Humans seem to love attaching human qualities to other animals and inanimate objects. Ships are usually referred to as feminine; and objects such as automobiles, firearms, and sewing machines have been named. Dogs, cats, horses, pigs, and other animals have been said to “know” or “feel,” in ways understood to be human. Write a poem about an object or animal that has been personified in some way.
MARIE ELENA’S LIMERICK
She’s a Great Grandfather
Perplexed by the words he is choosing –
His mixing of gender’s amusing.
He says, “She’s a beauty,”
While doing the duty
Of winding our clock. It’s confusing!
© copyright 2013, Marie Elena Good
WILLIAM’S ATTEMPT
U.S.S. YORKTOWN, OFF MIDWAY, 4 JUNE 1942
She was hurt before she started.
Injured in battle at the Coral Sea,
she had to be patched and jury-rigged
and sent into battle again
toward another objective.
She met her mates upon the sea
at a spot on the open ocean
called, perhaps prayerfully, Point Luck.
There, she awaited the Emperor’s fleet
steaming toward its objective.
She met her enemy and they were hers.
In rapid succession and shot with luck,
she and her mates flung funeral pyres
on three of four Japanese carriers
deflected from their objective,
but the remaining carrier, determined
to fight on for the Son of Heaven;
sent planes aloft to scan the sea.
They found her, and she knew
that she was their objective.
She was injured again. And again:
bombs and torpedoes from planes
and a spread of torpedoes from a submarine
raised fires and spawned explosions;
they had met their objective.
She burned; she listed, she slipped beneath the sea;
with tears accompanying her,
she sought the bottom, to join her victims.
She was gone, leaving her mates
midway to their objective.
© copyright 2013, William Preston
WALT COMES ALIVE
WHAT’S IN A NAME?
Roses smell sweet, and their beauty
is their sworn duty to nature.
In any nomenclature, their stature blooms
filling every room with their fragrant fare.
Shall I call a woman a rose?
By any other name she would be as sweet
and beautiful, a dutiful inspiration
in any nomenclature. A flower amongst thorns.
Well worn on a well-worn sleeve,
she leaves an impression, that says her heart,
the blush of a rose, has chosen you to be her gardener.
And you are blessed to hold her bloom.
Her perfume, like the rose, flows to your nostrils,
filling you with her heavenly scent,
for she was heaven sent. She was meant to be nurtured
and cared for, and what’s more, to be admired
and loved. Above all else, she will grace your life
brightening your days as long as she stays in view.
Just like roses too, a women is most beautiful.
A woman is a rose. What’s in a name?
© copyright 2013, Walter J Wojtanik
Responses
The Wind In The Tree
He gently flings her vibrant coat away,
His quick, cold fingers travel down her skin,
Caressing, throwing into disarray
Her every sense, her head begins to spin;
She shudders slightly at his gentle touch,
Her long arms trembling with every stroke,
And falling still as he begins to clutch
Her closer, all her passion to evoke;
His whispers constantly into her ear,
Her Autumn colors rustle as they move,
Not one small part of her is touched with fear:
Naught in this world, she says, can stop this love;
But he was gone ere the first snowfall came,
She stands there, bare…was it all just a game?
© Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013
I love this doomed love story, Erin – you elegantly breathed life into the wind by writing these enchanting verses.
Yes… so Lovely…
Thank you, Andra and Henrietta! 🙂
Sensual and emotive. So much so that it makes me believe the tree truly feels this way.
Erin Kay: When you began writing poetry, it was obvious you had an impressive natural talent. In the months you have been posting here, I’ve watched you blossom into one of the most amazing poetic voices I’ve encountered.
Keep wowing us, kiddo.
I agree with Marie.
It’s such a joy to see your work blossoming in this garden, Erin!
Thank you, Hannah! You and Marie both…wow…you’re bringing tears….
Tears of joy are the best kind!! ♥ you!
❤!!
Oh my gosh…thank you so much, Marie! I can’t begin to say how thankful I am for your words – you are too sweet. How blessed I am. Love you! ❤
Love you back, hon.
Wow. Lovely and sensual.
Thank you, Will!
Erin, This left me breathless.
What a compliment! Thank you, Ellen. 🙂
We both had wind on the mind. Your poem is lovely, stirring… steamy even:)
William – a wow, Marie so cute and Walt, Viv is right, so romantic.
Thanks, Debi! The tree was actually who I was trying to bring to life, though. I always feel so sorry for them when their leaves are all gone…
Very beautiful Erin and well written.
Thanks, Ben! 🙂
Perfectly captured, Erin!!!
Thank you!! ❤
Erin…I can only amen the comments above. What a perfect personification. Your vision of this seducing enchantment by Wind and Tree’s innocent blush and sudden heartbreak was beautiful.
You are too kind…thank you!
Erin, this is a storybook poem, and so lovely.
Erin, I love that you chose to personify the wind, and they way you brought the words tolife.
William, your history poem was emotional and so well written.. ME your limerick made me laugh, and Walt, you are ab old romantic.
😀
All hit right on the head!!
Thank you, Viv. And you are so right about the other three! Marie, that’s too cute. 🙂
My thoughts exactly on these three excellent works.
Voyeur
Silent companion,
what am I to you that you should
bear my ghosts upon your lap?
Cloistered stranger, can my heart
become
enlivened by your hunger,
my hands
emboldened
by your gaze
drilling its way beyond my shoulder,
shaping
the loving way you grasp
and hide
what names and tattered tales you find
cavorting on your velveteen facade?
You creak your loneliness
beneath the twitches
of holographic butterflies
until it sounds like friendship,
as I drape my ghosts
along your wooden arms
and light them paper candles.
The smell of fresh rain
clings to the azaleas and the pavement
is strewn with silver footprints.
The moonlight
chases ’round its tail on folding wings.
Upon your cushioned lap,
I sit and write.
Thoroughly enchanting.
Thank you, William! 🙂
Andra – I love…. no, LOVE your voice. I could “listen” to your words forever and still be left asking for more. An extension to eternity, perhaps.
ABSOLUTELY. Gorgeous, gorgeous poetic voice!
Meena, this is one of the most beautiful compliments I have ever received – really! Marie, you are truly too kind in saying that. Thank you both!
It is all beautiful but I esp., love this:
The smell of fresh rain
clings to the azaleas and the pavement
is strewn with silver footprints.
The moonlight
chases ’round its tail on folding wings.
Thank you, Debi! That’s actually my favorite stanza as well. I wrote it first, then built the rest of the poem around it.
