For this week’s prompt, write a straight line poem (yes, I’m playing off a 180-degree angle for the 180th Wednesday Poetry Prompt). There are several ways to tackle this prompt, including writing a poem about a straight line drive through Indiana or Iowa, drawing a straight line in the sand, or writing a poem that is one line long. Those are just some ideas.
Here’s my attempt:
“Whitman”
Had a way of writing lines that stretch around the universe
until they snap back in on themselves and sing themselves
by singing the songs of others and still he felt bigger and
smaller than anything he wrote as if he were any human
being walking the earth and maybe he was and the beauty
of his poetry had as much to do with his honesty and love
for his fellow people as his passion for the written words
tumbling out of him as one long imperfect blade of grass.
*****
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*****
Create more incredible characters with 45 Master Characters, by Victoria Lynn Schmidt. This reference defines a whole range of character profiles, including heroes, villains, and even secondary characters. Learn more.
There is no line, once curved in space-time,
Scarring the world in orbits.
Though tracks run true,
and roads directly through,
there is no line
but for the lie
that traces from
me back to you.
“Getting it straight”
The shortest route from “A” to “B”
Is a straight line. But it seems to me,
Even should you go on to “C,”
You might indeed arrive there faster
But such travel spells disaster.
Sure, it means you are a master
Arriving always “there” on time,
But where’s the joy in metered rhyme
Or the free verse poem, writ sublime
By taking roads less straight and narrow?
The predictable path via bow by arrow
Can be as boring as Ravel’s “Bolero.”
For example, this straight-line verse
Has only gone from bad to worse
And proves the point, “straight” is a curse!
At least for me, a crooked poet -
My curve is best (when I can throw it) -
I have done my best to show it.
By quickly drafting this straight poem,
Pinning the rhymes before I sew ‘em,
Straight ways are easier when you know ‘em,
But crooked, angled, or curvy lines
Taken when you ignore road signs
Loose straight words from strict confines.
©Paula Tohline Calhoun 2012
MERCATOR PROJECTION
Think of it as a geometrigraphic formula –
a pedagogically useful
distortion on the classroom wall.
No, it’s a subterfuge, a way
of tricking 5th graders into seeing the earth
with straight parallels and meridians,
not curved; seeing the world flat
not round – a fact they’ve
never experienced with their wide
globed eyes, whether daydreaming
at an open window, or lying
in the dark after lights-out, rocking
and rolling to their singular heart-
beats in the deep
midnight of dream.
You may want pen and paper.
Draw a horizontal line.
Draw a small circle above the line.
I woke on the beach, amazing
the light was already so high.
The sound of the mixing shore
soothed me so deeply, I could have
slept more. Draw a triangle
on the line so its base rests there.
I could have slept all day,
but it got too hot, so I got up,
drank half the water I had.
Hard-boiled egg, heel of bread.
I sat in the shrinking shade
as the circle you drew
increased its distance
from the line.
A LONG STRAIGHT LINE
(c) 2012 – G. Smith (BMI)
(for Sam)
———————————————
On a dock in San Francisco,
Nineteen fifty-three;
Stood a couple barely speaking,
He was going across the sea.
The girl, in time, my mother,
Shared a simple Irish prayer,
With the boy who would be my father,
If he made it back from there…
Though our pathway parts,
Though our roads may wind,
Between our hearts,
Runs a long, straight line
We will meet again,
On some distant shore,
Where the river bends,
And we will part no more…
At a whistle-stop in Kansas
Nineteen sixty-eight,
I kept looking down the railroad tracks;
The train was running late.
But each minute spent
Was diamond dear,
And she shared that prayer,
Unashamed of tears…
Though our pathway parts,
Though our roads may wind,
Between our hearts,
Runs a long, straight line
We will meet again,
On some distant shore,
Where the river bends,
And we will part no more…
The shortest distance between two points,
Isn’t always clear;
Yet I will always feel you next to me,
Always feel you near…
So now it seems it’s my turn,
As I watch you pack your things;
Excited about tomorrow,
And the adventure that it brings.
