The form for this week is up to you. Write in your favorite form. It’s that simple. Write as many poems as you wish, in as many different forms as you’d like. Or try to conquer a form that you shy away from. Either way, the form is totally your choice.

Use the IN-FORM POET WEDNESDAY DIRECTORY to refresh your memory. And remember, you can even write in a form we have yet to cover. Maybe you can teach US a thing or two and we’ll feature your form soon!


I do love the Sestina, but I have a strong affinity for the Alouette:


I hear it gently,
and I mentally
take note of the lilting song.
Angel voices sing
the soundtrack of Spring.
Their chorus is loud and strong.

Morning brings their sound,
and it is around
dawn’s first light that I hear it.
A poet’s heart sees
the living beauty
within euphonic spirit.

I begin each day
the exact same way.
I am thankful for this gift.
My whispered prayer
rises through the air;
as their harmonies uplift.

Copyright © Walt Wojtanik


  1. I decided to use a form I’ve never tried before, so I chose the Parallelogram De Crystalline. It is supposed to tell of a person’s beauty, using nature as a comparison. Here is my attempt:

    In His Eyes…

    In his eyes
    I see beauty and strength,
    Like a young tree, growing in God’s grace;

    His face is
    Cheerful as the morning
    Sunlight touching the clouds, and handsome;

    I see strength
    And beauty in his heart
    Too, flowing out of him like a clear,

    Pure fountain,
    Shining in everything
    He says, bursting out in laughter.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  2. Questions (a Nove Otto)

    How many things can one life hold:
    What secrets hid, how many told?
    How many things can one hand touch?
    Do fingers ever stop moving
    And probing, do eyes stop searching?
    Do ears know when they’ve heard too much?
    And do hearts ever cease to yearn
    For loved ones lost? Will I yet learn
    To be healed by Your gentle touch?

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  3. Years ago, a friend told me of a form she called a “ranivilla.” She said it was a nine-line poem consisting of an aabccbddb rhyme scheme and a per-line syllable count of 3-4-6-8-8-6-4-4-6. She didn’t specify a meter, but I’ve tended to use metrics, mainly iambics.

    The thing is, I’ve never found the form referenced anywhere, so mavbe this is a recognized form, albeit under another name, or maybe it isn’t. I offer it here for what it might be worth. If someone knows the form, but under a different name, I’d like to know what it is.


    Like a boy,
    he sought out joy
    and never willed it end;
    he loved to laugh, as Earth loves sky
    and leisure loves a lullaby.
    He ever was a friend:
    his great good will
    shall follow still,
    wherever our roads wend.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

  4. Years ago I read about the Warsaw Ghetto and the uprising in 1943 that was crushed by the Germans. The prevalent image for me was the train from Warsaw to Treblinka, the death camp. I came up with a form I like to call a “track poem,” or maybe “sliding refrain” would do. The basic notion is that a refrain (or a phrase close to one) moves down the poem from top to bottom; hence, each stanza has as many lines as there are stanzas. I like rhyme and meter, so I’ve used both in each stanza, save for the refrain; usually I’ve used monorhyme or a basic abab scheme (and cdcd, efef, and so on, in subsequent stanzas). I’ve used as many as five stanzas, but there can be as little as two. Here are two examples:


    The track to Treblinka
    began where the train
    stood, waiting to leave
    on a journey of pain
    that had no reprieve.

    They lived within walls
    near the track to Treblinka;
    they huddled, distraught,
    in fear of the calls
    to labor for naught.

    So many have passed:
    the trains never tire
    on the track to Treblinka.
    At the end, they were gassed
    and delivered to fire.

    The Germans spewed hate
    and herded them, cattle
    who walked to their fate,
    to the track to Treblinka,
    and never gave battle

    until came the days
    they fought, preferring to die
    than to let Nazi ways
    define them all by
    the track to Treblinka.

    copyright 2013, William Preston


    A lone chickadee
    is lonesome, yet free;

    I join you to be
    alone, chickadee.

    copyright 2103, William Preston

    • I like your sliding refrain form and both poems. The WARSAW GHETTO, 1943 has a good mood. It conveys so many emotions. Nice.

    • Two years ago we learned all about World War II in history class. I remember reading about the uprising in the Warsaw Ghetto. It was so sad.

