Sestina – By Jane Eamon 2009


I stand in blood
to receive your blessing
With every breath
I raise high my hands
Open my heart
and close my head

My head, my head
It pounds with blood
My heart, my heart
It awaits your blessing
Let me feel your hands
take away my breath

I catch my breath
You are in my head
I feel your hands
You are in my blood
No blessing, no blessing
My broken heart

My broken heart
and ragged breath
No blessing, no blessing
I have lost my head
Here take my blood
washed clean from your hands

So white your hands
So cold your heart
I give you my blood
and the very breath I breathe
To warm your head
and await your blessing

I feel your blessing
and the touch of your hands
anoint my head
and open my heart
I breathe
You are in my blood

This blood of your blessing
This breath on your hands
Your heart in my head

Okay, easy, i'll try it next month. My work sometimes doesn't leave time to write cool stuff, just sparks on paper for napowrimo.
Cheers!
RS

Robert, you are a wicked, wicked man!

THE OBJECT OF MY DESIRE

Since you became the object of my desire,
there wasn’t much else inside my head.
My heart would race
because you were as hot as a pistol.
Through this yearning, I would climb any mountain
to give our fates a tantric brush.

I give your flowing hair a brush,
and sweep away the doubt of your desire.
Chipping away this mole-hill from our mountain,
enhancing every vision in your head.
Taking aim to fire love’s starter pistol,
to keep our hearts competing in this Race.

This marathon has expanded from our race
and given cause to for our hearts to pass in the closest brush,
sending a warning from your flare pistol.
You confirm the presence of this true desire.
While dreams of you keep dancing in my head,
we share the beauty of this majestic mountain.

Standing before this mountain
placed in the way of our wanting, we race
as the thoughts in our head
do all they can to brush
the tangles from our desire
and shoot straight from our hearts’ pistol.

A pistol
that has more power than this unmovable mountain
to fire the desire
that sets my life to race
and cause me to brush
our destiny with a gentle slap in the head.

So our love comes as a compelling vision in my head.
And in loading this passionate pistol
I swipe a gentle hand to brush
away this jagged Mountain
to complete this journey; this race
the unflinching goal of my desire.

And as this desire comes to a head
I start this race at the sound of love’s starting pistol,
causing this hardened mountain to fall in a tender and passionate brush.

Thanks Robert. I started the sestina, "THE OBJECT OF MY DESIRE", in response to yesterday's prompt (Longing) but wasn't able to finish it last night. Today gave me a reason to complete it. Ready to try another.

Sestina to a Dawn Death

Over the dawn lake, the college seniors rowed.
Susan tells me it's a fluke
that she joined the group. Never intended be at the bow,
paddling, stronger than her brother Joe. The sound
of her alarm clock at five
am bringing her closer

to God. She was raised close
to a Christian summer camp, but her family had a row
with them when she was only five.
One of the pastors threw his fluke
too far and it bottomed out the sound
they both shared. There's no repairing that with a bow

or a prayer. Her family became atheists, bowed
only to the morning sun, and she closed
her door to the dawn until twenty. Her snores sounded
like ships off shore, her brother told me once, rowing
and splashing and mourning, a whale fluke
in their shared bedroom. Never awake before five

after twelve on the weekends, five
minutes after lunch was over. Not even her brother's bow
and arrow with the rubber cup fluke
tip could come close
to getting her up early. Row
after row of wrinkles on her sheets, sound

asleep. Now the sound
of early sparrows gets her up at five
after four each morn. Rowing
is what keeps her going, tying bow
knots and pulling rigging. Closing
fish heads around the fluke

accidents of an awkward oar that, by fluke,
killed it dead. The sound
of her mom calling brought themall closer
together after their dad died. Five
tumors, all together, bowed
under the weight of each other.
Each other's voices on the phone rowed

them through the fluke of five
years of sound, bowing
grief. Closer than ever to life, the ultimate row to hoe.

The Twenty-Eighth Sestina Tent

In a Tent
in a Wind Storm
Ribs arch
toward Heavens Morn
to the apex of drive
and the aperture of delight.

And the aperture of delight
is a tent
that races the apex of drive
with a wind storm
where heavens morn
tickles her ribbed arch.

Ribs arch
and the aperture of delight
rises toward heavens morn
in a tent
in a wind storm
wheeling the apex of drive.

To the apex of drive
she ribs his arch
in a wind storm
and the aperture of delight
in a tent
whispers, more heavens morn.

Toward heavens morn
the apex of drive
concedes the tent
with ribbed arch
and the aperture of delight
in a wind storm.

In a wind storm
leaning toward heavens morn
the aperture of delight
with the apex of drive
nails the ribbed arch
to the tent.

A tent in a storm
deflates it’s arches every morn
before the drive home gives delight.

... and we seem to have a choice of end-stanza patterns:
http://geocities.com/suzstina/sestina.htm

Could this be more fun than the Villanelle? Let's rock :)

I tried, but I don't think Sestinas are for me :)

Sestina to Divorce

At one time I believed in love,
Thought it was the meaning of life.
Created a welcoming home.
Today it is all gone.
Everything can so quickly change,
And yet we find a way to survive.

The ways in which we survive,
Require us to make quite a change.
We choose a path, a new life,
And put aside our love.
We hope that it's not forever gone,
And we recreate our home.

A house is not a home,
It's a dwelling full of love.
Although the look may change,
And it's not the same old life,
The feeling of comfort is not gone,
And we know we will survive.

Each day is faced with a change,
Every breath a sign of survival.
It's not where I though I'd be in life.
All I knew is now gone.
It's not only the hurt of lost love,
But leaving what was home.

It's quite a new life,
Wasn't ready for the old to be gone.
You once told me it was love,
When did all that change?
You split apart our home,
Not worried how I'd survive.

Why does it feel all is gone.
I only changed my home.
A jolt in my life,
A drastic change.
Again I will love,
And always I will survive.

A new home, a new life.
The old is gone, welcome the change.
Love looms ahead, I always survive.

Elihu the Bystander’s Sestina
(from The Book of Job)

Even a good man of patience who suffers
wrongfully, can fall so low he loses trust
in the Creator Who holds power
over the universe. He will question his faith,
drown in the maelstrom of unkind words.
Such was the plight of the God-fearing Job.

Why in the world did Satan choose Job
from so many who deserved to suffer?
Why this holy man who daily raised words
of prayer and placed in God wholehearted trust?
Who in creation possessed a stronger faith?
Defeating Job would enhance Satan’s power!

Once bright angel, Satan lost his power
because he challenged the God of Job,
and now roams the earth, destroying the faith
of souls cast down to hell where they suffer
in the burning pits, ruing the trust
they blindly placed in Satan’s tempting words.

God said, “Go, Devil, tempt the man. Your words
and deeds will not shake good Job’s power
to remain good. He worships Me. I trust
your evil efforts will fail to ensnare Job
into your camp of fire where suffer
the weak who fail through lack of faith.

But his evil did shake this man’s faith.
Job sought wisdom in our meager words;
perhaps we knew why he had to suffer,
the reason God refused to show His power
by unburdening all the woes of Job.
Still, he chose to curse God, instead of trust.

“Is this,” God said, “how you show your trust
in Me? Those who are godless lose their faith!”
“But why me, Lord, a good man?” asked Job.
“Who are you to dare question my words?”
Said God. “Do the stars shine of your power?
I am with you always, even as you suffer.”

Then Job knelt down, “I trust You. I believe Your words.
In ignorance I lost faith in Your power.
Your servant Job repents. Apart from you I suffer.”

#

My soul will wander ever on this space-rock
until it settles, peaceful, with a slap
of guilt-on-sweet-forgiveness -- deep and large --
and then, at last, I think it finds a home
where fields of green meet up with cloudy blue;
so in the end, I can't still be afraid.

But here and now, my spirit is a frayed
old remnant of its former self. The rock
of my beliefs has turned malicious-blue;
and if the truth be known, a roundhouse slap
deserves to make my pasty cheek its home.
My past transgressions call for pains so large

that further folly while I'm still at large
would be avoided. Yes, I am afraid
that scandal still can thrash my peaceful home.
It's hard to say what happens if I'd rock
the boat with my confessions, sing the blues

to ears I fear'd be deaf to notes of blue.
The repercussions seem to be too large
to weather the full force of fury's slap
across a face that's already afraid
of getting caught between that famous rock
and places harder than my mortgaged home.

Why would I love another? Here at home,
I'd never dare to cast my baby blues
at anything more fay than modest rocks.
But left alone abroad, well, by and large,
those eyes will wander -- and I am afraid
of finding out what happens after -- Slap! --

digging through rejections to this lap
of luxury, all decked out in a homely
silk pajama halfway off -- afraid
that what I find will make me blue
instead of finding pleasure living large.
Don't think I'd fit a life of rock.

All tangled up in blue, it's time to rock
right home and give my wife a very large
apology -- no slap makes me afraid.

THE LOVE OF TERESA OF AVILA

La vida

Her life was like a lyric,
her soul was like a song to God
in sixteenth-century Spain –
yes, Teresa of Avila
lifted up her heart with love
to Jesús, her maker-poet.

Visión de amor

He was the lover-poet,
he, in a dream, her song-lyric.
In the darkness, he was love,
the Son of Man and Son of God –
Teresa of Avila,
shoeless, stood before him in Spain.

La eucharistía

In sixteenth-century Spain,
she beheld him, her own poet!
Teresa of Avila,
in silence, heard his love-lyric,
tasted the Presence of God,
touched his body, sensed fragrant love!

La boda espiritual

He embraced her with his love!
He held her secretly in Spain,
called her Belovèd of God,
whispered in her ear: I, poet,
sing you, my sweetest lyric,
Teresa of Avila.

La promesa

Teresa of Avila!
Your name will remind them of love,
my love, your love, our lyric,
the dreams of heaven dreamed in Spain,
hope for a future poet,
hope for living water from God.

El cielo

On earth, yes, and before God,
Teresa of Avila,
having become like your poet,
you will shine in glorious love
above the kingdom of Spain,
my light and my holy lyric!

I, poet, now reconcile you to God,
my lyric Teresa of Avila,
holy Belovèd from the heart of Spain.


Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

"All things must come to the soul from its roots,
from where it is planted. " ~ Teresa of Avila (16th c.)

My War

It was during my war,
where I last saw her,
standing in light,
a tunnel so bright,
there were others as well,
just who I could not tell.

Who could I tell
this tale of my war,
shining a light
on conditions so bright.
Who’d believe I saw her,
and heard her as well?

There was never much light
in the Vietnam war,
reporters were bright,
but they could not tell
of the pain I absorbed, well
after I saw her.

Day and night were both bright,
the bombs casting their light,
in the hell that was war,
madness yes, but love as well,
for seeing my mother, her
face I could tell

radiated the light,
the truth of her
words burning bright
as best I could tell,
in the midst of my war
sending me back to be well.

These words I can tell,
long after my war,
it was my mother, long dead, her
message of light,
from the tunnel so bright,
to live my life well.

In war I last saw her
in light, shining bright,
so I might as well tell.

Knots

How did this happen,
or rather, when? Did she grow
up and away this suddenly?
It is definitely the stick
not carrot, working my heart
as she plans and packs for camp.

A counselor all summer at camp.
For years, I knew it would happen.
Nan A Bo Sho is in her heart
and her love for it has grown
with her each day and stuck.
She waited long for news so sudden.

Her long wait, my flash of sudden.
Time flew as she went to camp
each summer picked up sticks,
tie-died whatever she happened
to bring that year. She grew
so happily plucking strings of my heart.

And now, I fear for my heart
as she goes off so suddenly
as she goes and grows
just as it should be. She camps,
sleeps far away. What happens
if she breaks her walking stick

she made herself with a stick
of hard wood? She put her soft heart
into it, carving what fit for her. It happens
to have a bulging knot suddenly
appear below the handgrip, encamped
there ugly, or not, but part of its growth,

part of wood’s character. It grew
before it was part of this painted stick.
She walks through camp
with intent and with all her heart
and if she slips suddenly,
as has been known to happen,

her hand will happen to slip to that growth,
the knot suddenly stopping her slide down the stick
stopping her fall, her heart will skip through camp.

Linda Voit

"Snakes in the River"

The mother and her small son were by the river,
throwing bread to the geese swimming in the sun.
She offered the boy juice and a hardboiled egg
but he turned away to see an orange water snake slither.
He found a rock to toss, and waved a stick
over the black tea water, making the geese startle and fly.

The old man stopped to see the geese lift wings and fly.
He had woken early to find his hat and go to the river.
He took his binoculars and walking stick.
If he went before noon, the trees shaded the Georgia sun;
but morning is when the copperheads are out, slithering
by the rocks. The boy asked him, “Do copperheads lay eggs?”

He remembered seeing baby copperheads by a nest of blue eggs
in the woodpile when he was ten. There were greenhead flies
that summer, and he was stung as he watched the wild slithering.
He called to his brother, who told him to jump in the river.
The river was cold and black like tea and gleamed in the sun.
Later he and his brother went back to the woodpile with sticks.

The mother said to the old man, “Watch the boy and his stick.
Sometimes he hits me by mistake. Oh, do you want an egg?”
The old man couldn’t remember when he had a picnic in the sun.
Maybe it was the summer he was married, when they flew
to the island. His wife told him that she liked rivers,
not oceans, and his face looked to her like a snake, slithering.

The old man ate the egg and saw a cormorant surface and slither
into the black tea water, its long neck straight as a stick.
He thought of the ocean, the wild blue waves, and the river
that ran through the city, brown and smelling like rotten eggs
after a storm. He remembered that he was too blind to fly
in the Air Force; his brother died in the desert, under the African sun.

The young woman spoke Spanish and lifted her hand to the sun.
She sang to the boy, who sat now in her lap, his hand slithering
on the bench, chasing an ant, a fallen blossom, a greenhead fly.
He couldn’t sit still. The old man leaned on his walking stick
and wondered where the Canada Geese laid their eggs.
If anyone knew, they would throw them in the black tea river.

The woman sang about a river. Her hair gleamed in the sun.
The old man ate the egg. The orange water snake slithered
over fallen sticks; and the boy slammed his fist on the fly.

I Don’t Need You

I love listening to the pattering of rain drops,
Like an aboriginal drum beat, they put me to sleep.
The wind howling just outside our windows,
The way the breeze whistles at me in bed,
The very air deeming my nightie and body sexy.
Which is why I wonder why I don’t hear you

Whistling when I walk into our bedroom, why you
Don’t smile larger, sweat just a bit more, when I drop
My robe to the floor. I just want to hear, “Yes, you’re sexy,
My princess. Let’s make loud love; let’s not sleep
Just now.” I desire to lay with you, my back firm against the bed,
Our love stronger than the wind and rain outside our window.

But this does not happen. I drop my robe, as you close the window,
“It’s cold in here,” you say, and you tuck yourself under the covers. You
Don’t even glance twice in my direction; don’t invite me into bed.
I consider asking you if you’d like to kiss, but I decide to drop
It. Anyway, you’re already snoring, almost asleep,
And the last thing I feel is sexy.

That’s when I hear the rain again, pounding a new sexy
Beat against the rooftop. I hear the whistling of wind through the windows
And I smile. I breath in, I breath out, and I know, I don’t want to sleep
Right now. But I don’t want to lie here alone, awake. “I don’t need you
To feel loved, I don’t need you,” I whisper over and over. I sit up, tears drop
Down my cheeks, as I look out over our quiet bed.

The room is dark, every little thing looks bigger -- you, the bed,
The tree branch shadows on the walls, dancing a sexy
Salsa against the wind and rain. Then, a thought - the raindrops
Want me. They can love me. I crawl out of bed, look out the window,
And decide – I’m going outside in the rain. You’re dreaming, you
Will never know, won’t miss me a moment, you’re dead asleep.

So I tip-toe towards the door, opening slowly, as you sleep
Alone beneath the sheets. While some of my body aches for bed,
My heart desires the rain and wind, which I can have without you.
I don’t put on a coat, but step out into the night in my sexy
Nightie. I shiver, things are colder than they looked outside the window.
But I don’t care. I love the touch, the caress, the 1,000 kisses of the raindrops.

And as the raindrops make love to me, you are fast asleep,
Not aware of my affair outside the window, oblivious to my missing from bed,
And as I lie in the grass, the rain caressing my sex, I know -- I don’t need you.

Instead

don’t care for haiku
hate sestinas with passion
freedom for poets!

Prompt: Write A Sestina


The Lakota Warrior


The warrior is brave,
more than willing to fight.
He fights for the people
and for the Great Spirit.
He is only a man
fighting to keep the land.

He has lived on this land,
grew to be a strong brave
and to be a great man.
Here he has learned to fight,
a Lakota spirit
struggling for his people.

His love for his people
and for their native land
came from the Great Spirit.
He's powerful and brave
and determined to fight
the corruptive white man.

He's a wise young red man.
The ways of his people
have taught him how to fight.
He will hold this great land.
He will be strong and brave
and show his fine Spirit.

None can tame his spirit,
for he is a free man,
honorable and brave.
To preserve his people,
their indigenous lands,
he will stand firm and fight.

He can fight the good fight.
He is young in spirit.
He will roam this great land
until he's an old man.
He will love his people
and teach them to be brave.

He is a brave warrior and he will keep fighting
for his people, guided by the Great Spirit,
his humanity and his love of his native land.

Found a poem!!
Challenge
Luckily
Last night
Only days
from the finish line
being
so close to the end
right?
Write
A SESTINA
Have Fun!

Sestina for Gabrielle

My second child, you are a gift
six years after your sister was born
I wanted another child so much it hurt.
Your father finally gave in, perhaps it was
a last ditch effort to fix a failing marriage.
You were my reward for all the pain.

Your birth was hard, I couldn’t bear the pain.
You smiled at me, dark eyed child, my gift,
one last good thing to happen in that marriage.
Such joy I felt when you were born.
Your father tried, as little as it was,
nothing worked to take away the hurt.

We moved away to try to stem the hurt
I should have seen it coming, all the pain.
Our life could have been better than it was.
This new man gave us anger, not a gift.
Five years and it could be no longer born.
To keep both of us safe, we left the marriage.

Years passed, I no longer thought of marriage.
My strength came back, healing took the hurt.
In many ways, we found ourselves reborn.
Humor and joy took the place of pain.
Closeness with you, my greatest gift,
all I could do to show how sorry I was.

I met a man, and gentle as he was,
I waited to enter into marriage,
to make sure his love was a genuine gift,
and avoid any possibility of hurt.
You kicked him in the shins, inflicting pain.
You smiled just as you did when you were born.

This man was different, must have been born
with patience. That is how it was
we came full circle, out of pain.
I asked your approval for this marriage,
and you agreed, unafraid of hurt.
My daughter, I thank you for this gift.

Out of pain, relationships reborn,
rejoicing in these gifts, what a time it was,
not just marriage, but no longer hurt.


Lori Desrosiers

Sestina Style of the Random Dance of Love Swans © Richard-Merlin Atwater 2009
April Poem 6 x 6 +3= 39 stanzas in specified cadence using randomly picked set of six words to endings of each line, i.e., swans, love, dance, colors, water, music.
===============================================================
The Random Dance of Love Swans

I witnessed seven swimming swans
With two that made the arch of love,
The five were siblings in a dance,
With rainbow of mixed colors,
Reflecting in the rippling water:
It was in my ears a sentimental music.

The celestial sounds of lovely music,
Made for the entrancement of pure white swans
Whose natural instincts were enveloped on water,
The realistic hope of “eternal love”—
Which portrayed purity in the opalescent colors,
Of a ballet-like estuary dance!

Such a cottage-cove secluded dance,
Enhanced by nature’s rippling music,
And elaborated by an extravaganza of colors,
Whereby October’s trees substantiated the swans
In the multi-color of “Joseph’s Coat” of love,
As seen in the mirror of the meditative water!

Ice, fire, wind, rain, and water—
Throughout the seasons, a most exotic dance,
Lightning flash across the heavens with
the thunder of God’s love,
As nature puts on its’ display of melodious music,
All to be enhanced by the splendor of the swans,
And the opulent display of nature’s colors.

Shades of red, and green, and orange, and yellow colors;
All reflecting in the pool of tranquil water,
Gliding gently across the glass-like sphere, the swans,
Ever present, like “the Swan Lake” ballet dance,
To the crescendo of Tchaikovsky’s music;
Enraptured, and enthralled by the theme of love.

Eternal, equipoise of blissful love:
To sublimate the radiant, gleaming colors,
In synchronization with piccolo style music,
The harmony below of ichthyologic movement in the water
Reveal a symphonic crescendo dance
That accentuates the gliding dream-like sway of the swans:

Like Morpheus, the swans-- bring one to quiet thoughts of love;
While nature’s one true dance is vividly enhanced
by radiant colors--
Reflected in the ubiquitous water that captures the essence of heavenly music!
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Poet’s note of explanation:
Morpheus is the god of dreams (and son of the god of sleep)
Equipoise= balance,
sublimate= purity,
ichthyologic= zoology of fish
================================================

Credit Cards (a sestina)

My annual percentage rate has climbed
to a level that’s buried me deep in debt.
Not that I am a careless shopper, but man,
did I do a number on you when I married
you, vowing to give you my credit cards
'cause I can't heal the gaping wound.

When I was in college, oh, I got so wound
up by the freedom, watching my bar tab climb
higher and higher, sucking at playing card
games but going back for more. Owing debts
to Visa became my demon. I felt married
to a system of greed. I hardly felt like a man.

I was raised to be a responsible, smart man,
but my mother cured her financial wounds
with that shiny, plastic card, paying the Man
with what appeared to be magic. I still climb
up money trees, looking to be instantly debt-
free to improve the credit score I’ve marred.

