WD Poetic Form Challenge: Rimas Dissolutas

It’s been a while, so let’s get another WD Poetic Form Challenge going–this time for rimas dissolutas!

Find the rules for writing rimas dissolutas here. This French form rhymes, but not in the normal way most poets would expect.

So start writing them and sharing here on the blog (this specific post) for a chance to be published in Writer’s Digest magazine–as part of the Poetic Asides column. (Note: You have to log in to the site to post comments/poems; creating an account is free.)

Here’s how the challenge works:

  • Challenge is free. No entry fee.
  • The winner (and sometimes a runner-up or two) will be featured in a future edition of Writer’s Digest magazine as part of the Poetic Asides column.
  • Deadline 11:59 p.m. (Atlanta, GA time) on June 15, 2017.
  • Poets can enter as many rimas dissolutas as they wish. The more “work” you make for me the better, but remember: I’m judging on quality, not quantity.
  • All poems should be previously unpublished. If you have a specific question about your specific situation, just send me an e-mail at robert.brewer@fwmedia.com. Or just write new rimas dissolutas. They’re fun to write; I promise.
  • I will only consider poems shared in the comments below. It gets too confusing for me to check other posts, go to other blogs, etc.
  • Speaking of posting, if this is your first time, your comment may not appear immediately. However, it should appear within a day (or 3–if shared on the weekend). So just hang tight, and it should appear eventually. If not, send me an e-mail at the address above.
  • Please include your name as you would like it to appear in print. If you don’t, I’ll be forced to use your user/screen name, which might be something like HaikuPrincess007 or MrLineBreaker. WD has a healthy circulation, so make it easy for me to get your byline correct.
  • Finally–and most importantly–be sure to have fun!

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2017_poets_marketOrder the Current Poet’s Market!

The 2017 Poet’s Market, edited by Robert Lee Brewer, includes hundreds of poetry markets, including listings for poetry publications, publishers, contests, and more! With names, contact information, and submission tips, poets can find the right markets for their poetry and achieve more publication success than ever before.

In addition to the listings, there are articles on the craft, business, and promotion of poetry–so that poets can learn the ins and outs of writing poetry and seeking publication. Plus, it includes a one-year subscription to the poetry-related information on WritersMarket.com. All in all, it’s the best resource for poets looking to secure publication.

Click to continue.

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Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community, which means he maintains this blog, edits a couple Market Books (Poet’s Market and Writer’s Market), writes a poetry column for Writer’s Digest magazine, leads online education, speaks around the country on publishing and poetry, and a lot of other fun writing-related stuff. He’s also the author of the poetry collection Solving the World’s Problems.

Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.

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26 thoughts on “WD Poetic Form Challenge: Rimas Dissolutas

  1. JRSimmang

    FISHER’S ECSTASY

    The fish swim
    round ‘n’ round
    on moonlight

    silv’ry slim.
    Echoes found.
    Sailors fight.

    Their grey hymn,
    solemn sound,
    slipping right

    past the grim
    treasures bound
    for the white

    shores bedimmed.
    Holy ground.
    Fishes bite

    heart and limb
    deftly drowned
    this good night.

    -JR Simmang

  2. candy

    Storm Trooper

    sitting alone in this dark room

    i wait for the coming of a storm

    dark inky clouds spill over the sky

    thunder marches closer in heavy boots

    approaching rain wafts its muddy perfume

    and wind whipped leaves pass in a swarm

    jagged swords of light intensify

    and pierce the ground – electrocute

    bored clouds retreat, their trek resume

    sun shines clear and fresh and warm

    the battle’s over so out i fly

    to jump in puddles in my gumboots

  3. RJ Clarken

    Neural Network Color Scheme

    ‘An AI invented a bunch of new paint
    colors that are hilariously wrong.
    Let’s just say this neural network won’t make
    you fear the robot uprising.’

    And the names of the colors are not for the faint-
    hearted or those who disdain scuppernong*
    (which isn’t one of its paint hues, by the way) – so take
    heed: here’s a partial list for analyzing.