      I really like the form you invented, William. Refrains make a poem so much more interesting, I think. Thanks for sharing. 🙂

    • William – I didn’t respond right away to this post because I didn’t know quite what to say. Warsaw Ghetto, 1943 kind of blew me away, you see, because although (to the best of my knowledge) none of my ancestors were ever sent to Treblinka, several died in Auschwitz. I cannot even imagine the horrors, although as a little girl, I once saw a film about the aftermath of the concentration camps. It’s haunted me to this day. You might want to consider submitting this amazing work to the Holocaust Museum.

      • Thank you, RJ, although I am sorry if the piece recalled those horrible images. As far as I know, none of my ancestors was ever in a Nazi death camp, but it doesn’t matter: the same images haunted me too. I visited the Holocaust Museum many years ago, and it also left a strong impression. Horrors like that must never be forgotten, and they certainly weren’t, for me; my poem probably was gestating for many years.

        I never thought of submitting the poem to the Museum, but will inquire. Thanks for the suggestion.

        • William, RJ’s suggestion is a good one. I have a friend who works for the Holocaust Museum in DC. If you need a contact, let me know. RJ, sorry to hear this horror resides in your family tree. I taught Holocaust literature for a while, finally focusing on ghettoes of Jews in China, but whenever I wonder what the face of evil might be, I think of these death camps and others like them across time and lands. That track led us to many feelings, William.

          • Thank you, Jane; I do need a contact. I checked the Museum’s site and wasn’t sure to whom I should direct an inquiry.

            You mentioned that you taught Holocaust literature at one time. Perhaps you know of a book called Laughter in Hell, which I found at the Museum years ago. It was about humor (mainly Jewish) during the Holocaust, which seemed like a contradiction in terms, at first. I don’t have it anymore; wish I did.

        • William, I don’t know how best to do this. Perhaps if you could message me on Facebook or email, I could put her contact info for you. Are you a Fb fellow? I’m not familiar with this book, though I’d like to be. It always lifts me up a bit to see the humor that arises from those who suffer the worst of circumstances. In the meantime, I’ll contact her and tell her about your poem.

        • Thanks you again, Jane. I don’t use social networking, just e-mail, so I guess the best way for us to communicate directly is to give you my e-mail address. I usually don’t give it out in a public forum, but this forum is a friendly one, so I’ll risk it:

    • To anyone who may be interested: I have since learned that there are two French forms, the retourne and quatern, that use this sliding-refrain (and true refrain) idea. Both seem to be 4-stanza, 16-line forms, one with a rhyme scheme and meter, and one without.

  5. I just finished this yesterday – my first sestina.


    I read in National Geographic once
    that memories are stored
    here, there and everywhere
    in our amazing brain.
    I always thought a first kiss
    was one sweet length of linear memory.

    That’s the way it seemed to me about my memory,
    so sweet, so tender, so newly new that once
    we shared from start to finish. But, that kiss
    the article said, is in reality stored
    in all its glory and truth filed in the brain
    under scent, sight, touch, hearing…in a word, everywhere.

    So, that kiss is scattered everywhere
    and who knows what simple thing may trigger memory
    from all its various hiding places in the brain?
    I smelled a spicy carnation once
    and a flood of emotion flowed that had been stored
    under olfactory, I guess, and that night came back and that kiss…

    Oh, what bliss, to be able to recall a first kiss.
    But, it’s strange to think that here, there, everywhere
    a moment in time, near or far, may be stored
    in neural banks and pathways where memory
    resides just waiting its beck and recall. I must once
    more restate, we have an amazing brain.

    He, like many, just may lack a systematic brain,
    for it seems when we were talking about that kiss
    he remembered a different song though
    “Once in a Lifetime” was the one! Those crazy bits of facts everywhere –
    seems a messy way to keep precious memories
    intact. How easy it is to misfile or misplace stored

    documents in computers or cabinets, yet the brain
    we blithely trust to retrieve each and every memory.
    How sad to think that someday in my old age that kiss
    could be lost though I’d look everywhere.
    But, he’ll remember for me that kiss we shared once
    scattered under smell and touch and hearing – efficiently stored.

    We shared a kiss once. It was shuffled and stored
    here, there, and everywhere in our amazing brain.
    That kiss, that sweet kiss, embedded in my memory.

