Before we get into the full onslaught of the April PAD Challenge, let’s complete one more WD Poetic Form Challenge. This time, we’ll be writing the rispetto.
There are two versions of the rispetto that I’ll accept for this challenge:
- Poem comprised of two quatrains written in iambic (unstress, stress) tetrameter (four feet–or, in this case, 8 syllables).
- Poem comprised of 8 hendecasyllabic (11-syllable) lines–usually one stanza.
Pick a version or try both.
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Workshop your poetry!
Writing first draft poetry is fun and liberating. However, it’s also isolating if you don’t have a group of trusted readers to help revise the poems. In the Writer’s Digest Advanced Poetry course, poets receive the opportunity to workshop their poems with other dedicated poets.
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Here are the guidelines:
- Write a previously unpublished rispetto and share in the comments below.
- Include your name as you’d like it to be published–if it happens to win the challenge.
- Deadline: 11:59 p.m. (Atlanta, GA, time) on March 27.
- Winning poem will be published in a future issue of Writer’s Digest magazine.
- No fees or special registration required.
- Everyone is encouraged to participate.
- Note: If you’re new to commenting on this site, it may take a day or two for your comment to appear–as I (or another editor) will have to manually approve. After that initial approval though, comments should appear as you post.
Good luck!
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Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
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Want more poetry? Good! Check out these links:
Bullied
Life’s never fair at Old Oaks Ranch, kids do things
like scrawl spite on mailboxes while innocence
sleeps, shut in by bludgeoned words, truants fighting
for rights to hate another, belligerence
guides all thoughts and words, neighborhood troops suppress
random acts of kindness with plastic pellet
guns. Children misdirected must be addressed,
may loving care be the only true bullet.
Sooo many good poems here! Wow! I am writing to the tune of screaming teenagers in the background! Ack! A fun form that I would like to play with some more. The ones I’ve written are a bit clumsy, but I want to play along anyway.
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Blue Collared
Green waves of palm fronds brush moisture-less breezes
while lady swings on porch of absent callers,
a dot on horizon, her hero, freezes
his future, entire life wasted for dollars
placed inside a stranger’s purse feeding greedy
wishes for possessions money cannot buy,
filling space inside that makes him feel needy
for love forgotten, enduring short supply.
Traffic Lights
There is a constant traffic stalling my mind
My muse attempts to explain the mechanics
To decongest my mind with reds, yellows, greens
With turns and parallels and directing signs
I find myself slamming breaks, traffic remains
All I want is to write this song, but just find
Myself lying in bed in company of
A guitar I don’t even know how to play.
-Lahevet P.
Reconnection
You were part of my memory
Lines and images forming shapes
There to stay, twisting with the pass-
age of time, never did I think
That lines and images would break
The boundaries of my mind, and
Past would enter into present
“How have you been doing?” you ask.
-Lahevet P.
Power Play
The sea, a raging bitch foaming
At the mouth, coming back for more
Farther along each time, waves are
A thin veiling curtain over
The sand melting beneath my feet
I crush blooming rocks under my
Heels bury them back in the sand
Step aside, I am walking here
-Lahevet P.
THE GAME OF DEATH
You said I’d know when it was time to let go
But you were certain I could not do the deed
You laughed when telling me the signs that would show
what to look for if the devil came to feed
You were correct, I knew him soon as he came
rattling his chains in that gloomy dank night
You were wrong to have laughed though; I just said “hey”
let him in to spirit you off from the game
Maybe it was not quite what you had in mind
But you forgot to express more explicit
Wishes you see, so I used my faith. It’s blind
And knowing that fact I wonder what was it
You thought I might do when you ceased your breathing
Honestly – did you think I would pray to God
After years of our disputes left me seething
Consulting your Almighty would have been odd
I Believe In Pixies
when wind dusts snow off trees to form wee bodies,
tiny heads, legs stretched down, arms thin as incense
sticks bright sun burns to nubs that grow again: these
elastic sprites just seconds tinged translucent
white light blue then gone until the gusting breeze
once more sends twinkles into shapes too soon spent
so I’m struck by what needs doing now, fairy
fading, magic tangible, momentary.
B Peters
Well, the entire poem is not supposed to be in italics–only the title and the word “now” (in line 7). I tried the HTML prompts, and thought I should lead with a prompt before the targeted word/phrase and end with a prompt after the targeted word/phrase in order to create limited italicized words. Does anyone have any advice on HTML?
I can’t see your tags, but I assume the closing prompt didn’t have thw negation character (/) in front of it.