I pass to you these simple words,
That have carried us along,
Brought long ago from across the sea,
And turned into this song…
Though our pathway parts,
Though our roads may wind,
Between our hearts,
Runs a long, straight line
We will meet again,
On some distant shore,
Where the river bends,
And we will part no more…
The shortest distance between two points,
Isn’t always clear;
Yet I will always feel you next to me,
Always feel you near…
Yes I will always feel you next to me…
Always feel you near…
Straight to Bed (A Loose Interpretation)
“Straight to bed,”
My mother says,
And I quite agree,
For there I have
My book and lamp,
And I might read
’Til two or three!
I read straight through
Many an hour,
Safe within my bed.
Then she peeks in
And fills my heart
With a fluttering dread.
She sighs to see
That over my book
My head still is bent,
And then with quiet,
Motherly calm, says,
“That’s not quite
What I meant.”
The Straightened Arrow
Straight as an arrow
Fletched awry
I fail to fly
Down the road so narrow
And soar instead
Down a primrose path
Until I feel its thorny wrath,
Then turn my head
To the narrow way.
I ask that I might remain
Away from that wider lane
And have my feathers straighter stay.
Let’s Get This Straight (a pantoum)
Let’s get this straight.
Let’s figure it out.
Let’s set a date,
And let’s not beat about.
Let’s figure it out.
We can see the bush,
And let’s not beat about.
Let’s give things a push.
We can see the bush;
Don’t dance around it.
Let’s give things a push
And score a direct hit.
Don’t dance around it
When the issue arises.
Let’s score a direct hit
And win honest prizes.
When the issue arises,
Let’s face it head on
And win honest prizes.
Please, don’t be a pawn!
Let’s face it head on.
Let’s be very brave.
Please, don’t be a pawn,
For the truth’s what I crave!
Let’s be very brave.
Let’s set a date,
For the truth’s what I crave.
Let’s get this straight.
Burning Eyelids
I’m sitting here now in front of pixels dancing
like dust motes in the rays of sunlight peering
through my living room window and I can’t quite
say that the beauty is merely beauty because it
has a sharp edge to it that’s making my eyes burn
but of course I’m rambling again and many of you are
wondering how I jumped from two stories, one of computer
screen pixels and another of fire captured in beams bending
around reality, but pay no mind to my giant run on sentence
its my only solace when my eyes feel as if they are the hearts
of a volcano.
Make your lines straight
But slope and
Trope them with images
That reveal slowly
Slant the truth
If you must
Or give us just a taste
Of all the truth
Circle round the truth
Follow the tangents
Because the direct approach
Is (yawn) and cliche
Put the truth
On the periphery
For the readers’ vision
To see without looking
Low
Lines
Of clouds
Billowing
On blue horizon,
Shifting from white to shades of grey,
As the gathering storm builds its
Avenging force to
Disrupt some
Quiet
Shore’s
Rest.
HAIKU LINE -1
An obscure nylon
line pulled taut as my dinner
takes the bate.
HAIKU LINE -2
Line around figure
to help me to remember
thoughts that don’t linger
LINE WORK
A simple answer
He can’t give to her.
Always an ‘if’ or ‘maybe’,
Or ‘Sure – but, let’s wait and see.’
Lines she can’t believe
As they curve and weave,
Dangling ends, broken fancy
Route 44
Just make it straight, the engineers said. One straight line from sea to shining sea.
Which was not quite possible with cities, mountains, rivers, but try they did.
When you crossed the Mississippi by St. Louis, if you were a bird you could see
The line that ran from the prairies to the mountains to the ocean white with foam.
Even when all you could see was barren landscape, scattered rocks & sage brush.
The exit signs pop up with comforting regularity when hunger or a bathroom break
Is needed and often there is also one of the chain motels and a big parking lot for trucks.
Some people take turns driving and everyone knows that the Mojave is crossed at night.
Cities are by-passed with regularity. You know they are near by all the exit signs.
Which tempt the old-timers in the car to get off this nightmare of the future and find old
Route sixty six where you can see real towns and real people and get your kicks.