I first reached $1K after buying baseball cards
I thought would pay for themselves, but men
who play games don’t care about my debt.
While I knew I had to close up the wound,
I vowed that my balance wouldn’t climb
if I paid off every purchase til I got married

and could pass it on to whomever I married.
Sneaky, I know, but if I found a kind, card-
less woman who was gullible enough to climb
my pile of credit card crap, then I’d be a man
in hog-heaven and happy. But I just wound
up married to a poor, smart woman, with debt

enough for both of us to share, so much debt
from buying shoes that I wonder if I married
a smart woman after all. But when you wind
up at rock bottom, and paying off your cards
is the only way up, well, you become a man,
suck it up, and stop making your balance climb.

I did it, climbed the mountain, watched my debt
vanish. I am the man my wife wanted to marry,
with no credit cards, and with no gaping wounds.

THE SPACE BETWEEN

Between the car and house, you fell
into the space between some words.
Horizontal as a long, poetic line,
dreaming the last dream
we all dream in that final sleep,
lying on the ground as the world went dark.

You rejoined your shadow in the dark,
and no one heard a sound when you fell,
falling into the arms of eternal sleep
where not even the sound of words
can interrupt this everlasting dream
unreeling like some celestial line,

and on the other end of that line,
there is nothing but more dark
as you swim in the deep of the dream,
still in the place where you fell
full of the everything of your words
fashioned from the dream of waking sleep.

In our beds in our own kind of sleep,
time continues to unravel its line
like a string of familiar words
that hang in this infernal dark
where all the autumn leaves fell
into the winter that we dream-

up in a narrative lifetime of dream
while we search for a place to sleep,
somewhere like the place where you fell
near the end of the proverbial line,
seduced and swallowed by the dark
where not even the memory of words

reach the fading echo of words
that frame this long, lonely dream
made up in the holy dark
from the collective minds that sleep
and the last thoughts that fell
behind the others marching in line.

And so we stand in that long line of life reliving our words,
inventing the stories, and watching each dream as it fell
into the dark well of endless sleep calling to us all.

"FIRELIGHT"

Splintered logs reduced to glowing embers
Lay smoldering in dying flames’ embrace
Bathing bandit faces in shades of crimson.
Tiny hands hold s’mores to sate their hunger.
Little ones come forth to beg most timidly
Only to be shooed away by Mama raccoon and pursued.

Above, a flying squirrel, amused by Mama’s pursuit,
Chides her while swooping low to fan the embers
Forcing little feet to scatter in their timidity
To Mama and her comforting embrace
At once forgetting all thoughts of hunger
In the naked light of coals glowing crimson.

In the East day breaks forth in streaks of crimson
Revealing tiny prints, evidence of the night’s pursuits,
To weary eyes emerging from sleep to relieve their hunger.
Delighted squeals greet missing s’mores and cold embers
As children dance in sisterly embrace
Boldly kicking up the dust of tiny prints made so timidly.

Father peeks through canvas door, smiles and retreats timidly
To downy comfort in woolen bag of checkered crimson
And the loving warmth of mother’s embrace
To steal a kiss, though nothing more may be pursued,
As passion is blunted in memories of the embers,
Both yearning for appeasement but knowing they still will hunger.

Ah, love is but a shadow of passion’s hunger
That dulls our feelings by making us timid,
So that by the time we profess it, it’s nothing but a dying ember,
The withering petal of a rose of crimson
Offered too late in our efforts to pursue
That we miss the chance of a deep and passionate embrace.

I am blessed to have known the passion of an embrace
With one who will never leave me hungry,
Whose joy is mine and who chooses to pursue
Me equally and without timidity
Flushing with desire in shades of crimson
Fanning flames from every dying ember.

Later, in starry night’s embrace, as critters scurry timidly
I seek to feed that hunger with tender kisses on lips of crimson
As little heads droop to pursue slumber softly lit by fire’s dying embers.

“I don't want to be

Anything other than what I've been trying to be lately

All I have to do

Is think of me and I have peace of mind”
Gavin DeGraw

Six words
Used over and over again
Forcing thoughts and ideas
That should never be.
The sestina for today
Will not be written
By me.
I instead will pull
Words from my heart,
Listen to what my muse
Has on her mind,
See what soul
I can find inside.

a story I can't really tell
without tripping.
details crowd out the point.
which is then lost.
though maybe
it was never really there.

you were there.
you had left your tells.
you tried to tell me maybe,
but over your story you tripped
the ending was lost,
but you made your point.

the conversation became pointed,
I wished I wasn't there.
I had lost
but would never tell.
off of my tongue would trip
a chorus of I believe you, maybe.

that would be too many maybes.
again I would escape the point.
listening to all the tripe.
my mind wasn't even there.
time was ripe for me to tell
you, get lost.

sometimes losing,
is better than maybe.
at least I have a story to tell.
if there ever was a point,
we were never there.
we happened on a trip.

so thanks for the trip.
nothing of value was lost,
since it was never there.
I'm so tired of maybe
and counting up the points
in the game of kiss and tell.

that's it for the telling, not a pleasant trip.
perhaps it's stretching the point to say more was gained than lost.
for I know there is no maybe, I'm glad to not be there.

Okay, I've done sestinas before, so I know I can do this. The problem is TIME - I'm attending a poetry festival today, and the rest of the week is booked with my wife out of town, my son needing help moving, and my other son needing help on a major homework project. I'll crank one out, but maybe not today. Meanwhile, here's a poem about a sestina, sort of:

Currency

A fellow poet who had traveled
to Afghanistan said that people
on the street there recite poems
from memory, and exchange them
like currency with one another.
"We’re poor, unlike you,"
they told her.
"This is all we have."

But I believe the phenomenon has spread.
Just the other day,
a man approached me on the street
and asked for change for a sestina.
I gave him two sonnets,
a limerick,
and two haiku.

Not Good Form, Old Boy!

The trouble with writing in Form
Is it really doesn’t suit my norm
A Rondeau or a Villanelle
Drives me as crazy as hell
Don’t get me started on Sonnets
I’m likely to blow off my bonnet
And I can’t think of anything meaner
Than making me write a Sestina
Haiku are just not for me
They’re more like Jap Graffiti
I don’t even like Limericks
They’re too short and not really my trick
So I spend a lot of my time
Composing comical rhyme
Although some find it perverse
I prefer to write in free verse
The characters that I invent
Are often twisted and bent
Like Moosehead and Howlin’ Ringo
Or Greek Jimmy and Fat Joe
Or the Brilliant Weasel, Bartholomew
That’s more the sort of thing I do
No, writing in form’s not for me
I like to be lucid and free
Its not that I’m shy or coy
I just don’t’ find it good form, Old Boy!

Iain

Donna Bachman, most of us thought that, but look! I'm number 27 or so! What was it Henry Ford said? "I've found that people who think they can't do something, generally end up that way." A paraphrase.

Here's mine.

Headhunter

Staggering to my feet to the bathroom for shaving,
And getting the dark-green-brown taste out by brushing
My teeth, and standing in the shower and washing
My goat-smelling body, then watching the eggs frying
In the skillet, and impatiently waiting for the coffee brewing,
So I can wash down the breakfast I'm eating.

After I'm finished with drinking and eating,
My cheeks still stinging from its scraping and shaving
I slurp the coffee that I had been brewing
And my clothes really do need brushing
Though no matter what I wear I'll be frying
In this heat. Which will end in more washing.

I meander to the sink for my hands which need washing
Since I stuffed my face, using my hands for eating
The bacon and eggs and potatoes I was frying.
Then I remember to be grateful I'm a man and not shaving
My legs, and I don't have to worry about any more brushing
My quarter inch hair, which a don't have to bother with brewing

Some stupid color for it. So I can go about brewing
Some honest work slyly white washing
The stuff I am doing, and cleverly brushing
Off criticism that my actions are eating
My competitors alive, and shaving
My cut from the top, leaving everyone frying

With rage, but my boss won't be frying
Me, because record profits I've been brewing
For my company since I started shaving
Incompetents and idiots who were washing
Their dirty laundry in the company bank and eating
Its profits. By cutting instead of brushing

Them off, I saved us millions, and now I'm brushing
New Brooks Brothers suits, and my competitors are frying
In their own grease, and instead of turkey they're eating
Crow for firing me last year. And I have been brewing
Up a new campaign to take them to the washing
Up place again, and more of their sales I'll be shaving

From them. I am brushing them off, and I am frying
New steaks, which I'm eating with relish while brewing
New beer in an old washing machine. And my legs I still am not shaving!

Duty Free: A Sestina

I am followed by a yearning
in the early sun, as we taxi to town
to shops festive with tee shirts and wraps;
followed by want in the heat,
through the duty free bargain
of watches and diamonds.

They make you feel loved, those diamonds
and the women trying them are yearning
for riches, to not have to shop for a bargain,
but to swagger through town
regardless of weather and heat
dressed in their cashmere wraps.

We walk the old streets, and your arm wraps
my shoulder, my own diamonds
on the hand that holds yours in the heat
with that constant yearning
for more than this small town,
with the promise of a bartering bargain.

Perhaps marriage all along is a bargain,
keeping secrets so close under wraps,
a house on a street in a fine town,
husbandry sealed with diamonds,
trying to stave off that still present yearning
the longing for touch and for heat.

The day becomes languid, the heat
of the sun forcing us to bargain
for a spot indoors, in a café, yearning
for a cool drink where ice wraps
itself around the glass like diamonds
and we can watch the people of the town

as an unexpected rain falls on the town,
cobbled walkways slick and slippery in the heat
raindrops mirrored like diamonds
when I lift my head and open my mouth to the bargain
of free falling water that wraps
my face, a veil to soothe the yearning.

The storm wraps the town, brings the bargain
of cooling the heat, cools the yearning
and so cools the lure of those free of duty diamonds.

Poker (Sestina)

As for me, I like competition
When I started Gardena meant cards
Rainbow, Embassy, Horseshoe–all gone
I went there to learn how to play
I went there to learn how to bet
I went there to learn how to win

Lo-ball then was the game to win
Tough old broads were the competition
In those days two bucks was a big bet
Players were dealt hands of five cards
Bet then draw continued the play
One high card and your money’s all gone

Hold ‘em came and lo-ball was gone
It was not any harder to win
There were many new angles to play
But no change in the competition
You get two while sharing five cards
There are two more chances to bet

You have only two cards at first bet
After that most players are gone
With the flop you now play five cards
Two more cards before you can win
There are few now left in competition
Dragging the pot ends the play

Tournaments are now what to play
The prize is the motive to bet
Adrenaline drives competition
For me thoughts of money are gone
I strive for that first place win
This is the acme of cards

Now online is where I play cards
You can do other things while you play
Distractions in case you don’t win
But you still get a rush when you bet
And when beating them all ‘til they’re gone
You can glory in good competition

If you get the cards you can bet
If you don’t play until it’s all gone
You can win and enjoy competition

Train ,Brain, Drain, Pane , Cain, Plain

Trouble with Cain

On the track there came a train
To see that it took no brain
Water running down the drain
Seen through the window pane
All the descendants of Cain
Coming up out of the plain.

But still it hurt her brain
To see life going down the drain
Despite the really thick glass pane
Still she claimed the name of Cain
And she made it very plain
Her mind still rode the train

He poured the bottle down the drain
Having smashed the window pane
He was a real son of Cain
Broken, ruined that was plain
So he stood before the train
End the sufferings of his brain.

She paid a lot for the glass pane
Broken by the son of Cain
Her anger there was very plain
As he died before the train.
She knew he had no brain
Sent his life right down the drain.

The descendants of one called Cain
Useless bunch was very plain
The ones that stopped the train
Not a single ounce of brain
On mankind they were a drain
Seen through my glass pane.

For they came up from the plain
Some even took the train
But none had a real brain
Just more lives down the drain
Broken glass in life’s window pane
All because of the sin of Cain


The train had an electric brain
A steam drain and window pane
Brought Cain up from the plain

The Grove House

When I went to college, I learned that orange
And white were the colors of my school,
Where I was expected to fish
For wisdom and learn to live
Intensely, as people did in the Renaissance-
But to also to go to the pool every day and swim.

On the north end of Pitzer College was a house where I lived
Although I did sleep in a dorm room to small even for a beta fish,
But that house was a Craftsman house - a 19th Century Renaissance
Of medieval sensibility, and once upon a time it stood in orange
Groves, but a professor asked his students to swim
Up to the challenge of bringing that house to school!

They did so splendidly, and he did school
Them in the art of restoration - a Renaissance
Of the building, but also of their spirits, and they planted orange
Trees because that fruit is as good to look at as to eat, epitomizes life
In California at its best. After a long day of studying and a long swim,
I would run up there -( my favorite earrings were shaped like fish)

One day my mother called me and told me my pet fish
Had died, but I went up to that magical house and ate an orange,
And settled my thoughts, empowered now to study the Renaissance
And the Middle Ages, and to get back to the intensity of life
And the Grove House, the most enriching part of school
Where I also learned the mainstream is not the best place to swim.

Every spring, my friends and I went to the Renaissance
Faire, but first we would meet at the Grove House and school
Each other in history, and recreate 1500's - 1600's life,
Which was easy to do in a place that swam
In magical tradition, like some exotic fish
In the middle of the sea, his scales all glittering orange.

That lovely house was where the mainstream is not the place to swim -
A valuable lesson to be learned in any school,
For just as those in the 1900's recreated a Renaissance,
We recreate one in our hearts as we fish
Each day for wisdom beneath the sun, all orange
And the Grove House was clearly where I learned to live.

Like a happy little orange fish,
Swimming apart from a school,
In the Grove House, I loved Renaissance life.

A REAL GOOD KNIGHT

Once upon a good and noble night,
astride a worn and haggard steed,
and behind the battle battered shelter of his shield
rode Sir Waltimore, a gallantly valiant knight
whose kinked armor was in dire need
of relief from its unflinching distress.

For in this distress
he had waited a fortnight
because he was indeed in need
of a bath and a shave. His steed,
Steve, hid this good Sir knight
so he could disarm behind his shield.

No damsel awaited Waltimore, so no shield
was required to guard his heart, most distressed.
No maiden fair desired a knight
such as this, this dark and lonely night.
So Steve, the gallant steed,
made sure his Sir got what he'd need.

Waltimore and Steve,in their time and moment of need,
travel past the forest to where Sherwood castle would shield
this drawn out gentry and his steed,
who was itself in much distress,
and decide to take a night
to cop a nod. Alas, another dreamless knight.

Afresh the morrow brought hither to this knight,
a knave of passions need,
the promise of a warm and amorous night.
So to the moated castle toting his shield,
he commenced to free his mind from much distress
astride his lumbering and massive steed.

Steve, the steed,
along with his brave and prudent knight,
left behind all said distress
after they had fulfilled their need.
Waltimore, with his shield,
and Steve, his feedbag secure, bid a fond good night.

On this once upon a night, with his trusty steed
and rusted shield in tow, our good knight
had no more need to awaken his slumbering distress.

My First Sestina

Studying the Renaissance, I read sestinas,
But I never learned how to write one
Until Robert on the Internet
Showed me today -
I must go now to the Grove House,
Pen and paper in hand,
And write some more sestinas,
Within, not about,
That earthy magical place.

Okay...a fairly silly Sestina using six happy homonyms...

A Discussion on the Art and Appreciation of Concert-Going and Gourmet Cooking

I went to a concert with my dear Auntie
Ellen. The concert featured the works of the Bard
set to music. It was a delight for the senses.
After the show, we went out for a late night bite. We sat and discussed
how brilliant it was, and we talked about the emotions it did elicit.
Over all, I have to say that the experience was great...

except, Aunt Ellen kept going on and on and on about it. It eventually did grate
on my nerves, until I was nearly at the point of becoming anti-
Shakespearean. I thought about the emotions my Auntie managed to elicit
from me (not very nice, actually) and I thought about telling her she was barred
from ever going with me to another concert. Disgust
at her hyperbolic ramblings was annoying me and seriously attacking my senses.

And to be honest, I don’t think I would need to get a census
on this, because everyone around us would probably agree with me on how great
the need was to tell her to hush up already! I so wish we never discussed
this show, or more to the point, to up the ante
I wish I hadn’t even seen it with her (or I had gone alone) because no bard
could ever match the thoughts brewing in my head. Illicit

action is what I could elicit
only. She was driving me crazy! It made no sense. Is
there no way to stop her, I thought. Her words must be barred
from being heard because they just wouldn’t stop! A crime, great
in scale might be the only answer to silence my Auntie...
but then, I thought of myself with deep disgust.

After all, despite her loquaciousness, she just merely discussed
(albeit, ad infinitum/ad nauseum) how much she liked what 17th century poets could elicit
from clever word play, especially when put to music. My Auntie
really meant no harm. I should have just tuned her out. No sense us
getting into a squabble about great
literature, particularly of the musical kind, right? The Bard


did write something for everyone, or so I believe. And the music was good, too.. I barred
those intrusive thoughts from lingering in my mind, and instead, at last, just discussed
a few more thoughts about this show before turning the conversation to grat-
inée recipes, about which, Aunt Ellen (I have to admit) was first rate. This new subject elicit-
ed from me a request for her famous French onion soup, which any census
taken at any time would describe with unmitigated raves. Well, that’s my Auntie!

So...to sum it all up: Auntie Ellen really enjoyed the Bard
show in a literary and a musical sense, but she discussed
it way too much. However, I can forgive her because her gratinées are illicitly, deliciously great!

I was disappointed and unhappy about today’s prompt
Having never heard of a Sestina,
felt a wrench was thrown into the works
and the rules suddenly changed.
It was a hard demand on a busy day.
I am not a studier of style or analysis of poetry
I am simply a writer, reader and sharer.
But a challenge is a challenge and I made a commitment
so I quess I will lodge my complaint about Sestina's in
a Sestina complaint. Can Sestina be used as a nasty adjective?

Until today I was happy to play in this Poem a day.
Not that it was easy
Not that it wasn’t demanding
Working 60 hours a week and being busy
Now you are asking us to learn something new
I may as well go back and take math and Chinese in School

Writing something new
When one works, has a family and is in school
When family, housework, garden planting also keeps me busy
Is not easy.
It was hard enough to write a Poem a day
This is a mean demand

I didn’t know I would have to go to school
Learn Sestina was the demand
That is something that kept me busy
Figuring out words in a way new
Not the way I wanted to start my day
Which I prefer to start slow and easy

This will mean I start my day
Behind and my list of to does will be written a new
I’ll certainly now be even busier
Figuring out what can be cut isn’t easy
I can’t cut out work or attending my class at school
Oh, Robert I fear I will lose sleep because of your Sestina demand

Yikes, I still have more stanza’s of this Sestina demand
Why didn’t you put this tough day
At the beginning when I had more energy would have been easier
Challenges like this make me hate and love something new
I hate it because my time is already so busy
I love it because it stretches my brain like when I was in school

I’m suppose to be working on an eight page newsletter today
I have to have it done in days and I can tell that won’t be easy
Why am I sitting here writing like a kid in school?
Doing something new
When the newsletter is due in two days and on it I should be busy
All because of Robert’s cruel and despicable demand


Enough school for today
Robert, your demand wasn’t easy
But, busy as I am I tried something new.

Brook Song

Fronds on date palms reaching for clouds
in a further sky; fair wind, an ally
to both and neither, laughs by way of chimes
gallowed on the porch to swing and bang
like water bangs rocks in a brook,
without malice nor mimicking song.

Yet the song is there, a riffled song
stung by stones the colors of evening clouds
or hard-pan russets singing the blues a brook
brings with tinny erosion, a humming ally
to fair wind and foul, to the crack and bang
of fissuring age. Ungraspable time chimes,

teases like wind, the chitter of chimes
until silence arrives. Silence or song?
Is a chorus of frogs worse than the bang
of absolute stillness? Nebulae clouds
hidden by closer clouds, no ally
this absolute anything -- chaos, din, brook

of incessant babbling is not easy to brook
either – depending. Inside the chimes
of the heart, a reverberating ally
of sorrow and joy, a ticking brown song.
The earthen heart waits, welcomes clouds,
sere days and damp, the thunderous bang

of change. Tick-tick, tick-tick, bang!
I am, says the date palm to the brook.
I am, says the brook to the wind-driven clouds,
and you will enter me and I you. Then the chimes
ring the clock of age like song
and the fronds touch all. The ally

of one, the purpose, reason, and honest ally
of the rest of us noisy particles comes from a bang
where little universi sprang like song,
whirled lit skies as if a mad brook,
spiraled arms flung, every arm carrying chimes
to ring pitter-patter on cobbles from clouds.

In a far further sky other clouds ally
beginnings, chimes toll lovely small bang-
bang-bangs, and a brook runs clear with song.

Robert, the deed's been done
You've sucked out all the fun
"Sestina" I'm to write
The rules are far too tight

I choose not to conform
And will not thus suborn
The premise that I might
Enjoy this form to write

My mood this style wrecks
A Sestina so complex
Though it pains my heart
This task I will not start

This is the only other Sestina I ever wrote. I put these words to paper a few years ago, after my Great-Aunt had passed away. (She was about 95 at the time, and had enjoyed a rich, full life. I missed her and wanted to express it in some way.)

I didn't actually attend her funeral (geography and other personal matters intervened at the time) but after speaking with my mother about it, this was the result:

Goodbye, Aunt Freda

I felt like the Snow Queen; my heart was full of winter.
What could be colder than that cold, lingering wind?
I wondered: should there be no colors, but only shades of grey?
Would the silent earth, like me, not ever be warmed again by the sun?
In that granite landscape; there was surely a want of bright buds
and also, a want of another spring.