Yes, you are correct. It did not. Thanks much for your help. Barb
Angelo Polizaiano
Angelo Poliziano
Shimmering son of Tuscany
Politziano Angelo
Eight beat coincidentally?
The name rings rhythmic to the ear
Two hundred rispetti penned near
Dance! Regards! spin highest to low
Angelo Poliziano
Pearl Ketover Prilik
who writes these as soon as the challenge appears
and posts them as the deadline vanishes …
Your poem was fun to read, so I’m attempting to reply in kind…
CLICHE TIME
A deadline has a way of coming
too soon for comfort or relief
and leaves the poet ripe for summing
a poem that started life too brief,
and so it is a challenge, but
the writer tends to make the cut:
dreading to send in nothing at all;
preferring to show he’s on the ball.
haha delightful!
The last book
In twenty-five excruciating minutes
she will be put to death for crimes committed.
Her exclamations of “I didn’t mean it!”
were carefully and purposely omitted
as there is no excuse for her behavior,
for no reader on this planet can save her
from death. It’s too late for an apology.
She burned it, and left us with… technology.
(c) Jacqueline Hallenbeck
Stanza break got lost. Hope it comes through now.
THE LAST WALRUS
Huge, sleek and rusty, he hobbles
searching over waterless sand,
cripple without crutches; cobbles
under flippers. This, his last stand –
a desert without blue mirage.
His own kind – that lost equipage –
his chances. Sun sets into dusk.
Oh elegant curve of his tusk.
THE LAST WALRUS
Huge, sleek and rusty, he hobbles
searching over waterless sand,
cripple without crutches; cobbles
under flippers. This, his last stand –
a desert without blue mirage.
His own kind – that lost equipage –
his chances. Sun sets into dusk.
Oh elegant curve of his tusk.
If poetry were a girl…
If poetry were a girl, she’d be my wife.
For it, I would change gender. I’ve been writing
it ever since I can remember. My life
is rich and so deliriously exciting
when I submerge myself into my pieces.
And if it were a dude, I’d be his missus.
If poetry proposed tomorrow, ‘tis true:
For better and for words, I will marry you.
(c) Jacqueline Hallenbeck
A Gift Returned
What happens when a lover stops your heart?
And the stenosis makes the love cease to be.
Injected with deception, you start to mold.
Optical hardship iced; struggling to see.
Can you be revived in time to save your soul?
Or will it be an inevitable goal?
No…because with a warm cup of honesty,
I can turn your heart back into it’s beauty.
A COLD LONG WALK
A bold breeze breaches brittle bones,
As legs lead onward, lacking heat,
To searing sunset’s warm red tones,
snow crunching under freezing feet.
The leafless trees make creaking moans,
Full moon floats free, above, discreet.
Sometimes I walk alone like this,
Out in the cold when life’s amiss.
This is beautiful.
THE OLD QUAKER MEETING HOUSE
It stands in ruins on the knoll,
the twin doors open to the wind;
the paint is gone; the stout ridgepole
is stunted; all appears chagrined.
The tombstones in the dried side yard
are faded; broken; crumbling; scarred;
and yet the whole contains within
the grace and peace that once had been.
William Preston
another good one, William
Many thanks.
Helen Keller
An illness took away your sight
and closed the door on all the noise
but never did you quit the fight
as you grew from dolls into poise.
You graced us with your written word
and your voice was strong, loudly heard.
Your limits did not define you
each break through, you grew, you just flew.
Kiss and Tell
Your kisses are hot, blazing heat from the sun
I wanted forever a touch of your love
A burning sensation can come from the tongue
Oh how I wasn’t thinking that night thereof
My mind drifted places as your lips made O’s
Softly on my neck, I felt my body froze
When I saw your phone recording our session
My lies are dead, only room for confession
Archeila “Archie” Walker
Sugaring
Through billowing sweet steam he gives voice to past
seasons making maple, his father before
him with two horses, six hundred taps, and last
year not bothering, the yield projected poor.
He jots down the temperature and gallons,
the hours he has boiled today, then runs
his finger down guest names and to not forget
this particular night, writes “pretty sunset.”
Sara Ramsdell
Vows
With bands of snow late winter slips
upon the fragile hand of spring
and presses cold with icy lips
to every quiet growing thing.
Remembering each reaching bough
the white flakes form a solemn vow
and spring in turn affirms sweet life
becoming winter’s perfect wife.
Sara Ramsdell
very nice work, Sara
The Tree
He was a country squire, that old, stately oak.
Each time a breeze stirred his brown, brittle leaves
I was certain that he spoke. I listened close,
for his words were well disguised by the weeping
of wound and worry, the grind of sand and time.