Lines
A part of of the whole
They play a role
We take what we want
To make our song
Some lines can carve our destiny
It’s in our hands to take command
The lines we cross, or stay on course
Will guide our ship to that graded spot
So be aware, and don’t just stare
As you decide to go somewhere
Priya Jane
From A to B
The way to go
Point A to B
A chartered path for you, not me
I like to take the scenic route
With bumps and curves
As life unfurls
You may get there a bit faster than me
I won’t be far, you wait and see
Priya Jane
Triangles
You could draw a triangle,
any size, any kind
(go ahead, I’ll wait)
Cut it out, and then tear
off the angles
Put the vertices
on the same point
the sides of your angles
touching each other
and your three angles
make a straight line
Your kids probably did this
in math class
The three angles of triangles
will always add up to 180 degrees
A straight line may also be
measured as 180 degrees
That’s why your angles
made a straight line
A straight angle
classic Euclidean geometry
But, did you know
the sum of angles
of hyperbolic triangles
are less than a straight angle?
And did you know
that an ideal hyperbolic triangle
has a measure
of zero degrees?
Somewhat less
than a straight line
Your kids did not
make one of those in math class
To be honest
it doesn’t make sense to me either
(Whitman touche)
Whitman’s “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”
Held between the first and third knuckles of his middle finger
by opposing fingertips, Whitman’s pen – perhaps a feather quill,
its hollow calamus penknife-honed to the sharpness he preferred,
and dipped just so in his inkwell so as not to drip – began to fill
the blankness of a page with sturdy words extolling the ferryboat
that carried passengers, including him, from shore to shore from
Brooklyn and New Jersey, and while his great mind wrote about
the people who would take that crossing in the years to come,
how much they meant to him, his pen was disappearing from
his hand and his hand was reaching out across a hundred years
and touching mine and when I read his poem long after he died,
I felt the palpable touch of his strong hand on mine for when I
was young I, too, rode the Brooklyn Ferry but it no longer exists.
Robert, allow me to compliment you on your poem for this prompt. It is an exceptional one!
To Her Credit
From
now on
she’d draw her
own lines. She had
an American
Express card, and she was
going to be a credit
to herself, assuming that no
one drew a straight line through her credit.
She was headed straight for the Amazon.
Poetic Form: Etheree
Iowa Interstate 80
You can take a straight shot
from Davenport to Council Bluffs
without a stop.
Cornfields and small towns
pass without knowing,
and the Scattergood School
becomes a metal shed
without a name.
You don’t know the people
and their genuine charms
while noting progress
with mile markers.
You believe time of passage
is linear
looking at your watch,
and you think
how far to
and how long
while sights stir memories
of other times and places.
You pass Iowa City,
an exit for The Amana Colonies
and Newton and a quarry
near Des Moines,
and you know
you’re more than halfway there,
but even the Interstate
must curve now and then
to reveal a new scene.
Two lane blacktops nearby
twisting through the landscape
offer beauty and serenity
if you slow down
and take another turn.
Demark’ation
In the line of demark’ation
Your love quantified over time
Invisible and ruthless, but -
Kind and without mitigation
Relentless and potential
Bound and cautious, by
One side of demark’ation’s
Line.
Mouse
As the moon lightens the night sky
and owl wings whisper by
diving a straight line toward its prey
we have one more night of peace
and maybe hope that we will escape
but we won’t completely.
I. Why?
there’s a line
good poetry shouldn’t cross
like me and you
an archetypal
tree line
abruptly
demarcated,
I should have known by your
rarified air,
you’re being above it all
whenever we were together,
by my pining
and stunted,
half shorn pleas
in your cascading
icy breeze -
was it something in our elemental
substrata
or a trick of a fickle clime,
and if we had just kept up
our breathy,CO2 talking
warming
would I have at last
melted
your permafrost heart,
my rough bark
invading
and deflowering
your
precious
alpine
garden….
guess I’ve been mr extended metaphopr man lately rough gig
please check out my blog for a better stinky alley one
thx
http://unevenstevencu.blogspot.com/
NO PLACE IN PARTICULAR
The walls of my room are blank because I wish
to leave them free for my mind to explore the space,
to take my pen in hand, to think, to trace
the images that appear inside my head. To fish,
to let them out, to float upon the flat
plane, to dig into the plaster, within
discovering what lies there. I pierce the thin
layer of my consciousness. Then I begin
traveling to precincts where I’ve not
ever been. Curious to know what lies beyond . . .