  6. Circular Cento

    We had goldfish and they circled around and around.
    From childhood’s hour I have not been
    a millionbillionwillion miles from home:
    I guess it must be the flag of my disposition
    and what goes around comes around remains as ever true…

    (A Smile to Remember – Charles Bukowski; Alone – Edgar Allan Poe; First Day at School – Roger McGough; A child said, What is the grass? – Walt Whitman; What Goes Around Comes Around Life Is That Way – Francis Duggan)

  7. I Will Leave Less Than This Behind Me
    ( A Cento )

    I move as the currents move, with the breezes.

    Hoping to weigh less than silence, lighter than light.

    Naiveté that your hands will undo

    by redefining the morning,

    with gentleness that has no misery

    in the space between two bodies.

    Don’t mind the parts of me fading into the background,

    for I am best left unseen.

    Need is my tactic, detachment is my strategy.

    I would like to see if we could love each other this way —

    and pretend for a moment, nothing lost is lost.

    Title and lines from:
    Mark Wunderlich “Difficult Body”,
    Camille T Dungy “Characteristics of Life”,
    Jack Myers “Dark Matter”,
    Jennifer K Sweeney “How to Uproot a Tree”,
    Jack Gilbert “Tear It Down”,
    Anthony Raferty “I am Raferty the Poet”,
    Sharon Venezio “Poem of Undoing”,
    Nik Bland “The Baggage in the Backdrop”,
    Robert Pinsky “Samurai Song”,
    Shay Simmons “The Sisters of Saint Genesius”,
    Richard Blanco “Looking for The Gulf Motel”

  8. I really love trying new forms. Here’s my attempt at Imagism:


    In the midday heat of Memorial Day
    Walking in step with the crowd
    To the right I witnessed floating heads
    Smiling at everyone
    With floating hands
    Waving at the crowd surrounding them
    And at those that followed close
    The floating heads and hands moved forward
    Smiling and waving with every step
    Then disappeared through a double doorway
    That was quickly shut behind them

    I walked quickly around the corner
    And peered into the large, clean windows
    As each of these characters took their positions
    In front of the appropriately decorated backdrops

    Assistants opened the large double doors
    That the characters had disappeared through
    Parents and children crowded through
    With smiles and squeals of anticipation
    And formed lines in front of each character
    For a chance to meet and greet
    Have their picture taken with
    And get a signature in their autograph book
    Of Mickey Mouse and crew

    © 2013 Earl Parsons

  9. Form: Blitz

    Loud I Vow

    Laugh a lot
    Laugh out loud
    Loud and jolly
    Loud and proud
    Proud to laugh
    Proud to smile
    Smile at everyone
    Smile all the while
    While you work
    While you play
    Play for keeps
    Play all day
    Day to day
    Day and night
    Night is fun
    Night’s all right
    Right for laughing
    Right for games
    Games of laughter
    Games without name
    Name that tune
    Name that joke
    Joke with feeling
    Joke to poke
    Poke fun and laugh
    Poke fun and smile
    Smiles are contagious
    Smile while you dial
    Dial up a friend
    Dial up your love
    Love is the key
    Love from above
    Above all remember
    Above all you do
    Do it in love
    Do it for you
    You are the key
    You are the one
    One to take lead
    One never done
    Done with the smiles
    Done with the laughter
    Laughter with others
    Laughter hereafter
    Hereafter to pledge
    Hereafter to vow
    Vow to press on
    Vow to always laugh

    © 2013 Earl Parsons

    • I know there wasn’t a requirement to rhyme, but it was just too much fun adding that in.

    • I don’t know what a blitz is supposed to be, but this looks like a supercharged list poem. Whatever it is, I like this. Thanks for posting.

  10. Elephant Cento

    He thought he saw an elephant
    once riding in old Baltimore.
    See what delights in sylvan scenes appear!
    Even the impossible can be done
    all on a gleaming day.