Yesterday, the old tree came down as I watched
from across the street. And, I raised my jar high
to his voice in my mind – Farewell. Blessed be.
Kelli Simpson
SUNDAY RISPETTO
Early Sunday morning’s bright with chiming bells
and poetry. In a circle, beaded strands
of word and metaphor, fragile weave that tells
how the bird lifts from a tree of praying hands.
And after, with my dog I walk the spring fields
to see what bounty an April morning yields –
birdsong blossoming beyond the season’s days,
words that would be petals of a poppy’s praise.
nice work, Taylor
Resurrection
Seeds die and birth deep roots and vine.
And sprout some stems and leaves come out.
Soon blossoms sow their scent and shine.
Fruit forms to share with all about.
Eternal Seed beneath the ground.
His death breeds life to all around.
And likewise, we must learn to give.
To serve like Jesus frees to live.
Snow on Easter Week
When the leaf of palm is blessed
and shrouds unfold for Friday’s woe,
a wintry storm comes from the West
with howling winds and swirling snow.
We dance, despite the pending death,
and sing beneath the doom-filled skies.
We save the crocus with our breath
and wait for Easter’s morning’s rise.
Snow on Easter Week
After the leaf of palm is blessed
and shrouds unfold for Friday’s woe,
a wintry storm comes from the West
with howling winds and swirling snow.
We dance, despite the pending death,
and sing beneath the doom-filled skies.
We save the crocus with our breath
and wait for Easter’s morning’s rise.
“Gettysburg” (Rispetto #2 version, Hendecasyllabic, abab;ccdd)
Look, and you will see her cast in radiance!
A merciful, angelic water’s daughter…
Lifts each ghostly soul through humid July’s dance;
puts parch`ed lips to cups of precious water.
She moves among the men whose glistening eyes
follow horses hooves who break their holy cries.
Her wagon mid the battleground’s begotten;
She moves among the dying and forgotten.
(Lydia Hamilton Smith, born in Gettysburg, Pa.. The daughter of an African-American mother and an Irish father. When donations withered away for Civil War veterans, she used her own earnings. Lydia was born and died on Valentine’s Day.)
Jacqueline Casey
This is great. Nice manipulation of syllables!
Plowed Ground
A lot can happen in plowed ground
turned belly up to winter sky.
Cold hollow air muffles the sound
of birds and beasts that happen by.
The rain and snow and sunlight’s heat
mellow the soil for early wheat,
and softened features of the clod
reflect the living face of God.
As Good As
Each day is a sway between grift and grindstone.
Each day is a strange one-legged waltz, and they say
a woman’s only as good as the worst man
that she lets steal her Sundays and her somedays.
Sit, and I’ll offer you sweet tea and wisdom.
Or, go, and I’ll show you a smile and the door.
A woman is only as good as the shine
on her floor. I’ve scrubbed all my footprints away.
Kelli Simpson
Shadows
“My shadow’s the only one that walks beside me.” ~Green Day, Boulevard of Broken Dreams
I know I’m never quite alone.
My shadow stays with me. I’ve known
this other me: we both have grown
through words and deeds, in hue and tone.
I walk. My shadow keeps the pace.
The darkness cannot quite erase
her silent presence: still a trace
of silhouette remains in place.
###
It’s no longer winter, he says to me under
the falling dead leaves of the oak in the back yard.
It’s becoming a time where the world wakes up
from her slumber and shakes off death. It’s certainly
better than the alternative. What’s that, I ask,
impatiently, staring at his empty hands, while
mine clutch tightly the old plastic rake that has been
an eyesore in the eyesore of the plastic shed.
It’s that death itself walks among the living in
this world we cling to so dearly, that we wake up,
shake off our covers and think in the mirror that
today might be the day we finally see the
man behind the cloak and he raises his bony
hand to clutch our tender throats. That’s, dark, I mutter,
and look to the ever-darkening sky. I had
to admit that he might finally be stark mad.
The piles of leaves gradually whittled down to
piles of mulch and sweat. I looked to my father, his
gently wrinkled face and greying temples spoke to
a calmer soul and a gently wrinkled humor.
Don’t let me fill your head with thoughts of an old man,
he laughs. You’ll be around much longer than I and
that is a promise I hope to keep. You’ve got a
good head start. Now, tomorrow we rebuild the shed.
“He who comes whilst sleep”
I am the one who speaks through teeth
upturned and yellowed. You are under
my spell though you believe to be
under the veil of cold, dead nightmares.
Seek not my face; seek not my voice.
Seek not my post-pubescent noise.