Some people pay artists to paint an exotic land
to cover their emptiness, to fill the spot
but I start from where my head invents the scene,
I scratch, I itch, uncomfortable, I know
the doctors say it’s unhealthy, it’s unclean. So
what! It’s only my head, a daily routine
every morning massaging my mind. Look there
at the blotch of color that I smudged
from the other day, that I begrudged,
that trip into another dimension where
lost in a field of flowers, my hands possessed
with color, unable to return, alas, all gone
the fragrance of someplace else, that was drawn
from a real place, my eyes told me. I guessed
wrong that time. Perhaps, now if I pierce
gently, contemplating thoughts that rest
upon my immortal soul, they come, like guests
I bring into my room. No guilt, no fierce
self condemnations, I forgive, let go,
for what I could not do before. I stand
in front of my nemesis. It feels so grand
to share my happiness with others, all aglow.
Zev Davis
in the early hours
she tries to walk a straight line
for the traffic cop
What’s Your Line?
Byline, Skyline, Beeline
Way to shine
Clothes line, straight line, dotted line
In the pine
Dividing line, grocery line, ticket line
All the time
Killer line, poetic line, finish line
Like new wine
Railway line, product line, fashion line
Growing vine
Deadline, breadline, redline
It may be mine
Fine line, fishing line, Bottom line
Feeling fine
One line runs
continuously
on a narrow path
as far as the eye can see
until it broadens with breadth
advancing widely
stopping so hastily
continuing upward
bounding with height
surging onward
ever so vertically
til it slowly dips
diving downard
plunging with depth
still growing
moving hastening
its dimensions
ever so cubically
Realization
I have no straight lines that form my garden.
Every row is in a curving pathway
because I put them in the ground that way.
Now comes the time to write about straight lines.
June 20, 2012
So much great writing out here !! Smiles and happy writing everyone!!
Figures…one of the only times that I did not read Robert’s poem first I wound up writing in the same vein. Any way…I really like your’s Robert…the last line is the perfect finish for it!!
~Pen-Strokes… ~
I place my words one after another
one before the other extended in
short-choppy segments recognized
as poetry; recommended for those
who are broken-hearted, happy
melodramatic, clever, inspired
or it can be something sweet
commonly shared by lovers whilst
they nibble chocolate-dipped fruit
(maybe seedy-strawberries or cherries).
They will annunciate prose in passionate
tones lingering from lips, the other
looks longingly into their eyes or
at the perfect cloudless-blue-sky;
pink-pungent-petals slip-flutter from
lengths of magical magnolia trees
and swirl-round-down to settle
on poignant poetic phrases racing
timelessly in lists and lines for them,
for you and me, parallel lives rendered
in paragraphs and rich striking images.
Scents, sounds, the feel of that thick
prickly grass on my back as I lie there
counting on the cumulus to fill broken
thoughts, replace the space, emptied
and filling all in the same instance of
streaks, sentences that are coagulating
stretching and thinning, gelling again before
stretching and thinning; an undulating
growing thing as I place my words one
after another one before the other
extending endlessly, expressions to eternity.
©Hannah Gosselin 6/20/12
“Waiting”
Waiting for the sun, waiting for the rain, waiting for good news, we are all waiting for something
waiting, everyone is waiting, why all this waiting, waiting to get married, waiting to get divorced, waiting for something better, waiting for a new beginning, waiting to live, waiting for change
waiting for the end of the line.
Stillness in
The flow
Of our
Lives brings
The peace
We need to
Move with
The crowd
Do Not Follow This Poem
It does not know where it is going, and therefore won’t have a single clue when it has reached the end of the
line.
.
I’ll follow any way!! Love it!
Wow, I love the impact of so few words!! Takes amazing skill and I love that the last word is put on the right hand side for literary effect!
The Straight Line
To walk a straight and narrow line
As going straight I will atone
For all the dire straights I’ve known
And straight away be more benign
To straightly have my life align
With straighter truths then I have known
While straight and tall I walk alone
To straighten out this life of mine
Still in my mind a river snakes
As if to mock me in refute
A winding course is what it takes
Enticing with forbidden fruit
That deep inside of me awakes
A yearn to follow in pursuit
A course that common sense forsakes
In ways that often times transmutes
The things I know to be astute
Leaving me here while my heart quakes
As I look on a different route
A place in which the straight line breaks
A place for which my own heart aches
And surely all that it imputes
Is to keep mental footing sound
And try to learn from my mistakes
So I in river can tribute
And still keep feet on solid ground
wavering lines of heat interrupt
the otherwise flat horizon of
the dusty red dessert floor and
as far as the eye can see, she is
alone, parched and brittle under
the unrelenting cloudless sky
Rugged heat…such a great capture of this scene!