My aunt died before she could see her next spring.
Instead, I think she made her peace while still in the land of winter.
I thought: what marker should be left behind.' A pebble? Some buds?
Which of those things would last longer than that lingering wind?
And would the snow and the ice recede in the cold sun,
or would her absence always feel like just more of the lingering grey?

Clouds filled the skies; some white-ish, but mostly grey.
Among them, there seemed to be no inclination towards a weather-change for spring.
Breaking through those noncommittal clouds was an almost-hint of vague sun,
but it was the kind of almost-hint that only appears when it is mid-winter.
At some point, while staring off, I felt a change: a newly appointed gust of wind.
Then, I saw what looked like some petals, or maybe just pieces of lost buds.

It was strange to think of death in the same frame of mind as that of those buds.
Their colors are infinite, but there are more nuances with the shades of grey.
Still, it was easier to daydream about blossoms than it was to freeze in the February wind,
and it was far more comforting to think of the possibilities of future spring.
I paused to say goodbye to my aunt and to leave behind that lonely winter,
so, standing in that graveyard, I anxiously sought out the cloud-hidden sun.

Breaking through the overcast sky, at last, a ray shot out from that time-weary sun.
It was then I knew there was a chance - a hope? a prayer? - in those windswept buds,
and this had been my sign for the endnote to the sadness of that winter.
Shivering among the stones, in my woolen coat of dove grey,
I knew in that same moment I would see another spring.
There was a kind of stillness, and I no longer minded the cold wind.

A light breeze settled into the space where just before there had been a blustery wind.
I somehow felt reassured as I watched nimbostratus cotton give way to sun.
As the last shovel of earth fell, the Snow Queen sowed her seeds to find the way to spring.
The last of the snow soon would be gone, and there would be a profusion of buds
in every color and size and shape - except for ones of grey.
I said, "Goodbye, Aunt Freda," and for me, that proved to be the endnote of my winter.


I no longer dreaded the Snow Queen's winter and her lingering, bitter wind.
I no longer felt like I was submerged in the grey, but rather, I could now find my sun,
and joining me, no longer lost, were those buds, as we anticipated the coming spring.

Swine Flu—A Sestina
April 28


He’d often pondered how his life would end
but hid his worries under many masks
expecting in his youth eternal life
pretending that he really didn’t care.
Such thoughts of death were pearls cast before swine
since time was a sure fortress against death.

From time to time he came in touch with death
someone he knew or knew of’s life would end
an older farmer tending to his swine
some sickly child whose visitors wore masks.
He noticed this but didn’t really care
as it had little meaning for his life.

As time went on he learned more about life
and now and then was somewhat touched by death
someone he loved or someone in his care
their passing deeply touched him in the end
some he disliked came by and dropped their masks
he saw that they were so much more than swine.

He’d grown up in a farmhouse tending swine
and there was much he disliked about life
his house was filled with people wearing masks
their very lives to him resembled death
they couldn’t wait for weary days to end
their world was lovely but they didn’t care.

When he had children he began to care.
He didn’t want his kids to live like swine.
Their happiness became his constant end
to that he dedicated his whole life
aware he would be limited by death
he wanted no one ever wearing masks.

But he fell ill and everyone wore masks:
the visitors and all who gave him care
as all about the country there came death
a tragic flu that started out in swine.
His children wept as he gave up his life.
They sorrowed that such selfless love should end.


So at the very end there were no masks.
His worthy simple life ends free of care
it matters not if swine led to his death.


Hugh

Black Eyed Women: A Sestina


Black eyed women taste nothing when opening the mouth, see nothing with the eyes
but a darkness which grows upon itself, layered and seething, heavy and solitary.
Black eyed women were once bred only for Heaven, to be virgin sex slaves to the men
who thought of life in two terms: with women and without women. They cringe
when the men, their hands dirty and hard, touch the tenderness of their inside thighs
without asking permission. They are named after the hours; they have only time.

Oh, these hours are born asexually: the women lack viable wombs but squeeze time
free of their infertility. The men stalk them from bed to bed, looking only for the eyes
which are always open with blindness, always moist, glazed, as tender as the thighs
which the men themselves part while the women look away, the solitary
creatures they were born to be. They cannot grow used to the touching and cringe
each time the chains are pulled harder. Immortal slaves to their half-mortal men.

They pray, the black eyed women. They pray to the gods but gods are always men
and so refuse to acknowledge the prayers. The gods withhold blessings, add only time. They ignore the men who touch too hard in soft places and make the women cringe.
If their eyes were blue, green, hazel, purple, gray, they would be saved. But their eyes
are black and so they are cursed by those mothers sentenced so long to solitary
that they found comfort in dead men with cold hands and mouths, their thigh

always willing to tremor and release long dead seed. Black eyed women know thighs
are what bring the women to their backs and knees. Thighs drive the hungry men
to eat. Dead and living men are the same, different only in how they enjoy solitude.
They could commit themselves to it without thought, unmindful of all the time
they give to themselves. Or they become haunted by the pressure of black eyes
which are so lovely, so fluid, so dangerous, that just a thought leaves them to cringe

with an orgasm they can barely name. Oh, how it hurts when they look and cringe.
The men dream of penetrating that darkness just as they push past the spread thighs
and listen to the feigned cries because the black eyed women lack control of their eyes
and vocal cords, can only speak in recordings which have been tested to ensure men
are pleasured aurally. The gods play them like dolls, puppets, moving them in time
to the pelvic thrusts, and black eyed women imagine those cursed mothers in solitary

confinement, promising their daughters to the dead men living in the walls in solitude,
“one day I will bring you my daughter and she will touch you and make you cringe
in pleasure. She'll be damned for my sins. Because I am unnatural, she will have time
to cry out your name, shed her clothes, loosen her hair, unveil the inside of her thighs
so that you may use her flesh as you desire. Sex toy or meal, wallet or envy of men.”
The mother whispered to the ears against mossy stone. “She will have black eyes.”

And here are the black eyed women now, eyes tired, and body craving a solitude
the men will not allow. Oh those men, how black eyed women makes them cringe
as they dream of unfeeling thighs and the absence of, the immortality of time.

I have certain unbreakable rules in my poetic moral code.
I will only write a poem if I have something to say with it.
I will not write a poem about poetry, or how I feel about poetry.
I am not a good enough poet to write a poem to *say* something in Sestina form.
So today's prompt put me in a bit of a dilemma.

I was saved by remembering a William Brown story by Richmal Crompton - where William was told by his father that if he managed to achieve some challenge his father would "eat my hat" - and then William did achieve the task.
William saved his father's honour by suggesting they name a gob-stopper( kind of old fashioned British candy) 'My hat' and then his Dad could eat one of those, and his word would remain unbroken.

My submission today is my version of that solution.


So here's my submission - a poem about a Sestina.

What's in a Name?

There was a woman didn't live in a shoe,
but a council apartment,
she might just live near you.

Her children were named in the hope that one day
celebrity riches would be coming their way.
So she chose their names so they'd stand out,
didn't know what they meant and at meal times she'd shout :

"Food's ready Sestina, Salmonella, Vagina,
Colonic, Ebola, hurry up Spirulina!
Get it while it's hot Gonnorrhea you too Escherischa,
Candida, Chlamydia and you Analfissure."

Once at the table she gazed at her brood,
the future of TV, all gobbling their food.

First Attempt (As If You Couldn't Tell)

The whole crazy thing got started one
day, a lazy day, as I sat and watched
my very favorite TV cooking show.
Celebrity guests assembled to meet
as a panel of judges to decide
the winner of a pie-baking contest.

The prize for the winner of the contest
was a check for the whopping sum of one
hundred thousand dollars. They decided
to choose from among the viewers who watch
the network faithfully and had ten meet
with the panel of judges on the show.

A great deal of care was taken showing
the ropes to the ten lucky contestants.
Each of them was given a chance to meet
with the judges to introduce their one
best recipe. The judges got to watch
as each of the contestants decided

how best to represent their decision
to maximize the outcome of the show
as the more viewers they could get to watch
the better to promote the big contest.
The grand prize would be awarded to one
skillful participant whose work would meet

all the judges’ requirements to be met.
Contestants awaited the decision
with pounding hearts for they knew that the one
who had been the very best at showing
true ability would win the contest.
Family and friends in the audience watched

As the runner-up prize, a diamond watch,
was awarded. Then came the time to mete
out the first place prize for the big contest.
So very tough for judges to decide!
So many great recipes on the show!
Somehow they’d had to agree on just one.

The one who was chosen smiled and cried as I watched
the show conclude. The winner? Not apple, not cherry, but a pie made of meat.
Right then and there, I decided – why not enter the next contest myself?

(Author's note: At least I got the ten syllables in there.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sestina, Shmestina

I guess I knew the day would come
when the other shoe would fall
and Robert would present to us
a challenge great and tall.

I know sestina is a word
for Robert says it's so
besides he gave us lots of links
to others who should know.

I cannot say I will be sad
to see this challenge end
for putting it quite pithily
sestina's not my friend.

Write a sestina he said today,
I looked at the rules and say NO WAY
It's just not my thing, It wouldn't be fun,
Of his two options I chose the second one.

But how to explain them and have it make sense?
should I try to write one? I right on the fence.
I hate to not do it, but it just seems so much,
for that kind of poetry I haven't the touch.

Can you write a sestina, and if you can
do you really like it? are you a fan?
The challenge of writing is nearly through
and though I do love it, this kind I'll not do.

Two days left
Two days to go
Write a sestina?
What?
Nouns, verbs
Singular or plural
I have to remember
Grammar?
Roll on Floor laughing

MY sestina:

Sweet dream nights of silk and wool



The sweetest thing in springtime is the nights
Light lasts later and the darkness settles soft
More like silk around the shoulders than wool
Intense, the perfume of opening flowers
Spring calls you from sleep that you may dream
On a window seat, the lawn below spread with moonlight

What else is it for, the moonlight
But to weave its way through the nights
To turn the harsh shadows of daylight soft
And in winter, spread its beams over blanket wool
Perhaps to bring the memories of flowers
To someone tucked up tight and set to dream

There is no springtime softness in wool
But yet it can be softened by the moonlight
Coarseness turns to petal-softened flowers
In long and cold winter nights
Snowflakes seen from windows may look soft
But daytime comes and soon destroys that dream

All through the heat of summer one might dream
Of snowy nights and blankets made of wool
But springtime’s nights are altogether soft
shot through with silver threads of moonlight
the sweetest thing in springtime is the nights
perfumed with riots of newly blooming flowers

late summer brings a fading of the flowers
and somehow even brighter beams of moonlight
as if someone is telling us that nights
may soon forgo the silk and call for wool
still as with every season we will dream
in sleep with breaths of slumber ever soft

the nights of spring and summer, although soft
and heavy with the redolence of flowers
filled with gold and silver shades of moonlight
each person calls upon their dream
whether they are silken threads or wool
dreaming’s how most humans spend their nights

may dream filled nights all be soft
May gathered wool be sweet as gathered flowers
May you always dream in the magic of moonlight

APRIL DAWN

Still dim outside – daylight is a miser
tucked behind his clouds, this time of Spring.
Across the valley, in a stand of cedar,
a darker shape – it must be raven –
rises from its roost to find the pitch
of morning. As if black flight could atone

for such a chilly dawn. Grasses atone
with lavish green; but April’s still a miser,
taking poppy-gold and leaving pitch
of ghost-pine; a seeping spring
in the meadow; one circling raven
and a flock of waxwing in the cedar –

I keep a feather among treasures in the cedar-
chest with old mementos to atone
for what we’ve lost: brooch with a raven
lock – a grandmother’s lover, miser
of promises who went to war, and Spring
passed over as his plane went into a pitch –

or so the story goes. Sticky as pitch,
these family histories, durable as cedar,
lasting generations. Old memories that spring
into the head; who could atone
for a past failure – that old miser
hoarding, croaking like Poe’s Raven?

And yet, I’ve always loved the call of raven,
however unmelodious its pitch.
Raven speaks to me; he’s never miser
of his song. From the tallest cedar
comes his commentary, a tone
that trips my resolve like a spring,

a tight-wound storks-bill of this very Spring.
The sheep go grazing filaree; raven
soars now with his mate. Speckled eggs atone
for last year’s nest I pitch
into the burn-pile with old dry cedar-
slash. Strike a match. Rebirth is no miser.

No, misers waste the freshest Spring.
Cedar-bark becomes nest for raven,
pitch turns into amber – only to atone?

Sestina,
You are my challenge for the day,
And I'm just not good at math...

Who knows?
Maybe someday I'll figure you out,
But I'm not so sure it will be today...

Tai Chi Sestina

Search for balance
Imagine a tree
Reach for the sky
Embrace opposites
Feel my body
Send down roots

Anchored by my roots
Use arms and legs for balance
Move my body
Aligned like a tree
Right and left are opposites
Push head toward the sky

Head suspended from sky
Feet push ground like roots
Forward, backwards opposites
Sink weight for balance
Arms, branches of the tree
Let heaven raise body

Let earth cradle body
Breathe air of sky
Oxygen gift of tree
Belonging gift of roots
Give and receive brings balance
Expand and contract are opposites

Attack and retreat are opposites
Be aware of the body
Focus on balance
Point top of head toward sky
Energy goes below ground like roots
Grow from ground like a tree

Sway like branches in a tree
Soft and hard warrior’s opposites
Feet and legs part of roots
Weapon is the body
Inspiration comes from sky
Manifestation completes balance

Sensation of roots of tree
Helps balance energetic opposites
Of body up to sky.

Lesson three: the bow hold

A simple thing of wood and hair, the bow
is still a tricky thing to learn to hold.
With each new pupil, I know I must show
the different parts -- the stick, the hair, the frog --
and they must get the knack of how to grip
this torture instrument; that's what I teach.

It should be easy, but it's not. To teach
a six year old the way to hold a bow
is harder than you think, because their grip
is feeble. Tiny fingers cannot hold
on tightly to the end we call the frog.
It's no good telling -- no -- I've got to show.

I start at the beginning. First I show
them where to place the thumb -- not hard to teach --
you put it by the notch that's on the frog.
(The frog's the black block screwed onto the bow
at this end; that's the bit you have to hold.)
Be careful that it's not too tight a grip.

Your middle finger opposite; now grip!
No, not like that. Here, let me, I will show
you how to do it, how to learn this hold.
I don't know why this is so hard to teach,
the placement of the fingers round the bow,
but kids just want to know, why's that a frog?

I never have an answer. Why a frog?
Who cares, who knows. Now come on. Get a grip.
It's easy this. It's just a fiddle bow
with thumb and fingers clasped around. I show
them easily enough. But how to teach?
It's really hard to demonstrate this hold.

Now listen; all you have to do is hold
the toad, the green and slimy thing, the frog.
Don't let it jump! (Ah, that's how I should teach.)
I don't think it'll bite you if you grip
it gently, there, that's better, you can show
your Mum that you've learnt how to hold the bow.

Some arrows for your bow? Now, hold on there.
You'll show the frog some tricks? Look out! Don't drop!
Grip hard -- I'll teach you archery next week...

Sestina Number Two

On day twenty-two I wrote number one;
I just am not sure I can make up two.
The last one kept me up past three,
Or maybe it was closer to four;
I really got stumped around stanza five
And wondered if I would ever reach six.

With line ending words restricted to six,
Placed in order in verse one,
And rearranged in the following five,
Beginning in verse number two.
You then compose more stanzas (four)
And a seventh stanza with lines three.

Here we have reached stanza three
(Remember we must create six)
Using “fore” or “for” instead of “four”
Might ease the burden placed on one;
you’re allowed to bend a rule or two,
(I used four feet instead of five.)

Some say the feet must total five,
But one could use but two or three
Iambic feet with beats of two
(I learned this rule while in grade six).
Keeping the beat can challenge one
But for now we’ll exit stanza four.

Line twenty-five ends with word four
(Heading stanza number five).
After this there remains but one
(Plus the one that has lines three
That still must use the end words six)
But one remaining is better than two.

So this is sestina number two,
Each line with iambs counting four.
The six-line stanzas total six
(It’s name would change if only five).
It did not take me until three,
As did sestina number one.

If one’s to write a sestina (or two),
And stay up late (‘til three or four),
One may need a coffee (or five or six).

Hey, Banana? He didn't say WRITE A POEM ABOUT POETRY.

He suggested you say what you wanted to say with a sestina.

Not the same thing at all.

I love a challenge...

"Rule-Breaker"

So I really despise this form
Cramming square-peg words
Into round-hole lines
Of rambling lexicons that repeat
How the heck to pick six that meet
Standards of this lyrical, rule-bound type

Hands, pens, paper and psyche over-tip
First, second, third attempts at strained repetition
Does it rhyme? Should it have meter??
I feel it erasing my poetic lineage!
It’s upside-downsizing my literary world!
Tell me where these rules come from…

This love affair starts and ends repeatedly
We wonder if we’re really each other’s type
In school days never officially meeting
When my haiku clouds always had a silver lining
Though your hold on me now feels weird
Rules seem a casual formality

As I type these lines
Making them meet and repeat
From only four stanzas deserving my words

I went for both...

Sestina

truth
preserves
standing
competence
struggle
rings

rings
truth
preserves
standing
competence
struggle

struggle
rings
truth
preserves
standing
competence

competence
struggle
rings
truth
preserves
standing

standing
competence
struggle
rings
truth
preserves

preserves
standing
competence
struggle
rings
truth

standing preserves
competence, truth
struggle rings



Six Random Words

I have just begun
writing poetry
so a friend guides me.
One day he said,
“I have to work on
this one some more.”
I looked at my effort,
a few words spilled
across the page;
I thought, what’s to work on?
Now I understand.
Then came the Sestina,
six random words
rotated through
six stanzas
turned into couplets
for the seventh.
“Dumb,” I thought,
“I’ll just pick six words,
slap them up there
and be done with it.”
So I did just that.
Then I read it again
and thought, “Hmmmm
what if I just…”
and an hour or two later,
I was more or less hooked.

Responding to another prompt on sonnets, I mentioned sestinas, but went for the sonnet.

Hey, I cannot help it. I'm a BARD-ophile.

Linda

Here's mine - at Heart of a Ready Writer

http://heartofareadywriter.blogspot.com/2009/04/april-28th-thousand-thoughts.html

A THOUSAND THOUGHTS – BECKONED HOMEWARD

SESTINA

write a sestina?
is it labeled poetry?
what's up with 6 words?

Before I post my own, I wanted to make this resource available.

I wrote a sestina a few years ago that gives directions on how to build a sestina template in Microsoft Excel.

I find it helps. If you would like to use this, go to this link:

http://mcsweeneys.net/links/sestinas/

The sestina is the second one down.

Or you can email me for the template.


Daniel Ari

“Sestina”

Short and sweet,
Is the way
I want to go,
Need to complete,
All these poems.

I bid goodbye,
Sestina’s are not
Short enough for me.
Would love to try them
Just not today.

Sestinas

Sestinas, for me,
are like roads twisting
through a large development.
In and out, criss-crossing,
passing the same
intersections.
Always stuck
within the walls
enclosing the houses.
I like country roads
that amble over mountains,
follow the river’s path,
make solid squares
around planted fields
and go somewhere.

Spring Break

Spring Break has finally arrived.
We've taken a trip to the beach.
We're walking together in the moonlight.
We're kissing beneath the starry sky.
Seagulls are circling overhead,
serenading us with their music.

In the distance I hear music.
The local band has arrived.
The moon is shining overhead,
casting its silver glow on the beach.
Stars are twinkling in the sky,
dancing merrily in the moonlight.

We walk slowly in the moonlight,
while listening to the distant music.
We gaze up at the night sky,
glad that Spring Break has arrived.
We love being at the beach,
watching the stars shine overhead.

The stars shining brightly overhead,
are twinkling in the moonlight.
While we stroll along the sandy beach,
in the distance the band plays their music.
Springtime has finally arrived,
there is not a cloud in the sky.

I love the midnight sky,
sprinkled with shiny stars overhead.
Peaceful times have now arrived,
brought forth by the moonlight.
I hear the seagulls soothing music,
as they circle lazily above the beach.

I want to stay here at the beach,
and enjoy the clear dark sky.
As the band continues to play their music,
the stars keep dancing overhead.
I will never get enough of the moonlight,
now that Springtime has finally arrived.

On the sandy beach, staring way up overhead,
we gaze at the night sky, filled with bright moonlight.
Seagulls beautiful music, tells us Spring has arrived.

Sestina Poems

Sestina poems are a challenge to write,
but giving up I refuse to do.
Sometimes I enjoy a good challenge,
it gives my muse a workout too.