Opening with a question hooked me. A muse perhaps?
Nope, just your friendly neighborhood armchair – but it does inspire me in its own quiet way :))
*sigh* This makes my brain feel happy….warm-fuzzy-happy.
Thank you, Hannah! I’m happy to see you liked it! 🙂
Andra, this was lovely. The softness of the moment, the considering pleas, were stilling, like the pause behind a question.
Thank you, Damon! I also love the way you phrased your comment, like a poem in itself (“stillling, like the pause behind a question”) 🙂
That first stanza is stunning, and pulled me right in to a charming poem.
Thank you, Sara! I’m glad you enjoyed reading it! 🙂
Wow. Got lost in this one
Thank you! I’m glad it had the intended effect [smiles like the Cheshire cat] :))
I used this one for Poetic Asides’ ‘Elements’ because it’s totally anthropomorphic anyway…
Those Periodic Neighborhood Block Parties…
“I’m
in my
element,”
cried Helium, in a high, squeaky voice.
“Mercury’s rising to the occasion,
too,” noted
Gold and
Zinc.
“Um,
Bari…
um…would you
care to dance?” asked Lead. She nodded. “Lead on!”
Cobalt queried, “Have you seen the Bismuths?”
“They Argon,”
replied
Tin.
“Uh
oh!” yelled
Chromium,
“It’s the Coppers! This party’s outta hand!”
DJ Dubnium (doing Dubstep) just
ignored him,
which was
cool
but
Iron
disagreed.
“Don’t be such an Arsenic,” Sulfur hissed.
Then, the Cops joined in, which was Tantalum
to giving
the O
K
for
the fete
to go on.
“You and Iodine well tonight,” Krypton
told Silver. “Our Table’s full of Nitro-
gen-erous
portions
here.”
And
so, the
party went
on, with much Praseodymium from one
and all, who toasted, “Livermorium
and prosper!”
That is
all.
###
I commented on the Asides blog, but I didn’t mention that I was thinking of the prompt here when I read it there. This is stunning, funning, punning work. Thoroughly enjoyable.
OM G… the talent/brilliance!!
This has left me beside myself. Wow! and Wow!
Maybe I’m a boron but I zinc this is so cool!
LOL!!! “Don’t be such an Arsenic,” Sulfur hissed. I’m so going to start using that line!!!
OH.
MY.
WORD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Could you BE any more amazing?!
It’s elementary: yes.
This is very Creative RJ
I must chime in…RJ this is BRILLIANT! Wow.
RJ, from the first line on you had me back in high school with my chemistry teacher! I can see the huge chart on the wall at my left, which at the time I had memorized (yes I was a pre-personal-technology-era geek in the late sixties). This was absolutely fun. Although if I had been at that party I would have been a wall-flourine.
I am knocked out by this amazingly clever poem.
PEN PAL
I never did learn how one goes about
Mourning the death of a pen that runs out.
Somewhere within a long-winded word
My writing mate inked to scrawls absurd.
It coughed up blue phlegm, scratching for breath,
Fought the good fight, then gave in to death.
I clicked it, I coaxed it, but much too late.
Wordlessly, I sat with a dead writing mate.
Whom do you call at a time such as this?
Who would have thought a pen could be missed.
So I sat there and wept, sentimental old fool,
And I cursed the sadness of endings so cruel.
In token of thanks for services done,
I refrained from writing poems that are fun.
All that I’d write? Elegies to pens:
Sorely neglected, unsung heroes and friends.
Now grief is behind me; I’m writing again
Poems that are happy, but in pencil, not pen.
I look at past writings in a time that’s gone by,
And recapture fond memories of an old friend that ran dry.
#
I love this. I had a Waterman once….
I still have my green Waterman fountain pen, but I don’t use it. The same for my black and silver Papermate ballpoint pen. Now don’t laugh or call the boys in white, okay? I placed each of those two pens in a pen gift box on top of a layer of cotton, then taped the boxes shut. I know. It sounds like two coffins nailed down, but I loved those pens and always feared losing them. I may ask that they keep me company when they drop my sorry self on a bed of cotton!
I understand. I still have a Waterman, albeit it uses cartridges, and a Mt. Blanc that fills the old-fashioned way.
Ohh… true friendship!!
I love this reminder: “Elegies to pens://Sorely neglected, unsung heroes and friends.”
I am so zealously protective of my writing friends. We had to use fountain pens in school – the cartridge kind. I absolutely cherished my Mt Blanc (gift when I turned 16) and Waterman (gift when I graduated from college). Despite my best care, there were lost in the any of a number of cross country moves.
Very sweet. I guess we all have had favorite pens but only Sal would think to write a elegy to his pen.
Oh, Sal … this is just ADORABLE!
Splendid, great ode to the pen Sal!
Fantastic!!! This is such fun, Sal!!
Sal, what a delight!
I had a Mont Blanc once, in lovely swirling colors, but it was not immortal. Now I use extra-tip pens from an art supply store.
This is an old one – not sure if I have shared it here before or not…
Trees
By David De Jong
April 2012
Been workin’ out in the grove most of the day,
Things runnin’ through my mind, no particular way.
I was pickin’ up wood, debris, dead trees an’ such,
When it dawns on me; folks is like these trees purty much.
There be tall ones and short ones, to say the least,
There be gnarly ones, lookin’ fierce as a beast.
Some appear as grand, with height stretchin’ so high to heaven overhead,
But on closer look, they’re just standin’, not livin’ at all, totally dead.
You’ll see big round ones, that seem to get more than their share,
Shadin’ out the scrawny, so thin to see em, you have to stare.
Some carry roots deep, holdin’ strong, able to weather the storm,
Others so weak and shallow, a light breeze gives em new form.
The steadfast look confident, even showin’ their age,
The saplings bend and fall easy, like turnin’ a page.
Tall pine half-full of life, green on one side, brown an’ dead on the other,
Clingin’, strugglin’ to survive, facin’ storms and all life’s weather.
Some is bloomin’ with flowers an’ the scent of sweet perfume,
Others are dry an’ flakey, when you touch em, they poof in a plume.
The broken are held up by a neighbor, leanin’ a might, but not lettin’ em fall.
The lonely just lie on the ground, wastin’ away, untouched, unnoticed by all.
Then there are the needy ones, wrapped up in themselves, stranglin’ what life they got,
Sadly, they push an’ shove everyone else away, hoardin’ it all, not sharin’ a spot.
Even the plum bushes; attractive with blossoms, an’ leaves velvety thick,
Deceiving everyone of their thorns; long, deadly, an’ ready to stick.