For if you find me in my hell,
you’ll wake from underneath my spell.
PS. And the title to my first is “Yardwork.”
Upward Drifting Smoke – after Papier a Cigarette Job, by Alphonse Mucha, 1896
Her tendrils curl like the upward drifting smoke
from the cigarette ‘tween her fingers, evoke-
ing a come-hither urge. It is so baroque
but that’s the point: Mucha in La Belle Epoque.
Job Papers were the ‘sell’ with every stroke
of the man’s sable brush. Sex in a plumed cloak
designed to draw a man in, inflame, provoke.
With just one word, Mucha elegantly spoke.
###
Evelyn’s gift
This year she sent me a birthday card without
anything written in it, just a check for
twenty-five dollars, same as always. No doubt
she had it ready to go, propped by the door
along with her notes to congressmen, cookies
for the great-grandkids, and car keys. She still sees
fine, still prays, still loves to rattle every cage,
still forgets details like someone half her age.
Andrew Kreider
I love poems that tell stories. Nice.
Second Time Around, Less Wary than She
I’ve memorized the shape of you beneath me,
the way you and I become a sacred us
through the mismatched way our lips mesh; create we—
a word I long found so unmelodious.
I pray that you’ve staked your claim as I am yours
in a blind, incredulous way that restores
the hope robbed by past reticence. Press your face
to my breast; my heart beats your rhythm of grace.
Toni J. Gardner
MAY DAY
My old collie and I took a walk today.
We passed through a wall, at an old battered breach;
we marvelled at spring as we strode on our way
and stopped in the shade of a leafing old beech.
Atop the knoll, flowers waved a new greeting;
they laughed and they danced for joy at our meeting
with rhythms that would have done credit to Strauss.
And thus we were blessed. We returned to the house.
William Preston
The eleven syllable count really messes with my equilibrium, but I gave it a go.
Self-taught
He taught himself to play his old guitar by
watching wizened masters tune and pick and strum,
in love with how mellow strings vibrate, throb, cry,
their calloused fingers plucking at spirit’s hum.
Long he listened, practiced until his hands bled,
unsure of where song lives in a man—his head
or deep heart—but he made room, let music fill
the space and play him: whisper, lilt, swell, be still.
Teenage Boy
Like a caterpillar wrapped in a cocoon,
this tranformation from a boy to a man
requires time, especially to attune
to all these changes in such a short time span.
I often feel that I am a polliwog
with legs—not a simple tadpole, yet not frog–
still learning to maneuver my way around,
yearning to set my feet upon solid ground.
Linda Hofke
You made this seem so easy and natural. Color me envious
You have no idea how much this comment has made my day. Every time I read your work I think how beautifully you write and wish I had a bit of that flare. So touché on the envy!
I think your “Fog” rispetto is excellent and have a feeling it will be in the top ten, if not the winner. Good luck, Jane!
Superb.
Mary at La Tomatino
We met by chance under the palo jabón,
two American tourists lost in a sea
of virginal white in a planned combat zone,
armed only with swim goggles and bravery.
For an hour we fought the battle of red,
slinging tomato-bombs against chest or head
until all wore clothing of crimson batik.
She said, “I’m a bloody Mary,” tongue-in-cheek.
Ooops! I forgot to put my full name.
Linda Hofke
“I clumb to get the daffy-dil”
He wants to get expelled and drive a streetcar.
He rigs up an auto horn in the classroom,
puts tacks on the seats, and brings in a donkey.
Misses Crabtree throws him out. Beside the brook,
his conscience haunts him: “Learn that poem. Learn that poem.”
Self-discipline as deus ex machina,
returning the fresh kid to the class lectern.
Tearful recitation, then a skunk comes in.
Story
All of this has happened before. Cat becomes
bird: claws, talons; fur to feathers; bones hollow out.
Fish grows legs and lungs, inherits the land. Hope
drops its quills and develops desperation.
The magic and the real exchange addresses.
The writer washes up and then confesses
that she never saw the flower in its flight -
yet her dream transports her reader through the night.
Sorry! Posted too early. Polished version:
Story
All of this has happened before. Cat resolves
to bird: claws, talons; fur, feathers; bones hollow out.
Fish grows legs and lungs, inherits the land. Hope
drops its quills and develops its lonely doubt.
The magic and the real exchange addresses.
The writer washes up and then confesses
that she never saw the flower in its flight -
yet these dreams transport her reader through the night.
Impressions
Behold the peacock in the yard
surrounded by his harem hens,
his tail fanned like a hand of cards.
This game he plays, he thinks he wins.
