Day 29 PAD 2023

 

This poem is presented in its rough draft form for the PAD 2023 challenge and will be revised.

“I am Here”

I watch my shadow move in front of me, the wind, still angry from winter, assaults my face. My stride is still as quick as my youth, just not as strong as my shadowed legs wobble with another burst from mother nature. For a second I feel my presence cutout of the air around me. I am here. The world is beneath my feet. The wind has to move around me. My gumline stings as I smile. My shadow reflects my existence on the concrete. I am the moment. But then my shadow moves without me, and now I am trying to catch back up with the day.


Poetic Form: Prose

Day 3 PAD 2023

This poem is presented in its rough draft form for the PAD 2023 challenge and will be revised. 

“Still the Same”

-after William Wordsworth

Over two hundred years ago the
weight of society felt heavy. A world
rushing away from traditions. Is
today just a republished history page, too?
The concrete rivals the mountains. Much
of our meaning lives in clouds with
passwords to protect our hearts. Us,
an idea we’ve discarded of late.
My faith shaken by disposable days and
glass touches. We need a mortal connection soon.

Poetic Form: Golden Shovel

April Poetry Challenge 2021: Day Twenty-Six

 

Day 26 Prompt: (Blank) World

Form: Trimeric

“Nothing in this World Lasts Forever”

A minute, a second, a lifetime,

all find the ragged edge of ending.

Nothing resists decay forever,

not even our love.

All find the ragged edge of ending.

Even our initials carved into a park bench

read by strangers stopping for a moment.

Nothing resists decay forever.

Letters crumble, photos fade,

technology crashes into the void.

Not even our love

will be remembered past

the stories we tell our children.

April Poetry Challenge 2021: Day Seventeen

 

Day 17 Prompt: Waiting

Form: Golden Shovel

“Calendar”

After John Mayer’s song “Waiting On the World to Change”

The days have already been numbered. There’s nothing we

can do to change the pages of calendars we keep

on refrigerators. Notes and events written with pen on

days we’ve yet lived. We feel happiness waiting

for us next week. It’s there in a box with a number, waiting

for time to bring us to that day. Until then read what’s on

today to give us direction. Hoping that the

events listed will fill our small world

with meaning. So busy planning the boxes to

see that calendars are history pages meant for change.

A Shire Morning

A Shire Morning

Early morning, late July in the year of vision

Sun just leaving the horizon

Morning chill mixes with the symphony of birds

Corn a deep green fence sitting across the road

White clouds mixing with the changing hues of blue

I stand at the end of my driveway

Breathing in the new air

Exhaling the fear of troubled sleep

The neighborhood goes quiet as my soul spins

into an eternal moment

I feel how all directions 

lead back to where I am standing

No matter where my story leads

or the adventures my children grow into

Home is here

The sun warms my neck while the breeze cools my face

I close my eyes

At least for a moment

I felt that all was good in the world

Poetic Form 41: Contrapuntal

All the World

It feels like the weight of the world

is strapped to me like a backpack

that someone has tighten the straps

so tight they dig into my armpits

The moon is a spotlight

And I am on stage

At the end of my driveway

I can’t shake the weight of the world

around to a comfortable spot

or remove my arms from the pack

without dislocating my shoulders

My audience is every star in the galaxy

The crickets my orchestra

So I trudge forward with the weight of the world

But I never received the script

For this show and the moon is out

Casting light on my spot

sighing like Robert Frost

at the fork in the road as others

pass me by, laughing in groups

And I don’t know which way is stage right

Poetic Form #41: Contrapuntal

A contrapuntal poem intertwines two (or more) separate poems into a single
new poem. The traditional format is using one line of poem A, then a 
corresponding line in poem B from start to finish, but you can combine them
in different ways. I took the creative liberty of messing with the form.

Poem A: “Weight of the world” - available in my book From My Years.

Poem B: “The Moon is a Spotlight” - Unpublished.

Poetic Form 25: Cyrch A Chwta

 

For Someone

 

For someone, it is the end

of the world. Lost more than friend

and enemy. Days are penned

for a life they hope defends

the soul’s moment to transcend.

Sons, moms, everyone extends

their hands to a tomorrow

not promised. Know love’s amends.

Poetic Form #25: Cyrch a Chwta

Cyrch a Chwta is a Welsh poetic form. The poem is 8-lines with 7 syllables in 
each line. The lines 1 through 6 and 8 have the same end rhyme. 
Line 7 has a cross rhyme with line 8 on either syllable 3, 4, or 5.

Poetic Form 3: Skeltonic Verse

To the Young Voices

Set the mic a blaze

with words that wave

and crash against 

the shores of pretense

Nothing more or less

than a voice intense

with the rhythm of pain

mixed with a story main

that calls for a tomorrow

filled with love instead of sorrow

Walk tall, we will follow

Words have power

to raise towers

that allow everyone a view

of a world we strive to

Where friendship is me and you

not dictated by unwritten rule

So set that pen to paper

Build a skyscraper

Truth won’t wait until later

We need your talent on stage

and street, love too can rage

Poetic Form #3: Skeltonic Verse

This form is named after the English poet, John Skelton (c. 1463 - 21 June 1529). The rules are simple. Lines are short with a couple of stresses. The rhymes are irregular. Alliteration and parallelism are used often in this form.

These Words

Let these words wash over your dirty hands

    Cleansing the world from your life lines

Let these words flood your covered ears

    Drowning out the pollution from your prayers

Let these words blind your watery eyes

    Dilating your vision to a single meaning

These words are more than my breath crossing through vocal cords

    They are bread crumbs for you to follow

        as you walk past the witch's home

            chimney billowing smoke

            door open so you can hear her mumbling about

            how she will get you someday

But not today

Not at this moment

These words were once mine

they are yours now

Meant for you to consume

To savor

To break off a piece

and share with someone who is hungry, too

   

        Just remember that I wrote them for your happiness...

As My Daughters Sleep

4:48 in the morning

My day begins

Coffee is brewed

I try to stay quiet

Everyone else is still at rest

5:25 in the morning

Time to get ready

For work

Teeth brushed

Shoes match my belt

5:55 in the morning

Computer packed

Coffee mug filled

And I head for the door

Two of my daughters share the room

Next to the entry way

Their new string of lights glow

Soft and pink in the morning light

They lay sprawled out like dolls

Blankets twisted between legs and arms

They are Peace personified

My heart jumps

As I consider the world I will open the door to

I fight the urge to lock them away

To stand in front of them

As the world shoots arrows of discourse

Aiming for their hearts and minds

Aimed to destroy

6:00 in the morning

I make my feet move

To enter a world meant to destroy

But I have the strength to go

Because my daughters will be awake

With smiles and hugs

When I come home