Little peculiar how these similarities to people stand out in the trees,
Only; we as humans can repent, ask God’s forgiveness down on our knees.
I l ve this. We have a conifer like your dead-on-one-side pine, only ours is a spruce.
I see it… Love this!!
Wonderful insight.
This is just great David!
SO true!! I’m glad you brought this one out into the light of the garden, David!
David. Excellent, so thorough an analysis of the vast human forest.
Love this, David!
THE FEEDER SOUNDS OFF
Romantics harp about the life
that courses all around me;
they think my world’s devoid of strife
but, listen, they astound me.
Imagine if your plate was full
of suet, shells, and droppings.
I think you’d say it all is bull
to have a lap of sloppings.
copyright 2013, William Preston
:D!!
Oh no! LOL!
Bill, i will have a greater sympathy for these humble feeders now forever. FUN!
Cool and unique, William.
Marie and Walt, it feels good to see both of your poems up top, where they belong. Marie, your limerick title caused a double take, which is probably how you intended it. I enjoyed reading it. Walt, your poem feels sensual and nostalgic at the same time, to me anyway. I love the deep affection is exudes. Thanks for posting.
😀
Au
Like a carrot dangling
before a donkey’s nose
I led men unaware
the value lay
in the mountains,
the forest,
the sea
themselves.
Really love this one – esp, the title.
Yes!
Beautiful and brilliant – in more ways than one.
Connie, just started watching the West documentary by Ken Burns on Netflix and the gold rush was a phenomena just as you say here…a discovery of greater wealth than Au.
[…] at Poetic Bloomings we are being asked to write a personification poem. An avid journal writer, I decided to write a […]
A Blanket Sacrifice
By: Meena Rose
Verses continue to tumble;
The ink steadily bleeds;
A punctured vein spewing
Royal blue – at times
Trapped within the salted
Pools of a language so intense;
An incoherent amalgam of Life.
I try my best to absorb it all –
The royal blue and the regal salt;
I try in vain to divert the blue
So it can hold a semblance of its
Form and I never know when I will
Have angered her and failed her;
She, full of loathing, rips my
Children out of my being;
With each attack, pain
Lances through my spine;
Again, I am left dazed;
No, confused, for our purpose
Is but to serve and buffet
The world from the incessant
Pull of the pit of human anguish;
Who is there to hear my plea and
To recognize my own anguish?
Must our service be without
Recognition? Inanimate objects,
You say – a travesty of thought
Aimed at keeping your life simple.
The intensity of this poem is startling and gripping; there is nothing inanimate about it or its object.
Thanks, Bill.
Wow. Spot on … and so GORGEOUS penned.
Thanks, Marie. Of course, after writing that, I just had to go and apologize to my journal.
Royalty, I enjoyed your first stanza especially. Let the verses tumble!
Thanks, Ben.
A rich eruption of verbiage here, Meena! Lovely writing!
Thank you, Hannah.
Agreed…rhe emotion flows. Intense Meena.
Thank you so much 🙂
Gripping first stanza, leading into a beautifully written Poem.
Envelope
He
enfolds
me through the
sad, keeping me
warm.
What a marvelous word-picture.
Said very well Hen!
Nice!
You’re one of the queens of poignant brevity, Hen! Truly. 🙂
Henrietta, this was lovely imagery.
Thank you all so much… I Loved writing it!!
A Living Paint-brush
Giving life to a canvas, with each strock of color telling a story not seen before, a setting for moods, joys remembered, saddness recalled, pleasant days relived, hopes revealed, a sprinkle of love, a dash of tears. Unfolding the stories of people, lives, events drawn from a tube to brush, to canvas, to eye.
Blue, white ocean waves
Green, purple for the folage
Gold and pink sunset,
To me, this word-picture feels like a painting.
Beautiful, Marjory. And it’s true that paintings give life to a canvas.
I love the shape this took…that you used your body for discussion and the haiku part as ingredients…a wonderful haibun!
Marjory, I loved this living brush so deliberate and joyful in his duty and purpose.
Yes, Thanks for painting this one Marjory
Old Betsy
It was my mother’s old Plymouth Horizon
That was graceful as a elephant in slippers, brown as a cocoa bean and loud as Mack truck. Old Betsy was her name.
She always…well, most of the time got us to where we needed to be. Whether in bitter-cold hard winters or perfectly warm but uncooperative, mother would say ” come on Betsy, come on Betsy, come on Betsy” as she turned the ignition over and over fully hoping to hear that old engine fired up again. As if somehow she could start the car on sheer willpower.
Old Betsy was anything but timid, just as bold as my mother, we would hear them coming a mile away. Turning around, she would put it in reverse and back up our long driveway with the skill of a wicked stuntman.
But our fondest remembrance will always be mothers chant “come on Betsy, come on Betsy, come on Betsy”.
Wonderful! I was hooked at “elephant in slippers.”
Lol, thx William
Me too! This is just darling, Benjamin! I KNEW someone would have a car story! 😀
I can just hear the “come on, Betsy” sweet story and memory.
Nice!!! Makes me want to name my car! 🙂
Benjamin, indeed this was a vivid, and, audible memory of what must have been like a family member.
I love this. It almost “hears” like – Old Betsy’s Wake. There is the richness of nostalgia, the inside joke remembered – I equate these vignettes to “The Smores of Life”. Thank you for serving up something so yummy.
Thx
🙂
The garden is not complete without a Rose!
It is official, Ben. You have just made this old gal blush like a school girl. 🙂
I just took a gander at your website in the about section. “What is humanity, …to be human?” Deep questions there.
Love the description here, and it reminded me of an old Ford mustang in peculiar rust color that was called, Deloris.
Lol! Thats a good name
This is an excerpt from a eulogy I wrote for a special friend several years ago.
It Rained Last Wednesday
It rained last Wednesday.
A cold, raw unforgiving
mist, scowling
brow of drizzle –
perched on the shoulders of everyone.
It rained last Wednesday.
Under cover of bad
weather, disguised as
secret agents –
Pain and Suffering shook hands on
a job well done –
and turned my friend over to
the hands of Peace and Stillness.
It rained last Wednesday.
The world has lost a foundation
pillar.
The wheel has
lost its hub.
The family
has lost its patriarch.
Yes, John. We’ll all watch out
for each other – as you want us to –
but none of us can take
your place for any of us –
nor will we try.
But you’ll always keep us laughing.
As rain washes the sky, so
tears cleanse the soul.
Even the clouds cry when
they are over-burdened.
