Meter Exercise

A QUATORZAIN / IAMBIC / RHYMED / VARIED FEET

I took an angry walk today.
Not very far, but far enough away
to breed a distance from all I knew
-- and sat on the slant of a hill view,
on a lock of concrete overlooking a creek.
The late spring evening was a pleasant feel
against my livid cheek; that and the hustle
and leap of the stream relaxed me. Light shuffled
between the water and the trees,
gleaming like tinsel in a breeze.
If it were winter still,
the light would touch ice, not the rill;
and by this hour have come and gone, with the moon
already donned just like a cap on the sun.

EDIT

Only ageless quiet attends our altars
shrouds our days in motes and in shade, a half-life
lived in half-light. Even our fire can pale in
twilight and gray or
starve in empty temples though instinct never
Wavers, never dulls in the pitch - the God Who
Slumbers in the Waters still sleeps; the sun still
sets in our brother's
bloodless breast. We follow the endless arc to
guard the sun, descend to lustrate in gold-tipped
shrines where chanted litanies hailed the dawn. But
no one reveres us

now: a younger god has transfixed man's needy
eye. Unsung, we leave empyreal climes, slough the
night off (like a barnacle fastened to the
hip of the sun) to
pace abandoned Houses. In temple dusk we
wonder, will we ever again be met at
dawn? Be praised, our manifold Names half-sung? Will
anyone love us?

FOUND

So, I found this written in a book I'm reading -- a little something I had jotted down and forgotten. This isn't the original. I'm too lazy right now to type it out, maybe later? You know (or maybe you don't) I'm on this metered poetry kick, right? So I decided to take a stab at turning this into a metered poem. I'm not sure as of yet where the subject of this poem is heading but the journey should be fun.

The sun set (as it does)
behind the thunderhead,
on a pathway that was
washed with pinks and with reds.
The sky shrank to a bruise.
And I saw this old wound
as something almost new...

{like pulling teeth, the line after this... actually, so were the lines after 'with pinks and with reds'... hm!}
{finally got it!}

The sun set (as it does)
behind a thunderhead,
on a pathway that was
washed with pinks and with reds.
The sky shrank to a bruise.
And I saw this old wound
as something almost new
under the argent moon...

{So I have a bit more to add, came up with that bit more tonight}

The sun set (as it does)
behind a thunderhead,
on a pathway that was
washed with pinks and with reds.
The sky shrank to a bruise.
And I saw this old wound
as something almost new
under the argent moon.
Fingers out, the stars, too,
gaped at the livid bloom
as if to ask, "But who...?"

All Good Things Come In Threes...???

Last post. I swear it. It occurred to me, as I moved to close this browser tab, that I never posted my finished sapphic verse poem (click here for more details). It won't win any awards but here it is:

*



Only ageless quiet attends our altars
Shrouds our days in motes and in shade - a half-life
Lived in half-light. Even our fire can pale in
....Twilight and gray or
Starve in empty temples. But instinct never
Wavers, never dulls in the pitch: the God Who
Slumbers in the Waters still sleeps; the sun still
....Sets in our brother's
Bloodless breast. We follow the endless arc to
Guard the sun. Descend to lustrate in gold-tipped
Shrines where chanted litanies hailed the dawn. But
....No one reveres us

Now: a younger god has transfixed man's needy
Eye. Unsung, we leave empyreal climes, slough the
Night off (like a barnacle fastened to the
....Hip of the sun) to
Pace abandoned Houses. In temple dusk we
Wonder - will we ever again be met at
Dawn? Be praised, our manifold Names half-sung? Will
....Anyone love us?


photo & poem copyright belongs to: Shanee Gbelawoe

*

Shameless plug but do remember to check out the two posts following this one as they are new too! And about music!

observation

From my fortress home I see
our neighbor's tree,
its thousand palms clapping in the breeze.

a westerly wind and a backyard shrub dreaming love

I am as far from that girl
as I have ever been.

a girl with a notebook

The sun at nine
I forgot how cool its yellow light is
here in winter
It barely damages the snow -- unlike me
my cloddish boots are like wallops from a fist
and naked snow breaks like bone
a pinched old crow winks and winks and winks again
at the bruising sound

*
Bleh.

--
currently listening to Jean-Baptiste Lully's La Bourgeois Gentihomme
-- Chaconne des Scaramouches Frivelins et Arlequins

Note to Self

She needs to raise the shades.
She needs to let light
In. To feel a stiff breeze
Against her skin, and breathe.
Remember, girl -
A tombed life rarely
Rises above
Its own shadows.

Oh well. It's April.

Awake again after midnight.
I should try sleeping when the living do
instead of
propping my eyes open
under the full gut of sun.
Oh well. It’s April, and here
that means storms -- long clouds
blown in on a stiff breeze, belly full of rain
and rumble. Lately the sky has been
full of them.

Beyond the windowblind the night
surrenders to the bristle and flood.

eh, nothing serious

we are not meant for refuge;
we are rough houses. we swing
like pendulums to hammers.
we are not songs.
we are not roses.
we are women,
unfolding.

12:24 AM

A storm is blowing
by my window, blowing
through the dark,
shaking trees
and spitting lightning.

impressions

into a delicate world I place myself into a delicate world
a bull amidst a giggle of girls lovely manga boys in dark
school uniforms this morning’s suited men their loosened ties
one less noose to slip flowing through a night of lights fast
drunk away on hungry weekends flee the birds and families to
calculated parks inlaid with maple and cherry trees thick
hardy stands of pine this sun takes to my skin a kiss again
again it kisses my skin I sweat through the persistent
caress

the brief farewell

Say goodbye to late sunrises and the early sunsets. Say goodbye
to unexpected rainbows. To lean trees and leaner Springs, to
months drowned in snow. To haunts and mountain ranges, long
drives and the unexplored, say goodbye.

opening remarks

It is very dark where I am now. A moon thin as paper cuts
prettily into the sky. Lights on the ground devour the
winking lights above; one can hardly see Ursa tucked beside
her cub.

My mug of ice and coke settles noisily as I type out this
little note.