2017 April PAD Challenge: Day 11

If you want to learn a little more about me, that’s easy to do. Dustin Brookshire is sharing poet profiles on his blog this month, and recently posted a profile of me.

Today is our second Tuesday of the month, which means it’s Two-for-Tuesday day.

Here are the two prompts for today:

  • Write a sonnet. (Click here if you need a refresher on sonnets.) I know some folks will say a writing a form is not a prompt, but I often use forms to prompt me into poems. And I know that some folks will say they hate traditional forms. Soooo, the other prompt is to…
  • Write an anti-form poem. Write about your dislike of poetic forms. Let it all out.

*****

Recreating_Poetry_Revise_PoemsRe-create Your Poetry!

Revision doesn’t have to be a chore–something that should be done after the excitement of composing the first draft. Rather, it’s an extension of the creation process!

In the 48-minute tutorial video Re-creating Poetry: How to Revise Poems, poets will be inspired with several ways to re-create their poems with the help of seven revision filters that they can turn to again and again.

Click to continue.

*****

Here’s my attempt at a Sonnet and/or Anti-Form Poem:

“no forms”

believe me when i say
with no shame or regret
that i’m anti-sonnet
& against triolet
because forms hide my voice
behind layered structures
blinding me with textures
forced without any choice
for instance i must rhyme
in elaborate ways
about evenings & days
that pass measured by time
which forces me to think
& thinking kind of stinks

*****

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). He actually does like to think and play around with poetic forms, including sonnets.

Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.

*****

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427 thoughts on “2017 April PAD Challenge: Day 11

  1. RJ Clarken

    Part I

    50+

    How heavy do I journey on the way,
    When what I seek simply doesn’t exist.
    Life seems like radioactive decay…
    …Unexpected from a romanticist.

    The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
    Plods dully on, poetic to extreme.
    Life mimics tales from Edgar Allen Poe…
    …so this poem is my fraudulent scheme.

    No bloody spur can but provoke it on,
    And no muse comes ‘round to offer it hope.
    Life seems like it’s merely sine qua non…
    Lurking inside a window envelope.

    O groan. Shakespeare never meant it this way.
    Time for another glass of Beaujolais.

    ###

    Part Deux

    Regarding Anti-Form

    I do not often write sans form
    since free-verse ain’t, for me, the norm.
    If there’s a lack of metrics, rhyme…
    I rarely will invest the time

    in penning poetry. I’m not
    a true deft hand. On second thought…
    perhaps it takes a special skill
    to write what some call overkill

    regarding graceful turn of phrase
    ‘though you should know it’s not a phase.
    Thus, rhythm, scansion, lyric, pace
    Are my real user interface.

    ###

  2. Karen

    by: Karen Wilson

    Ducks all in a row
    mothers quack keeps them in tow
    vulnerable babes

    Upstream salmon go
    ebb and flow of family
    some die others live

    North wind passing through
    mighty oak tree dropping seeds
    acorns neglected

    In the chestnut tree
    baby bird on edge of nest
    free falls to the ground

    We take too much for granted
    realize what we planted

  3. mapoet

    Sonnets

    I have trouble writing sonnets.
    Why? Can’t quite put my finger on it.
    Maybe writing in the shadow of The Bard
    is what makes the form so hard.
    The lines are a bit long for my taste.
    The effort I have to put into them seems a waste.

    When I try to write iambic verse,
    my mind spouts trochaic, just the reverse.
    I’m supposed to write 14 lines,
    but I wind up long with 15 or short with nine.
    I can’t seem to meet all the requirements.
    I may put writing sonnets into retirement.

    The one feature on which I can depend
    is the rhyming couplet at the end.

    By Michelle Pond

  4. Nancy Posey

    A little late with my sonnet, but after our book club discussion of Hillbilly Elegy by J.D. Vance, I’ve been thinking about all those kids back when I was teaching high school who weren’t on the college track and just wanted to do their thing. Statistics show they’re the ones who stay in the hometown and, if they’re lucky, end up in all those service jobs on which we all depend:

    Basic Education
    (for the kids who won’t be leaving home)

    In high school, there is nothing much to do
    For boys in trucks and boots and Carhartt jeans
    We slog our way through poems in English II
    but no one ever tells us what they mean.
    And history’s a guessing game at best–
    just one long lecture, all the major wars.
    We bubble in at random on the tests.
    We’re rather build a fence or fix our cars.
    We once had shop class, then the school board met
    and took the “nonessential” stuff away.
    They drill us on the facts we’ll soon forget.
    We know we need some skills, but have no say
    in planning for our future. Don’t they care
    for kids who’ll fix their cars and do their hair?