A Sestina written specifically on April 28, 2009 in response to the prompt for TODAY as the challenge: write a “Sestina”. Thus presented for “your enjoyment” is the Sestina poem herein submitted by Squire Richard-Merlin Atwater, the monogamous Mormon poet. (6 x 6 x 6 +3 in Sestina poetic style)
==================================================================
Poetic License © Richard-Merlin Atwater April 28, 2009

1. I once fell in love with a girl named Kyrielle
2. It lasted until along came Sestina
3. I tried to stay true but then Villanelle
4. Help, helped me Ronda to do the Rondeau
5. My first girls of three were a great Triolet
6. But then I was swept by Shadorma

7. Sweet and succinct, my brief little Shadorma
8. Led me back to my “first love” Kyrielle
9. But to make it a complete Triolet
10. I found it necessary to include Sestina
11. To make it a well rounded Rondeau
12. We returned to my hacienda: Villanelle

13. There in the villa of my ‘Nellie’ Villanelle
14. I stood in the shadows of Shadorma
15. A complete round again of my Rondeau
16. Saw me chasing around Kyrielle
17. Yet that poignant love of Sestina
18. Required that I maintain a Triolet

19. The trio of my lovely Triolet
20. All enjoying tranquility at my Villanelle
21. Led to preoccupation with Sestina
22. Thus jealousy set in upon Shadorma
23. As she tried to remove Kyrielle
24. While looking on in dismay was Rondeau

25. Sweet and lovely, my true Rondeau
26. Was caught in this web of Triolet
27. Which led to the removal of Kyrielle
28. Here at my wonderful Villanelle
29. Whereby the complication of Shadorma
30. Left me deciding upon sweet Sestina

31. My love, so true, remained with Sestina
32. Yet, I had high hopes also for Rondeau
33. And there was even proclivity towards Shadorma
34. As I truly loved this complete Triolet
35. While we all conversed at my humble Villanelle
36. About the foursome (or pentameter) of Kyrielle

37. My fifth girl was Kyrielle; my second Sestina;
38. Gathering at my own Villanelle; Is it polygamist Rondeau?
39. To have a complete ‘Mormon’ Triolet; or more so if we include Shadorma!
==================================================================
Poet’s Note: In tribute to “old time Mormonism” which disbanded and outlawed polygamy in 1890; and thus all true Latter-day Saint (Mormons) are monogamous in their Villanelles with only a Triolet of 1. husband 2. one wife 3. and many children. (All other sects who proclaim Mormonism are NOT true “Latter-day Saints”—or true blue “Mormons”--which incidentally is a word that means “more good” from Egyptian—first the contraction of ‘more’ as ‘mor’, and ‘mon’ which means ‘good’ from Egyptian hieroglyphics. And in the Bible “more good” is synonymous with “righteous”—a title designation of JESUS CHRIST as “the Son of Righteousness”.) May I now go and contemplate names for my next “to yet be born” daughters? Perhaps I should consider the “more good” names of: Kyrielle, Sestina, Villanelle, Rondeau, Triolet, and Shadorma as wonderful feminine names for a continuous Mormon clan. I’ll have to think a while on names for my next six boys! Any Poetic ASIDES suggestions for the “Twelve Tribes of ATWATER”??
Tally Ho! My “FELLOW POETS” of “The Living poets Society”, or should I say—“Tally Up” those poetic names!

===================================================================

halfmoon_mollie - challenge number 2 today is write about sestina - which is writing about poetry - isn't it? Sorry you felt you had to shout at me :(

Lilith, The Lament of a Tasted Life.

Drowsily I look upon an ancient fruiting pear
rustling in the gentle summer wind
I marvel at the whiteness of the thinly papered bark,
the laughing of the wind within the boughs.
How dreary all my troubles seem, with life so rich in promise
What lessons could be learned from such a sight?

I count myself quite fortunate that still I have the sight
with which to view this plain and simple pear.
To no more see the path I tread; to hear the simple promise
of a whispered breath of gossip in the wind.
I remember many children building houses in the boughs
and wonder if nails still are in the bark.

But childhood is as transient as the early evening bark
of a dog too far away for mortal sight.
The cares I had were few – mere striplings to the boughs
of worries upon shoulders I could pare
away to nothing and then throw them to the wind
if my honour would allow a breach of promise.

As ancient as I am, I always count my word a promise
and a good few mortals fear to hear my bark.
Still I cannot countenance the terror of the wind
when it shudders, shrieks and wails in Holy sight;
Why did He choose an apple over sweet and tender pear
when there were more than snakes within the boughs?

When there are no people left for me to take my bows,
I’ll remind the angels of their hollow promise.
In order to preserve the balance there must be a pair
of good and evil; cambium and bark.
I have remained as steadfast as those within His sight
though Eternity seemed fleeting as the wind.

For sixty centuries I have stood, the wind
lifting my cowl to the boughs.
As mortals spread like pestilence across the land the sight
of rainbows fill me with despair. His promise
and his covenant; His bite worse than his bark
and the taste of what once could have been a pear.

The pips within a pear cannot be taken by the wind;
the bark protects the structure and the boughs,
just as God’s promise is occluded on this site.

hey, banana - I didn't mean to shout. Honest.

He said write one or write about one. I stand corrected.

Transformation

It seems like we're heading for trouble,
there's no telling what we'll become.
If there's a continuation to develop
greedy intentions we will transform,
but maybe not into what we're expecting to.
Perhaps it's time to change our selfish view.

Just look at what there is to view!
Everywhere you look there's nothing but trouble.
It surrounds us with chaos and leads us to
continue on the path of evil. Will we become
evil too? Trapped to change and transform
into something that isn't responsibly developed?

Is it so bad to want humans to develop
into a creature with a more compassionate view?
One that cares about Mother Nature and is willing to transform?
Should we make a pact to stay out of man-made trouble?
Is it possible for the human species to become
a creature that wants what's good for the Earth, too?

You don't see wild animals pick up a weapon to
intentionally hurt another; with senses developed
over time they have learned to become
what they are. It's time to change our view;
change what we do, and steer away from trouble.
Then perhaps we will begin to transform.

And what will we be when we transform?
Is there an evolutionary path we can get to?
Is there any way we can stop human trouble
from preventing us from being more developed?
Is there any way to change our current view?
What is it possible left for us to become?

There's ample opportunity to become
better as a species. A way to transform.
It starts with changing our selfish view.
If we change human nature it can lead us to
become a better species. We can truly develop
a way to stay out of human-made trouble.

If we can stay out of trouble we can become
a better developed human and we can transform.
Wouldn't it be nice to be a butterfly with a clearer view?

OH BEAUTIFUL CHILD

Hear the rumbling thunder. See the flash of lightning in this rain.
Near the blinded window sits my child
staring at the blustering cold,
watching it play, as if with a toy,
along the drenched walkway. Soon tired,
this watchful lass seeks refuge in me, her father.

And what is a father?
Is he someone who can silence this pounding rain,
although fatigued and tired,
to satisfy the curiosity and security of his child?
Does he toy
with the idea of not responding with a heart so cold?

No. He is a man who knew the cold
rejection of his own father,
when the joy of his new toy
was quickly eroded, as in this cascade of rain,
leaving himself to remember his sadness as a child.
The memory wears on my mind. I am tired.

I scoop up my inquisitive young girl, tired
and shivering in the cold,
and offer comfort to my darling child
being all she'd need to feel safe and secure. I, her father,
will shield her from the damaging rain
while erasing the loss I felt for my long lost toy.

For even that toy,
of which I had grown most tired,
remained hidden deeply to be found anew in the baptism of this rain,
warming my heart, once cold
allowing me to be for my daughter, the kind of father
I wished to have had as a child.

Oh beautiful child,
smiling and as happy as you were with your first toy,
give to your battered father's
heart the peaceful rest I need to energize my tired
and cold
embrace, and alleviate my sadness, with your loving reign.

The loving rain that flows from the heart of my child
is not cold and does not toy
with the return of love from me, her tired father.

Oversomnia

The brochures of my imagination
flutter open each night,
filled with fearful pictures and bright silence.
My eyes buy time alone
in the darkness of my room,
false advertisements for sleep.

In the gooey center where mornings sleep,
I travel my imagination,
no longer in the cluttered, stuffy room,
away loving strange friends day after night.
The powerful secrets of being alone
are purchased with a pillow of silence.

But sometimes heavy silence
suffocates my sleep
and a gasp wakes me, alone
with my imagination
my only friend in the night
the only enemy in my room.

It says there will never be room
for all the dreams held in silence,
the futures I write each night
that keep me from sleep.
In these moments, my cold imagination
paints my life on the ceiling, forever alone.

I never asked to be a lone
wolf in a sheep's room,
but my imagination
is a curse of silence
against all who sleep
peacefully through the night.

I am eaten by the emptiness of night
even when I am not alone,
even when you, my love, sleep
curled around me in the room
where sinister promises of silence
are brokered in my imagination.

How can my imagination love the flinty night
more than the sun's silence? How can I live alone
when in a dark room, my thoughts never sleep.

Day 28: Sestina

NOTE: This was easier than I thought it would be, which probably means I didn't do it right. We *were* allowed to change the words up to "sound-alikes", right? Also, it's my brother's birthday today - Happy Birthday, Big Bro!


Today, we celebrate my Brother.
He gets a tie from our Sister,
His favorite – lasagna—from Mother,
A shirt (picked by mom) from our Father,
A funny card presented by his Child.
This constitutes a fine day for our Family.

We take comfort in the familiar.
Sure, we could have made more bother.
But past relations have been rather chilled
And stale, like water in an old cistern.
We dare not take it farther
For fear of any real feeling,smothered.

Nothing is more important to Mother
But that we stick it out as family.
Sure, our dad was a strict father,
The son a rebel, insensitive brother,
Who frustrated the missish sister,
And presented us all with an un-known child.

But, he is over the heady, wild
Days where he broke the tether
Whenever he could, like a twister
Breaking the home of Dorothy’s family.
He’s turned into, rather
A pretty decent father.

Not unsurprisingly, a father
Rather like our own, to his child.
I knew once he grew up, this brother
Would learn the value of the other
Person’s viewpoint. Make a family
Like ours and welcome his sister’s

Cheeky calling him “Mister
Twister.” And thank our father
For taking such care of the family,
Accepting his mistaken child.
He’d finally honor his mother
For not begrudging him the bother.

Today we celebrate my brother, and my sister,
And my mother, and my father.
From child to child, and back to family.

Sestina?

Sestina’s cannot be written in a day or two they are
Evil blocking free thought my first
Stab at this
Twisted verse was doomed when
I realized the first line was – it was a dark and stormy
Night – shudder
All that work on an ocean poem with tides and rhythm flooded away.

Woman and Beast

by Therese Haberman

She wanted to follow his lead
Blushing like a newly opened flower
Her eyes sparkled with magic
Blush from her cheeks did not drain
She was a lovely young woman
Playing games with a true beast

He was not always a beast
To entice her he would lead
Enraptured by this woman
He would love to de-flower
His thoughts were like a sewer drain
He pulled rabbits from his sleeve as cheap magic

The beast had lost he real magic
And so became this beast
All of his goodness had drained
Now only his evil could lead
From his black sleeve came a flower
Meant to distract this young woman

But she was more than a child, this woman
Possessing some magic
Of her own, she looked beyond his flower
Into the true heart of the beast
Her eyes did lead
Down his naked drain

Oh such pain deep in his drain
She took pity, did this woman
She sought to lead
Him into the good magic
To make him a beast
No more, but a flower

Again he offered his flower
Which she threw down the drain
And evil was defeated within the beast
He had found a true woman
Who saw through his false magic
And took the lead

They would lead their lives to flower
Using magic only for good, his pain did drain
Life was good for the woman and her man, the former beast.

WITH TWO STANZAS DOWN...

Sestina

I have found to be

Not

My favorite form of

Poetry!

Not a sestina

I’d rather eat farina
than work out a sestina
even though I’m well fed
my fingers turn to lead
at the sight of the word sestina

I’d rather have a bath
than fool around with math
even though I’m quite clean
and toward showers I lean
my nemesis lies in sestina


It’s not that I’m lazy
but, man, I’m not crazy
have you seen this thing called sestina?

I’d marry your brother
while loving another
to escape the fate of sestina.

Here's the mini version...a Tritina! (Like a Sestina, but smaller.)

Over Some Rainbow or Other...

Wandering down a mystical, golden-paved road, I crossed paths with a lion.
He said to me, “Welcome. I’d like to introduce you to my friends, the Siberian tiger
and the grizzly bear.

I wasn’t sure I could bear
the nagging uncertainty of hanging out with these friends of the lion.
“Oh, please stay! We’d love to have you for dinner!” said the tiger,

in order to encourage me. But it didn’t work, because the tiger
licked his chops (at me), which demonstrated the bare
fact that *I* would be dinner! I ran away as fast as I could – no lyin’!

Beware mystical, golden-paved roads, becOZ danger lurks with amidst the lions and tigers and bears. Oh my!

Ooops - I need to remove the word 'with' in the final line. It should say,
"Beware mystical, golden-paved roads, becOZ danger lurks amidst the lions and tigers and bears. Oh my!

El Cantina, No Sestina

I chose my six words randomly
then try to make them fit
I scratch them out
wad up the sheet
and then I mumble "Sh#*!"

Sestina--such a pretty word
it rolls right off the tongue
But bitterly I spit the word
'cuz I cannot write one

You exercise my patience
You dance on my last nerve
I've given you more time today
then you rightly deserve

And so I bid a fond adieu
my torturous sestina
A margarita waits for me
at the local cantina

My second effort.

I was told to do a sestina
What's that? A nice ballerina?
Its a poem you fool.
On six words, really cool.
Like Lollobrigida, Gina?

Ok, what I've learned today is that I'm sooooooo not comfortable with forms :) I appologize for what I'm about to post...

“Let the iPod Shuffle”

Another day is here, and so is the rain.
Never depressing, more like calming,
like my light blue cashmere sweater.
There needs to be some music
to keep myself from falling asleep.
I wonder where I put your picture.

I can’t help myself from picturing
you standing outside in the pouring rain
arms wrapped around, fighting sleep,
however not shivering and somehow calm –
perhaps finding your hidden muse
and wishing for a warm sweater.

My lemonade needs to be sweeter,
perhaps I should make another pitcher.
The spoon on glass is almost musical
like the drops on the window from the rain.
Still, you being here would make me calm,
maybe we’d cuddle then go to sleep.

It feels like a thousand years since we’ve slept
together, I’m reminded by the smell of your sweater.
I just wish things would have stayed calm
and everything could have been picturesque.
I’m reminded of those days by the rain,
and because I’ve been playing our song.

There was something with us and music,
something that delved down very deep.
I find myself suddenly enveloped in pain,
wrapped up tighter now that I’m in your sweater.
I can’t stop staring at your picture,
and I just want to be able to stay calm.

Keep on telling myself just to stay calm,
to listen to the changes within the music.
I doubt you would have ever pictured
me trying to force myself into a deep sleep.
I’m now making a pillow out of your sweater,
and collapsing upon myself as it rains.

I need to reign myself calmly in,
and not sweat it. Listen to music,
till I fall asleep, holding your last picture.

Sestina for Chrysler, my father, and me

here's the deal:
Chrysler, who has always made shitty cars
is avoiding bankruptcy;
creditors are screaming
about the gap
in $$ but it's all preliminary, folks.

the deal is this:
you can hate Chrysler all you want
but their bankruptcy means ours
and our _own_ creditors screaming down our backs
the GAP will fold, and so will Banana Republic
and the preliminary mortgage you thought you had -- gone

no fucking deal, you say.
let Chrysler fold.
let the companies that deserve bankruptcy go under.
may the creditors sell the damned furniture from under
those gap-teethed CEO's.
Hang 'em high, and that's just a prelim

to what I'd like to do to them -- bankrupt those bastards
from Chrysler and Wall Street,
playing with our money like this was a Monopoly tournament
and a preliminary one at that.
if i were a creditor I'd shut them down in an instant
that's the deal I'd offer.

I tell my husband this, as we mend the gap in the ceiling/ the walls;
our house is collapsing, but we don't have any credit.
I look out the driveway at my father's Chrysler.
buy american he said. but he declared bankruptcy
so many times, it became a game -- always preliminary, never definitive
it's no way to live he told me, but that's the deal I've made

he told me, so don't get poor if you can help it, don't declare bankruptcy
it tears gaps in your soul you can never fix
and if you buy Chrysler be sure to get the extended warranty;
the creditors don't care what you thought or what you hoped-
there is no dealing with them in emotions
(this speech was always a preliminary move before the booze came out).

so,i've made some preliminary decisions: I will not declare bankruptcy;
i'll give Dad's Chrysler to the handyman so he can fix the ceiling, I will have no creditors;
I will not deal in gaps, spiritual or otherwise.

Sestina

Glue invades the crevices
Of Claire’s tired young and
Wrinkled brain
Where poems once shot
Like brilliant, blue lightning
Greased with talent and prior
Praise

Now she closes eyes tight
And tries to forget what it’s like
To struggle.
And the word "Sestina."

The ink is long dry.

The Truth About Us.

Reading the mail,
my blood in rage.
How dare you answer
me in that plain
way you have, looking up
as if the sky was tomorrow?

There it is, plain
as day, the male
method of sending an answer
to a promise I was going to keep today, break tomorrow
saying only “what’s up?”
The latest cool phrase then in rage.

Calmer now, I think “tomorrow
I will leave,” and begin to pack up
those small things, the cards you mailed
when you were in India, which I never answered.
I knew by then you’d be on the plane
while I was in a passionate rage

With your brother, the man who gave me the first answer
on my SAT tests in school, the correct choice was “rage”
and I laughed and the proctor, who was female
told me to stand up
and take the test tomorrow.
I didn’t care about good scores, that was plain.

But your brother also stood up.
And he, the class brain, shouted “rage!”
So they all had to stop the test, tear up the answers,
start over: “Everyone will have to return tomorrow.”
Months later, we got our scores in the mail.
We used the paper to make soaring airplanes,

And you arrived home, and I looked up
and forgot your brother, and all his answers
and forgot tomorrow
and the plain
fact of his ability to rage
against duty, against the draft notice that also came in the mail.

I never imagined a tomorrow without his rage,
so calm and plain, a brief card in the mail,
written weeks before, words sent up, into a sky without answer.

key to success

Don’t ever give up on your hope
Because that’s the winnings of fear
Stick it out for your dreams
And allow yourself to succeed,
If you ever feel like crashing
Hold on, remember that’s the art of passion.

Concentrate on your passion,
Let it thrive off hope,
Drive so fast you can’t crash,
Cause you can’t feel the fear,
That’s the main key to success,
Chasing after your dreams.

God thanks for my dreams,
May you let me follow my passion.
My goals in life are to succeed
While believing in faith and in hope.
Show me how to be fearless
Even if my feelings get crushed.

A comet out the sky is how I’m crashing,
When I’m chasing my dreams.
Holding back no kind of fear,
Since this is my passion.
Running off of plain hope,
Im promised to succeed.

It’s a well achievement to succeed,
And still okay to unfortunately crash.
But the real fire is the hope,
To keep alive the dream.
That’s when you consider it a passion,
In witch knows no meaning of fear.

You will not beat me fear,
I know I will succeed.
Since this will always be my passion,
The blood that runs it doesn’t allow crashing;
I could never give up on my dreams,
There’s way to much promise and hope.

The hope will never let me fall to fear,
I will always dream of goals and push forward to success
No mistakes for crashing on the road to my passion.

I suck so hard at this! Well, at least I tried:


Her eyes have a cant
In her funny-shaped face
She isn’t what I want,
It makes me mean
Self-hating, maybe
But I don’t like my clone.

If you don’t have a clone,
Some people can’t,
Bad genes or religion, maybe,
Some lacking interface -
So you won’t know what I mean
Or the gap between “have” and “want”

It’s our want
To be cruel to the clone
Gathered on statistical mean
-Won’t do what it can’t
And what we can’t face
Is our imperfect selves, maybe.

No, the person may be
Who has what they want
And loves their own face
And is kind to her clone,
But I can’t
I haven’t the emotional means.

And what does it mean?
Seeing outside yourself, maybe
Your eyes’ and thoughts’ cant
The kindness you want.
I am the clone
My self to face.

Funny how we use the word, “face”
Facing up, or forward, I mean,
And the telling features of my clone,
That truer understanding may be
Away from the foolish want
And no longer caring what we can’t.

Because we are always doing what we can’t face
And what we want is frequently mean
If I forgive me, maybe I will love my clone.

--

Two For Tuesday

Two for Tuesday has been such fun.
Twice as much as only one.
Until today’s sestina I tried
Leaving my brain completely fried.
Slowly I will recover, I’m sure,
Just in time to write some more.


Now here is my first sestina.

Sestina to Nature

I watch the brown rabbit.
as his whole body stretches.
to reach tasty green leaf.
Above him in the tree.
A creature of nature.
obeying his instincts.
.
We follow our instincts
and run like a rabbit
before the fury of nature
as it storms and stretches;
bending supple tree
until it has lost each leaf.

The land turns over a new leaf
commanded by ancient instincts
to renew and repopulate each tree
with growth and birds, so rabbit
returns and once again stretches
to embrace his nature.

Calm or wild, it is still nature
for vegetation to again leaf
as for the sky it stretches.
Does it grow from habit or instincts?
Or just to feed a little rabbit
as it extends its body up to the tree?

The zephyr breeze stirs the tree.
It sways and bows as is its nature.
Haven for bird and food for rabbit.
Hiding nest behind curtains of leaf.
Shielding nestling following instincts
as for food its open mouth widely stretches.

Then dry, dusty land stretches
around and beyond each tree
awakening survival instincts
of man and all of nature
when all that remains is brown leaf
and rain has fled from land and rabbit.

Arid stretches destroy much nature.
No longer does tree put forth a leaf.
All instincts dead, just like the rabbit.

it's ridiculous!
put the rules before the words?
what's the point in that?

Allow me to introduce myself –
I am the woman’s tooth,
an incisor on the bottom row
skulking next to a round-faced
canine, the one who each year pushes me
further behind, blocking the woman’s view

of me. She thinks I’m awkward, views
my hiding as a lack of self
confidence, tries to nudge me
with her tongue to join the tooth
party at the front. She can’t face
how I’ve let myself sit in the back row

without claiming my rights or starting a row
with the others. I’ve warped her view
of her mouth as the door to her face –
my slinking to the back is a reminder of a self
she’d rather forget. She thinks, why can’t each tooth
work together rather than causing me

to blister the tip of my tongue, making me
floss and polish them into curved row?
The woman doesn’t realize each tooth
has free will. If one hogs more of the view,
the others suffer a tiny loss of self,
until one day she and I must face

that there’s a string of bones in her face
who think they are the boss of me
and her. I try to sooth myself
with a nice gum massage, but the rowdies
next to me have a different view-
point. Bliss to them is one less tooth

in a sisterhood of toothiness.
They seduce the woman with a face
full of laser-white soldiers, a venue
she would love if only she didn’t have me,
a little match girl bumped to the back row,
a white nothing who’s not a part of the self.