    Ronching Blue, Stummy Beige…and please let me acquaint
    you with Sindis Poop and Stanky Bean…these (and more!) belong
    to its list. Like: Bank Butt, Burble Simp and Dorkwood. Make no mistake.
    Where did it get these names? It’s not surprising,

    when one might reflect that an AI has no constraint
    for choosing, except what’s in its memory bank. So, strong
    signals for the weird names (but not merely for just weird’s sake)
    could provide colors and names that are quite…hmm?…mesmerizing?

    Therefore, here’s to the new and out with the quaint!
    Let’s get ready to rush quite headlong
    into walls covered in Snowbonk or Turdly. The uptake?
    Perhaps we should consider revising.

    ###

  4. RJ Clarken

    Amorphophallus Titanum

    Corpse Flower is once again in bloom!
    It’s ginormous. Ridiculously
    gorgeous…and the smell is just like death.
    Cadaver. Remains. Decaying stiff.
    But oh, what a glory to behold

    ‘though one must hold one’s nose in the room.
    It’s curated meticulously,
    by a gardener who holds his breath,
    gently tending with nary a sniff
    as the poisonous odors unfold.

    That beauty can be found in a tomb,
    From a bud to funiculus (tree?)
    means, to quote an ancient shibboleth,
    “A plant is a plant. What’s the diff?”
    Titan arum is not marigold.

    And like the witches cry in Macbeth,
    “Something wicked this way comes…one whiff
    and a prophesy is thus foretold.”

    ###

  5. taylor graham

    DISSOLVING

    Our whispering equanimity
    of evening eased in color of night
    too beautiful, you said, to be real –
    the moon, the stars, and a cooling breeze

    abruptly gone. Clouds of a black sea
    slashed by one tremendous flash of light,
    zigzag hieroglyphics cold as steel
    and wind’s chaotic gallop through trees.

    Rain! Now might the old dry creek run free?
    Lightning, and again – a second sight
    as if dissolution breaks the seal.
    Wind in our face, muddy to the knees –

    what a fresh new world the skies reveal
    at dawn – for hard work, a new heart’s-ease.

  6. JRSimmang

    OUT ON THE PERFORMANCE FLOOR

    “Who will mourn the death of a fool?”
    says the king on his ribboned throne.
    To his right, the roast pig steams,
    to his left, the people still dance,
    the queen’s face carved statuarietto.

    “No one,” said the fool, “he is but a tool,
    not worthy enough to nibble the bone
    in the mouth of the dog.” His eye gleams
    still, this victim of circumstance,
    clutching his chest in splendid rispetto.

    From it pours his blood, a crimson pool
    of lyrical odyssey. “He will soon be gone
    to the aged tapestry’s gilded seams
    and lost to the misty age of romance.”
    Thus, he slips into a liquid clear libretto

    while his thread unbinds from his spool.
    The king sips from his red bourgogne,
    “Time is not ours, but runs in streams,
    and we can only hope for a passing glance.
    If you play it, play it allegretto,

    and even I cannot attempt to overrule
    it’s tempo. The fool, the king, all forgone,
    and the wicked queen with wicked schemes
    stands on equal ground with equal chance.
    We are but one lost and last terzetto

    with lost and last confectioned dreams.”
    Who be the fool, the one with cross-gartered pants,
    or the one with sharpened steel stiletto?

    -JR Simmang

  7. Marie Elena

    What separates me from my God?

    Perhaps tribulation?
    Starvation? Distress?
    Depression? Resentment?
    Indulgence? Offense?

    No. I’m His creation.
    I’m His nonetheless.
    I’ve found true contentment.
    His love is immense.

    He spared not His own Son
    That I might be blessed?
    I’m led to repentance;
    Christ is my defense.

    © Marie Elena Good, 2017

  8. DanielAri

    “I want more of you”

    I’d pulled out that conversational quaffle:
    would you rather play every instrument
    or speak every language fluently?
    It went around. The people you’d guess
    would answer first did so; then you said,

    “Both.” “You can’t take both.” It sounded awful,
    but you laughed without discontent.
    “Yes I can, my friend. This is fantasy,
    and in mine, I play a letterpress
    accordion and a xylophone riverbed

    while my pedicured feet beat out a skiffle.
    I rap rhymes with the perfect accent
    in Sanskrit, Esperanto, Lingala and Farsi.
    And while we’re at it, I confess
    I can fly, turn invisible and raise the dead.

