I just discovered the blog of the lovely Madeleine Kane, who creates a Limerick challenge every Monday for open participation.View details via link above. Basically, she writes the first line of a Limerick and anyone is free to submit their own continuation of the verse.
This week's opening line was: "A man who was known for his flash". I highly recommend clicking over to her blog and reading some of the highly entertaining entries!
Here's mine:
A man who was known for his flash
was too quick for the coppers to stash;
garbed only in skin,
his big, toothy grin,
and below a revolting mustache.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Recovery of Sorts
Revised 8/12/2012:
Thunder splits a cumulonimbus mash;
denying light
refusing sun
deflecting clarity on every plane.
A river of words evaporates through a
cauliflower of mud sludge:
blocking, blockading.
A beggared man,
squeegee in hand,
squeegee in hand,
clears the murky panes
nothing to give—
fleeting memory fading fast.
It is there to be had…
capture it, set in stone
the truth recovered once again
again and again
for the last time
for now.
The Visit
She came
with the sunset
and left at
its rise,
day and
night
day and
night
day and
night
in between;
undulate
panging of
disappointment
washed away
with explosions
of joy
Helpless Relaxation*
Best demonstrated by
vagabonds in cafe window seats,
dinner dreamed or imagined:
lost to life;
or a young one
brinking sleep and waking,
bobbing from mundane to divine:
the quintessence of innocence.
*Word combo planted in my brain by Betty Smith's A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.
vagabonds in cafe window seats,
dinner dreamed or imagined:
lost to life;
or a young one
brinking sleep and waking,
bobbing from mundane to divine:
the quintessence of innocence.
*Word combo planted in my brain by Betty Smith's A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.
Untitled
Once a
whirling dervish without restraint,
here and
there a dance on wind
as spiders
toiled in vain to hook
a wisp of
leg or arm;
the will of
this one a stone
plopped through
woven webbing
left a gaping hole of unpaired threads
fluttering like
severed strings
on cut-off
jeans.
Labels:
oh lawdy,
poem,
poetry,
spilled ink,
why lord why?,
woe is me
The Golden Haired Harpist
The
golden
haired harpist,
to have her
symphony,
exchanges her
instrument of tranquility
for one of urgency
–
Bleating
disturbance
in the healing halls
as trumpet
only can:
Harp harp
harp
for bleat
bleat bleat –
in her
manicured hands
there is little
difference between them.
Harpist,
harper or,
as trumpet
is her choice, trumpet she now blows,
Trumpetress may
have the priceless notes -
Her lengthy rote
sounding or resounding
near and far,
all around;
whirling cacophony
in a dwindling prairie,
once a place of
peace where, now,
grass, reeds
and dust dirtily mingle
in a composition
of destruction.
She plucks,
strums, or blows
her notes of
haughty righteousness,
absolving her
own acts,
molesting
passersby,
or mere
moles in holes
that come out
to blink just twice
for light
before
scampering back underground,
fearing
being trodden, stamped and mangled
beneath the deadly
stiletto heels
propping up
her femininity –
Away she
goes,
Jezebellian
priestess,
Jester of
Hippocrates,
Conjurer of
explosive discord;
leaving the
simmerings
of strife in a cymbal,
salted and
peppered to perfection.
Mia prima donna,
you play not
for me,
for I am no
child of Apollo;
but swerve not
from your symphony:
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