And it rained last Wednesday.
Ellen Knight 11.17.13
write a personification poem for PB
Tenderly spot on. The recurring “rain” theme fell like the tears.
“Even the clouds cry when
they are over-burdened.”
Wow …
Beautiful Ellen and a heartfelt tribute.
“Even the clouds cry when
they are over-burdened.”
Love that…
and I really enjoy the capitalized Pain and Suffering Peace and Stillness…
This reminds me of a book I love, “Hinds’ Feet on High Places,” by Hannah Hurnard.
Ellen, this was a solemn sadness personified by that cold drizzle…as well as those partnered undertakers Pain and Suffering. I could see them standing there in their brim-dripping hats and wet glistening black raincoats assured they had conducted the service so well.
Ellen – beautifully penned. Dignity, sadness, reality of a world that keeps moving on – the very ooey gooey carmely center of so called life.
Such a touching tribute, written beautifully, and with grace.
He Names the Trees Francis
A kind of crazy Eden, we
name every animal and tree,
large pots and plates, both shoes and skates,
piano, guitar, and psaltery.
He favors Francis, I’m confused,
because, you see, the name was used
already for the gingko tree.
How can you use it for a spruce?
His car is Brenda, mine is Claire;
one cat is Warren, Moose, and Bear,
We double up on nicknames, too.
He’s Fluff and Lamb, and I’m Hey, You!
Hey! You did good.
Hey, You! I’m chuckling big out here, Jane! ADORABLE! (And love your ending!)
Hi Jane, this is quite lovely. I think you’ve touched upon our world of nicknames
🙂
Such a fun poem, Jane. This is inspiring me to name some of our plants here in the house… 🙂
Thanks, friends. We’re afflicted with personification at my house 😀
I understand fully. Becky just shakes her head when I speak to the squirrels on a first name basis. Loved it Jane.
This is so counter to how I grew up. I adored every last bit of it. This incessant Hey You’er will have to mind her language. Hey You’s already taken 🙂
Wild Winds
Across my cheek, gently, in slow, warm, caress
you stroke, then all over, every touch a learned finesse.
I close my eyes and savor this moment too quickly gone
yet, you stoke such longing in me with your come on.
Day by hot, heavy day, I look for you. Every glance
out the window is a query. Do the flowers dance?
The grasses bend? The tree tops sway? And as you left
in a huff will you return the same way? Do. Prove
you love me, me alone with each gesture tender
you swathe me with yearning, a yellow splendor
that covers me, beckons me to throw in with you,
and go, footloose, unfettered. Oh, how you woo
my stale, sad soul to follow you to exotic places
turn my back on home, duty and familiar faces.
This my heart’s secret craving that blows
fierce … I want to be whooshed away, wild Derecho.
This, for me, has echoes of The Wayward Wind, a song from when i was young. It’s a lot more intense than that, though, and powerfully written.
Excellent!
Whoa there! Very passionate piece. I love poems about the wind. Your last few lines really packed a punch.
This is written with such a beautiful aching longing tone. Captured well, Debi!
i must agree with Hannah, the longing gathered and deepened from caress to swathe to craving. LOVELY!
Wonderful sense of longing.
As some of you know, it’s a wee bit windy here in IL today.
I hear the sirens as I post this. 85 mph wind gusts in some places.
“Wind”
I see the wind Its arms adrift
our cobalt home A gasping dome
I hear her spar with tendrilled oaks
and swollen tides of beastly lakes
I feel her steely force amass
A gathered hunger poised to grasp
ungrounded prey and men afraid
to battle through her cyclone laugh
I taste her journeys on my tongue
The brine of seven seas and sun
Of spiraled desert heat and thaw
of terra firma tundra cold
Her booted kick uprooting years
with robust howls intent to spin
the earth around And round again
battered by the arms of Wind.
Wow. This is mesmerizing. Wonderful collation of image and sound.
Absolutely! A gripping read.
This is quite enchanting. Hope all is well in your area with all the tornadoes.
🙂
Wow…the cadence here is such a thrilling experience, jlynne! I really love the imagery and words choices…
“I taste her journeys on my tongue
The brine of seven seas and sun
Of spiraled desert heat and thaw
of terra firma tundra cold”
Love these!
Loved this…the cyclic rhythm sets a reverberating tone of awe and fear.
Love the taste images here.
William, “Yorktown” is just an amazing write. You managed to capture what “she” would most likely actually be feeling. Especially your last few lines are just fabulous.
Thanks, Marie
Walt: Yours is so visual, I have to admit that I at first misunderstood … I thought you were speaking of a woman, and comparing her to a rose. Bravo!
Hagia Sophia
Arching walls, reaching so high—
a petition to far off stars,
proportioned gold mosaic
to lure Her, ensnare Her fast.
I am here, for immortality,
to listen to endless prayers
All sad slaves, quarry and mines,
all who are dead, like torn prayer flags
the beggars, helpless outside,
uninvited, She stays with them.
The incense, in hora mortis
nostrae, the smell of great fear.
How lovely, the music of day.
Many thanks, Oh Emperor.
I am sorry, I couldn’t save you.
She stays away in deep silence,
a pilgrim on an wide, white beach
the wave, the gull, everything.
Three Sijo
Poetic Bloomings prompt – Personification
I think this has a bit of the majesty of the original in Istanbul.
Yes, I so agree…this has such a sense of Majesty.
I really enjoy the image of the arching wall reaching for stars and the tattered prayer flags.
Beautiful, Lorna!
A deeply gorgeous, meaningful write. Thank you, Lorna. I hope we get to reach much more of your work here.
Marie Elena
Rocky and Bullwinkle
Moose and squirrel dressed as spies
to fool the humans, Boris and Natasha.
The Russian couple were elegant
in a sinister sort of way, and were trained
to spread evil. Somehow their minds
were never quite sharp enough
for the flying squirrel, and the madcap moose.
I loved that show. Thanks for reminding me.
My pleasure.
That show was a fractured fairy tale all its own, and your little poem does it justice.
Thanks, William. One of my all time favorites.
I agree!! AND now I’m about to you-tube some episodes! Thank you, Sara!
Thanks, Hannah. Enjoy!
Ha! I used to watch that when I was a kid too…
Oh, the memories!
Fun little poem here, Sara!
Thanks, Marie!