I’m an extra tooth in a mouth of me-me-me,
part of a face with a crooked bottom row.
In view of infighting, I recuse myself.

Wild bee man

He goes out checking on his colonies
in hollow trees and walls, south east or south
facing, among the forests of the wild,
and follows bees home from their foraging
from plants essential to their sustenance
and all because he wants to understand

how they survive in troubled times, to understand
the danger. He's lost many colonies
but some survive. What gives these sustenance
when bee diseases creep north from the south?
How do they solve their problems? Each bee's foraging
perhaps for medication in the wild,

herbs that they recognise as healing, wild
garlic, salve. Do they somehow understand
how to select for strength? Yet foraging
must keep their stores replete, for colonies
generate in shorter summers than the south
enjoys. Nectar and pollen, sustenance

for larvae, next month's new bees, sustenance
for queen and worker bees. They are not wild
but firmly ruled. The sun moves round the south,
and while they wander, helps them understand
how to return to their own colonies
after long and exhausting foraging.

The wild bee man's home from his foraging.
He also needs both sleep and sustenance.
As the sun sets he dreams of colonies
settling down in the darkness of the wild,
clustering in their combs. Do they understand
why they are working? Warmth from the south

will come to give them life. Their god, the south
sun, ripens flowers and trees for foraging,
sets free the fruit. Does no one understand
how everything that lives finds sustenance
and this is why he wanders through the wild,
to find and marvel at the colonies,

surviving colonies far from the south,
watching the wild bees at their foraging
for sustenance he'll one day understand.

(okay, I’m opting for option two)

A SESTINA?

He’s got to be kidding right?
what does he think I am
made of
TIME?
I’ve more to do with my day
than whistle my time away
on words I’d have to remember
and cram into a form.
As fun as this may seem to be
I’ve lots more to do and to see.
So here is my effort
for what it is worth.
Bye-bye until tomorrow!

Is there a Doctor in the House?

I watch Hugh Laurie play Dr. House
usually on Fox
but sometimes on USA
where they play the old episodes at night
and I get to see how the character
evolved into what he is today

but there was a problem today
because I used to watch House
(oh how I love that character)
on Wednesday nights on Fox
but now its airs on Monday night
at least I can count on it showing nightly on USA

And speaking of the USA
I was pondering over a question today
that popped into my head last night
while I was sitting in my house
thinking about the network Fox
and of USA where they welcome any character

I am a woman of character
and I am a citizen of this great country called the USA
and I am curious as a fox
and I'd like to know today
what the elected officials in the Senate and the House
will be doing tonight

because it should be tonight
when all of those people of upstanding character
tell everyone in this country that they'll be able to keep their house
because the politicians in the USA
could make it a law today
that no bank and no corporation can be a sly fox

and it would be reported on Fox
and ABC, CBS, NBC, CNN, and all networks this night
that as of today
this nation will care for its people of character
proudly living in this home, this USA
and we will honor this house

So back to Dr. House, I want to thank you Fox
and also USA, for giving me something to watch and think about at night
because I want to believe I'm an upstanding character, and I wish the best for my country today

This will definately take some time for me to work out...
it is 9:52 am I will leave this open all day so write in bunches.
But I did figure out my words, and they are: liberty, travel, people, September, avenue and sugar.
Not sure how I will feel about this (sestina) I am anxious.

Sometimes I feel that people
eat too much sugar
I walked down the avenue
On a beautiful day in September
thinking about lady Liberty
What a wonderful day to travel

How I love to travel
My favorite month is September
How I adore walking down that avenue
Checking out all of the snazzy people
With their different choices of sugar
Going to visit lady Liberty

Lady Liberty
Sweet like sugar
Large amounts of people
Will travel
In September
Down that avenue

Third Avenue
I travel
like many people
take for granted, the liberty
like confectionate sugar
in September

My birthday is in September
I eat the sugar
for liberty
the travel
down that favorite avenue
all types of people

People
make us believe in liberty
and travel
in September
that famous avenue
with all types of sugar!

Oh, would you notice the time. I did have a few issues
(the poem wasn't one of them like I thought!)
My air condidioner leaked, then the floor got saturated
and I got hungry...but I finished!
A personal triumph!

this is crap. nonsense. bullshit.
a "sestina"? what a pile of rubbish.
anyone can be clever over 39 lines.
waffle waffle waffle bla bla bla.

real poetry is: saying
what you need to say
in as few words as possible -
and 39 lines will NEVER be as few words as possible.

The Seer's Bowl

Lifting ewer, arms pale and bare,
she stands at the Seer's Bowl
to pour clear singing liquid,
her back bending,
cool and steady gaze
in her face's reflection.

Another day for temple reflection,
seekers who come to bare
souls within her gaze,
pray to wash them clean at her bowl,
heads quietly bending
to rippling liquid.

Thoughts become liquid
given time for reflection,
perception willingly bending;
beauty in the bare
frosted glass bowl
that cools and soothes the gaze.

Whose eyes in the gaze
multiplied by waves of liquid
in her tidal bowl?
Known for more than reflection;
a future laid bare,
light and time bending.

She whispers the question bending
to meet each pilgrim's gaze.
Will you strip bare
and fall liquid
through your future reflection,
forever in this bowl?

Some dive into the bowl,
all future will bending
to one moment's reflection,
hypnotized gaze
in near-frozen liquid;
life blue and mystery bare.

I would bare my intent unbound in a bowl.
I wish the future liquid and choices bending,
the gaze of fate in hindsight reflection.

Sestina

Sestina? You mean a
Siesta?
No, a sestina
Not a dream a
Poem

Though
39 lines
Would put me
To sleep
Per chance
To dream

Behind the Gates of a Deeply Concerned Neighbor

Why look who it is, how have you been doing,
neighbors, and yet it's still it's been quite a while
hasn't it, you don't even need to ask, I'm fine,
and I see that you've been keeping up on that red
corvette of yours, it really is one helluva vehicle,
with that shimmer sparkling as if stars on a black

sky. Is it asking to much, is it true, that a black
time has reared its head in your life? If you'd do
me the honor of confiding, that your vehicle
runs the risk of being lost to you forever, while
you speak with your lawyers? And that shining red
car, proudly standing in your driveway, as fine

as when I dreamed of owning one a boy, so fine
and yet ironically it can only compound the black
state of affairs for you right now, if what I read
in the paper is true. Is your business truly doing
so bad? But don't answer, I mean no harm, while
at the same my concern pushes me. That vehicle

though, what will come of that shining vehicle,
the one you and your ex-wife made such a fine
couple in, the one I've watched many times while
watering my lawn, you in your suit and she her black
dress, racing off to meet Lord knows who, doing
Lord what’s what, the glint of that car and her red

lipstick, nearly the same color, both deep reds,
the deepest. To think that those trips were a vehicle
for her. She, another prize, but one no man doing
the things I do could earn. That she said she was fine
with the trips, which was true in one sense. Her black
scheme with your own partner... I'm so sorry, but while

I look at that car, I can't help but say things that while
thoughtless, really mean no harm. I really do see red
when I think about you losing that car. Those tires, black
and bold when you visit The Village to shop, that vehicle
a chariot, carrying you so often as a king in your fineries,
all lost by fate, and with the help of the fair queen's doing.

Why make such a black affair not worth some while,
I wonder? What are you doing with that blood red
car? A deal for me, for that vehicle, would be just fine.

Today's challenge looms
Is my life a sestina
I am rearranged

Invitation to a house you once passed

It sits back a piece from the curb,
has already started to fall apart, paint peeling,
wind swept trees and branches down,
porch off to one side,
like it’s not proud enough to knock at the front door
heartbroken shingles askew, nobody’s home –

Not any more – except for the wasps, home within abandoned home,
paper stuttering in the wind, curving
into the niche above the doorway,
built in layers, which also fray and peel.
You won’t find anyone coming up the walkway, siddling
up to this place, where even the dreams have fallen down.

The nesting birds have reclaimed it, lined the eaves with down
and sticks and broken branches, where the homing
instincts bring them year after year, their nest, just above the siding,
hangs away and the grape vines, long unattended, curl.
I do not know why broken things have this kind of appeal,
why I’m looking for something past prime to adore.

Maybe my own life hangs half off its hinges, a door
which won’t quite close, I’m a little fallen down,
a doorbell without a ringer, waiting to peal
hoping for visitors, a house’s happy hum,
cars parking all the way out to the road’s curve,
wanting everyone to join me inside,

come over to my team, play for my side!
wipe your feet on your way in, please!
And then, when the party’s over, the curb
empty, the music box wound down,
one last note hanging in the air like a hum,
though softly. The party wrung out the night, brilliant to pale.

I will be the porch swing appeal,
the whispered aside,
the messaged flight of a pigeon who’s homing,
I’ll come through my own doorway
like a letter delivered, written in cursive,

Handwriting whose curls have a certain appeal,
and whose down facing loops slant to one side,
a dormant feeling newly awake, like everyone I love is about to come home.

Alabama

When I was young,
father would drive down to Alabama
in the middle of July.
In the front seat, mother,
with her toenails painted red,
would put her feet out the window.

In the backseat, I'd stare out the window
wishing I wasn't so young,
wanting to wear burgundy red
lipstick to impress the Alabama
boys that lived next door to father's mother.
It is because of them that I looked forward to July.

I remember one July,
staring out grandma's bedroom window,
I watched as the boys' mother
hung wet clothes on the line. She was young
& not from Alabama
& so light skinned, people call her "Red

bone," or just "Red."
I remember her, too, when I recall the July
trips to Alabama,
just as I remember the radio in the kitchen window
of my grandparents' house. I was glad to be young,
then, dancing & laughing in the kitchen with mother.

& even though we were in grandmother's
way when she cooked her cakes— pound & red
velvet,she didn't complain,said,"Dancing ain't just for the young,"
& would join us & twist & shake & sweat in the July
& kitchen heat. Smells & sounds floated out the window
& all around Thomasville, Alabama.

I wanted to stay in Alabama,
the place where my father & mother
were raised. All year round I'd never have to close the window
because the weather would always be hot or red
hot & not only in July
but Nov., too. Wanted to go where they went when they were young

& having young fun in Alabama,
before July became the birthing month, before Sarah became "mother"
&green-eyed,yelling,when she caught father looking in Red's window.

poetry is orange

wake up to a faint orange
sky with a green quality
too bright to be ignored, cheerful,
unlike this morning’s paper
most of which I want to cut
out and discard. it does not generate

what reading poetry generates,
a quirky orange
atmosphere that doesn’t cut
up the beautiful quality
of the day on paper.
newspapers are not cheerful.

poetry is not cheerful
either, but it generates
food for the soul, a paper
can’t, all black and white, no orange,
even when the writing is quality
(and if its good writing it cuts).

am I irresponsible to avoid that cut
naive to desire only cheerfulness?
maybe, but I know that the quality
of my life is generated
by all things orange
and magical, not dreary news in papers.

what I want to read on paper
is words all cut
up and mixed with orange,
ignoring punctuation and syntax cheerfully,
in an effort to generate
poetry of the first quality.

mine isn’t always quality
and most of it will not end up published on paper,
but I know that inside it generates
some part of humanity nearly cut
off and forgotten (cheerfully)
by people not caring that words have colours, like orange.

the colour orange has a quality
so cheerful on printed paper
it heals cuts it did not generate.

Unpleasant Pheasant

At the edge of the field sat a beautiful bird.
I wondered aloud, "What
if I sent the dog
out there after it?" I went
to the door and shouted,
"Roxy ! Want to go hunt?"

She knows the words "hunt"
and "go" and understands "bird".
So, when I shouted
her name, Roxy knew what
to do. She went
running. What a smart dog!

Too bad not everyone has a dog
that helps on a hunt.
A bunch of us went
Up North during bird
season. The canines sensed what
was up. Such barking and shouting!

We were anxious to get shooting,
so each took his dog.
We didn't know what
they'd flush up during the hunt.
Right away, Roxy "pointed up" a large bird.
I shot, but didn't see where it went

down. But Roxy did, so she went
after it. I followed and shouted
back, "She found the bird
here! Where are your dogs?"
The pack was "off the hunt",
distracted by I couldn't see what.

It was then I saw what
looked like a cat. The unruly pack went
toward the animal, expecting the hunt
to go on. I started yelling and shouting,
"Call back your dogs!
It's a skunk, not a bird!"

Only a bird is what
the smart dog got when she and I went
running away; me shouting, "No more hunting!"

Waking to spring (a sestina)

The time has come to send the cold away,
To nudge the frozen world from its sleep.
Every day we feel the strengthening sun
Probe the earth to rouse the dozing green.
Change the driving snow to gentler rain
So once again we’ll greet and welcome spring.

Every year the winter turns to spring
All the ice and frost will melt away.
Now the plants that spent the winter fast asleep
Will waken to the touch of warming rain.
Their roots will swell and fragile shoots of green
Rise up to start their journey to the sun.

The mud and water dry up beneath the sun
That grows a little stronger every spring
The barren earth soon wears a coat of green
Small creatures come from near and far away
To feast upon the bounty until they sleep
Then wake and feast again through sun and rain.

It is this combination of sunny days and rain
This balance between too wet and too much sun
Or too much action followed by too much sleep
Too long a winter, but never too long a spring
Brings a temperate climate, far away
From jungle or desert, we have a steady green

Fertile fields, wheat, and corn and beans, their green
Bounty feeds the world, our sun and rain
Spring flows into summer , harvests sent away
Or stored through winters cold until the sun
Begins to warm the earth again and spring
Once again awakens the earth from its cold sleep

Which is necessary to life, few exists without some sleep
Part of that fragile balance that keeps our world green
The harvest past, the earth rests beneath the snow, then spring
Awakens, once again the snow gives way to rain
As all the earth grows green beneath the power of the sun
Our world has nourished generations, keep it going this way

Welcome spring, sleepers awake
The season’s green with gentle rain
Don’t let the sun burn it all away.












Waking to spring (a sestina)

The time has come to send the cold away,
To nudge the frozen world from its sleep.
Every day we feel the strengthening sun
Probe the earth to rouse the dozing green.
Change the driving snow to gentler rain
So once again we’ll greet and welcome spring.

Every year the winter turns to spring
All the ice and frost will melt away.
Now the plants that spent the winter fast asleep
Will waken to the touch of warming rain.
Their roots will swell and fragile shoots of green
Rise up to start their journey to the sun.

The mud and water dry up beneath the sun
That grows a little stronger every spring
The barren earth soon wears a coat of green
Small creatures come from near and far away
To feast upon the bounty until they sleep
Then wake and feast again through sun and rain.

It is this combination of sunny days and rain
This balance between too wet and too much sun
Or too much action followed by too much sleep
Too long a winter, but never too long a spring
Brings a temperate climate, far away
From jungle or desert, we have a steady green

Fertile fields, wheat, and corn and beans, their green
Bounty feeds the world, our sun and rain
Spring flows into summer , harvests sent away
Or stored through winters cold until the sun
Begins to warm the earth again and spring
Once again awakens the earth from its cold sleep

Which is necessary to life, few exists without some sleep
Part of that fragile balance that keeps our world green
The harvest past, the earth rests beneath the snow, then spring
Awakens, once again the snow gives way to rain
As all the earth grows green beneath the power of the sun
Our world has nourished generations, keep it going this way

Welcome spring, sleepers awake
The season’s green with gentle rain
Don’t let the sun burn it all away.












Waking to spring (a sestina)

The time has come to send the cold away,
To nudge the frozen world from its sleep.
Every day we feel the strengthening sun
Probe the earth to rouse the dozing green.
Change the driving snow to gentler rain
So once again we’ll greet and welcome spring.

Every year the winter turns to spring
All the ice and frost will melt away.
Now the plants that spent the winter fast asleep
Will waken to the touch of warming rain.
Their roots will swell and fragile shoots of green
Rise up to start their journey to the sun.

The mud and water dry up beneath the sun
That grows a little stronger every spring
The barren earth soon wears a coat of green
Small creatures come from near and far away
To feast upon the bounty until they sleep
Then wake and feast again through sun and rain.

It is this combination of sunny days and rain
This balance between too wet and too much sun
Or too much action followed by too much sleep
Too long a winter, but never too long a spring
Brings a temperate climate, far away
From jungle or desert, we have a steady green

Fertile fields, wheat, and corn and beans, their green
Bounty feeds the world, our sun and rain
Spring flows into summer , harvests sent away
Or stored through winters cold until the sun
Begins to warm the earth again and spring
Once again awakens the earth from its cold sleep

Which is necessary to life, few exists without some sleep
Part of that fragile balance that keeps our world green
The harvest past, the earth rests beneath the snow, then spring
Awakens, once again the snow gives way to rain
As all the earth grows green beneath the power of the sun
Our world has nourished generations, keep it going this way

Welcome spring, sleepers awake
The season’s green with gentle rain
Don’t let the sun burn it all away.


Waking to spring (a sestina)

The time has come to send the cold away,
To nudge the frozen world from its sleep.
Every day we feel the strengthening sun
Probe the earth to rouse the dozing green.
Change the driving snow to gentler rain
So once again we’ll greet and welcome spring.

Every year the winter turns to spring
All the ice and frost will melt away.
Now the plants that spent the winter fast asleep
Will waken to the touch of warming rain.
Their roots will swell and fragile shoots of green
Rise up to start their journey to the sun.

The mud and water dry up beneath the sun
That grows a little stronger every spring
The barren earth soon wears a coat of green
Small creatures come from near and far away
To feast upon the bounty until they sleep
Then wake and feast again through sun and rain.

It is this combination of sunny days and rain
This balance between too wet and too much sun
Or too much action followed by too much sleep
Too long a winter, but never too long a spring
Brings a temperate climate, far away
From jungle or desert, we have a steady green

Fertile fields, wheat, and corn and beans, their green
Bounty feeds the world, our sun and rain
Spring flows into summer , harvests sent away
Or stored through winters cold until the sun
Begins to warm the earth again and spring
Once again awakens the earth from its cold sleep

Which is necessary to life, few exists without some sleep
Part of that fragile balance that keeps our world green
The harvest past, the earth rests beneath the snow, then spring
Awakens, once again the snow gives way to rain
As all the earth grows green beneath the power of the sun
Our world has nourished generations, keep it going this way

Welcome spring, sleepers awake
The season’s green with gentle rain
Don’t let the sun burn it all away.












Waking to spring (a sestina)

The time has come to send the cold away,
To nudge the frozen world from its sleep.
Every day we feel the strengthening sun
Probe the earth to rouse the dozing green.
Change the driving snow to gentler rain
So once again we’ll greet and welcome spring.

Every year the winter turns to spring
All the ice and frost will melt away.
Now the plants that spent the winter fast asleep
Will waken to the touch of warming rain.
Their roots will swell and fragile shoots of green
Rise up to start their journey to the sun.

The mud and water dry up beneath the sun
That grows a little stronger every spring
The barren earth soon wears a coat of green
Small creatures come from near and far away
To feast upon the bounty until they sleep
Then wake and feast again through sun and rain.

It is this combination of sunny days and rain
This balance between too wet and too much sun
Or too much action followed by too much sleep
Too long a winter, but never too long a spring
Brings a temperate climate, far away
From jungle or desert, we have a steady green

Fertile fields, wheat, and corn and beans, their green
Bounty feeds the world, our sun and rain
Spring flows into summer , harvests sent away
Or stored through winters cold until the sun
Begins to warm the earth again and spring
Once again awakens the earth from its cold sleep

Which is necessary to life, few exists without some sleep
Part of that fragile balance that keeps our world green
The harvest past, the earth rests beneath the snow, then spring
Awakens, once again the snow gives way to rain
As all the earth grows green beneath the power of the sun
Our world has nourished generations, keep it going this way

Welcome spring, sleepers awake
The season’s green with gentle rain
Don’t let the sun burn it all away.

Waking to spring (a sestina)

The time has come to send the cold away,
To nudge the frozen world from its sleep.
Every day we feel the strengthening sun
Probe the earth to rouse the dozing green.
Change the driving snow to gentler rain
So once again we’ll greet and welcome spring.

Every year the winter turns to spring
All the ice and frost will melt away.
Now the plants that spent the winter fast asleep
Will waken to the touch of warming rain.
Their roots will swell and fragile shoots of green
Rise up to start their journey to the sun.

The mud and water dry up beneath the sun
That grows a little stronger every spring
The barren earth soon wears a coat of green
Small creatures come from near and far away
To feast upon the bounty until they sleep
Then wake and feast again through sun and rain.

It is this combination of sunny days and rain
This balance between too wet and too much sun
Or too much action followed by too much sleep
Too long a winter, but never too long a spring
Brings a temperate climate, far away
From jungle or desert, we have a steady green

Fertile fields, wheat, and corn and beans, their green
Bounty feeds the world, our sun and rain
Spring flows into summer , harvests sent away
Or stored through winters cold until the sun
Begins to warm the earth again and spring
Once again awakens the earth from its cold sleep

Which is necessary to life, few exists without some sleep
Part of that fragile balance that keeps our world green
The harvest past, the earth rests beneath the snow, then spring
Awakens, once again the snow gives way to rain
As all the earth grows green beneath the power of the sun
Our world has nourished generations, keep it going this way

Welcome spring, sleepers awake
The season’s green with gentle rain
Don’t let the sun burn it all away.