United as One
He rode his horse all through the night
Not wanting to stop
Not wanting to give up the fight
As he grew tired
He knew he should rest
So he did until he felt his best
Thinking of what tomorrow brings
His hopes will be true
So as he woke
And he had his fill
He rode his white horse
To the land at last
As the trees hugged the ground
And the light shone from up above
His shield he wore
Shone light a white dove
His sword was in his hand
He entered the gateway
Two guardsmen greeted him
Giving him the once over
Before letting him in
I am here to greet she who waits for me
I am the knight of the night
She waits for the one with courage
The one with fight
Show me your sign
They say to him
He takes his arm out
He is marked with it
He is the one no doubt
As he walks
Across the busy yard
He is brought through tunnels
Of dark protected
By the hound
His long blue cloak
Is strong to her stroke
She looks in to his eyes
She sees into his clouds
She knows more about him
Than he does of her
She asks to be alone
She invites him to sit by her throne
Come here my boy
I will not bite
I want to see your mark
I just want to be right
As he turns back his wrist
For her to see
She realises it is him
The one who was her twin
They had been separated by evil
When a servant took him from this place
She had felt it in her heart
He felt it all the years they were apart
Finally back together
United as one
Back to the beginning
And so the story finally begun
Rose Thorns
Wood hold on to me
As rose thorns tare me
Lovely are the smells
That lingers in the air
Orange and red
Throwing off such wonders
You give something to the butterflies and birds
Magic is your vines
That wrap around like silky twines
Fields of green
Coming across yellow broken wet streams
Stepping stones
Shaped like ice cream cones
Dripping over like tiny waterfalls
Tiny twigs break away down between
Hidden away in the back
Is a cottage
No one knows
It even exist
Much to the travelling mans hand
It has kept it secret right
To stay untouched from harm
As nettles blow out purple blooms
As dandelions throw off white cotton fumes
Buttercups dancing along the side
Daisy chains between them say
Look over there
Cover of the whistling grass
Poppies not far away
Sloes crop the trees
Gooseberries not wanting to be eaten today
Dates hang on trees
Above the flowing streams
Jumping minnow escaping
The tightness of the rocks squeeze
So as the smells of now
Click clearly in your mind
Remember all that’s around
That’s familiar as your guide
Straight Lines or Crooked Paths
We don’t walk the same path any more.
Somewhere, our feet diverged.
One set, lulled by entropy,
put a heel in front of the other foot’s toes
over and over and over again.
And failed to notice the other sets’ hesitation,
lured by a new trail, zig-zagging off in a different direction.
So now the set left behind has a decision to make —
follow blindly after or step down the new path,
just the one pair of feet. Alone.
I like what you’ve done here…really zeroed in on those foot-prints. I can see them!
Thank you, Hannah. It was fun to write.
Blue Line
He asked the nurse
to silence the monitor,
its beeps and alarms
a challenge to his effort
to concentrate on dying,
thinking it better
to watch his heart
crinkle a blue line
into cresting waves
of life, until that tide
ebbed, slowed to a ripple
and flattened into infinity
as he lay watching,
dreaming of line dancing
with his wife so long ago
at the Hoof and Trotter,
smiling into her face
as they moved in tandem.
“thinking it better
to watch his heart
crinkle a blue line
into cresting waves
of life,”
Love this portion…a beautiful passing!
The Path the Arrow Flies is Straight
Perhaps what I will remember most
is what I favored the least.
Where have her crystal blue eyes gone?
I wished myself a box
where the key was kept
in a pocket.
Where has her pocket watch and chain gone?
My box, alone in a room,
stood upon a pedestal,
marbled white and formed with the
the ramblings of my deepest thoughts.
It stood on the ground,
clean and antiseptic.
There was but one light,
filtered light, breathing, feasting upon
my box.
Where have her shoes and shine gone?
There was but one path,
traveled, weary stones dotting
the floor from the only doorway.
The door stood alone,
there was but one entrance and one exit.
The key was kept in a pocket.
I stand at this door,
key in hand,
licking the last temptation from my lip.