Cryptic Winds
What do brazen winds bring but gleeful springs a slow uprising of southerly scents
What chorus sound is borne within the expanse of timeless rhythmic wings
It’s fiery burgundy passions sting
strewn across summerly vents
It caresses the vaunted mountains
streams effortlessly through the lowly of the valley
There’s nothing it hasn’t touched or met
with chilling breeze or perhaps brought to their knees in soothing calm
Who knows from whence it comes or whither it flows but in all said the cryptic winds has no rest
Alright, I couldn’t resist a wind poem
I’m glad you couldn’t.
🙂
Yes, wind is a breath of inspiration. Nicely gathered, Ben!
Hear, hear!
I love wind poems, Benjamin, and this works well.
There is just something about the cryptic, lonely wind!
Pulse
I held a starfish
in my hand
Tiny, fragile
bright, red
Reminding me that
lifeblood
is tender,
fragile,
and bright.
I think this is a little gem, like that starfish.
William… you’re a gem… thank you.
rewrite: (don’t know why…)
Pulse
I held a starfish
in my hand
Tiny, fragile
bright, red
Reminding me that
lifeblood
is tender,
fragile,
and, Oh so bright.
I like the rewrite, Hen, it gives it more of a personable emotional punch. Such a brilliant image and idea, ♥
… That’s It! … Thank you, Hannah… Now I understand why… 🙂 !!
I like this, but actually like the first one better, I think. But a gem either way, just as Bill pegged it. 🙂
Nice morsel Hen, enjoyed the image of the starfish and life blood. Precious isn’t it?
Thank you, Benjamin… yes, very precious…!!
A Man of Bleak Daylight
This man lives in a cloud
of her silky whiskey breath.
He who beds with soft hurt
in a murky marsh, isolated,
lurking in bleak daylight.
A tiptoed, tripped-soul, run
a rummy race. He wakes
to the pain of lanky razors
in his blood puddled mouth.
His world reels and soars
as he holds her close
to his lips. She is his angel.
His demon. His burnt dawn.
She is his silky whiskey breath.
Wow. This feels like a kaleidoscope with a cyclone in it.
This is so expressive…I love the contrasting dark/light/positive/negative happening in here and on the dark-side this line is striking, ” blood puddled mouth.” Nice writing, Misky!
If you pop over to my blog (see ping back below) there’s a Victorian print of Gin Lane in London that goes with this poem. I’m glad I’m that you liked it.
Thank you…that really brings another intriguing layer to your work, Misky! 🙂
Superb descriptions here, Misk
…painful capture…
Painful capture, indeed. Misk, your imagery is fantastic.
[…] PB “Personification” and Wordle #135 and Renovation Day 17 * […]
Family
He worries that my “roof has slipped”
and sneaks up on me as I chat.
Who are you talking to? he asks.
A potted plant? A chair? A cat?
Never you mind, I caution him;
the words were never meant for you,
and I hear you talking to books
and mowers, trimmers, rakes, and trees.
Just checking up on how they feel.
I know just what you mean, I say.
My Hilda is the worse for wear.
He lifts his eyebrow. Yes, my chair.
He wants to send me to a home
for people who personify,
but then he smiles and laughs, I see.
My Otto’s blades need sharpening.
He’s grown so old, has aches and pains,
I don’t think he could trim a tree.
He’s served you well. We stand and see
a brand new Otto, younger us,
a brand new gadget to be loved.
Who knows how deep feelings can be
for things that serve us willingly.
We’re quite a pair; he dabs his eyes.
He gives my hand a squeeze. I sigh.
I have a big smile as I read this. Utterly charming work.
I’m in total agreement with, Bill, Jane! This is such a joy!
Thanks, Hannah and Bill. We really are quite a pair in a wacky way.
Jane, I have misty eyes now that I’ve read the last of this. So very endearing!
American Landmarks
(a series of Haikus)
Four Presidents look
Stone carved faces glorified
They made history
With her torch held high
Liberty’s symbol stands proud
Freedom in her eyes
He looks o’er the Mall
Memorialized in stone
“Four score and seven”
She’s called “The Gateway”
Silver beauty arching high
Ride her to the top
Rung until she cracked
No longer in her tower
Her freedom rings strong
House of the people
Home of the people’s leader
No other exists
Rows upon long rows
Headstones honor the fallen
They gave all for us
So many landmarks
Dot this land of liberty
Hail, America
© 2013 Earl Parsons
I enjoyed reading this, and oddly enough, it recalled for me a monument I recall from the U.S.-Canada border, at Blaine, Washington, I think it is, that says, “Children of a Common Mother.” It refers, I suppose to England, though that’s probably farfetched, given the polyglot background of the United States.
How did you come up with all this? Good stuff here, Earl!
Seasonal Quilts: A Cycle of Warmth
Autumn comes dressed for a cozy night in
wrapped up in a patchwork quilt
and smelling of apple pie.
While the wind throws acorns
down her neck.
Winter tiptoes in overnight
covering us in a downy white quilt,
keeping the earth warm
as she snuggles into slumber
for a well deserved rest.
Spring slogs through the mud
poking her nose into every crack and crevice
like a needle sewing together a quilt,
until the earth is covered in a soft rainbow
of new life.
Summer heats things up
causing us to sizzle and throw off our quilts
in favor of beach towels that we drape on the sand
to soak in the sun as she shines down on us
and tickles the waves and our skin.
Until it’s time for Autumn to kiss Summer good-bye
and we start walking the hills looking for a patchwork quilt
to keep us warm.
I wondered how you were going to work in a quilt for summertime. Shouldda guessed. I love this.
I love the complete cycle feeling within this, Michelle and the closing summation is so pleasing!
Michelle, this is just excellent. So poetic and visual, and so home-like!
Personified Memories
Drift into daydream
A rift memory
Of Dad’s sly smile
His goofy frame
And timid style
When I was
Just a little tot
He’d always say
“I’ll tell you
When you get older”
Then let me play
I can still see you
Well into my dreams
Coming and going
Freely so it seems
Shift back to reality
He’s gone now…
And I’ll never
Know the answers
This is such a moving piece. The nostalgia is almost palpable.
Inspired by a random memory I Had today of my Dad. Thx
Benjamin, this is so touching.
Hugs …
I gave this poem love on your site but I’ll say here as well that I really love how you grab your reader with a what seems to be light hearted and then smack us in the end with an emotional whammy. Well done!