Waking to spring (a sestina)

The time has come to send the cold away,
To nudge the frozen world from its sleep.
Every day we feel the strengthening sun
Probe the earth to rouse the dozing green.
Change the driving snow to gentler rain
So once again we’ll greet and welcome spring.

Every year the winter turns to spring
All the ice and frost will melt away.
Now the plants that spent the winter fast asleep
Will waken to the touch of warming rain.
Their roots will swell and fragile shoots of green
Rise up to start their journey to the sun.

The mud and water dry up beneath the sun
That grows a little stronger every spring
The barren earth soon wears a coat of green
Small creatures come from near and far away
To feast upon the bounty until they sleep
Then wake and feast again through sun and rain.

It is this combination of sunny days and rain
This balance between too wet and too much sun
Or too much action followed by too much sleep
Too long a winter, but never too long a spring
Brings a temperate climate, far away
From jungle or desert, we have a steady green

Fertile fields, wheat, and corn and beans, their green
Bounty feeds the world, our sun and rain
Spring flows into summer , harvests sent away
Or stored through winters cold until the sun
Begins to warm the earth again and spring
Once again awakens the earth from its cold sleep

Which is necessary to life, few exists without some sleep
Part of that fragile balance that keeps our world green
The harvest past, the earth rests beneath the snow, then spring
Awakens, once again the snow gives way to rain
As all the earth grows green beneath the power of the sun
Our world has nourished generations, keep it going this way

Welcome spring, sleepers awake
The season’s green with gentle rain
Don’t let the sun burn it all away.

Write a Sestinas
I could not write a sestinas,
not enough focus
in this caffeinated mind.

I know I should, but
I can't, No,
I won't
write it.

I love the freedom
of writing about it, so
what does that really mean?

“Sestina Poem” By: Melinda Elmore

The hawk soars
What a blessing to behold
A sacred sign for all
The dreamcatcher holds dreams for us all
Until morning they escape to the sky
Which touch the mountain high

The mountain towers high
As the hawk flies by
Then it meets the sky
Upon a blessing
The dreamcatcher escapes
What a sacred place

This sacred place
Upon the mountain high
The dreamcatcher flies
Just like the hawk
Both a blessing
Soaring in the sky

Father Sky smiles down
How sacred the sound
With each blessing
The mountains reveal
The hawk soaring for all eyes to see
Just like a dreamcatcher
Shining on me

The dreamcatcher is special
It reveals the spirit
Just like the hawk
It’s sacred as can be
The mountains peaks
What a blessing it can be

The blessing of the spirit
The dreamcatcher remains
High on the mountain tops
Towering toward the sky
A sacred site
As the hawk flies by

The hawk is a blessing
The sacred dreamcatcher
The sky and mountains become one.

By: Melinda Elmore


Here's the second poem for today:

“Love of Sestina” By: Melinda Elmore

The love of sestina
Is for me
A grand writing
For all to see

Some hate it
Some love it
Some find it to be okay

However, you see it
Is fine with me

For my love of sestina poem writing
It’s grand to me.

By: Melinda Elmore

ODE TO THE END OF DAYS (P.A.D. wise)

Oh, to be inspired to pen yet another poem,
be it cute or tragically funny,
to fulfill the last dying days of this grand challenge.
Do I deliver a message most poignant?
Or do I use my prolific rhyme
to feed my self-expression?

An expression
hidden within my soul in the form of a poem,
a sestina, with some random rhyme
that remains somewhat funny
but provides a thoughtful, yet poignant
degree of challenge.

But, can it really be deemed a challenge?
For the degree of difficulty for the expression
of these ruminations is still poignant,
albeit in a rather disciplines poem.
I find it extremely funny,
that I still find time to coddle my rhyme.

So within reason, my rhyme
offers little challenge
to cull the frivolous and funniest
ideas into the least demanding of expression
in a style most poetic
and an air of great poignancy.

For to be considered poignant
one who makes a play of rhyme
must put a breath of life into their poem
and give their wile of words a direct challenge
that it powers its heartfelt expression
to the point of being quite unfunny.

But for myself, make the same-sound verse really funny.
I can pull off poignant,
however, my most flamboyant expression
lies in my contrived and labored rhyme
which is less a challenge
when presented in my humorous poems.

In my daily poems I choose to be funny,
mostly to challenge the urgency to be poignant,
and rhyme my way through my timeless expression.

Fever Sestina

Days exist of simply midnight
To midnight, tempered by one thought
From book to book: normal.
Or, rather what he is continually experiencing
Without my help and with my touch.
And yet research proves the experts lie.

To clarify: my research; tempered by my palm’s touch
To his head’s hot; lips on skin experiencing
A private desert to lie
In, alone—normal—
As if I could have thought:
calamity post-calm, post-newness. Midnight,

Again, I dredge the message boards, experiencing
Another strain of trauma-thought
And pain if what I read is true. To lie
About catastrophe, to touch
A mother with black-winged fate this late, midnight,
Is normal

Says the doctor who doesn’t lie,
Advises freeing midnight
From certain read-over lives, stop experiencing
Documented spirals and focus thought
On tapping intuition normal
For new mothers, he insists. Normal. Touch-

Ing the head of my babe, experiencing
Heat like a lash from an evil sun’s tongue, touch-
Ing (again!) the son of the one prone to midnight,
Alone with the nightlight, the wreck-thought,
Damaging all I’ve made from a self-lie
Into life, from self-lies into normal—

I turn the outside off, touch
The panic button into silence, lie
To no one in my life, experiencing
Trust that this current crisis is normal
Despite the lingering, loathsome thought
Of another fool’s heated midnight—

Experiencing no lie of faith,
No dire thought on any normal
Midnight (its freezing double-handed touch).

Days of Plunder

I sit on the grass and wonder
And dream of future and plunder,
If only I could find a way
To create a golden day.
But, now I may be too old.
I'm starting to feel the cold.

Going in my room, it too, is cold.
No fire, but it's no wonder
I don't remember, I'm old.
My days of prospect and plunder
And reason are past days.
There may not now be a way.

But, maybe there is a way,
If I could warm this cold,
I could plan that day
So full of joy and wonder
And riches and plunder.
If I just weren't so old.

It is bittrer to be so old;
To live a limited way,
No hope for money or plunder.
Only darkness and so cold,
And yet I still wonder,
Could there be a new day?

Yes, I think a new day,
Even though I am old,
Even though such a wonder,
There could be a way
I could be rid of this cold
And exalt in warm plunder.

Ooh, think of that plunder,
A rich and golden day
Away from this cold,
And despite that I'm old
There might be a way.
I think and I wonder.

Not such a wonder! I could have that plunder!
I found a way, the lottery is today.
I'm not so old, and I'm not so cold.

Orange Sestina

An orange.
A plumb.
Some words.
My book.
Your hand.
Your lips.

There on your lips:
the juice of an orange,
the napkin in your hand.
I’m eating a plumb.
I’m trying to read a book.
Not a word.

No words
about the juice on your lips,
the juice on my book
the juice of the orange
dripping, the juice of my plum,
my cool wet hand.

I want to take my hand,
hold your napkin wordlessly
letting drop the plum,
and reach for your lips,
wipe the orange.
Oh, I forgot the book.

Your moist gentle skin is my book.
You are a magnet to my hand.
I want to kiss you like an orange.
I want to exchange liquid words.
Your subtle lipstick,
my forgotten plumb.

You are my plumb.
You are my wordless book.
The juice on your lips
calls my hand
without words,
the juice of our orange.

My orange, your plumb,
a wordless book, aching to be written:
My hand to your lips.

DEIRDRE

I carved your name in letters down my arms
and painted them in deep and woadlike blue,
so when I strip my shirt, cast it aside,
the world knows Deirdre, Deirdre is all mine
(but god, i'm scared that soon you'll cross the sea
and bear my love and hubris both away).

That sticky night in June I gave away
my right to fight and take up gunshot arms,
you bathed me in the breakers of your sea,
your eyes alight with green and grey and blue
(my storm tides crying deirdre, deirdre mine
don't let me go, don't dare cast me aside).

But if I must, I'll grant you this aside:
I always knew I'd never find a way
to keep at bay the ones who'd steal what's mine,
entreat deceitful maids to bind my arms
(i promise she meant nothing, don't be blue,
my deirdre, deirdre, weeping like the sea).

They come for Deirdre, Deirdre from the sea,
down coastal roads they roar, ten to a side,
their grizzled beards, their hair and bare flesh blue,
they've come to claim their right, strike me away
(and immolate my name, my coat of arms,
and shatter all that's precious, all that's mine).

This rocky promontory by the mine,
where Deirdre, Deirdre saw a gale-tossed sea,
compared its size (threw wide her perfect arms)
to all the sorrows, all the tears inside
(they circle it so i can't get away;
their guns are shining in the evening blue).

Don't lose our love, like hurricanes that blew
across your soul, and rained its light on mine,
don't lose that Deirdre, Deirdre thrown away
like driftwood, when my body's lost at sea
(for now their bullets pierce from every side
and crimson ink obscures my lettered arms

and in his arms, i ask you, when you're blue
to pick a side, o deirdre, deirdre mine;
i'd part the sea for you. i'll find a way).

...
and here's a rondelet for the sestina's illustrious inventor:

TROUBADOUR

Arnaut Daniel,
the greatest poet yet that's dead.
Arnaut Daniel,
I think you'll sit in poet hell,
for verbal crimes you planned full well:
you've set these demon forms to spread,
sestinas breeding where you've tread,
Arnaut Daniel.

Born from the sea
The cradle of life
With the help of the sun
From the womb of a woman
Comes the dream
Of everlasting fire

While the life
Is full of fire
It is the sea
That gives the dream
Of the sun
To the woman

And when the sun
Settles down to the sea
All the life
Longs for the fire
While the woman
Starts to dream

For the woman
It is the sun
That is in her dream
As well as the sea
The burning fire
Gives her life

And while we dream
The very woman
Starts the fire
And finally the life
So from the sea
Comes the rebirth of the sun

And the sea is full of life
The sun warms the woman
And the dream is enlightened from the fire

*****
THAT was the hardest of all I have to admit, as I don‘t even write in these kind of forms in German...

Sestina.

I recall the distant memory

sitting inside, watching rain
falling down like tears
dripping into upturned flowers,
their heads nodding sweetly
petals unfurled like stars.

Each one a starlet
in the garden of memory
releasing scent. Sweetheart
responding sensitively to rain.
Messages of love begin to flower
provoking silent wistful tears.

Heart divided by a tearing
feeling. Hopeful evening star
studded youthful deflowering
long since a memory.
After powerful rainstorm
petrichor remains sweet.

Rainbow jewels like sweety
colours bringing tears
to the eyes of lovers. Rain
spattered bursting star
now just a fading memory
in a book a dessicated flower

that once was in a florist's
hands gathered together so sweetly
now a dry and dusty memory.
Turn the page slowly, don't tear
and as a shooting star
ascend and fall as rain.

Now softly whispers the rain
cleansing and nurturing flower.
Night falls swiftly. Stars
light the sky. Sweet
delectation brings tears
reliving a joyful memory.

Beautiful memorial of a powerful reign
torn apart, now flourishing
sweet celestial star.

An Evening in Santa Monica



Amy mistook Jay’s signal and placed her hand
in his, and as he was a kind, gentle sort of man
he let her walk like this until the evening light
had changed. The end of the day was the regular
time they set out together, and how Amy loved
the way the summer sunset lit Jay’s long face.


When it was turning dark, Jay did an about face,
began walking back the way they came, his hand
removed from Amy’s as he didn’t know she loved
him. She knew he was a very private, quiet man,
the type of man who needed to keep to a regular
schedule, and this knowledge made her feel light.


When they were standing under Amy’s porch light,
Jay noticed how the frosted bulb made Amy’s face
look soft and young, her skin bright like any regular
teenager’s, and he decided suddenly to take her hand
in his. He kissed her then. She knew he was the man
for her by the firmness of his lips, and she also loved


his wet, searching tongue. Jay decided that he loved
her, and so he pressed Amy to his body with a light
grasp, and Amy said, “How does it happen that a man
like you is so slow in lovemaking?” Then Jay’s face
turned red, and he pulled his arm off her, and his hand
also. “I wish I had an answer other than I am a regular


guy. I didn’t realize how much you felt.” In her regular
fashion, Amy invited him in, but this time Jay loved
that she did. He said yes, so Amy took his damp hand
while she found her key. Inside, she turned on a light
in the living room, and when she saw that Jay’s face
was alive with interest, she said, “Come, sweet man,”


and she pulled him in the direction where any man
might want to go. He was happy to see there a regular
room, not some girlish space where he may have to face
outgrown memories. Amy undressed. Jay instantly loved
the way her waist curved inwards, hips jutting in a light,
hourglass figure. He moved towards her, put his hand


around her waist, the other up to her Greta Garbo face,
which he caressed with his light fingers, then a regular
kiss, soft. Amy loved the slow, shy ways of this soft man.

A Friendship

The hole in the wall held a mouse,
That the grey haired women loved.
When the walls would shake with thunder,
She’d talk to her mouse, through walls of paper.
They were both God’s creatures, dust to dust.
Their unusual friendship, a precious jewel.

Though neither was sparkly or new, they were jewels.
The grey haired woman was as plain and mousy
As the grey fur of her friend. Both covered in dust
Of time and the weariness of life, yet they loved.
The old women would scratch at a piece of paper
Words that cause the town’s disapproval to thunder.

Yet in the old woman’s weak heart there was thunder.
That had more power than the purest of jewels.
Contained in the words on that quiet piece of paper,
Was written the woman's will. She left all to her mouse.
No one had cared until that creature came so lovingly.
No unkind villager would receive anything but dust.

When the woman’s bones turned back to dust
The abandoned house would rattle like thunder
When gusts of wind blew the windows she’d loved.
The house, the money, the pictures, the jewelry,
Was left to the little beating heart, the mouse.
Who’s skin felt every day, more and more like paper.

The words in black ink on the paper
Faded into grey with years and grew dusty.
The heartbeat eventually grew still in the mouse.
The ripples of their life stilled the rolling thunder.
All is quiet in the house, no longer a jewel,
Since the beauty grew and bloomed in their love.

People wondered how she could be so loving
To something so small, and as fragile as paper.
They don’t see that inner beauty is a jewel,
Even when hair is the color of, and covered with dust.
People get lost in their everyday thunderstorms
And never try to see from the eyes of mice.

She and the mouse, knew how to love.
Through all life’s thunder, and slanders on paper,
‘Til their bodies were dust, and their souls were jewels.

Preposition Sestina

Six children play in
the holly bush, careless of
the prickers they feel on
their skin, pushing through
thick-leafed limbs to
find a higher perch from

which to see below. A boy swings from
a weathered rope hanging in
a sycamore tree, dropping to
cool water running below, remnant of
a river that once passed through
these hills before trees grew on

narrowed banks. Bulging fruit hangs on
limbs bent low from
harvest weight, tastes sweetened through
summer sun, ripened in
waiting. We take more than our share of
such gifts, raise each bit to

our mouths, relish in work consigned to
trees. Who hasn’t dreamed of living on
limbs perched high in trunks of
trees? Possibilities we never descend from
but keep forever locked in
the backs of minds to get us through

hard times. Every place that memory wanders through
is populated by limbs to hang onto,
secret boughs of trees to rest in
when there’s no one else to count on
and little certainty of where we’re from,
as if the whole world is made of

trees. Thus, I am reminded of
my own time climbing through
limbs of trees, hanging from
thin limbs of pines growing to
the sky, it seemed, holding on
to dreams this life was born in.

Trees are the worlds in which children climb, heedless of
the insecurity they balance on, obscurity they swing through,
impossibility they aspire to and stubbornly rise up from.

April 27th
Sestina
Elephant Dreams

Last night I had a dream
that I was swinging from a swing
until you came over to me and I had to come down
You had a large trunk like an elephant
and chased me through the sand
I was running, and you were my husband.

And I've never had a husband
and you scared me in this dream
I was afraid of falling into the sand
having lost the freedom of my swing
and as I ran your elephant
nose pushed me too far down

and while I swung i could look down
without fear, without the knowledge I had a husband
and it's turning in my head, as heavy as an elephant
i wonder who you are to me in this dream
and where I could go to find such a high swing
only to escape, landing in the softness of sand

but maybe also our time is as finite as that sand
as coarse and multiple, pulling us mercilessly down
i wanted only the freedom of that swing
i never wanted a husband
not like you, who saw me naked in your dreams
who saw good luck and fortune in that elephant

whose fat belly and long snout foretold elephant
destinies, rare like ivory, written in sand
I was perfect, beautiful, every man's dream
talked about, lauded, and made to sit down
everyone in the room wanted to be my husband
I only wanted to swing

This place didn't have the things I wanted, it only swung
like a pendulum in space or elephant
dreams, too heavy to lift me up where my husband
would swing with me knowing that sand
doesn't mean anything and we can come down
whenever we want to and then read each other's dreams

and I wanted to dream of you swinging
to meet me, but you stayed down with your elephant
nose in the sand and whether my dream or yours, you are not my husband.




Wow that was hard. But really interesting. Thanks for the prompt!

A HAIKU ANSWER TO SESTINA HATERS

cursed sestina
you are so hard, so I cry.
wah, wah, wah, wah, wah.

A Haiku for you, Robert ;-)

the cruel sestina
is NOT a haiku
takes long time to do




I'm not too happy with my poem, maybe I'll do a better one later. I am impressed with the ones others have posted! Bruce,I loved "Currency", it still brings a chuckle! Robert, I loved how you said so much in your sestina and had such concreteness to it, but kept it light hearted. (I need to work on that.)


Play

I love to watch my son
when he goes out to play.
He dreams of being great
and soon begins to run
he, only, knows the way,
and wants to not be late.

But very soon he is late
as the moving of the sun
travels on it's steady way.
The little boy, immersed in play
does not see time run--
he dwells in daydreams great.

Soon his weariness is great
as it is growing late
and he is much too tired to run;
this active busy son
fights weariness to play.
He wants to have his way.

But he does not get his way
because fatigue is great,
so he must rest from play
and likely will sleep late--
this wild, active son
in sleepy dreams must run.

And so time too must run
through the night which weighs
with darkness and no sun.
But his rest is great
and he will not be late
for morning--he will play.

A new day renews his play
again he goes to run
again he plays until it's late
and always finds a way
to imagine something great
to do in the warm sun.

May he always play and run
and not be late to find the way
to adventure great under the sun.

*Repost!! Whoops, missed a line! Sorry about that!

Invitation to a house you once passed

It sits back a piece from the curb,
has already started to fall apart, paint peeling,
wind swept trees and branches down,
porch off to one side,
like it’s not proud enough to knock at the front door
heartbroken shingles askew, nobody’s home –

Not any more – except for the wasps, home within abandoned home,
paper stuttering in the wind, curving
into the niche above the doorway,
built in layers, which also fray and peel.
You won’t find anyone coming up the walkway, siddling
up to this place, where even the dreams have fallen down.

The nesting birds have reclaimed it, lined the eaves with down
and sticks and broken branches, where the homing
instincts bring them year after year, their nest, just above the siding,
hangs away and the grape vines, long unattended, curl.
I do not know why broken things have this kind of appeal,
why I’m looking for something past prime to adore.

Maybe my own life hangs half off its hinges, a door
which won’t quite close, I’m a little fallen down,
a doorbell without a ringer, waiting to peal
hoping for visitors, a house’s happy hum,
cars parking all the way out to the road’s curve,
wanting everyone to join me inside,

come over to my team, play for my side!
wipe your feet on your way in, please!
And then, when the party’s over, the curb
empty, the music box wound down,
one last note hanging in the air like a hum,
though softly. The party wrung out the night, brilliant to pale.

I will be the porch swing appeal,
the whispered aside,
the messaged flight of a pigeon who’s homing,
I’ll come through my own doorway
the best landing, a lightly touch down,
a letter delivered, written in cursive,

Handwriting whose curls have a certain appeal,
and whose down facing loops slant to one side,
a dormant feeling newly awake, like everyone I love is about to come home.

“No more my home”

In Texas fields I roamed awhile,
grassy fields, alive and warm
with dogs and horses
grazing, and my sisters
working, building strength
while my mother forged a home.

Red dirt roads led to our home,
we worked for just a while.
Our muscles strong
from baling hay in warm
southern sun. Four sisters
in the pastures like horses.

We yelled ourselves hoarse,
our voices hitting home
with each sister
taking turns, while
tempers getting warm,
picking on the strongest.

The memories so strong
of when we’d horse
around, and hugs warmly
given, like a built-in homing
device, simply whiling
away the days of sisterhood.

I’d die right now for any sis,
they’ve made me strong
and proud, and for awhile
we rode horses
together, around our humble home,
our hearts warming.

The porch hid us from the warmth;
my mom and sisters
sheltered and homelike,
a constant source of strength
like wild horses
staying together awhile

even while, the feel of warm
horses, under my sisters’
strong hands, is no more my home.

Suspect Sister Sestina

When one declares live the gifts to write
Challenge surges from beginning to end
To keep one's mind balanced, open and right
While pushing toward the writers' finish line
Self-discipline taunts and steers the challenge
While keeping in mind that writing is fun.

While writing for life's pleasure is fun
Craft's passion embraces the gift to write
Logic is sacrificed to the challenge
wrestling fear; frustration now at end
Submission completion at finish line
use the iambic pentameter right

Working to subdue words; command of right
ways to say, feel and create yet show fun
keep 10 syllables to each finished line
Quenching the dry thirst for wanting to write
Feeling closer to reaching the end
of the Senstina; defining challenge

The iambic pentameter challenge
avoiding the wrong, embracing the right
ways to send, deliver and with grace, end.
Measuring eccentric meanings of fun.
Passions unfolding under force to write
outside comfort zone, across finish line.