He struts, regal in his own mind—
he boasts all eyes on his behind,
while his pea hens twitter in groups
and leave him to the chicken coops.
Fog
The mist turns fog at dusk of day
and veils my vision of the trees,
tired sentinels that wear their gray
but feel green pulse with every breeze.
Thick gauzy fog enfolds the night
and holds it until morning light.
So do I slumber wrapped in dreams
of what life is and what it seems.
This. Is. Perfect!
“veils my vision”, “tired sentinels that wear their gray”, “gauzy fog enfolds the night”…
Such wonderful wording and everything flows so nicely. I think you might have a winner here, Jane.
Good luck!
Thanks so much, Linda. This is a fun form to play with, hm?
Amen to that.
Forgiveness
He uses his old pocket knife
to cut the trunk down at a slant.
He chooses cuttings primed for life
and wedges them into the plant.
We bandage well the grafted place
and wait for growth’s emerging grace.
So are we two bound by shared pain
’til we become one thing again.
Trades
They sit all night with wine and fire
remembering when they were young
when girls and cars claimed their desire
and their exploits had just begun.
Now old men, humbled, they can smile
at how life braked them mile on mile,
for now they’d trade ladies and speed
for a good old dog on a lengthy lead.
FATHER OF THE BRIDE
A beauty, in her heart and mind,
fully grown, soon to be married.
A loving daughter, smart and kind
living out the dreams she’s carried.
Down the aisle I will take her,
Daddy’s love will not forsake her,
on that day will I give her hand,
and be the second lucky man!
© Copyright – Walter J Wojtanik
DEAR TO MY HEART
You were the one my heart had known,
now this emptiness is painful.
And all compassion I had shown
had made this task more disdainful.
These days do pass in bitter dreams,
my soul is tearing at the seams,
And you still live here in my heart
forever pierced by Cupid’s dart.
Walter J Wojtanik
BELLA MIA (Second Version)
I see you in the morning mist, a vision;
my tired eyes welcome it. And your gown flows
in a gentle cascade, my only mission
is to take you up into my arms and show
you all that my love can teach you; a lesson
your mind will learn, but your heart already knows.
In close silhouette, your beauty is revealed.
My longing for you cannot be concealed.
Walter J Wojtanik
SILENCE OF THE NIGHT
It seems that sleep is elusive,
a sometimes thing that fights my will.
It’s disruptive and effusive;
but wide awake, the room is still.
I listen to the lack of sound,
a gentle respite all around.
The silence of the night soothes deep,
I do not hear it when I sleep.
Walter J Wojtanik
ABSENCE OF HEART
It can be said absence of heart
can breed a fondness most sublime.
All longing festered from the start,
is magnified in space and time.
Can love endure the test of will?
Does absent love bless lovers still?
Fate says time and distance will pass.
But hearts growing fonder? My ass!
Walter J Wojtanik
THEN AND NOW
(Rispetto for Cathy)
Could it be you did not see me;
out of sight and out of your mind?
It wasn’t easy to be me,
let alone be drawn to your kind.
But years later, you’ve found my words
and think not one of them absurd,
they soothe your mind and warm your heart.
I guess that was the place to start.
Walter J Wojtanik
Rispetto Poem comprised of hendecasyllabic (11-syllable) lines. One Stanza, composed of 8 lines.
(Rhyme scheme: ababccdd)
“For Eve”
Like Venus, flashing, skirting cross the heavens,
Undaunted Eve, she passes fruit to Adam.
Amidst the midnight sky she knows a million
stars are wand`dring in her planetarium.
“I’m a garden, strong, to live beneath this Sun.
For distillation of my soul is driven.”
Venus takes her chances ‘oer predicted time;
Eve will grow, uncharted, over any clime.
oops! forgot to leave my name: Jacqueline Casey
WILD GEESE
Three winter weeks with one lone goose
standing in our pasture. Just one?
Overhead, skeins flew free and loose,
but all in pairs, backlit by sun.
And now it’s spring. Our grassy field
so full of hope and pasture’s yield,
and two wild geese are standing there –
a nest, six eggs, a loving pair.
Attaché
by Ian Chandler
You came to my house in the late afternoon
sopping in your bathing suit and asked me if
I would give you a ride home in the warm June
evening. So I agreed and gave you a lift.
On the way to your place, we listened to noise
on the radio; Bruce Springsteen, Backstreet Boys.
We arrived too fast. Your slim legs brushed the door
as you smiled, said thanks, goodbye. (I want more.)