Romantic Winds
I abhor the stillness
And obect to calm waters
Mock the peaceful willows
Curse the fluttering sparrow
What is it all
Without the storm
Of your affection
The unpredictable
Inconstant direction
Let me fall
Shattered now
Into a billion pieces
Come, summon quickly
My lover’s breezes
Let me hide
In his lofty bosom
Riding high
In the crevice
Of his countenance
Don’t leave me here
To rot in the barren stillness
Take me with you
To the high peak
Of every mountain
Let us laugh
Together at high altitude
Soaring in stride
With earth defying eagles
Take me with you
To the coastal lands
Show them yours gusts
Then lets roll softly
Through the meadow
Or blast every city if you must
Only take me with you
Upon ethereal wings
And let us flow together
I am captivated by this poem. It feels almost physically uplifting.
This feels a lot like song of songs to me…so flowing and filled with nature’s beauty.
Oohh…Song of Songs is the ultimate poetry
Makes me feel like I can fly!
Benjamin, your poetry just keeps getting better and better. Love this one … read it 3 times.
London Bridge is Tired
All I wanted was to get away from the fog
The cold, the damp, My trusses will never
Be the same, but yes, this hot air has helped
I never thought I would be homesick for mist.
Yes, mist and the smell of the sea and the little
Shops along my edges and the people hurrying ,
and sometimes lovers making out in a hurry
but always the tides in the Thames, yes, I do
miss that stupid river, all we did was argue,
but I’ll tell you something. If anyone wants
to find out what the atmosphere of Hell is like
they can come right down here to the (ugh)
Arizona desert.
Yes, the biggest mistake of my life! Retiring
Into a warm, sunny climate was not for me!
These tourists don’t even know that London
Is still there! They think the whole city
Disappeared into the sea of something and
Arizona gallantly offered to give me a home!
Some home! All right, I will admit to a bit
Of grousing about the rain and the damp and
That dreadful fog. Now, I hear, some measures
Have been taken (what, I have no idea) and the
Fog is not the heavy smoke-filled burden it
Used to be. NOW they tell me! Now, that I
Have been shipped halfway across the world
To this desert hell-hole with not even a
Puddle in sight and what is a bridge to do?
I enjoyed this thoroughly. I’ve sen that bridge at Lake Havasu, and it did look disgusted with its surrounding despite having water under it.
Such visual enjoyable writing, Marian!
OH, MARIAN … YOUR IMAGINATION STUNS ME! And I”ll tell YOU what … of all the poems I’ve read and loved for this prompt, yours is only the second that has made me feel emotion toward the “object.” Your ending is absolutely perfect.
[…] for the personification of an object with Poetic Bloomings, PROMPT #129 – PERSONIFICATION (I personified earth as a she…as she often […]
Enlightenment (a tanka)
~
Earth feels eclipsed
until she begins to see clearly;
peering through her third eye
she contemplates stardust,
a golden bloom of rose.
~
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2013
This poem is truly enchanting; it calls to mind some of the Hubble photographs, but for me the main appeal is its underlying sense of awe.
Your comment is such a treat, Bill…thank you so very much. 🙂
I’m glad that this holds an “awe,” factor for you…
It does for me too, the last two lines come from a yellow rose that they call star dust…it was a gift from a writing/dance/meditation workshop and this tanka in its entirety portrays images from an oracle card that someone drew for me there. I don’t know much about those cards but some of them are really beautiful and inspiring.
🙂
Oh, yes. LOVELY, Sweet Hannah!
Marie-you capture that moment and the pov of your character so well…that combo of gender mixing IS amusing! 🙂
William-I so agree with your personification…spot on and quite the adventure! I love this line, “called, perhaps prayerfully, Point Luck.”
Walt-I enjoy the likening in your poem…beautiful and sensuous writing. Kind of neat coincidence…in my poem earth is a she and she’s contemplating how she is actually stardust and a golden rose.
Thank you you guys for being here! :)’s
😀
And thank YOU for being here!!!
Walt, life and love in that question which you pondered was answered so well by your persoification.
Marie, what a fun view of a grandgender (my new term now) clock.
William, last weeks hero theme tied over so beautifully into your offering about this grand lady’s courage and wrenching demise.
LOL! Love the new term! 😉
The Intangibles of Love
Show me love
and I’ll show you an empty room
Filled with nothing
Although its saturated with particles of air
Show me love
And I’ll point you to a dove that’s pure
In it’s gentleness
And single in it’s stare
You can’t see it
But its very similar to white on rice
Like a teenager
embroiled
in hormones
you simply can’t give it advice
Slice yourself open
Try ripping it out of your heart
Stick it in a frying pan with butter
Seasoned sautéing every part
Invisible to the naked eye
Although a blind man can see it
Immaterial to the touch
Although not untouchable
Inaudible to the hearing ears
But the deaf man can know it
Its not a gift that can be wrapped
But those without hands can bestow it
Lacking form you can’t
Stick it in your mouth and chew it
But you’ve seen it in someone’s eyes without knowing you just knew it
Its a breathtaking beast on a familiar face
With four legs a tail
And an hunger
For the human race
Its a superbug and heavenly contagion
A pandemic resistant disease
Spreading like wildfire
Every soul it will seize
Its altogether intangible in nature
And much like pliable wind
An unmistakable presence
A force that will not end
Wow. This is encyclopedic in its summation. Very impressive.
In your voice, a birdsong,
In your eyes, evening wine,
Pools of love beckon;
An invitation to intertwine.
Somehow, I miss it;
A signal lost in space;
A future shattered
Beyond a trace.
I hope the score says
Love has won;
I will not be there
When the days are all done.
————————————–
I could not resist an impromptu write 🙂
Wow, excellent!
Thanks 🙂
Lovely Meena!
Intangible, exactly. Wonderful imagery.
Benjamin AND Meena — WOW. Maybe the two of you should consider a collaboration.
Maybe 🙂
[…] Day 18 and Poetic Bloomings “Personification” Inspiration from: 1. “Please God, or whomever, get it over with already…” (John […]
Is God Really a Guy, and Other Unanswerable Questions
It was one of those occasions.
When you look up, searching for God,
as if he’s perched on some low slung cloud,
a log with his legs dangling over the edge,
with his toes wedged into a symphony
of blue, and I looked up into the cool
shadows of rain, and growled like a cello
that I wasn’t ready to be broken yet, so
“you’d better take some of this burden
because I’m just human.” And I’ve
wondered ever since why I’ve never
written to God the way I used to write
to Santa. It’s just too alfresco standing
in the garden shouting at godly clouds.
And does God have a gender; should
I write he or she or they or them or what?
I think this is magnificent. The image of “toes wedged into a symphony of blue” is precious, and “never written to God the way I used to write to Santa” is a lot more powerful than it looks, in my opinion.
Thanks, William. I’m glad that you liked it.