    [A Strange Wild Song – Lewis Carroll; Incident – Countee Cullen; Summer – Alexander Pope; (There’s a fire burning in my eyes) – Allen Steble; A Golden Day – Paul Laurence Dunbar]

  11. Form: Genesis

    Make Way

    A life uncontroversial
    Is a life lived being blind
    Ignorance should be criminal
    Especially when voluntary
    Interest when even minimal
    Will surprise what one may find

    We fly through life so fast
    At a highly intense pace
    Some feel it’s all pre-cast
    From birth till our last breath
    We learn not from our past
    So caught up in the rat race

    We should control our destiny
    But others steer our path
    Been that way throughout history
    Except for the strong willed
    It’s time to make our legacy
    Get off the beaten path

    (C) 2013 Earl Parsons


    The evening breeze embraced the trees tenderly:
    starlight and dew drops are waiting for thee
    in a mountain greenery, where God paints the scenery,
    and if they do the trick I’ll hurry back to pick
    my rose of Washington Square
    scarlet ribbons for her hair
    with a joy I’ve never seen.
    Really, Mr. Gallagher? Absolutely, Mr. Shean.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

    based on lines from:

    Tenderly, words and music by Guy William Lawrence and Howard John Lawrence;Beautiful Dreamer, words and music by Stephen Foster; Mountain Greenery; lyrics by Lorenz Hart, music by Richard Rodgers; Red Roses for a Blue Lady, lyrics by Sid Tepper, music by Roy C. Bennett; Rose of Washington Square, lyrics by Ballard MacDonald, music by James F. Hanley; There Used to Be a Ballpark, lyrics and music by Joe Raposo; Scarlet Ribbons, lyrics by Jack Segal, music by Evelyn Danzig Levene; Mister Gallagher and Mister Shean, words and music by Edward Gallagher and Al Shean.

  13. I See Beauty In A Tree (a Villanelle)

    I see ever changing beauty,
    One might just as well call it love,
    In the green and brown of a tree;

    In the light shining down on me,
    Filtered through leafy boughs above,
    I see ever changing beauty,

    And grace which can be found only,
    Whatever else I may think of,
    In the green and brown of a tree.

    The only thing that I can see
    In a tree, apart from God’s love,
    I see ever changing beauty,

    This very life’s epitome,
    Embodied and sent from above,
    In the green and brown of a tree;

    And wonder descends upon me,
    As I behold this sign of love;
    I see ever changing beauty
    In the green and brown of a tree.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  14. This is a Cento I once wrote for Poetic Asides.

    We Real?, a Cento

    We real cool-zero at the bone,
    bouncing from typewriter to piano.

    Many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
    encourages the writing of more poetry.

    Brillig, and the slithy toves
    to find out what it really means.

    “Pipe a song about a lamb.”–
    Fancy unto fancy, like shining into shook foil.

    “Every Q needs a U,”
    Quoth the Milwaukee-talkie.

    Poetry fills me with joy,
    and that has made all the difference.

    Sheryl Kay Oder

    The poets I used (in order) are Gwendolyn Brooks, Emily Dickinson, Billy Collins, Edgar Allen Poe, Billy Collins, Lewis Carroll, Billy Collins, William Blake, Edgar Allen Poe, Gerard Manley Hopkins,Ogden Nash, Edgar Allen Poe, Ogden Nash, Billy Collins, and Robert Frost.

    • It amazes me how many of us picked the Cento I don’t know about anyone else, but I did not read any other poems before I posted this one.

    • It would have been much easier if I had written the poems with the poets originally. It took a long time to get this together mainly because of Ogden Nash.

      Gwendolyn Brooks (We Real Cool), Emily Dickinson(A narrow Fellow in the Grass), Billy Collins(The Lanyard), Edgar Allen Poe(The Raven), Billy Collins(The Trouble with Poetry), Lewis Carroll(Jabberwocky), Billy Collins(Introduction to Poetry), William Blake(Introduction [to Songs of Innocence]), Edgar Allen Poe(The Raven), Gerard Manley Hopkins(God’s Grandeur),Ogden Nash (limerick beginning with line,”An Exiled Iraqi went back”), Edgar Allen Poe(the Raven), Ogden Nash(limerick beginning with line,”There was a young girlof Milwaukee”), Billy Collins(The Trouble with Poetry), and Robert Frost(The Road Not Taken).