  5. SharylAnn

    POETRY DOES NOT HAVE TO RHYME

    I have had a love/hate relationship
    with poetry my entire life
    From – forced memorization of some
    sing-song rhyme that required
    recitation in front of the entire class
    To – classic beat, meter, iambic whatever
    and always rhyming words I felt
    boring and predictable

    Learning Haiku as a fifth grader
    was my poetic saving grace …
    The original Japanese form
    Not the bastardized current
    formats of the so-called
    Twitter Micropoets

    Later in life my writing mentor
    instilled in me my current love
    of poetry by introducing me to
    the likes of Carver, Mary Oliver,
    Sharon Olds and so many others
    who are writers of prose poetry
    She and these poets freed me …
    letting my find my own poetic
    voice and style …
    the one letting me know …
    “Darling … not all good poetry rhymes!”

    Copyright © 2017 Sharyl
    Always…I wish you peace, joy and happiness, but most of all I wish you Love.
    As Ever, Sharyl

  6. Danielle Robinson

    A Sonnet for Spring

    Everything is abloom, even new love.
    The sky is soft blue; God’s green is verdant;
    Blue jays rehearse their morning songs above,
    while the wind whistles and blend concordant.

    Vernal flowers bud and arrange in beds,
    as flies fly, bees sneak pollen for their hive;
    Butterflies escape their cocoon by sheds
    and streams stream lukewarm in ripples times five.

    The sun parch April’s showers with delight—
    For bike rides, picnics, and flying of kites;
    Before night’s chill by the kiss of moonlight
    where lovers share sweet nothings, site by site.

    This is springtime flourishing bright ahead,
    with God’s son in mind, whom risen from the dead.

    Anti-

    True is,
    As a poet
    I’m not against
    any form of poetry.
    They all define the art of freedom
    somewhere in between those
    black words of rhyme and rhythm.

    And I don’t even dislike any poets.
    Because they are just like me,
    Trying to say what they want to say
    without being misunderstood
    or penalized for being self.

    I only try to oppose
    the butterflies in my abdomen,
    the heat of my nerves
    and the breaking of my voice
    while poeming about
    what needs to be poemed.

    —Danielle C. Robinson

  7. Nancy Posey

    Guilty

    Every Sunday on the drive home from church,
    he heard the orders: Go straight to your room.
    Without complaint, aware of his infractions—
    squirming, sassing, rolling beneath the pews
    from front to back on a dare, sticking gum
    in his sister’s hair—he went without protest,
    more goat than lamb to the slaughter.

    This paying of dues, his meek acceptance
    of the scolding, sometimes a few whacks
    from Father’s belt, seemed a small price
    to pay for Sunday dinner Mother set out
    on the table, the buttered rolls, ham,
    potato salad, a bounty—and even more
    when the preacher and his wife visited.

    No wonder one Sunday, his deportment
    flawless, they’d looked around for him
    before the preacher offered the blessing,
    only to find him, blameless, yet waiting
    in his room for his weekly punishment.

  8. J.lynn Sheridan

    The Refrain

    Behind the lover’s smiles lost in this world
    are untold secrets longing to be free.
    But lovers’ lips must linger swathed, unfurled
    aside tides of stray words flung into the sea.

    The futures of our children wait and so
    we dance barefoot ’round the world this night.
    and sing the story of our love so slow,
    so soundless under midnight’s candlelight.

    When friends say, “Let us listen to your song,”
    I’ll tell them it is written on our hearts
    where fickle moss and time do not belong—
    only the fading chords of betrothed sweethearts.

    Oh, gift me with your moonlit eyes and charms,
    and I will die with your sonnet in my arms.

  9. Mariya Koleva

    Day 11 – Onegin Stanza

    I love my forms to be poetic
    And call for loving lovers’hearts.
    I try to run my poems hectic
    Believing ending finds its path.
    Towards our living stressful bodies
    My loony, glowing eyes embody
    The hopes and dreams of my distress,
    And, humbly, blinking eyes will follow
    The sign arising on the wall
    That booms in strikes across the hall
    Avoiding sleep, however hollow.
    Entranced to meet the bluish sky,
    Forgive, forget and wonder why.
    ***

  10. bonniej59

    Whirling

    My DNA is what it had to be.
    My parents’ genes determined that whorled code.
    But life’s mad whims revised the pre-set key,
    and karmic faults point where my soul must go.