The dark corners of the rough hewn sanctuary
crawled toward my last sighs.
My sighs,
nevermore hers,
straight from my heart.
She will not resurrect.
She will spend the days travelling straight to the dusk.
I was baffled by this prompt at first, but the first line came to me and I was off. Thank you Robert for a great prompt. You can see my creation at http://hopefuljo.wordpress.com/2012/06/20/365-creativity-project-day-163/
I ain’t got no woman
Lookin aftah me
Got no fancy clothes
Ain’t choppin no tree
Longin for thah road
That’s where I wants tah roam
Beggin foh mah suppah
Takin me back home
Here’s mah litte friend
Sip a litte wine
Sing a’nuddah song
Walk on down thah line
A poem about something that’s straight but not straight
U.S. 6
The highway seems like be a straight run,
but it is one big curve, the spine of a long tail,
the apostrophe of land that is Cape Cod.
Every town connects to it –
Bourne, Falmouth, Sandwich, Mashpee –
side trips inviting us to beaches,
antique shops, a play, a bookshop –
Barnstable, Yarmouth, Dennis, Harwich –
a famous artist’s house, a gallery –
Brewster, Chatham, Orleans, Eastham –
a whale watch, a seafood restaurant –
Wellfleet, Truro, Provincetown.
Hop on, hop off, get your kicks
just off U.S. 6, right to the very tip,
the eyelash of our continent.
I like how the 6 mimics the curve and eyelash you talk about – I’m too lazy to google whether it is actually US 6 but either way it works well
First, I have to say, having only read Robert’s poem, it was incredible in feeling, image, and allusions.
The Straits of Straight
Siren spinning and wailing,
police car ushers a woman onto
shoulder of the road. Officer
makes a beeline to her car.
She rolls her window down
for the usual demands of
license and registration,
and did she know weaving
in and out of lanes?Alcohol
fumes float out the door with her,
as she tries to stand up straight while
blowing into a breathalyzer.
Asked to walk a straight line,
she fails.
Geometric Illusion
Man’s creation, this straight line thinking,
Where nature had made only curves,
Which serve to deliver the wanderer to
His destination as surely as ever did
One of man’s straight line creations.
For what are curves in God’s reality?
Are they not lines which are always straight
To eyes focused only on the path which
Guides wanderers’ feet toward the future?
Even detours re-converge on a straight road.
Man’s eyes cannot see a curve except at distance,
Allowing the straight line immediate attention.
Fractals inform the mind of God’s humor and
Irony when knowledge of true shapes bursts against
Traditional thought, seeing all shapes repeat themselves.
Infinitesimal copies of each shape combine to show
Man one object comprised of countless selves showing off;
Each body wearing a slightly larger copy of itself,
Infinite layers bringing to light an image for man’s
Illusory delight and temptation to straighten out.
A WOW for Clauds! One of my favorites of the day … Top 3, my friend. This is smart, thoughtful, creative, insightful, and very well written. NICE WORK!
Deep, Clauds…so many, many layers to this poem! Well written indeed!
OBEDIENCE
Just try to teach her
straight lines: Forward! (at a brisk
walk, her nose at my knee)
Halt! (with a snappy sit beside me) –
but she forges
at the end of the leash
to pull me past the painted lines &
out the gate & thru the
unmown grasses. There’s a world
out here!
It’s neither straight nor narrow.
It eludes my rules
& triggers every of her instincts.
She weaves & dashes
across my path, she trips me
on a tug to reach
this particular spot of
green that looks to me like
any other.
Ah! But how different
it smells to a dog’s exquisite
nose.
Not Standing on Line
“Life isn’t one straight line. Most of us have to be transplanted, like a tree, before we blossom.” ~Louise Nevelson
I can draw a straight line, but on principle, I won’t.
I can color in the lines, but simply put, I don’t.
I’d like to think I stretch and grow, in more than one dimension.
I’d like to be just like that tree, and blossom by extension
###
Awww! Nicely done – the sentiment, the cadence – chalk up more greatness from RJ!!
Love that last line!! Great write RJ!
PAN
Tinkerbelle twinkles
As fairy dust sprinkles -
In spite of Hook’s warning,
Straight on until morning!