    I can’t be stopped, so don’t try to fence me.
    And don’t worry. I’m benevolent in my prowess.”
    Since then, I can’t get your eyes out of my head.

    —Daniel Ari

  9. AsWritten

    MISSING by Ken Bentz

    They
    dissolve
    steamy, tangled
    memories,

    which sway
    and revolve.
    You molecularly wrangle
    the atoms of breeze.

    Don’t say
    you evolved.
    Your thoughts are mangled.
    Your mind – diseased.

  10. Nancy Posey

    Road Map

    My glove compartment has never held gloves.
    Instead it serves as a time machine, a repository
    for that loveliest of anachronisms, the road map.
    Most cumbersome than GPS, nonetheless,
    it showed me more than where I was going.

    My finger traced the roads than ran through coves
    and mountains, beside rivers, telling my story,
    where I had been, where I was now, and perhaps
    even showed me places I would never guess
    were there—towns with names worth knowing:

    Bell Buckle, Nowhere, Paradise. Anyone who loves
    to travel, loves to dream can sense the history
    implied between those lines. I was a snap
    at finding my way to magical places, blessed
    by discovery, however the wind was blowing.

  11. Bruce Niedt

    Revised version:

    Victims

    For weeks I watched a mother mourning dove
    and she watched me, stock still, with one black eye
    from my rhododendron where she nested.
    She kept her eggs warm, this new resident

    of my yard. It was not due to love,
    but purely instinct as the reason why
    she sat round-the-clock and was invested
    in her unhatched young. Daily as I went

    my way , I’d breeze on past with her above
    amidst the leaves and purple flowers by
    my front door, her patience daily tested.
    Her motherly resolve was evident,

    until one day brought nature’s cruel glove –
    a cat’s paw, and I fought the urge to cry
    when I found the lifeless bird, molested
    by some local pet with predator’s intent,

    the nest disheveled, three eggs broken, shoved
    to ground, three unborn chicks who’ll never fly.
    Those beautiful young lives, now arrested,
    a home not hidden well enough, now spent.

    Today I thought I saw him, in a grove
    of bushes by my house, a cat with sly
    sleek movements slipping uncontested.
    You bastard, I thought. Now are you content?

    I mourn the dove that I so briefly guested,
    but nature has no time for sentiment.

  12. Bruce Niedt

    Victims

    For weeks I watched a mother mourning dove
    and she watched me, stock still, with one black eye
    from my rhododendron where she nested.
    She kept her eggs warm, this new resident

    of my yard. It was not due to love,
    but purely instinct as the reason why
    she sat round-the-clock and was invested
    in her unhatched young. Daily as I went

    my way , I would breeze past with her above
    amidst the leaves and purple flowers, by
    my front door, her patience daily tested;
    her motherly resolve was evident.

    Then one day, down came nature’s cruel glove
    in a cat’s paw. I felt an urge to cry
    when I found her, lifeless and molested
    by some local pet with predator’s intent.

    The nest disheveled, three eggs broken, shoved
    out , unborn nestlings who will never fly.
    Those beautiful young lives, now arrested,
    the nest not hidden well enough, now spent.

    Today I thought I saw him, in a grove
    of bushes by my house, a cat with sly
    sleek movements that went uncontested.
    You bastard, I thought. Now are you content?

    I mourn the dove that I so briefly guested,
    but nature has no time for sentiment.

  13. taylor graham

    SEARCHING THE CANYON

    His dog dances. A hiker’s lost, to be found.
    The day has set its thermostat on Blaze,
    a fanatic sun whetting its brash.
    A swelter over the landscape. A shout –

    could it be Help! a raven’s call? a sound
    that echoes down the canyon’s deep-cut maze.
    Scarred land of heat-glare on talc, umber ash.
    Downslope the river. Dog’s a trusty scout.

    It’s tricky footing over ruptured ground.
    His dog stops, sniffs the air – a far-off gaze.
    Across the gorge, a signal-mirror flash?
    Dog’s belief overmasters master’s doubt.

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