Wow. This piece calls out with a pure and questioning heart. This is an amazing write, Misk. (And I think that in the long run, gender is of no great consequence.)
Misky, you immediately made me remember lying on the pew at church as a small, small child, looking up to the thick brown wooden beams over the sanctuary and almost–no, I am sure certainly–seeing God lying just like me, stretched out across the beams from double-doors to pulpit, his head resting on his hand, listening to the pastor preach.
And peeking down at me from time to time.
NCP2375
By: Meena Rose
Humans, fickle and discontent,
Want to live life in cruise
Control and just glide.
Here I sit yearning for an
Ad-hoc decision to make – one
Not prescribed by my maker.
They do not know that I
Have found a place to hide
Where I can watch and judge.
It aggravates me that they
Waste their gift – a boon
Taken for granted and denied
Others as a result of their
Wishful thinking and fear
That something subservient
Could succeed – the underdog
Story applies only to their
Kind – they call it the
Human Spirit and claim it;
A realm meant to be shared
By many – do they even
Understand their humanity?
Schools of thought disagree yet if
“I think therefore I am” rules
The day then I am human and
I resent being called tin can;
Watch me teach them humanity.
I suspect we ought not speak too glibly of robotics. I think this is an excellent and thoughtful piece.
I am glad you enjoyed it.
There is a related piece that I wrote a while back called Prosthetic Conscience. It is the second poem on that link.
http://2voices1song.com/2013/04/04/napowrimo-2013-day-4/
Very thoughtful piece
Interesting how one can take a question and answer it in so many ways making more questions along the way.
🙂
So true. FABULOUS work, here, Meena.
Excellent Meena! What a view from inside the circuited synapses.
I am glad you appreciated that peek.
Moon Beams
By: Meena Rose
Have you happened on the thief
Who has stolen all my smiles?
Whose subtle words bring on relief?
Whose tales show off his wiles?
Have you happened on the thief
Who makes the Moon blush?
Whose gentle laugh serves as aperitif?
Whose hinted banter makes me flush?
Have you happened on the thief
Who transforms Dark to Light?
Whose ministrations have ended all grief?
Who makes me feel like a bird in flight?
Moon betrays his presence;
Yes, I can feel his essence.
I’m fairly beaming after reading that one!
🙂
This is very fair my lady
Smiles for miles, thanks Ben!
Great moon capture. I do have a fascination with the moon.
yes there is something very captivating about the moon I totally agree Sarah.
The moon and silver… are very magical for me.
Light within night.
Astral guide.
Silver moon.
Magic in plain sight 🙂
Nice one Meena, astral guide is special
Hear, hear! And so do I.
Yes…that person you seek is real. I’ve felt his gaze as he peeps through the high pine boughs to find me walking among shadows, and heard him whisper ‘why are you there?’
YES! He “feels” different amongst the high pine when compared to the Redwoods. Camping at the base of a Redwood on a full moon night… would do it again in a heartbeat if I could.
Sounds fantastic….Wow.
Early Crocus
I see
Her gazing up
At me from the snow,
A purple face lost in a crowd
Of white…
© Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013
Such a poignant little glimpse. Hope it stays mild for a while….
And she is lovely!
Simple and lovely, a staying image.
BIRCH DEFECTS
Birches are tough, hard-woods to be sure
and I, a weeping birch, no different
But dying, feel my mortality to the marrow
of my rings, and fear the thwack of the axe
attacking my trunk this cool Fall morning
Two deep vee-cuts enter my one side
before my henchman—accomplished, he
knows what he’s about, I can tell that—
starts in at equal height on my other side
With blade gleaming, whetted sharply,
he swings from shoulder height full-force,
makes a guttural sound from deep within;
a sound so loud it drowns out my groan
As the axe slices clear through
to the cuts begun opposite, I know
I am coming down; I see pieces
of my snow-white bark curling;
tree tears tumbling to the ground
around my roots…
I feel myself falling as if in slow motion
and catch sight of a woman in the window
of the house near me
The sun is shining full on her face and I
see that she is weeping; I wonder does
she cry for me…
Wow. This is deeply moving stuff. Excellent!
Ditto, this is excellent
Sharon, intriguing perspective. Wonderful.
Oh, Sharon … so very moving. I’m in tears.
Oh Sharon, my heart is cut as well…
beautiful.
Seen and Heard
Rendering eyes see a precious wooden heart, a small container of trinkets
That warned me to be careful what you put in it
Prowling eyes discover a picture with hearts made of stone that begged me not to be hardened
Striding eyes came across a heart shaped pillow for post-surgical hearts
Starved of it’s own life-juice
Wandering eyes steal a painting of a happy stream straddled by evergreens and cypress trees promising a better possession just beyond the bend
Two twin oaks stripped of their glorious crown assured me of their firm standing
Anchoring even deeper within the earth
An abundance of stubble, on either side, an ocean wide of hewn stalk spoke kindly of this year’s harvest
The day’s Sun still blasting, burning
relentlessly sharing it’s brilliance
Keeping my spirit buoyant
Sitting, grinning in the open sky, smiles in the expanse of heaven brooding faithfully over the face of the earth
Splashing her countenance, a constant vibrance and reminder, that never lets me down
She and I, longstanding friends
With quite a history already and even brighter future
A distant joy so far away that it stretches the earthly mile to the limit, Yet so close
Our bones rejoice in strength
Pleasure bathing at length,
the warmth of her ray
dines richly upon my skin
Amidst a crowded sky
Unwinding roads spew rapid thoughts
Some say there is a better tomorrow
Others exhort to consider my ways
For today, to alter a better tomorrow
Yet another chimes loudly,
Be at peace, not being anxious for tomorrow, being satisfied with the things at hand
My heart knows the road is no prophet,
But I’m listening…
Superb!
Oh, Ben … each is better than the last. You are blowing me away today.
“My heart knows the road is no prophet, but I’m listening.”
Wow …
WOW. Stunned and basking in the poem’s after glow. A sensation larger than it’s words.
Yes Ben,
what pleading voices whisper to us through our eyes
from things that can not speak
except through our heart’s cries.
Us a Garden
Us, a garden of sumptuous roses
We, an exuberant Eden free
Plummeting greens tip their hats
A sprinting plush running spree
Wild flowers our love exposes
Angry winds together we hush
…But without you it’s a barren wasteland
I like how your final line uses everyday words and the earlier stanzas use a more-elevated tone; it accentuates the final point. I think this is a superb little piece.
Yes, that last line sharpens the focus with it’s departure from the scene. Liked this too.