  15. Unplug

    U nclog this pipe and please fix the drain I feel like old
    N oah after one month of rain The toilet’s
    P lugged up, the kitchen sink, too. And
    L ook at the bathtub. Why is it blue? The basement is
    U nder three inches of water. What’s that going by? It could be an otter.
    G ee, I couldn’t feel dumber. I should have known not to marry a plumber.

  16. My favorite form, by far, is the limerick:

    Writing Humor Isn’t Funny
    By Madeleine Begun Kane

    To write humor when not in the mood
    Takes a major adjustment of ‘tude.
    If I’m still uninspired,
    I tell me, “You’re fired,”
    Or pretend I’m about to be sued.

    Okay, none of this stuff’s really true.
    When I’m blocked, I don’t know what to do.
    So I shower or walk,
    Read the news, turn on talk,
    Absorb info, inviting a cue.

    At long last something starts to take hold,
    And a concept begins to unfold,
    As I play with the news
    Which teases my muse
    In my quest for some comedy gold.

    (A Miltonic Sonnet)

    No guarantees that love will last exist.
    Deceivers boast their loyalty, astute
    In friendly banter, able to recruit
    Naïve and lonely women whom they twist
    Around their fingers, ply with sweet kisses
    Until in time their submission’s absolute.
    These wizards radiate charm. No dispute!
    To acquiesce is easy. Why resist?
    Chameleons know which colors to present,
    What shade of lie, what tint of cold deceit.
    They fool the eye, convince the heart they care.
    The two will spend their married life content:
    A promise she believes. One fool, one cheat
    Will distance one day. Guarantees are rare.


  18. Maybe a rondel?

    Sun Salutation

    At last the sun has come again,
    gray skies replaced with warmer hues
    and dark thoughts that we sought to lose
    have vanished like a dream’s refrain.

    The skies we search to keep us sane
    reflect below cascades of blues,
    gray skies replaced with warmer hues.
    At last the sun has come again.

    Dark weather seems to dull the brain
    to muddle puddle—we confuse
    the landscape of our minds but choose
    a life of light we can sustain–
    at last the sun has come again.

  19. Two flavors of Rispetto below, although the hendecasyllabic lines make me crazy and they’re hard to dance to ;).

    She Walks in Water

    She gets her kit to clean the mess
    created by his plumbing skills.
    To ignorance, he won’t confess
    nor part with any dollar bills

    until his very stubbornness
    is washed away or he grows gills.
    She turns the water off and calls
    a plumber for their water falls.

    (that extra syllable below frazzles me; eleven just doesn’t feel good to me.)

    Grandpa’s Daydreams

    A pretty woman is sweet to think about
    when time seems long or chill, and sunlight is grayed,
    when days hang loose as pockets where men don’t doubt(
    their prowess with Beauties past had they but played
    the lover when they had the chance. Now daydreams
    feature doting eyes above, sweet loving beams,
    and shapely breasts, legs, and moving parts below.
    An old man’s dreams can enhance a woman’s glow.

  20. I alternated Lune and Tercet.


    thunder clouds rumble
    dust whips up
    empty promises

    No rain falls
    the brown earth is parched
    even flies languish

    you whisper sweet words
    my heart stirs
    you didn’t mean them

    No tears fall
    my heart becomes a stone
    even hope hardens

  21. I think the short lines and clipped phrasing add to the power of this piece. Wonderful.


    There stood a blonde whose tresses
    were yellow as dandelion dresses;
    whose lips were redder than reds
    and mellow as maiden-formed beds;
    whose curves were suitably curvy
    and hips seemed suitably swervy;
    whose eyes were perfectly frank
    albeit they also were blank.
    She was the perfectest date
    for one who’d dissed his mate,
    for she excepted the norm:
    her form was formed in a form.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

  23. Three from me:

    She, Of The Earth (a parallelogram de crystalline)

    Stands her ground
    rooted as stately tree,
    earth woman, clearly sees nature’s need.

    Her brown arms
    muscled from working soil,
    ponytail of auburn hair, sun-fired.

    On rough-hewn
    table, orchard’s bounty–
    plums, cherries, peaches–hues of her cheeks.

    feasts on earth’s abundance;
    woman’s eyes fill, spill, like a blue lake.

    The Last Bus (a shadorma)

    Waves his arms madly
    runs down block,
    late for work,
    huffing and puffing, face flushed.
    Doors close; driver leaves.