    It seems that I must march long miles in shoes
    of someone in some lifetime I once slurred,
    a soul whose lack of energy accused
    as “lazy,” one whose scourge I now endure.

    Please, universe, allow us to remain
    upon this earth when finally we’ve found
    unbolted access to nirvana’s gate,
    compassion, peace, and love in all conjoined.

    Through whirls of genes and chaos we’re all sent
    until we learn each lesson. And repent.

  11. charmuse

    [Spenserian sonnet form]

    The Way

    The way she moves, it’s beautiful.
    Ankle bells tell rotation of feet
    while hips accent left to rightful,
    her head slides west to east,
    continuity of snaking arms greets
    bangles that jangle in a new refrain
    as elbows exalt into the downbeat.
    Her shoulders shimmy like rain
    cascading through human frame;
    she may captivate she will not pay
    ransom owed to an ancient claim.
    It’s she who moves the way,
    like a divining rod
    recalls the beauty on arid sod.

    ~ Charise Hoge
    http://www.mixandmosspoetry.com

  12. briehuling

    Oh my God
    for little love Leo

    You just gave birth
    to an actual human!
    How is this happening
    at the same time
    as this poem?
    Miracle is not a big
    enough word.

    The borrowed breath
    The curled red toes
    The turtle-headed lovebud
    from Never Ending Story.

    My littlest best friend
    on the outside now.

    Brie Huling

  13. Shennon

    I live each day free form
    I prefer not to conform
    While repetition is the norm
    I take on life by storm
    Others may transform, but
    I’ll never be uniform
    Neither will my poetry.

    –ShennonDoah

  14. pmwanken

    NIGHT TRAVELS
    by Paula M. Wanken

    beneath a blanket
    of a star-filled sky

    my heart soars

    on a spotlight
    of moonbeams

    ///
    Cheating slightly to catch up, this is a mash-up of the “Travel” and “anti-form” prompts.

  15. Kyarochan

    Sonnet

    I do not do well with a rule-book, no!
    I prefer to be whimsical and free.
    I struggle when counting syllables, so
    metre’s a mystery to me. (Oops.)

    As a child I derided the rhyme scheme –
    “something trashy from a bad birthday card”.
    I’m so shocked and appalled that I could scream
    to find out that it’s actually quite hard.

    How many haiku could I have written
    in the syllables I’ve hurled at this page?
    I must keep to one theme like I’m smitten,
    a ceaseless squeak from the back of the cage.

    So when they told me to write a sonnet
    I thought “on it”, but – dogonnit! – blown it.

    (c) April 2017 by Caroline Hutchinson
    https://carolinehutchinson.wordpress.com/2017/04/12/1483/

  16. drwasy

    Ode to a Sonnet

    A sonnet’s a poem, I groan under my breath,
    of love unrequited leading to death.
    Words strung together, a mere fourteen lines;
    the trick’s not the length but the dad-blasted rhymes.

    I can haiku, shadorma, and do senryu,
    sestina’s a cinch and I can even pantoun.
    My page fills with centos, concretes, and cinquains,
    so why does the sonnet drive me insane?

    Shakespeare compared thee to a sweet summer’s day
    “Love is not all” spouted Lady Millay.
    Even Wordsworth found himself surprised by joy;
    for me, the sonnet only serves to annoy.

    I surrender my paper, my ink, and my pen
    in hopes I shall not ever sonnet again.

  17. Missy

    I would not want to be anywhere else.
    I love the spanglish and the neighborhoods,
    the Harmonica Man that taught hisself,
    and the bodegas that sell buenos goods.
    The gangs, the drugs, the shootings make the news:
    a fifteen year old was shot in the face.
    Crying ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh
    a mind is a terrible thing to waste.
    Then there’s downtown with the sorta rich folks
    with their yoga and big dogs and high rent;
    and their lofts, and their cars, and diet cokes;
    stores and coffee shops in their apartment.
    This is the city and its different views.
    The city of Hartford– it be my muse.

  18. Jezzie

    A SLEEPLESS NIGHT

    I have tossed and turned over and over,
    worrying about anything, nothing
    that I need to worry about ever.
    I have had no sleep and it is morning.

    Sun shines again through my bedroom window
    to welcome me to another new day.
    Mallards are squabbling on the pond below,
    seagulls squawk above in their raucous way.

    Sleepily I turn over, raise my head.
    My sleepless night is forgotten at last.
    Downstairs my dog moans gently in her bed
    to remind me it is time for breakfast.