Robert, I absolutely love this:
“passion for the written words
tumbling out of him as one long imperfect blade of grass.”
thin blue line
there’s a melancholy median
between the words her indigo toes
know
and the inky tracings of
blue-hued heart.
sapphire sea calls
desert drains,
this remains:
blue bleeds blue
until the Son shines through.
.
So much to love here! Copy/paste poem here: SUCH goodness!
even though
the
roads unrolls
without
even a light shift
to
right of left of up or down
only
running on and on into a dissappearing
horizon
I cannot follow such definition of this unnerving
precision
designed by someone else long before my own sure driving soul
once
before
I
left
a
bit
of
work
for
tomorrow
but
as
tomrrows
narrow
I
pratice
completion
day
by
day
I enjoy that you line them up like this and then bring us to completion with “day by day,” I need to practice this more, too. Great poem, Jane!
Lines in the Sands of Time
Your shoulder in front of me,
Leads me, guides me
To served food and
What I’m really hungry for
In fifth grade.
I’m sorry I asked you to dance.
I didn’t know
You didn’t want me to.
I didn’t know
You didn’t like me.
When your father died
I went to the funeral.
I watched you
From behind the picket fence
Standing alone
feel the distance
stretch and reach in this one
FYI each stanza represents a line: a lineup, crossing one, and behind one.
Bee line
I sing in praise of bees
whose daily peregrinations
tell of perfect logic
danced ahead of time
in company of others
heralding the advent of
a crazy-paving path
leading to sweet fulfillment.
My friends, let us be like
those honey-dipping pioneers
Don’t leap to conclusions
don’t come straight to the point
don’t go as the crow flies.
or tell the class to
sit on line, don’t go from
A to B without consulting C.
Deviate, procrastinate,
innovate…. Pollinate!
It’s always best to get there
fashionably late.
As always, Andrew, your words are pure delight. ^_^
Hear, hear!!!
Interesting comparison with the bees! And the idea of being fashionably late, that’s the culmination of the poem!
First day
Shined shoes, shiny September smiles, squared shoulders first pride
inharmonious
pandemonium,
but for the staff
This is a gem! …but for the staff, indeed!
Such depth in so few…love that about you! Great one, Marie!
Up
the
aisle
two
heteros
by
two
rose
petals
stuck
to
souls
lined
straight
The Shortest Distance
The
shortest
distance
between
two
points
is
a
straight
line,
unless
the
points
are
on
our
lips,
in
which
case,
stop
thinking
and
kiss
me.
(Poetic Form: Soupy Sales, 25 Words or Less)
Love it, Buddah. With lines like that, you deserve a kiss. :>
At least! Lovely, Mosk!
LOVE THIS, LOVE THIS, LOVE THIS!!
Irresistible!
mwah!
Splendid! Love this too.
yep a good one.
Nancy, this one surprises me, but no distress comes with surprise. The imagery could flicker on a screen, in black and white. No need for additional colors here, anymore than additional images are needed to tell this tale. It’s starkness and focus ensure that the reader never loses connection with the final result. No head shot for instantaneous relief. No heart shot to prevent suffering. But rather the shoulder; a mark that will stand as a reminder always.
I like it. Good one, Nancy.
Drawing the straight line
I told you it will come a time
when you’ll watch with sadness
the straight horizon line.
And you will search for me
in the soft breeze of the wind,
in an old whispered word,
in a present hearthbeat,
In the familiar horizon.
I told you it will come a time
when I’ll draw the line
and I’ll move on.
And you will search for me
in the soft breeze of the wind,
in an old whispered word,
in a lonely hearthbeat,
in the estranged horizon.
Now, I’ve drawn the line.
It hurt before drawing it.
And… the pain stayed. Straight.
And intensified.
Every day, a thousand times.
Bittersweet–the only description I can come up with for this haunting poem. It speaks to all of those times within a life that force the decision to leave and begin again or stay with regret for another day.
Excellent job, addi22..
Thank you! Most of my poems are bittersweet. Hope I’ll come up with some more cheerful lines soon, now that I decided to join you.
I’m glad you did! This is a gem!
Excellent job, indeed. Such emotion in your carefully chosen words.
Thank you! You’re so nice, Marie Elena!
Awww! Well, thank you!
Powerful poem – love the last stanza especially. Welcome here,addi! Hope to see your poetry often in this space.