    Anyone Out There? (a cascade)

    No moon is featured this night,
    no star can be seen.
    Opaque fog covers earth.

    Overwhelming feeling of fright,
    what can it all mean?
    No moon is featured this night.

    Silence prevails, no sound of mirth.
    Sky stretches like vast black inkblot,
    no star can be seen.

    Surely others must be out there.
    Why does no one make a sound?
    Opaque fog covers earth.

  24. Free verse? 8x8x2 no rhyme – IDK

    Reluctantly Awake

    I awake early, still sleepy, turn over,
    fluff my pillow and try to sleep
    but sleep has fled, abandoned me.
    I get up reluctantly, put on
    a pot of coffee. Maybe that will push
    me fully into wakefulness.
    I listen to the rhythm of the bloop-hissss
    and watch the steam rise from the spout.

    I sit on the porch, mug in hand,
    my back against the rail and breath
    deeply, contentedly, the cool, moist air.
    The yard is lined with trees that block
    the horizon but still I see the sky lighten.
    The birds are loud but melodic and
    even the crows seem less annoying
    for I feel bewitched, beguiled, at peace.

    I cursed slumber for deserting me
    but wiser she than me. Blessing in disguise.

      • William, you must not have a percolator – I love the sound it makes. Of course I grew up with that kind of coffee pot “singing” every morning.

        • Well, my deafness masked the sounds of the ones I heard, and I don’t like coffee anyway. However, the comment was meant to be funny, reflecting on the generally soothing sounds of your words, contrasted with the odd sound (to me) of the coffeepot. As it was, my experience with coffeepots mainly was limited to watching them fall from Harpo Marx’s sleeve.

  25. Jane inspired me to write another poem – this time, (as did Jane!) a Rondel. And yes Sheryl – it is funny (in a good way) that so many people ended up writing, without first taking note of the other poems…Centos. How clever of you to notice that.

    So, here’s my Rondel, using a line from a Cento I posted yesterday:


    He thought he saw an elephant.
    The elephant was dancing tap.
    When she was done, she doffed her cap
    for tips. He smiled and took the hint

    and dropped some coins, along with lint.
    His pocket was a real lint trap.
    The elephant was dancing tap.
    He thought he saw an elephant

    and then he blinked, and then he didn’t
    see anything except a chap
    who saw what wasn’t there. “Such pap!
    But…she’s still there if I half-squint…”
    He thought he saw an elephant.


  26. (an attempt at a cascade poem)


    Beyond the edge of town
    this land of mauve and brown
    lies crowned, like queens of old,
    with cottonwoods of gold.

    The sweep of purple sky
    bids swallows low and high
    to migrate, by and by,
    beyond the edge of town

    and seek the lands of green
    where insects still careen.
    Though cold cannot demean
    this land of mauve and brown,

    the time has come to know
    that life, once more, flows slow.
    Just so, the land below
    lies crowned, like queens of old,

    and in its majesty
    means all the world to me;
    I watch the sunlight flee
    with cottonwoods of gold.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

  27. Memories Rise with the Setting Sun

    A sun that sets and disappears intro the western sea
    Its golden, glittery path might lead into eternity
    But in our hearts we know that spender and that glow
    Will rise again tomorrow and the scene will show
    That same broad band of colors on a path so bright
    Riding on the waters from morning until night.

    Sunlight may slip away but will soon enough return.
    All new and brightly shining – that lesson we have learned.
    It is we who are the one that face eternal gloom
    To disappear from this earth abruptly and to soon.
    Our last impressions might not be what we would choose to hear
    When for all eternity we will hear that echo in our ear…
    So if possible we will try to be remembered with a smile
    That lingers, like the sunset’s path, for just a little while.

    This is a sonnet, that is easy to write & fun to play with its meter & rhyme..

  28. Sun’s Colors (a Renga)

    Red sun lifts her head;
    Dawn’s fingers grip the green hill,
    Forming bright contrast:

    Red and orange and blue on green,
    Sky is mingling with earth.

    Gold sun rests there, proud,
    Yellow bright in noon blue sky,
    Shining on the pink

    Cherry blossoms, sparkling
    Off a stream, colors blending.