Working through wearily finishing lines
full of adrenaline from the challenge
Flirting with visions of more ways to write
Opening the horizons left, yet right
Pen, PC and paper uniting fun
scratching toward the poetic ending

Complete and intact with working to end
Seeing completion of the finished lines
With memories and thoughts of words and fun
Done, the pleasure of a writing challenge
Now saying it's final, terminal rite
"Oh, my!" the pleasure of freedom to write

Writing lead right to inevitable ends
Right through completed, formed, and finished lines
Prompted by challenged writer's written fun

Affairs in Melting Concrete


Don't look at me like that. It's gravy
on your mashed potatoes, it's a stucco
wall behind your head. We're running
late & the cars are stopping & Wilco
is on your stereo singing about Chicago
& sometimes we both just need to explode

like forget-me-nots in autumn. Explode
all over the inside of a room, blood like gravy
coating the couches. Once, in Chicago,
you fell & scraped your elbow against the stucco
house of the girl you liked who saw Wilco
live in 9th grade. She left you by running

across the parking lot. The sun is running
the days together & I can see the present explode
into little pieces of transparent confetti. Wilco
albums pile up on the floor. Pass the gravy,
I'm fading fast. I'm painting stucco
madly in my dreams, I'm driving to Chicago

in a red Volkswagon. & at the edge of Chicago
I meet you on ice, leave the car running
& close my eyes against the heat. Stucco
garages hold secrets inside that explode
when I touch them & a thick gravy
blurs my night vision. What did Wilco

say about love? A heavy lid. Tell Wilco
we could use a hand. Forget Chicago,
let's sail straight to Paris, turn gravy
into wine, eat baguettes while running
over the Seine, transcribe ways to explode
in negative space, build castles out of stucco.

Give me your hand. Put it on my stucco
heart, feel the memories freezing Wilco
lyrics into my veins. Tell me how to explode
a morning. Our imaginary Chicago
brownstone rubs against my neck, running
down the length of my eyelashes like gravy.

Hot gravy, rough to the touch, like stucco.
Take me running, throw me a Wilco
song. Catch me in Chicago. Let's explode.

Sestina Limerick

There sure is a lot of hostility
and disparaging words of futility
over 39 lines.
Oh, the moans and the whines!
Still, it’s art, in all probability.

Write On RJ!

I was so close to getting away with not writing one of these.

Death by Sestina

Quite honestly and in all seriousness
She could’ve written a book
On lots of different crap
But she was never curious
About any musical instruments
Nor even the stars shinning at night

But when she slept at night
Dreams became a really serious
Form of creative instrument
So she started a new book
Keeping track of lots of curiosities
Of a wide range of stupid crap

Here eyelids would look like crap
From fretting all night
She should be curious
But can’t move past it’s seriousness
It is always the book
And it’s tortuous instrument

It was death’s instrument
Of constipated crap
And a ton of falling bookends
Always the same every night
If only she wasn’t so serious
About being curious

Because being so curious
Had became an instrument
Of killing her in all seriousness
This obsession of too much crap
She wanted to forget for just tonight
Not to pick up that book

Oh that horrid stupid book
Itself had become a curiosity
A dreaded nightmare
A ghastly instrument
Of demonic crap
It had to stop, seriously

How can it be a serious book?
About all that crap, especially curiosity
Of being an instrument of nightmares

Seasonal Sestina

Why is it that the first flowers of Spring
Are so special and the green of new leaves
Wakes a wild joy in my heart
Is it because they signal the end of Winter
Filled with the promise of long summer days
And the lazy hum of honey bees among the flowers

The tiny white snowdrops are among the first flowers
Along with the purple crocus of Spring
Courageously piercing the snow with their leaves
Small purple clusters to gladden my heart
Throwing a gauntlet in the face of Winter
Shining brightly through the short Spring days

The snow retreats with the lengthening of days
The garden paths are strewn with clots of flowers
The sweet bouquet of flower scented Spring
Bright daffodils dance above their pointed leaves
The tulips glowing red as the sun’s heart
They chase from the path the last of snowy Winter

Now only under the brambles lies the evidence of Winter
Soon that too will retreat from the sunny days
The lilacs burst into a froth of fragrant purple flowers
The scent mingling with the sun warmed air of Spring
Slow awakening summer flowers break the soil with their leaves
Heralding the coming of Summer’s heart

Spring passes softly into summer; the pulsing green heart
That rules the year opposite the white of Winter
The long halcyon green and gold days
Forged by the fire of the sun and the glory of flowers
There is just the faintest memory now of Spring
The full heady bounty of Summer canopied by trees of leaves

In due course fiery autumn will colour the leaves
And the flames of October will quicken the heart
The winds of snow will welcome the Winter
The frosty silver and blue of early winter days
Will make us forget the summer of flowers
Too new and beautiful yet to make us wish for Spring

By January we will be wishing for green leaves and Spring
Our heart will have hardened against the silver beauty of Winter
And we will hunger after the days of Summer and flowers

Nancy Bell, Balzac, Alberta

REGARDING SESTINAS

I was game.
“I can write a sestina,” I thought.
Then, halfway through,
my brain broke.
Snapped in half.
When shaken, it rattles
and it doesn’t sit right
on my neck.
And, of course,
the warranty expired ages ago.
Figures.

Sestinas are no siesta.
There should be a warning label,
DO NOT ATTEMPT THIS POETRY
FORM WHEN BATTLING THE FLU/
ALLERGIES OR ENDURING ACTS OF GOD
followed by fine print about how
the writers of this poetic prompt
are not responsible for subdural
fissures or weeping meninges.

At the very least
I can say I tried,
and on my lawyer’s counsel,
I’ll say no more.

Should it be stated now that we admire
the twigs and twine which when tied form our craft;
which once procured at home and all for free
we work our fingers through to have all fit
to make a raft? A sure sign of our love
by which our wishes ride a willing sea?

We write the words with sleek old-fashioned craft;
on paper we confirm whom we admire
and fold each note so tightly it will fit;
between the tiny logs we place our love
and set it all upon our mother sea.
What glory: secret wishes sailing free!

What song as sung could ever be as fit,
what chant upon a more receptive sea
as verses scrawled in secret of a love
without condition, plain and fully free
of all each in the other we admire:
what captaincy! And oh, of what a craft!

And ocean-mother, who receives our love
when we our souls our raft have first set free
takes all the wishes laid within our craft
and nothing far above, beneath the sea
or on dry land will scupper how they fit
within the bosom we can but admire.

Release your verses; let them all sail free!
Do not apprend the thought you won't be fit
to cast a magic spell first out to sea
and bind it thus to power you admire
aboard a tiny, beauteous hand-made craft
built to purpose, holding dear your love.

When each of us returns to mother sea
and toward her in a morning haze of love
is drawn by everything we can admire,
we will remember legions of our craft
year after year, abundant settings-free
and make a resolution to be fit

that love might sail aboard our fingers' craft
and all admire anew upon the sea
how fit she is for purpose, and how free.

walk, talk, air, energetic, poetic, writing

how about a walk

once a day I go for a walk
with a friend and we talk
we get some fresh air
it makes us feel energetic
after that I get more poetic
in my writing

then I get into writing
but I think about the walk
I ask myself how to get poetic
instead to write I think about the talk
and soon I stop feeling energetic
I get up and open windows to get some air


I breathe in cool air
and feel ready to start writing
go to my desk felling energetic
but then I think about the morning walk
and think about the morning talk
I wish to start to feel poetic





but I don’t feel poetic
I can’t write songs that a radio could air
I call my sister and we talk
instead of writing
I try to make my sister go with me for a walk
I tell her that afterwards she will be more energetic

she asks me why I don’t feel energetic
and very poetic
after my morning walk
she asks if I didn’t get enough fresh air
since instead of writing
I called her and we talk

what is wrong with that, that we talk
and yes I do feel energetic
but I can postpone my writing
a look at the lake would make me write more poetic
I get inspired by the color of the lake and of the air
so she should go with me for a walk


she gives in and we walk, we talk
we breathe in deep the fresh air, we get energetic
I start feeling poetic, I go home and start writing




Bozena Intrator

MY LAST LOVE

Before your death
I thought I'd never love
someone as much as you.
Your humor and great mind
called forth in me
an energy that strong!

But now I know how strong
I am, and how your death
has liberated me.
Now I can love
and do not mind
the differences from you.

I hope wherever you
may be, you're feeling strong
and do not mind
that since your death
I've grown to love
someone who's more like me.

Or, if you do, forgive me
as I've forgiven you
for all the ways you failed to love,
and undermined my strength
before your death
erased me from your mind.

Still, within my deepest mind
I see you as a part of me,
a part unfettered by your death
that bears the grace of you
and makes me feel strong
for my new love.

The gift of love
is this: a healthy mind
that knows it's strong,
and wants the best for me.
This is the gift that you
could never give before your death.

But since your death, I've grown in love
beyond the person you cast from your mind.
These days you'd hardly know me, since I've grown so strong!

WHAT DID YOU SESTINA?
By: Hannah Bowles

Okay I'll have to get out the big guns
everyone is saying "How fun!"
and I say "math in poetry?
How scary."
I really will try this,
hopefully it won't go amiss.
I fall short in math,
but I will seek the path.
and try to appease the wrath of Robert!

Hateing the sestinia

I don't like the sestina poem.
I think people do it out of
share boredom.

Seeking the Muse



I am nothing more than the roar of the dragon
Whipping away on the wings on the raven
Sailing at dawn into the moon
Eyes closed and mouth full of silver
To have the means to pay my muse
To get me across that river

Setting down I find myself standing at the river
Driven on by daemons inside bursting forth the dragon
Slams into heart and soul and pushes forth the raven
Leaving me stranded in the noon searching for the moon
Penniless now after the gulp of fear I am without my silver
There in the middle of the wake stands my pitiless muse

She laughs at me, my terrible muse
Pointing in dread she says I must swim the river
Must come to her breathing fire like the dragon
Dipping toes into the waves like the glow of the feather of the raven
Looking down I see I am the flow beneath the moon
Enchanting by the way my hair melts and seems like silver

Gleaming oozing tendrils like snakes of silver
Dangling from my shoulders reaching for my muse
In supplication as I deny the urge to fly into the river
Arms open wide, praying to land on the back of the dragon
So he can fly me to the other side, him or the raven
Standing there perched in the tree reflected back at me by the moon

It is not to be as I watch the clouds hide from me the moon
Standing by with clouds in my eyes as my body turns to silver
I soften and dissolve mixing into the waters to seek my muse
Becoming as one with the currents of the river
Flowing back and forth holding to the whiskers of the water dragon
Who whirls through the waters unhindered with the same grace as the raven

Winging through the breeze the stately man gracing the bridge that raven
Silhouetted in the gleam as he calls out to the moon
With filigrees and bows of silver
Clinging to his back as he climbs astride my muse
To merge and disintegrate as did I in the river
Where I am lost again with only my dragon

For company, are they not the same this dragon and raven
For pray for me in song to the moon for silver
That I might be delivered to my muse at the river

I love all these Sestinas and the anti-Sestina art forms. Poetic challenge is innovative, poetic criticism is so theraputic...

Whether or not the machine’s output looks like stars
even if the Inca flute sings while you listen
Nature’s call is there if you tune in sounds.
You can rest on a broken down chair
in front of a murmuring television bore
she calls you still through all the noise.

Life is full of a plethora of machinery noise
and albedo at night tries to obscure the stars
people say going outdoors is a bore
but the loud birds of spring make me listen
even sitting in my reclining plush chair
I can’t hide from her natural sounds.

What in my “real life” makes living sounds
instead of clashing of gears and horn noise?
If I were in charge, appointed chair
of life we’d have to exit left and view the stars.
We could not claim we have no time to listen
because we must hear the latest money bore.

Where is the truffle-hunting wild boar
snuffling in the black rich earth with sounds
that make you think of warning calls to listen
for a predator who will make no noise
stalking you for food as you view stars
seeing Andromeda rocking in her chair.


Give me sun-warmed rock to be my chair
I won’t sink into the stupor’s bore
I will sing of rainbows and the stars
Hanging over snow crests without sounds
Silent peaks that swallow any noise
Making humans stand alone and listen.

When will life slow down and let me listen
Get me up from this too-comfy chair
Let me know the piercing springtime noise
Taking place outside is not a bore
Opening up the house to let the sounds
Of sleepy birds awaken me to stars.

What of the stars? As I rise to listen,
to the sounds that lift me from my chair
I must bore down to mine life’s real noise.

Mother Daughter Day Evening and peace

The Beautiful day
Began in the usual way, with laughter
Grace and peace
The beautiful evening
Brought the mother
To the daughter

With the laughter
The grace and the peace
Came the evening
After the day
Which the daughter
Awaited the arrival of the mother

Now there is peace
In the dawn of the evening
The beautiful daughter
And the wise mother
Are filled with laughter
At the end of the day

Within the evening
Of the mother’s daughter
And the daughter’s mother
There begins peace
At the end of the day
The air fills with laughter

The beginning of mother
Continues the day
Within the laughter
Finds wonder and daughter
As the fallen evening
Melts into peace

From the daughter
To the mother
Finds the day
Ending in laughter
Surrounding peace
Shining with the stars in the evening

Mother and Daughter
Dream of the day the laughter
Comes again in the evening as peace.




Re: sestina

Sestina is six
A poet’s paradise
If perhaps that poet is other than me
With free verse it has little in common
It is binding and bending
And yet in its ending
Is truth
It has been interesting
And a work for my brain
And the finishing
Satisfying
As when adding
Two columns
There is a balancing
It is a clearing
It is alluring
An accomplishment in a day.

Winter morning

I wake to a morning
where the world is covered
with a blanket of snow,
reflecting the light
of a sun so bright
it denies the cold.

A world so cold
this fine morning,
and so bright
that I must stay covered
to hide from the light
off the new fallen snow

Still falling, the snow
brings further cold
in a dusting so light
it barely disturbs, the morning,
and leaves covered
what was dark, now bright.

Beneath that bright
layer of snow,
a tree once covered
in leaves, now bare, cold
alone in the morning
stands wreathed in light.

This purifying light
that leaves the world bright
on a Winter's morning,
as though the snow
could banish the cold,
and warm what it covers.

Now I must break this cover
and enter the world of light,
protected from cold
in a coat of bright
colour, that clashes with the snow,
as I walk through the morning.

Within this morning, I cover
the snow, with the light
of snow angels, bright, white, embracing the cold.

Prompt: write a sestina or about one
April 28, 2009
Day 28

All I can say is Thank Goodness it was a two’fer Tuesday!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Sestina…
by faye e. arcand


What a lovely name
for a poem with
so many rules…
so lilting and soft;
yet full of rigidity
in its many and varied
mathematical and
grammatical rules.

To be or not to be…hmmm…
Me muse thinks that a
sestina by any other
name
would still be out
of this writer’s league…
especially
on day 28.

One Gorgeous Fabric

You will find that certain fabrics
are just too gorgeous for cutting
into tiny pieces to make a quilt,
adding one color to another for a pattern.
There really should be no competition
between the objects of your admiration.

So, why do we hold such admiration
for just one piece of gorgeous fabric?
Certainly others could compete.
Somehow you always end up cutting
all the other prints into patterns
but you can’t make this one into a quilt.

Are you really sure you need a quilt
to lay on your bed and admire?
Perhaps you could choose a dress pattern
to use with this gorgeous fabric,
but that too requires pinning and cutting
so is there really any competition?

It’s all in your head this competition.
This fabric will never be sewn into a quilt.
It will never be laid out for cutting.
It was only meant for your admiration,
for your love and comfort this magical fabric.
So just stand in awe of it’s fabulous oriental patterns!

Touched with gold and silver threads the patterns
in print are without equal, have no competition
from any other brand or style of fabric.
As haiku to the poet, so is oriental fabric to the quilter –
a thing of beauty, commanding admiration,
soothing the soul, not meant for cutting.

Why would anyone think of cutting
these delicate flowers and free flowing patterns.
Just look at the ladies who stop to admire
then glance despairingly at the competition.
These ladies who measure and cut their quilts
have fallen in love with this one gorgeous fabric!

This fabric that never was meant for cutting,
perhaps for a backing, but not for patterns.
has no competition here, just glowing admiration!

NOT A SESTINA

There once was a man from Sirany
Who learned how to play the piany
He wrote no sestinas
but loved ballerinas
You’re wrong – this is not a haiku or sonnet
but it’s almost a limerick.

This is a terrible poem - I'm warning you now! :) I am completely undone at the idea of writing a sestina off-the-cuff. So I just whine a while, and call it a poem. Someday soon, I will write a sestina, but it won't be today!



“Write a sestina,” he says,
and I stare at him, astonished.
A sestina is a project,
not something I can dash off
in between Tuesday chores!

First there’s the math, not my
strong point: six lines per stanza for
six stanzas, then a seventh with
only three lines; my head spins, thinking
of thirty-nine lines, complicated by
six words. Choose them well, for one will
end each line, juggled ‘round in order,
until stanza seven, where two by two,
they end it all. There is a plan -
the sestina’s only saving grace -
but you must PLAN to use the plan!

My brain goggles at the very
idea: a sestina, on a Tuesday!
(Goggling, of course, is the first
barrier to writing such a poem.)
Too much to compute, too hard a
pursuit. I need a week, perhaps two!

please forgive my repost. I read through the one I wrote earlier and had some of the lines jumbled, so I edited and rewrote.
************************
springtime dreams of silk and wool


The sweetest thing in springtime is the nights
Light lasts later and the darkness settles soft
More like silk around the shoulders than wool
Intense, the perfume of opening flowers
Spring calls you from sleep that you may dream
On a window seat, the lawn below spread with moonlight

What else is it for, the moonlight
But to weave its way through the nights
To someone tucked up tight and set to dream
To turn the harsh shadows of daylight soft
Perhaps to bring the memories of flowers
And in winter, spread its beams over blanket wool

There is no springtime softness in wool
But yet it can be softened by the moonlight
Coarseness turns to petal-softened flowers
In long and cold winter nights
Snowflakes seen from windows may look soft
But daytime comes and soon destroys that dream

All through the heat of summer one might dream
Of snowy nights and blankets made of wool
But springtime’s nights are altogether soft
shot through with silver threads of moonlight
the sweetest thing in springtime is the nights
perfumed with riots of newly blooming flowers

late summer brings a fading of the flowers
and somehow even brighter beams of moonlight
as if someone is telling us that nights
may soon forgo the silk and call for wool
still as with every season we will dream
in sleep with breaths of slumber ever soft

the nights of spring and summer, although soft
and heavy with the redolence of flowers
filled with gold and silver shades of moonlight
each person calls upon their dream
whether they are silken threads or wool
dreaming’s how most humans spend their nights

may dream filled nights all be soft
May gathered wool be sweet as gathered flowers
May you always dream in the magic of moonlight

What They Tell Us

Daddy tells us not to look straight into the sun.
Ma tells us what to look for in a man.
Daddy says we don’t have to go to church on Sunday.
Ma says at least make the children read the bible.
Daddy says he’d rather his daughters not marry.
Meanwhile, ma is dreaming of sons-in-laws & grand babies.

Daddy sees us, his daughters, still as womb-warm babies.
Ma sees us as flowers fading from not-enough of sun.
Daddy thinks his girls will be bullied if we were to marry.
Ma thinks bully or not, at least we'd have a man.
Daddy doesn't mind our plugged-up ears when ma reads us the bible.
But ma keeps on reading, says she'll pray for us on Sunday.

Ma says she wants her daughters in dresses & pews on Sunday.
Daddy says "Woman, let alone my babies!"
Ma believes daddy is made for hell & smacks him with her bible.
Daddy says he doesn't mind the heat— can sit all day in the sun.
Ma rolls her eyes, says she hopes we end up with a better man.
Muhahhahing daddy says "Ain't a man good enough for my girls to marry."

Ma thinks every woman ought to marry.
Daddy thinks ma is being brainwashed on Sunday.
Ma tells us sweets are sweeter when you have a man.
Daddy tells us men are nothing but grown-up boy babies.
Ma agrees, says, "But men turn stormy skies to sun."
"Baloney!" daddy says. "Go somewhere & read your bible!"

Ma says to us that husbands want wives who know the bible.
Daddy says, "Who says I'mma let them marry."
Ma, for the sake of our complexions, keeps us out of the sun.
Daddy, for the sake of choice, keeps us home on Sunday.
Ma says daddy is ruining her babies.
"I can do what I want," daddy says. "After all, I am the man."

Daddy believes his daughters can get along just fine without a man.
Ma believes her daughters, by now, should have taken to the bible.
Daddy kisses our foreheads in the morning, says "Forever my babies!"
Ma kisses our ears, whispers orders: "Go to church; get married."
Daddy wants us to remember we can curse if we please on Sunday.
Mad as hell, ma yanks down the shades to block out the sun.

Daddy, sitting in the sun, tells us he is a good man.
Ma, getting dressed on Sunday, tells us there's good in the bible.
We sisters wonder why ma & daddy ever got married or even had babies.

For Cathy.

To trust and to believe,
Will take a leap of faith.
Requesting me to grow,
The cross waits silently.
Let go of all my fears
Heart open to its love

For life without His love,
Is one without belief.
Entrapped by all my fears,
How empty is that faith?
Outside world be silenced,
Prepare the way for growth.

To walk the path of growth,
We must reveal our love
For self, for in the silence
Those sins and shame believed
Before, must be by faith
Released. No more. Leave fear!