Downtown, Music City
Please don’t hassle the stars for an autograph,
the local business owners liked to tell us,
so we grew accustomed to their presence. Half
of the charm was our brush with fame. Jealous
wannabes, playing their guitars along Broad
both craved and resented those who had made it.
And not ever wanting to hear the word fraud,
they kept a record of dues when they paid it.
RAINY-DAY-SKY TEARS
I was as young as spring back then, twenty-two,
and although I’d been kissed and done a fair bit
of bouncing on him, when he walked out I knew
that my world had gone wrong. Gawd, I bawled a bit,
but kept filing letters in rainy-day-sky
steel cabinets that reached as broad and high
as the office wall, while raining down a sea
of tears on folders lettered from A to Z.
Marilyn Braendeholm
That letter ‘Z’ should be pronounced the American way as zeee.
`Nuff sed.
From Nuff Sed McGreevey(, an original Boston Royal Rooter.
Given the misplaced parenthesis, methinks I should’ve left well enough alone….
;D
“Love Rhyme”
On Tuesday night it’s good to leave
the office earlier than five.
We don’t have plans but suppertime
and inklings that the house is warm.
The sweeping moon has made it home
unhurried as the bedroom door.
If having time means time to have,
we’ll orchestrate the hours like waves.
“Pomegranate” (Rispetto #1, Iambic Tetrameter)
The lady, Eve, came late one night
and whispered sweetly in his ear:
“This pomegranate will not blight;
nor harm God’s admonition seer.”
She split the fruit along its seams;
pink glows the seed and thus he beams.
So great the flow of knowing her
the fruit of Adam she did stir.
(www.youtube.com/watch?v=1iHbSzM63Hs “The Correct Way to Eat a Pomegranate”)
my name: Jacqueline Csey
Adagio
(only 88 breaths to go, Love)
I know nothing of this sorrow salted sky,
or the places I might once have lost my key.
I’ve hummed galaxies loose, and heaven lost; why
not connect these ivory dots, come save me?
Your lungs will hold my dark if you’ll just let them.
Our words are scattered silk, let’s not regret them.
The world is wrought of unpolished, pilfered things,
but when you wake, these indigo stars will sing.
.
gorgeous, De.
Hauntingly beautiful.
Pamela on the sand
I love you for your mind, your heart,
your vegan lifestyle, for the way
you care for baby seals, your part
in shaping who I am today.
But most of all, I celebrate
your acting talents – how your great
emotions sweep across the screen
while sprinting slowly through each scene.
Andrew Kreider
When a poem walks out on you
What to do when a poem walks out on you?
Do you file for divorce and steer off course in-
to uncharted waters? Sail the ocean blue
for days seeking ways to effectively win
back its affection, probing the ocean floor,
wooing, pursuing, courting it back to shore?
What if you realize it wasn’t meant to be?
Do you untie its wings and let it go free?
(c) Jacqueline Hallenbeck
aah…. your poems always make me smile
JUJU
My juju kit holds what I’ve heard
in dream: a song with memory
of aeons down to one bright bird
that twitters from the darkest tree.
My juju kit holds paper – white
and wordless, begging me to write
the first line, and the next, a rhyme
to weave into the warp of time.
Walking Blues
They say he came down with those old walking blues,
just up and walked out of that door, down that road,
kept walking til he had worn holes in his shoes,
a trail spread behind where he’d lightened his load—
He left plans abandoned and dreams long faded,
his old worn out memories and tired broken hearts.
bitter resentment with those who had traded
him something for value for all his spare parts.
“Respect”
His hands teach me that earth contains
our gold; there is no shame in dirt
or calloused palms; there are no gains
when body parts do not sleep hurt.
When morning skews the cold hard ground
he wraps corded steel with will bound
to hold the hearts of his children
with palms as soft as shirted men.
Casualty
Shades of yellow and violet, in mad designs,
amid the black and the green, the red and blue.
And a network of ridges and crisscrossed lines
that match the heel of his size eleven shoe.
In spite of the evidence before our eyes,
she supports his innocence, his blatant lies.
As I treat her wounds on the hospital bed
I wonder how long before she ends up dead.
Brief Item, page 2B
He read the news today, oh boy.
He hadn’t heard she’d gone away.
The clipping left there, as a ploy,
beside his plate–he could not say
who left it there. Perhaps a friend
who knew he’d want to know despite
the way she calmly met her end,
a resignation, not a fight.
CALL OF THE WILD
A walk this morning in the green
of spring just after rain, and all
is growth and hope. Above, the keen
of wild geese with their haunting call.
But here come, running, our four sheep
from pasture where they’ve been asleep –
behind, coyote in full run
of hunger under springtime sun.
