) up, pack up its ink and go.
But it will be back to repeat the refrain.
Just Out of Sight
This poem has seen it all
Trends the come and go – waiting
around the bend to return in
a slim disguise that can not
fool this poem
Long hair, short hair, no hair, facial hair
Wide pants, narrow pants, no pants
streaking across a field
Spikey heels, flat soles, flip flops that
used to be thongs, but now that is
something entirely different
Pop beads, love beads, crystal beads
Moon rocks, pop rocks, pet rocks,
Rock ‘n Roll
This poem has watched it all come and go,
but it won’t stop looking until
it sees peace
About What Counts – a remix
He counts the birds of many hues
The names of most, he doesn’t know,
but they must count for something too.
His favorites are the noisy blues,
the yellows putting on a show.
He counts the birds of many hues,
this window gives a perfect view.
The black one – oh, it’s just a crow,
but they must count for something too.
He still remembers quite a few
it’s memories that do not flow.
He counts the birds of many hues
until they’re gone, all but a few,
and like them memories have flown,
but they must count for something too.
He sees a face and wonders who,
should he remember them – but no.
He counts the birds of many hues,
and they must count for something too.
A Reply From Narcissus in the Laundromat
When I stumbled into the laundromat I saw
you fluffing and folding and was instantly smitten.
People think I’m vain, egotistical even, but
every time I looked in a mirror or caught my reflection
in a window I was looking for you. I was daring to hope
that someone like you might be following me. Suddenly,
there you were, so I went from machine to machine trying
to glimpse your face because I was afraid to look into your eyes
in case there was no love reflected back.
* from Day 5 at NaPoWriMo
rhymeswithbug 