    The night is over, a new day is here
    and all my silly worries disappear.

  19. ToniBee3

    Sunlit Moonlit II

    Pomes of my orisons and jub’lent womb:
    the apple and pear of mine eye and heart…
    soft as cradle pillows of downy plumes;
    sweet as alyssum and poems of Froissart…

    Don your wisdom and grace and heritage:
    let them circle and cling to each inhale
    as would a persistent robust sillage
    from a simmering pot of hocks and kale…

    Leave no void in this raring-to-go world:
    unfold to it your gifts and otherness
    like black opals and pearls lovingly purled
    with tight seams and kiss-curls and sanguineness.

    Your divine paths are lit by sun and moon:
    Dearhearts, walk by faith to His precious tunes.

  20. Austin Hill

    PAD #11

    A girdle
    the first few times you wear it…
    you feel different

    commitment requires
    patience

    fit is important
    too tight? discomfort
    too loose? ineffective
    just right? Zen

    under optimum conditions
    preferences develop

    ungirdled informality
    yields to organized,
    held-together,
    authority

    A poetic form is like a girdle.

    © April 2017 Suzanne S. Austin-Hill

  21. Linda Hatton

    Robert, I love your poem! (I’ve worked on this for far too long today and it still needs more work, but sleep is calling.) 🙂

    Mysterious Disappearance

    His face turned up on the six o’clock news,
    his stolen yacht retrieved from Santa Cruz.
    The only signs a struggle had ensued,
    his dull pocket knife and torn bloodied shoes.

    I’d overheard him tell his senile folks,
    he’d rather live without me by his side.
    I begged him to stay, yet he vowed to go—
    crushed my frail heart, said I wasn’t his bride.

    But then he went missing and I cried out
    my eyes—I was convinced he’d surely died.
    Though he’d wounded me, I still loved the lout.
    I never wanted to see him graveside.

    Now I wonder—was it all just a ruse
    to dump me because he lacked an excuse?

  22. DanielAri

    Conversation

    “We need an MLK.”
    “Not Bernie Sanders?” “No,
    someone who clarifies
    the spirit of the cause,”
    says Max. “Malala’s good,
    but people haven’t heard
    of her.” “Some have,” says Shawn,
    “but not in our country
    so much.” “We’ve splintered off,
    and everyone’s dug in.”
    “It’s biblical,” I say.
    “The savior lies within,”
    says Max. “Yes, I agree:
    we need an MLK.”

    (blank verse sonnet in iambic triameter)

  23. Janet Rice Carnahan

    TO FORMAL FORM AND NORMAL NORM

    Oh, sweet word for word
    How will you align
    I will listen, haven’t you heard
    Pay attention, line per line

    It’s ok if you’re scattered
    Across a hapless page
    It’s important that you’ve mattered
    With the wisdom of a sage

    Perhaps you wanted independence
    To express your self as you are
    It might not have made much sense
    If we’d let you run too far

    Just so glad you finally landed here upon it
    As a fully structured normal, formal sonnet

  24. Domino

    Dawn – Abed

    Dawn’s breaking and I haven’t slept.
    I keep thinking there’s a mistake
    or a dream, though I’m still awake.
    What’s happened? I cannot accept
    this new world into which I’ve stepped.
    I wonder, and puzzle, and ache.
    Don’t know how much more I can take,
    and instead of slumber, I’ve wept.
    This joy has become something more.
    Bliss isn’t what I expected.
    My boundaries have fallen apart
    now, here, with the one I adore.
    I feel completely connected
    by letting you into my heart.

  25. Jrentler

    The Nubian Nightjar of Israel

    The Nubian Nightjar of Israel
    From the nest, did ye hear the sirens song
    “l’amour est enfant de boheme” he fell
    captive to soul notes netted, he belongs

    A talent-show sign up by the mess hall
    His voice, a cool river on desert skin
    a colonel turns, worlds erupt with a call,
    the Angel of the Airforce sings to win

    Sheva, Tuvia, and on to Dimona
    The bus millipede crawls all through the night
    Oases runneth over, troops moana
    Where’s that songbird of peace, beauty and light?