I’ll take it on, that fear
I want the prize that’s growth
And so I’ll put my faith
In His abiding love
Because I do believe
My past can be silenced.


A room, a cross, silence
I approached with fear
To hang sins I believed
Would hinder my true growth
He wrapped them all in love
Rebirthing my true faith.

I left them there with faith
Then crept so silently
Restored in peace and love
Return lacking in fear
Around me all things grow
The truth is to believe

Belief and faith go hand in hand
Their seeds are grown in soft silence
Without the fear, we’re free to love.


Part 2, Being Tuesday…
I know that there are many here
Who harbor hate for structured verse
But me, I love iambic forms
Although I often stomp and curse.

Today’s sestine was quite a chore
A harsh cruel prompt given this time
I did not struggle with the words
But with the lack of simple rhyme!

Iceland is great
***************************

My holiday in Iceland
had been great. I wish to live
there forever because of the cold
breeze. Malaysia is so hot
and humid. Iceland is my love
and it is so beautiful.

If only I could live in that beautiful
country. I would cherish Iceland
and be so grateful and love
it so. I would live
there happily and not feel so hot.

I really adore the cold
and the nature surrounding there is so beautiful
and it is not hot.
Everyone should visit Iceland
since most visitors fell in love with it and wish to live
there. Iceland is my love.

I never imagined to fall in love
with a country that is so cold
that I wished I will live
in a country so beautiful.
A nordic country known as Iceland
which is full of Icelanders that are hot.

The vikings there are so hot
and they so cherish and love
their country Iceland.
They dressed beautifully even though its cold.
They look so gorgeous and beautiful
in that country that they live.

Different experiences where you live
in a new country that is not hot
and beautiful.
Travelling will make you love
your eye opening experiences that is cold
in a country called Iceland.

I hope to see Iceland, many times over and live
the moment of cold, and forget the humid and hot.
I hope I will love and see it beautiful.

I am not opposed to sestinas, but I've never written one before, and I can see that it would really take a lot of time (like ALL day) for me to come up with something that not only fit the pattern, but that I felt was good. I got back from a ten-day vacation on Friday evening, during which I fell behind by four poems. So, in addition to trying to catch up on my sleep, e-mail, mail, laundry, and housework, etc., I have been trying to catch up and am now only one behind. I am SO grateful it was "Two for Tuesday" day, so I could choose to write ABOUT sestinas instead!

“Sestina Blues”

I’d love to write a sestina today,
but I’ve got no time.
I copied out the pattern
and chose six ending words,
then wrote the words
onto the sestina pattern.

I can see that this would take all day –
or possibly forever.
I confused myself just
writing all my chosen words
onto the printed pattern page.
No sestina today!

I despair of writing anything
coherent when forced
to follow such a plan.
It might be done,
but not today –
There’s just no time.

You see, there’s laundry to do,
and vacuuming and dishes,
dusting and making the bed,
mopping the floors,
changing the sheets,
cleaning the refrigerator,

and cleaning the windows,
mending my skirts.
And then when I finish
all the housework,
there are still errands
needing to be run.

Off to the grocery store and bank,
the library, post office,
video store, gas station,
not to mention lunch
with Wendy later
in the afternoon.

Oh, and I forgot about my nap!
Yes, I’d love to write a sestina
today, but I’m just too busy.

My first ever SESTINA!!! YEEEahh! Didn't know I could do it!

I have been to the Mountain
I
North to south, east to west all roads lead to the mountain
on sunny days the snow covered peak is the glory
admired by tourists, the elderly especially children
reached by many on treks expeditions lead by horsemen
magnificent creation enshrined by glimmering light
at her feet shrubs and plants small trees tall pines in the forest.
II
In the good days of summer we take trips to the forest
we stuff our backpacks with food, cameras on our way to the mountain
we have to drive above the clouds before we get to see the light
once we reach Paradise by the flower fields we breathe the air of glory
we relay on the guidance and advice of the tempered horsemen
they pay especial attention to all, especially the children.
III
Our grandparents love to walk, but to run and play only the children
there are natural waterfalls, cascades and ponds in the middle of the forest
at all times we obey the instructions of the horsemen
because we do not want to get lost in the mountain
we want to reach the top and proclaim we’ve seen the glory
and feel that we have reached the light.
IV
When dusk falls we use lanterns, gas lamps artificial light
sitting by the fire we enjoy the warmth and the joy of our children
we tell stories of family adventures of fame and glory
such are the pastimes of camping in the forest
we take care of this natural beauty because we love this mountain
as careful as we are, we have required the help of the horsemen.
V
They are tall, rugged, strong, good riders they are the horsemen
when they ride, they magically disappear into the light
these men are the guardian spirits of the mountain
they make sure humans like us behave like respectful children
we appreciate and care for all the living beings in the forest
preserving nature is man’s glory.
VI
When I die, my body will be resting in the grave, but my soul will be in full glory
my good deeds will keep me from the evil horsemen
guarantee that I will not end up in the black forest
for my good karma and love for nature will keep me in the light
I took care of my family, loved my wife, gave all my love to the children
I lived in harmony with the world, loved nature; I’ve been to the mountain.
VII
In spirit I will always look up to the mountain to remind me of the glory
tender as children smiles, stern as horsemen
gleaming in the sun light illuminating the forest.

My first ever sestina!! Yeahhhhh! Raul Sanchez 4-28-09

LOL I can't believe I did it my first sestina! I don't know if I'll ever do another but it wasn't as bad as I thougt. Thanks
****

I walked down the brick path and smelled a rose
It was an evening straight out of a fantasy
All I needed was a large brick castle
The path continued on to a bridge
You would have thought it was from a book
Would a person walk out of the leaves?

I stepped onto the bridge crushing leaves
Looking out over the edge I smelled roses
I took a deep breath and pulled out my note book
It was just to perfect, I had to write a fantasy
Leaning on the rail I listened to the creak of the bridge
All I needed to complete this was a castle

It was just a dream place missing the castle
The wind sprang up throwing the sent of leaves
I wrote my thoughts, then followed the bridge
The day was warm and the heat fed the scent of the rose
How many times had I read this fantasy
It would haunt me until I placed it in a book

The knowledge that a story would grow into a book
Enabled me to see what was in my mind, the castle
It would take time to complete the fantasy
I watch the wind lift and throw the leaves
I reached out and plucked petals from the rose
The petals in my hand dropped of the bridge

I slowly leaned out over the bridge
The petals drifting looked like pages from a book
I reached out grasping another flower and smelled rose
I hurried over to the other side again looking for the castle
The vines filled the this side, a brush against my cheek, leaves
I wanted, no I really needed this fantasy

Reality was here, a moment in time, not a fantasy
I shoved aside the vines to exit the bridge
It caught in my hair, I pulled out leaves
I fought through holding tight to my book
I wasn’t sure I would see it but in my mind there was a castle

The title was called The Rose Fantasy
I took the revenue and built my castle at the end of the bridge
The book funded it all, the leaves fitting together.

You, sir, are an evil man.

more later.

Beginning Again

Through fog, I find the door bound by mist
and I enter, expecting to find the dream.
Yet I see the only thing that is left is false hope,
bitten and dragged through mud, lacking grace.
I claw backwards until I’m sure I’m lost to sunshine
and the event horizon of the budding flower.

Christen me gently, push forth into flowering
joy, a mistaken identity that was shrouded in mist,
waiting for the inevitable rays of sunshine
to pour forth and burn off the haze of this dream,
leaving me to find a senseless, emotionless grace
That leads me on inescapably to hope

for more than what is offered here, to hope
For a greater good, not bound in buds waiting to flower.
Instead, I see what I was granted, the richness of grace
still hides the thought process in a rain of mist
that fogs my mind and convinces me that I yet dream
waiting harshly in desert heat and burning sunshine,

For the gentle caress of clouds, blue sky and sunshine.
A beautiful day, filled with thoughts and hope
For the future. But I doubt, half-believing still this is but dreams
that fall like sand, drowning roots expecting to flower.
And the dry, seared dust that was ground, longs for mist
and searches for the remembrance of a green grace

found in soil, fertile loam that accepts the follies of Grace.
I search instead for scientific process that yields sunshine
and food, life ensconced in details misting
forth with the expectation of ideas, conversation and hope.
The discussion, buds forth, like tulips waiting to flower
and the argument is now but a fanciful, laughable dream.

For isn’t that all what we crave, this endless, hopeful dream?
Where life is granted and we live peacefully in redeeming grace,
enjoying the promise of day, perfectly formed in a new flower
that feeds itself, perhaps gluttonously, on rain and sunshine.
The promise is the ideal. The waiting surge of love and hope
that brings us back to the beginning, back to the mist.

And so I move forward in this misty dream
with the welcome idea of hope and grace,
waiting diligently for the promise of sunshine and flowers.

Prompt 2: Path to Love

Who knew that convention; form could
cause sweet dreams of bliss and bring
back children’s games of blank spaces?
Little clues bring answers to follow,
filling in where the breadcrumbs lay
scattered, gently leading to the paths
where sestinas flow.

Risk Ad Verse

I wake to find the cover’s switched.
The cat appears for purr and stroke
But clock, the tyrant, calls the race.
Alarm, stop buzzing, slippers creep.
I shuffle off, my back is sore
And wash my face to clear its mask.

As work begins the screen is masked.
Our new campaign will need a switch.
The public’s scared they need to soar
We merely need a master stroke.
Release the wallets, stow the creep
Refine the concept, win the race.

Behold a daydream, altered race.
I need to peek behind the mask
And worry less about the creep
Whose great idea may foil the switch.
If only I can find the stroke
A bit of luck could help me soar.

Compete or die, the route is sere,
The laggards drop behind the race.
Such stress can launch a massive stroke
When courage wears a shallow mask.
Our competition’s crafty switch
One team resents the leader’s creep.

We fear our rival’s budget creep
We make our product placement soar
By playing loose with facts to switch
Our version to the Oscar race.
It’s risky but to flaunt that mask
Could launch a clever coup, a stroke.

No jobs were switched, no necks to stroke,
In blade sharp race, opponents creep.
My future soars in armored mask

Well you asked for it.


Bugger
off
I
won't
do
this.


This
bugger
do.
Off
won't
I?

I
this
won't.
Bugger
off
do!

Do
I?
Off!
This
bugger
won't.


Won't
do
bugger
I.
This
off!

Off!
Won't!
This
do
I
bugger.

Bugger off !
I won't !
Do this!


I found something to say with a Sestina!!! :)

Sestina

Pick a word
any word

any six words
any six recurring words
any six recurring words per sestina

like
gypsy, longing, rain, wish, enchanted, mouth
or
newspaper, trash, chowder, garden, coffee, sweep
perhaps
black, slick, abyss, slash, dragon, scream
maybe
gray, swept, bereft, coma, desert, dust

Decide on a sequence
impose a pattern
K.O. chaos

pick a world
any world

MICHELLE MCEWEN -- I LOVE YOUR SESTINA! Genius!!!!!!

A comment on my poem posted above, "Sestina Blues" - I DID choose to use the 6 x 6 + 3 format. so maybe it could be called a half-sestina!

Long after the midnight wish
I sit alone and cry
Having joy from the loving
That makes me want to sigh
But later leads from tears to laughter
And makes me sizzle ever after

But what of time and the ever after
A long time to leave a lover’s wish
Hung on a line with myriad laughter
Feeling like joy could turn to a cry
Of elation and wondering sigh
Remembering the loving

The wonder of his loving
So deep and so filling for ever after
Filling all the spaces with a sigh
Chasing away anxiety in a wish
Hoping against hope for no crying
Only the thrill of the laughter

He gives me a hug with his laughter
His generous spirit of loving
Enthusiastic in the spent cry
And moment to moment ever after
He gives and takes the wish
For hearing but a sigh

His signature of content, the sigh
Comes just before the laughter
Making me also wish
For never ending loving
But even then we know ever after
Will be filled, to abolish the crying

For all that starts out with crying
Can never erase the soundless sigh
That holds in memory ever after
The moment of joy and constant laughter
His monument to all the loving
Given and taken in a wish

For all that I wish, I cannot cry
For all the loving, I can but sigh,
I hear the laughter, now and ever after

Didn't think I could do this, but gave it a whirl anyway and got caught up in the challenge. I've started each line with a capital letter so if the long lines wrap, you'll know it from the beginning lowercase letters!

"Look Upon Your Vain Hope, King of Pride"

I gaze upon the stars
At night, their rays like tears
Of joy, of wonder that explode
Into grief upon seeing Leviathan
Roam upon the earth, that creature the demons cheer,
That God created for our misery.

We, who inhabit this place of misery,
Look to the heavens, to the stars
For their cheer
To dry our tears
That the great Leviathan
Did gloat to see in us explode.

And now our anger roils, it explodes,
Cloaking our misery
That he feeds on, that fat Leviathan.
But our fury reflects off him to feed the stars,
Who shed drops and drops of fiery tears
Upon us to bring back in us a spark of cheer.

Oh, so much angst in us does need cheer
To succor, else our hearts explode
Into crimson gushers flooding the land, drowning our tears.
Oh, such misery
They do see, the stars
When they look upon the proud work of Leviathan.

He curls his tail, he purses his mouth, he squeezes his body round his happy prey, does Leviathan.
He feasts on complacent pride and cheers
To see from their mighty fortresses, the constellations' impotent fury in his starring
Role on earth, his domain of rock formed when God the universe did explode.
He looks fondly on the banquet his happy prey creates from others' misery,
He and them slaking their thirst with their tears.

From the heavens, drop by drop, claret and choler tears
Fizzle and burn the armour of the fearless Leviathan.
But he heeds nothing but what he wants: misery.
His enemy is cheer,
And he quickly explodes
It back up to the stars.

But the stars dry their tears
As God, as Ahura Mazda explodes the vain Leviathan.
And all we who suffer cheer to see the end of our misery.

Each Mother Knows
by J. Thomas Ross

When the ice-freed river begins to run
under the warmth of the ascending sun,
and night trees are filled with the songs of frogs
and farm fields resound with the grunts of hogs,
trees, grass, and flowers – each living thing grows –
it’s springtime again, as each mother knows.

I hear the bright shout of my toddler son.
“You can’t catch me, Mom!” – and he starts to run –
right through the pigpen, ignoring the hogs,
leaps over the fish pond, scaring the frogs,
to a secret place (he thinks I don’t know).
What a joy to watch a little one grow!

He shrieks when a feather tickles his nose,
marvels at how fast his pepper plant grows
after he plants it where it will get sun.
Off to the ball game – he scores a home run.
When the game’s over, the kids play leap frog,
and grubby hands try the refreshments to hog.

The teammates all try to squeal like a hog
Or croak the deep tones of a big bullfrog.
How to bark like a dog, every kid knows
(but some of their efforts come out quite gross).
Then off for another game they all run –
tag and you’re it – in the shade and the sun.

A day dawns rainy and so thick with fog
that we can see neither pigpen nor hogs.
Confined to indoor games, boredom soon grows –
and boredom breeds trouble, as each mother knows;
for indoor games don’t long int’rest a son
who longs to go out and be free to run.

As gardens and children tall and strong grow –
the meaning to this, I’m not sure I know –
into every full life some rains must run,
you can’t expect always to bask in the sun;
and if all people’s attention you’d hog,
remember Emily Dickinson’s frog!

Take time to run and play with your son;
Share with him the wonders of trees, frogs, and hogs –
For each mother knows how fast a child grows.

What is it like

when you want

to...

and you can't?

Do you put it off

and move forward?

Or do you nag and nag

until you get it?

A lesson in today's poetry writing.

Never heard of a sestina,
never wrote one til today.
I had to try it out,
although at first I felt dismay.

Well here it is,
I hope I got it,
If it's a problem
Then a sestina it's not- ah.

This took a bit of work!

Here is my sestina.


Chef’s Finger

There was only one chef
performing the carving
of well over 20 roasts,
for hundreds of students
at this celebration dinner,
with a deep cut on his finger.

A heavy towel wrapped around his finger,
he now felt as an awkward chef,
and bleeding, as he served dinner,
performing clumsy maneuvers while carving
portions of meat to hungry students
hankering for a few slices of roast.

The chef felt he was going to roast,
from the pressure on him with the injured finger.
The line in front still forming more students.
He felt more of a juggler then a chef,
holding the top of the roast while carving,
trying to maintain a grip to serve dinner.

While many were now seated for dinner
enjoying the succulent roast,
the injured chef was still carving,
the towel showing red from his finger,
expression of pain showing on the chef
and noticed, within the line of students.

Moments of concern were expressed by students
that this could be a tainted dinner,
where the roast had some blood of the chef’s,
you can not differentiate blood of chef from roast.
Is there a piece of meat recognized as finger
on someone’s plate which had been carved?

The chef only wished he was done carving,
as the line seemed to only form more students
which only created more pain in his finger.
If only there was an end to this dinner,
for behind him waited five more roasts,
which he wished were five other chefs.

But the chef continued carving
while the roast fed students,
who wondered, did the dinner include chef’s finger?

“No, I was not born under a rhyming planet,
nor I cannot woo in festival terms.”
--Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing

Six Degrees of Aggravation

Please, can’t you leave me to free verse?
You know that fixed form never was my style.
Child of the sixties, I bristle at rules
so rigid that my rhyming must conform.
Can’t you consider what is lost
by poets sacrificing thought for rhyme?

And though I’m charmed by a clever rhyme
that slips so smoothly into verse,
more often all true sense is lost
maintaining artificial style.
How weak when function follows form
in order not to break the rules.

I’d rather simply make my rules,
foregoing meter, stanza, rhyme,
and see what images are formed.
Forced syntax comes off so perverse;
regimented rhythm cramps my style
when all imagination’s lost.

And once the thread of thought is lost,
what good are arbitrary rules
that force me to amend my style?
While I respect your right to rhyme.
won’t you be open to my verse
which into trochees won’t transform?

I cannot make my muse perform
when my poetic license’s lost.
I’m always working in reverse
when I’m obsessed with meter’s rules
or when I mock Shakespearean rhyme,
substituting sound for style.

So little passes out of style
as quickly as poetic form
or formulaic lines that rhyme.
So when my inhibition’s lost,
I turn a deaf ear to the rules;
I am the master of my verse.

And though I’m not averse to elements of style,
I’ll break some useless rules but still conform
to others, knowing what I’ve lost is worth far more than rhyme.

Nancy Posey

AUBURN PERMANENCE

She beckons me throughout my sleep-filled dreams
to stand once more beside her failing form.
A charlatan in my precious lamb's auburn hue
standing to separate me from my loving thoughts.
But not even death can wrestle my love
from her cold and lifeless hands.

For in her hands,
I was the man of dreams,
the one who completely and lovingly did love,
true in our affection we did form
a bond so concrete that vile thoughts
could not sully, nor tarnish her hue.

Full in saturation, this tint and hue
were the colors she had left in my hands.
In a miriad of emotion and thought
a non-somnabular dream
fills my wakefulness to form
a long-lasting and eternal love.

But, what is love?
Can an emotion of such brilliant hue
and fantastic promise do all it can to form
the most secure grip of tender hands,
that outlasts every living dream,
and permeate every loving thought?

Yes, and yet these thoughts
dispel everything that this everlasting love
can place into my sleep-filled dreams,
that carry the exact color; the perfect hue
for my sorrowful hands
to give rest to your distant form.

In life, the bond we had striven to form
had conformed to the loving thoughts
that no human hands
could mold into such a true and tender love.
My soul now alone carries your hue,
a tantric dance in my auburn dreams.

In my heart, no dream could ever form
a more perfect hue, as my every waking thought
of love can, presented by your own timeless hands.

Already posted by anti-sestina ... this one's just for fun ...

“Got my mojo working, but it just won't work on you
Got my mojo working, but it just won't work on you
I wanna love you so bad till I don't know what to do”
Muddy Waters


The Bluesmen go down deep
To the heart of the matter
Playing each note from
The soul so that the world
FEELS the blues,
The love, the hurt
All that is carried inside.
Muddy Waters, Albert King,
Buddy Guy
Get down in it then
Play it out using
Their instruments, hearts,
Their memories.
They soothe the wrongs
The bleeding hearts
Dance through on the floor.

The lost looking for love
And those already loved
Both pray in their own way
Thanking the Gods above
For an evening spent
As close to heaven as
They’ll ever get.

Tina's Sexy Sestina

What's so special about the number six?
Nix the i and substitute an e,
then we'll talk.

All my poems, she purrs,
are shapely, sensuous, earthy
and bring out the dominatrix
in me. I'm not sure that six
lines will do the trick.

Sez Tina, she insists, versification
is not my vocation--I prefer the oldest
profession. Chaucer knew that bawdy
is best.
Ever obesssed,
Tina.

Batter Up!
-----------------

Spring is the season,
To play some ball,
So pick up a bat,
Or even a stick,
I'll throw you a pitch,
As hard as a rock.

The stadiums rock,
Opening day of the season,
Who throws the first pitch,
The fans have a ball,
To their seats they will stick,
When the clean up's at bat.

He swats with his bat,
He gives it a rock,
It comes off of his stick,
First grand slam of the season,
It was a meat ball,
The pitcher did pitch.

Is it resin or pitch,
They rub on the bat,
To help hit the ball,
To wallop the rock,
Into next season,
With that wood stick.

Chewing gum have a stick,
And then throw a pitch,
The little league season,
The kids are at bat,
Back and forth they will rock,
Waiting for the fly ball.

Catch that pop ball,
In your glove it will stick,
The bleachers will rock,
But the sky turns to pitch,
Not another at bat,
First rain delay of the season.

Yes spring is the season, to play base and ball,
To run like a bat, and swing the stick,
To hurl a fast pitch, baseball you rock!