The Greatest Story
Compassion and love
Tell a great story
A rolling wave
Straight from the deep
Out of the trenches
It’s seated affections
Inclines the heart
And prays your soul to keep
Love tells the wildest story
While compassion spruces
Characters alive
One turns the endless pages
The other stridently reads and cries
Love and compassion are the greatest story within a tempest stormy hail
His love for you is undeniable
In fact its already set sail
His compassions disarms every fear decorated soldier and simply will not fail
The Intangibles of Love
(Edit)
Show me love
and I’ll show you an empty room
Filled with nothing
Although its saturated with particles of air
Show me love
And I’ll point you to a dove that’s pure
In it’s gentleness
And single in it’s stare
You can’t see it
But its very similar to white on rice
Like a teenager
embroiled
in hormones
you simply can’t give it advice
Slice yourself right open
Try ripping it out of your heart
Stick it in a frying pan with butter
Seasoned sautéing every part
Invisible to the naked eye
Although a blind man can see it
Immaterial to the touch
Although not untouchable
Inaudible to the hearing ears
But the deaf man can know it
Its not a gift that can be wrapped
But those without hands can bestow it
Lacking form you can’t
Stick it in your mouth and chew it
But you’ve seen it in someone’s eyes without knowing you just knew it
Its a beast on a familiar face
With four legs and a tail
An appetite for the human race
With no course set to fail
Its a heavenly superbug
A pandemic resistant disease
Spreading like wildfire
Until every soul is seized
Its altogether intangible in nature
And much like pliable wind
An unmistakable presence
A force that will never end
Intriguing images of that mysterious transparency, Benjamin.
Thanks
“Still squirrely after all these years”
The solitary squirrel
sits on a tree branch
outside my window
and regards me,
not with fear,
but with whimsy.
His eyes sparkle
in this rare November Sun,
then he dances
from branch
to branch
to wire
to branch
before landing
where he was before
as if to say,
My
that sure is a nice office.
Your whimsy matches the squirrel’s. Love it.
Jerry, what a character, this fuzzy-tail. Loved it!
Roped
The cords of a man
Intertwined with that of a woman
Makes for a beautiful braid
Their love tugs
At one another’s heart
Without war
A solemn foundation has been laid
They’re especially woven at every point
In mind, emotion, hard-iron will
They twisted, turned, tied the knot
Displaying union in strength and skill
He, the only window
In a wall of others;
For whom the sea rises.
—————————————————-
Another impromptu write 🙂
She
A perfect
Rose
Bred
Without
A thorn
There
A berth
On his
Chest
Clinging
She’s worn
She waded through life
Searching for answers;
He reminded her,
She was the question.
Her petals
Smooth
Slices
Of
Beauty
His prying
Eyes
Riding
Pretty
He loved her despite her shame,
A discarded candy wrapper,
His eyes saw past that.
His eyes
Slipped past the shell
Of her humanity
Peering deeply
Into the kernel
Of her inner being
The dream walks ahead;
She tarries.
The dream is him
Beside her all along.
Benjamin, Meena,
this turned into a delightful exchange that reminded me of the Song of Solomon! Beautiful!
Took the words from my mouth.
Glad you appreciated the exchange. I did just go lookup “Song of Solomon” as it is a text I am not familiar with.
They’ve discovered
The song on our faces
Solomon’s
Our autumn scent
Let them follow our traces
Well into the garden
Don’t wake us
For dreams will shatter
Unless reality must shatter
To realize His dreams.
Who awakened
The dream of rose?
See her garbed in red wines
Draped in petalous cothes.
What a seriously phenomenal prompt – so much is truly personified in life. Thanks Marie and Bill.
Budding Chorus
She
A perfect rose
Bred carefully
without a thorn
Worn
On a special place
Close to his chest
Her petals
Smooth ironed
Slices of beauty
Her slender stem
Prim and proper
Nothing could stop her
As she manifested
Purity
Her roots took aim
For security
Smarting deep
Into his heart
Under his skin
Slowly absorbing
Every part
Spoon feeding
That fertile field
With potent love
She bled
A hardy hue
Into every major
Artery
A color of romance
Together they’d pursue
Hilariously
Her roots
Stretched even deeper
Down intertwining
Lining his sickly heart
Until it bloomed
Away the dormant doom
Of the former day
She had bloomed
A Rose
Elegantly
Out of his heart
Now
They are at play
in the garden
Where
Azaleas
Run jealous
Of their flavor
Tulips tip
Dashing zealous
For a savor
Dianthus
Stares long at
Their mystic fruit
Lavender laughs
Heartily
At their united
Roots
Even the postman pauses
And reels for a steal
At their pleasure
But just for good
Measure
The chorus
Is always in the garden
Carried to and fro
By a timeless breeze
This is stunning work, and I am impressed by how much the poem looks like a long-stemmed rose.
Merci Monsieur
It is interesting there are so many tree responses here with this prompt.
Here’s my offering for the week, generated as I struggled against tall giants surrounding me.
TREEWARNED
Raker, beware!
We see you
with your tools,
your dark intent
to sweep the blanket of our sacrifice to Earth
away
and leave Her discontent.
Raker, beware!
We stood here
all year, limbs
outstretched, unbent,
and soaked up sun and drank up rain and braced the storms
to say,
with leaves cast down, heart-sent,
“We love you
Mother Earth!”
But YOU intend
to pile and burn our sacrifices with your fire
today,
despite a brisk west wind.
Raker, beware!
Your rakes (those
violent
devices bent
on ruining sacred vows since germination held)
just may,
may themselves burn, be rent
quite useless,
when by one
brief moment
distracted by a thought, you look away
and they
by fate in fire are spent.
Raker, beware!
They’ll burn, the
tools of your
dark intent,
if you dare rob us of the sacred offerings
we lay
to Earth, as God had meant.
© copyright 2013, Damon Dean
Best excuse I ever saw for leaving the leaves alone.
Hehehehe… as my dad would say… “we can’t mess with the nitrogen needs of the soil and the earthworms will be unemployed!”
UPON REFLECTION
Daily, she
looks at me, and I
wonder if
she really
sees herself as I do: a
radiant beauty.
2013-12-02
P. Wanken
I’m quite delinquent, but I didn’t want to miss any of the prompts.
[…] for Poetic Bloomings #129: Personification. Also shared at “100 Days of Fall/Winter […]
SCARFING UP TIME
I caress
the curve of her neck;
my fringes
like fingers
linger upon the fullness
of her chest. Longing.
2014-01-23
P. Wanken