    Flew not to the promised land, but Chelsea
    where he still softly hums to destiny

  26. lily black

    Twofer Tuesday
    Formless

    She told the police to take her child she was tired of fighting for him she said she would leave him with them and
    disappear he was cuffed to his backpack in old shorts with nothing trying to be something in a school full of children with nothing trying to be something

  27. lily black

    Twofer Tuesday
    Formless

    She told the police to take her child she was tired of fighting for him she said she would leave him with them and disappear he was cuffed to his backpack in old shorts with nothing trying to be something in a school full of children with nothing trying to be something

  28. lily black

    Twofer Tuesday
    Sonnet of the Bleeding Protocardia

    Equal opportunity is for you
    For someone somewhere sometime down the line
    Not everyone can trust the men in blue
    When you’re told to stop you won’t get a fine

    Opportunity come knock on my door
    I better hear those knuckles pounding soon
    Help get my mom off your old dirty floor
    She only wants to see the big pink moon

    Will that ancient damaged window open?
    And the dream I seek come rushing right in?
    I kept fighting but my heart got broken
    Finding that love that never did begin

    To see each child with opportunity
    And together we build community.

  29. Marie Elena

    MY TOP FIVE FAVORITES OF THE DAY:

    1. Ivy_Lane’s “Freestylin” has such mood and style! Love this!
    2. Michelle McKewen’s “Sarah Nell.” Michelle has a unique poetic voice that is consistently edgy and intriguing. This piece doesn’t disappoint.
    3. Bruce Niedt’s “Suburban Clutter.” I have a “thing” for flawless cadence, and this slice-of-everyday-life piece fits the bill, well, flawlessly. 😉
    4. Earl Parsons’ “Screensaver Street” is just a feel-good, nice read.
    5. Margot Suydam’s “What nobody knows about us” is haunting and powerful.

    1. Jrentler

      CORRECTED: (Sorry, working with antiform:

      t e r z a r i m a
      h…………………c
      e……………………r
      g………………………o
      h………………………………s
      a……..BREATH………………………..t
      z………………………………………………i
      a……………………………………..c
      l i m e r i c k

  30. pcm

    My Darkling Child

    My darkling child, dear poesie arise
    Reveal the secrets lost from winsome days
    When we hid not our hearts in thin disguise
    Nor exchanged charity and hope for praise.
    Your laughter sweet fragments the sullen gloom
    Where shadows bold cast fear to doubt the light.
    Their dour enterprise but malaise to groom
    While your impish pinch seeks but our delight.
    Propriety shuns your ceaseless frolic;
    Your courage from the ancients summons truth
    The form of which often curtails logic—
    Appears to abandon wisdom for youth.
    Though your golden words stick sweet as honey
    With sorrow you keep constant company.

  31. Alphabet Architect

    A sonnet?
    Doggone it!
    Don’t make me do it!
    Not that I mind ‘em
    It’s just that they
    Kind of move in
    So I’m
    Dreaming and
    Thinking
    Revising,
    Improvising all in
    Iambic pentameter
    And I am no
    Shakespeare
    But only an amateur
    So anything else please
    But a sonnet
    Doggone it!

  32. Sara McNulty

    Wishing On Blossoms

    A full flowered spring, rebirth, renewal
    is under the wing of Autumn’s last chill,
    awaiting entrance as I await yours. ‘Tis cruel
    to find me at threshold with no hope, still

    I am haunted by ghostly memories. Black
    and white photographs now mottled with tears
    are all that is left of our time. Now I look back.
    Without you my future is merely a blear.

    A conflict, they called it, this crushing of youth,
    and when the allotted blood was shed,
    all spring flowers withered in face of sad truth.
    Tell me why all these young men are dead.

    Yet, each springtime blossom gives me a glimmer
    of how life would be with no loser or winner.

    1. ppfautsch24

      Thine Self…
      It seems to come to me with much thought
      At times to say things that I ought not.
      To write and speak on love and relationships provocative and raw.
      But, the pull of my heart eclipses the want to withdraw.
      Thus my inventive pen,
      written under pseudonym, Pasha.
      To be poetic and true to thine self,
      to do justice.
      I will steadily write to convey what I must,
      to know I may please; if only thy self.
      By Pamelap

  33. bxpoetlover

    God’s Gift

    Breathing, swinging arms and legs all at once
    Overwhelm me so I cannot swim,
    quell my fear of drowning, or ignore
    the beach’s beckoning. On my last trip,
    had my menses. Emancipated feet
    from flip flops. Sauntered to shoreline until
    Atlantic Ocean bathed my feet. Gathered
    hem, hiked it mid-thigh, waded until water
    was calf high. Planted feet. Aimed for the crests.
    Feet sank in sand with every lunar pull
    siphoning stress. Filmed water’s ebb and flow
    to capture sacred peace on stretch of beach.