Nice one.
this flows beautifully
Dave
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
There was a time when you were crazy fluent
in the language of native whales, before
the military messed with your sonar, then
discharged you with a boot print on your backside.
Now you seek calmer waters of the Mermaid
kind, trading favors for a little slice of
Caribbean pie, awaiting Moses to
come lead you out from the Land of Atonement.
© 2013 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Rispetto
At first it sounded like a biscuit or some
kind of cheese, and so I tried to, um, bite it,
and then I thought: “It must be pizza. Yum-Yum!”
Then husband walks in, so I tried to hide it
from him. He laughs and tells me: “This is not food.
It’s something you earn by being utterly good.”
So now I give it to young and elderly
hoping everyone will return it to me.
Jacqueline Hallenbeck
“Give us this day . . . “
I lost the glow of Yeats one summer’s day past
when dusk and autumn ruled in warrior voice;
the stench of grey hope knit and pearled upon vast
and vacant rows of providence and poor choice.
When days’ work descends and painful hunger casts
a weak shadow of children’s eyes bleak and moist,
the war then shifts from guns to fear for old bread
and toil to parse the living young from the dead.
this is so well-written
Soldier(s)
She tricked herself to sleep each night he was gone,
musing he slept on blankets of royalty
and after wake less nights, he rose up at dawn
surrounded by a loving life that was free.
Instead, his bed prepped with abrasive, crude dust
scraped away at torn camouflage skin like rust
eaten away from iron nails soaked in Coke,
sanity left only from love she awoke.
+++
This is my “first” finished attempt after working on it off and on throughout yesterday. I hope to write another one though; a fun form!
Linda G Hatton
My goodness – what a powerful, disturbing, beautiful poem!
Any Way the Wind Blows…
I pretended to write a note on a leaf.
And ‘though imaginary, I kept it brief.
I ‘wrote’ about something which caused me real grief.
Then I tossed it in the wind, and felt relief.
###
I love this, RJ!
Thanks for your kind words. Unfortunately, I just realized that it’s only 1/2 of a Rispetto. Oh well.
Half a rispetto is better than…. oh, never mind.
Would that be a ‘risp’?
Word Count
A tiny spark was all it took
to turn a word into a book.
But editing? Another thing.
Who woulda thought one spark could bring
this agita? I like to write
but axing words gives me such fright.
When I begin, I cannot stop.
Uh oh! Here comes the Word Count Cop.
###
Olympia (after Manet)
Olympia lies splendid and unashamed
white ankles crossed, a great orchid at one ear,
her gaze imperious. She will not be tamed
by timid souls. She is free and does not fear
the power of her sex – guarding that grand view
with a teasing hand. Surely she knows what you
desire, and she shames you for this. Today
she owns you, until she lets you look away.
Andrew Kreider
Brilliant, Andrew. You describe it well.
This flows so well, you barely notice there are ending rhymes here. You’re kicking butt, Andrew. ^^
Oh gosh, how beautifully lyrical is your poem! The second time I read it, I read it aloud because I love how the words you chose sound when spoken.
THE SWALLOWS OF THE SUMMER
I watch them fly across the lea
like music set to sweeping motion;
they purge my soul of misery,
effective as a healing lotion.
I think of them as darts of God:
they leave me standing open-mawed
and never fail to cheer my mood,
unless I swallow swallow food
William Preston
A Mother’s Presence
Warm smiles calm down the inner dragons riding
through the imagination of the young child
as he pauses on his quest, coinciding
with the need to make camp and eat the food piled
on the plate his mother waves before his eyes,
as his stomach rumbles approval he spies
the object of his quest running through the yard –
quick hug, the quest resumes, the beast caught off guard.
The River
The river ebbs and flows in turns,
conforming to its stony shell.
But water wild with spirit yearns
to spring beyond the shaded dell.
To pour its contents past the line
and savor sovereignty divine.
Resigned to stay within its frame,
the river ebbs and flows the same.
Amy Glamos
This has a quiet sound, despite the yearning water; reminds me of the channelized rivers in the Los Angeles basin. Very nice job.
I like this one very much. Great wording and no forced rhymes. It flows so well (no pun intented).
Thank you both!
Not Me
“Not me!” says she and looks ahead,
Her sister standing by the bed,
In turn the oldest one replies,
“Not me!” and widens her brown eyes.
The baby trips across the room,
“Not me!” he echoes the same tune,
Another child of mine must be,
The messy fourth who’s named “Not Me.”