    Orange sun nods her head;
    Tired at last, she sinks beneath
    A dark horizon,

    Colors mixing one last time:
    Orange and red and pink on black.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  29. Tree Song

    The song outside my window mellow green
    and in his leafy dance I hear his tune.
    Delighted in his fullness, he does lean
    as cuckoos sit upon his branches, croon.

    This tree has had the better of my morn
    as now I sit and watch him play his part
    enticing birds; as jazz man with a horn
    they flock to him and near to him, their heart.

    Lush tree outside my window , drunkenness
    is fostered on us all; bird, beast. We’re bound;
    we’re captured by that joy that you attest
    in all your flaunted, leafy, flut`ring sound.

    Oh, solid kin, if God is anywhere;
    he must be green with music that is shared.

    (My favorite form still seems to be the Shakespearean Sonnet.
    I never seem to lose my interest in the challenge of it.)

  30. I love tree watching. Remember that scene in the John Travolta movie(The name won’t come – he has a brain tumor and gets smarter and smarter?)where he is in the garden and the wind blows the tops of the trees? They sway back and forth. Watching trees is like watching the ocean waves, peaceful and awe-inspiring. Love your poem.

  31. Haiku are hard for me, but I’ll give it a try:

    The forest and swamp
    comingle, dark and deep;
    an owl gives a hoot.

    Copyright 2013, William Preston

  32. The Crapsey cinquain is one of my favorite poetic forms. This poem, however, was inspired a comment made to one of my earlier posts, above:


    I loved
    dear Adelaide
    from the time we first met:
    her form captured my attention
    for good.

    copyright 2013, William Preston


    Pick your own berries;
    bring your own beer;
    choose your own form
    and make like a seer.

    Bring all of these things
    where poets are meeting;
    one of them, surely,
    will earn you a greeting.

    copyright 2013, William Preston


  35. ITS COLD TEETH PRECISE (a cento)*

    I’m in the middle of my life.
    I see it as through a crowd,
    from a bad angle,
    and the show continues.
    I am trapped in this kitchen,
    kindness a grater
    that will not come clean.
    The day shrinks back from me.
    The petals of the fireweed fall
    where they fall.

    You have marked me
    And I wish I could escape
    the crush of it
    Regret has many offices
    Do not decode these signs of mine
    Prayers inside are tangled in twigs
    They cannot move, they’re stranded
    Undeciphered let my song
    rewire circuits wired wrong
    A chert blade no bigger
    than a white lie
    I want to be as thin
    as the scars on my wrist
    I have been lying here too long
    to distinguish war from suicide

    Listen: you are the meantime
    It’s more like that familiar wish
    to become a man
    when you are, in fact,
    a tributary
    And lilies at the edge.
    Tigers in the lane eyeing you.
    You wanted to be that brash.
    Death-defying gladioli line the Colosseum

    It would be difficult for a pagan,
    never mind a communist
    to love you according to the season.
    Time is how one thing
    becomes another.
    Trade one noise for another.
    Must there always
    be something for which we are
    prepared to lose everything.
    At first nothing will happen
    to us and later on it will
    happen to us again.
    And the whole time
    I can’t stop thinking …

    I have heard what happens
    when you step too far
    I’m blindsided, locked
    in a fisted dream,
    Painting a door
    in the brunted
    cell of my life
    The world is turning
    me into evening.

    (a cento – lines gathered from the poetry of Canadian poets: Margaret Atwood, Elizabeth Bachinsky,Lorri Neilsen Glenn, Jacob Scheier,S.McDonald,Laurie MacFayden,sheri-d wilson,Matthew Tierney, rob mclennan, Leonard Cohen, Karen Solie,Jeremy Dodds,Alice Major, Nancy Mackenzie)

  36. (Always a day late and a dollar shy – but I wanted to try my hand at a cento. In line seven I left out the word ‘shall”. Is that OK when writing a cento or must you use the excerpt exactly?)

    I’s frustrated!

    A Burdock—clawed my Gown—
    Who went too near
    The Burdock’s Den—
    Here I sit
    With my shoes mismated.
    I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
    I wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
    At times, indeed, almost ridiculous–
    Almost, at times, the Fool.
    I’s frustrated!

    Bad Morning, Langston Hughes; The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
    by T. S. Eliot; A Burdock—clawed my Gown, Emily Dickinson

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