  34. nickbutterfield123@gmail.com

    Romantic Couplets

    Hand in hand they make quite a pair
    thoughtfully rhyming without a care.

    Someday in the future Wedding Bells,
    their sons and daughters will be Villanelles.

    We all shall benefit from such a wedding.
    There will be sonnets and bonnets and floral bedding.

    And if they ever separate, it will be a first.
    Our traditional poems soon will burst

    People will speak Haikuish and count syllable on their toes.
    What a world it could be if we just leave it to the Prose.

  35. Jerry Walraven

    Were I to but try to fairly describe
    what eyes open wide, too closed yet to see,
    blinders on friendship, vision circumscribed,
    hate grows our world, we allow this to be.
    Try to blame hopefulness, sadly misplaced,
    what exists, exists, seen with these eyes,
    down many roads traveled, lines I have traced,
    all colored darkness, not yielding surprise.
    Closing these eyes, I pray for a vision,
    what is to be done, this day now and here,
    true understanding no longer imprison,
    offers of compassion reaching my ear.
    love is the offer if all hope is lost,
    love is my offer, no matter the cost.

  36. cari.resnick07

    An anti-form poem

    I don’t like to read directions
    when I’m cooking or writing you see
    I’d rather use them as a guide
    that allows experimentation for me to just be me

    When I put pen to paper
    I write what is on my mind
    But if I have to write in form
    It leaves me in a bind

    The words don’t flow freely
    so I’m left in a state
    of mind numbing nothingness
    feeling far from great

    Rather…

    When I put pen to paper
    I write from my heart
    does it form? does it rhyme?
    It doesn’t matter as long as I start

    I know that when I write it expresses how I feel
    and when I pour my soul out on my paper-
    that is what makes my poem real.

  37. Megan

    Tis better to love once than not at all.
    (Tis better the heart never be broken)
    With first love, the heart blossoms – awoken.
    Everything in its wake is enthralled.
    Colors are brighter, you’ve no wherewithal,
    A sort of sweet, sensory heroin
    No need for words, murmurings unspoken.
    Sadly, the end you can’t always forestall.
    With first love, the heart clenches to a close,
    The landscape becomes a bleak blank canvas.
    The scar tissue around the wound may grow,
    But the memory of the first will last
    Lingering on your psyche like a ghost
    Relegated to a privileged caste.

  38. mayboy

    Antipod

    Cemented ten of fourteen,
    a blade
    over the rhyme
    tell me honestly
    en-chained
    I’ve done
    swept
    by slept
    the freedom of my mind
    The vanity
    of keyboard
    tapped

  39. Maria Grace

    On Being Unable to Write Today

    I’ve chosen today to write a sonnet –
    I’ve never been able to write free verse –
    But though I have laboured the day upon it,
    I’ve nothing to show, for better or worse
    But a crumpled collection of discarded lines
    ‘Mid work notes, in pockets, tucked into books.
    Crumpled up pieces of terrible rhymes
    Mocking the task I rashly undertook.
    Farewell to pride and all solemnity
    Away with every pretension of skill!
    Embrace instead heartfelt humility:
    We are made stronger by what doesn’t kill.
    One can only try, but though I fail
    Still I’ll try, as long as I am able.

  40. jennfel

    Shapeless

    My muse dances
    To a tune all her own
    Cannot conform
    To preconceived
    Poetic standards

    Words pulse their way
    From the end of this gnawed pen
    Ink bleeds onto paper
    And forms scrawls that beg
    For multidimensionality
    In a world too fixated
    To take notice

  41. De Jackson

    sonnet for the moon

    oh, to write a song upon the moon,
    where reflected ink might truly shine.
    I’ll soak my syllables, let them bloom,
    and steep my heart in rhythm’d time.

    oh, to scribble full and half and part,
    crescent something solemn, something true.
    lo, to sketch these words upon my heart,
    darken deep the side I cannot view.

    oh, to ask the tides what they might know,
    how to find the timing of each phrase.
    how to fill the page and follow flow,
    still my soul, and raise my palms in praise.

    stand against the night with arms wide open;
    ask the stars that I might be a poem.

  42. Ivy_Lane

    Freestylin’

    I’d write you
    a sonnet
    but baby
    we both know
    you don’t move
    like that

    Your rhythm
    is bluesy
    and pop
    with last minute
    changes in
    dir-
    e
    c
    -tion
    & s p e e d

    Be a cryin’ shame
    to jazz square
    you in
    to somebody else’s
    foxtrot steps
    ‘cuz, baby
    your style
    is free

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