Shooting Straight
The image of the pistol packin’ mama
may not suit her, but she loads and locks
the chamber, five steel-cased bullets,
straightens out her right arm
with her left hand underneath,
hand around the grip, trigger finger
straight until it’s time to fire.
With her strong right eye, she lines
the sights, pointing at her target,
straight toward the bull’s eye
at his heart—the featureless man
on the paper target, suspended
at the ten-yard mark in the range
in the basement of the Citgo station.
Aware, even with her ear protection,
of the shooters up and down the lanes
to her right and left, she wonders
how she’ll rank. Then she hears, “Fire!”
squeezes the trigger, looking up
to see the hole in the paper shoulder
of the shadow of her darkest fear.
Strait shooter. ^_^ My favorite kind.
*sigh* STRAIGHT! LOL
Nancy: As always, your words lead me in the path you want me to follow. You pen intelligent poetry that flows with ease, carrying me with it, keeping me engaged and enthralled. Killer ending, this. EXCELLENT work.
Yep – this one circles around itself, each stanza going deeper. Beautifully crafted, Nancy.
the edgy harshness that goes with straight seems present throughout
Captivating, riveting, recoiling!
With a shoulder wound, the rapist may yet succeed. Perfect the aim with the remaining four cartridges!
Patterns
In one long line, my Spirograph
would let me make pictures
of eternal
spirally
mathematical
beauty.
I could play for hours
with just my pen
and paper
and the little pins
that held the Spirograph
parts to the board
and I would try to be
as perfect
as possible
to make the beginning
of the line
match up
to the end.
As time went by,
I would try
different ink colors
and would put
several patterns
in one.
I soon learned that
too much effort
often resulted in
an unruly mess.
Just so
with our lives
we focus on each moment,
each achievement,
hoping that
by the end
we will see
beauty
rather than a
tangled mess.
Here’s hoping our
beginnings
meet up
with our
ends.
Diana Terrill Clark
Beautiful sentiments, Diana.
I can picture it in my head. So beautiful!
Love the way you tie this one up at the end, Diana. Here’s hoping, indeed!
Mesmerized by your picturesque poem!
“Dance with Me”
There is so much love all around us,
it is not always visible, but if we look closely, we will see it,
if we have patience, we will begin to catch glimpses of it here and there:
little fireflies of love, dancing in the twilight…first just a handful, then a few more…
until there is a myriad of them, burning brightly everywhere you turn,
lighting up the darkest night.
Lovely, Sasha. This could be a song; just add melody and pour. “Little fireflies of love” Love it.
I’m smiling from ear to ear, Claudsy, thank you!
Ooooh Robert IMHO one of your best
Love your Whitman poem, Robert!
SHORTEST DISTANCE
From out here,
where I live,
it’s the way
the crow flies.
Ah, Willy. Crows stalk as much as fly, though what they have to say might startle ones who can hear them properly. Have you ever wondered why they don’t take detours?
Good one.
“Straight Talk”
Keep it on the straight and narrow
Always shoot straight, like an arrow
Straight to the bank
Straight to the point
Straight from the horse’s mouth
Straight from the heart
Why is “straight” always what is good?
While being the other way is
Crooked
Out of line
Warped
Twisted
Askew
But the “winding” and “twining” has its place too
Because “straight” is rigid, unbending, stiff as hay,
Unwilling to wander of the given way,
While all the wanderers who deviate
Discover so much more than those who stay straight.
We poets always try to take the road less followed, don’t we. It really does make all the difference. ^_^
You ask excellent questions with this verse. Can we know the straight without the crooked? Or, the negative without the positive? Can we ever understand anything without examining its opposite?
Really enjoyed this. Great job.
Way to put the other side of the question! Sometimes, maybe often, there is so much more to discover in wandering off the path. So well put.
AT HOME IN IOWA
square mile
straight lines
four right turns
predictable paths
to nowhere, or
right back where
you started from,
depending on the day
Hey – this sounds like Indiana! Love it.
Stay Straight! No Blow Outs, Please!
Lights cascade, engines rev, smoke blows, tires squeal, cars drag
Isn’t that what we all wish for in our lives, Rob? Sis would love this one. She loves the Drags.
I can hear them now! ^_^
I see a whole cycle of NHRA poems in your future!