Danielle Brasington
Spirits Among Men~
Among trees of archaic woods,
Dwellers of light and darkness stood,
So seem these presence witness,
Ruined tribes and glorified traitors,
Of sunlight that streamed filthy windows,
The unwilling eyes so lovely follows,
Human errs made over and over,
And human hearts as foe or lover,
Moonlighted nights gracefully reveal,
Creatures He made for men to think,
That may not He decides what be,
These lights and shadows are meant unseen,
So if ancients with will so hollow,
The Scriptures yet to teach them how,
Such spirits among men made gods,
Veneered perhaps, or misunderstood,
With domestic flames and shrines abode,
So many years, so many lives passed,
Spirits among men lived and hide,
Yet as such beauty can never be cloaked,
Once captured by men never more overlooked,
Quiet subtle beings made divine.
The task is dire as we wait for the call,
Of He who is True to save us the fall,
Spirits came and so blind were men,
Leading through signs, art and omens,
Now as minds became blinder still,
Most with faithless hearts and tempestuous thrills,
Hold no God nor Spirits within,
Make papers king and their women queen,
While yonder I see dusts gather,
On altars ancient done by the weather,
Nevertheless small compare to He,
So feeble Spirits and Men under Thee.
~Copyright of DdC~
Errors noted.
Hi Diana, I don’t know if you meant to post these poems on this page, but they do not fit the criteria. Please see the instructions at the top.
Perfectly Incomplete:
I am a nest void of its fills,
A home vacant under cold weather,
I am the sea calm and still,
With no creature in my belly deep,
I am the sun with no Venus to accompany,
Neither Earth nor Moon to share my light,
I am a lone soldier in a defenceless city,
Watching mighty kings with toppled crowns,
I am the darkness without dawn,
The night that seems to go on and on,
I am the songs sang so forlorn,
Its rhythm creeping into silence,
I am water with no thirst to quench,
No flowers to feed and dirt to wet,
I am the dead without the stench,
Bury me not when I’m gone,
I am all but only without,
I am the perfectly incomplete,
Redeeming what was lost out loud,
By the capture of quiet love within.
TERMINAL
The metro steps implore her come -
Which hell will they remove her from?
Their callous walls placate her mind,
Unfettered chaos now confined.
Among the lewd and indiscreet,
Mechanically, she takes a seat
Unsympathetic subway train -
Peculiar refuge from her pain.
This puts me in mind of folks I used to see on the “T” in Boston, years ago, long before “Cholly cards.” Very haunting. Very nice job of drawing (or recalling) mental images.
Excellent work, Marie Elena. Good luck!
Wow! This so puts me in mind of the subway trains I used to ride in New York. I often wanted to photograph the faces of the people I saw there – and your poem so well describes what I would have captured on film if I would have done so. Brava!
Year Zero
There is no rest for working hands
plant the pods deeply my sweet child
for the rains will try to take them
and your soul will remain empty
Angkor Wat sings a song for you
Says a prayer for you while you sleep
That you will be born again in
Year Zero on the killing fields
John
_http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Year_Zero_(political_notion)
“The Woodchuck’s Rispetto”
The woodchuck runs and has some fun despite me.
He eats and digs that “whistle-pig” beneath me.
I’ll never know just how it goes to stop him.
Oh, the vandal’s tunnels leading everywhere.
He chews the weeds and pays no heed to rifles.
Without a care you’d think he’d scare a trifle.
Ignores the trap that’s sitting there armed with pears.
He crams his fat ass through the fence to nowhere.
Seth L. Lajoie
Moon
I look to your luminous sphere
and realize with such delight
such moonlit nights as these make clear
the beauty of our earthly night.
Paradigm shift, my thoughts are clear;
bathe in the cool delicious light.
Naught will mar this luminous gleam
or ruin my delirious dream.
Diana Terrill Clark
*sigh* Typo. Here is the corrected version.
Moon
I look to your luminous sphere
and realize with such delight
such moonlit nights as these make dear
the beauty of our earthly night.
Paradigm shift, my thoughts are clear;
bathe in the cool delicious light.
Naught will mar this luminous gleam
or ruin my delirious dream.
Diana Terrill Clark
THE LAST SPRING
The flurries in the skies today
descend amongst the stubs of corn
and mark the migrants on their way
to grounds where all of them were born,
and as I watch them in the sky
and see the winter passing by,
I scarcely feel the joy of some
when snowfall goes and snow geese come.
William Preston
Oh, wow … perfectly penned. Way to start us out, William!
Thank you. Very kind of you to say so.
You have consistently good work. I always enjoy reading it. This is another fine poem, and I like the closing lines.
I agree with Linda. Simply beautiful.