Octameter, originated by Shelley A. Cephas, is a poem made up of 16 lines divided into two stanzas of 8 lines each. Each line has a syllable count of 5. The set rhyme scheme is: a/b/c/d/e/d/f/d g/h/c/g/i/g/d/d. This seems a convoluted rhyme scheme, so poetic license will not be revoked if you use your judgement on using a different pattern, or forgoing the scheme all together, I’ll have no problem with it. We’re about writing poems here, so get to it!
(See http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/octameter.html)
WALT’S MOSTLY TRADITIONAL OCTAMETER:
A GENTLE MAN
Gnarled and twisted hands
calloused and sore, more
used to hard work than
to life’s sheer kindness;
blood, sweat and tears, mere
offerings. Blindness
to those who shirk work,
their thinking, mindless.
A gentle man, he
gives of his worn heart,
more used to love than
life’s absurdity.
His mangled hands touch
her soft purity.
Her love is timeless;
fills him with fineness.
© Walter J Wojtanik, 2014
MARIE ELENA’S NON-CONFORMIST OCTAMETER:
WITH ALL DUE RESPECT…
Let us resurrect
when to use affect,
or to use effect.
Which should we select?
Which should we reject?
How do we detect
which one is correct?
Let me interject:
Let the verb “affect;”
impact noun “effect.”
Now let us inspect:
What do we detect?
Action of affect
generates effect,
just as we’d expect!
© Marie Elena Good, 2014
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
Responses
Wow – cool form and both of you – Walt and Marie Elena have kicked us off with two very different takes on the form…both of them unique (no surprise there) and completely engaging. Still really tickled to see you here this week Marie Elena!
Yes, I agree. Both poems are marvelous! And you being back here makes me so happy, Marie! xx
Thanks, Lady Poets! ❤
Reborn
Let me let go and
Fly with the phoenix;
Let me lift up my
Heart from before me,
Dead in its ashes,
To be reborn free
And devoid of shame
And pain and grieving;
Let me feel the tears
As the phoenix weeps;
Let me feel her cry
As my torn heart hears
The healing slip from
The golden bird’s tears;
Let my heart soar free
On the phoenix wings…
© Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2014
Erin, you’ve penned a great little poem here. Difficult form. I’ll be lucky to do as well. That’s for sure.
Thank you, Claudsy! The form is difficult, but I know you’ll do great. ❤
lovely, Erin. The form couldn’t have been better designed for this poem (rather than the other way round)
Exactly. Lovely, Erin, as usual!
Thank you! ❤
Wow…thanks, Viv!! 🙂
This is vivid; I can almost feel the cry.
Thank you, William! That means a lot.
!! ❤
❤ !!
😀 !!
Erin Kay – this is so lyrically beautiful. I felt a catch in my throat just reading this (which I did – aloud.)
Thank you so much! That is so amazing coming from you, the master of verse forms. Thank you! 🙂 xx
So emotive and symbolically beautiful, Erin. I’ve always loved the vision of the rising Phoenix…well penned. ♥
Beautiful regeneration. This was a captivating plea, Erin.
Beautiful image, Erin. Just lovely
Wonderful, flowing poem for a tough prompt, Erin!
You guys never let up, do you? Always pushing, pushing, crushing us together in a mill to extract the poetic from the chaff. Hmm, we’ll see whether I’ll have any grains of ability to bring to the mill in the morning. 🙂
Ha, ha, ha… :D!!
*points finger at Walt* He started it! 😉
😀 I’m sure he did, MEG. Little innocent you never would have thought of it on your own, now would you?
😉 😀
:p
Two poems of such contrast! Walt yours is beautiful – and bows to the prescribed form. Marie, you have touched on some of my pet grammatical bugbears! Clever.
So far as the prompt goes, I understand Octameter to means lines of 8 beats or feet, and I once wrote a sonnet in iambic octameter. http://vivinfrance.wordpress.com/2011/08/14/florence-remembered/
My brain is to fuzzled to attempt Shelley Capas’s convoluted rhyme sceheme. Forgive me.
Viv, I wondered about this. Just the term itself confirms what you are saying (Octo = 8 and meter = beat). When googled, plenty of respected sites confirm the 8 beats or feet and show examples. It appears Shelley A. Cephas created the particular form presented here, as presented at Shadow Poetry.
In my files I’m calling it “Cephas octameter”
Yep. Good call.
What a lovely sonnet about a place I’ve actually been to! Thanks, Viv.
Suddenly my computer refuses to let me write “too” and takes off the second “o” without my volition. That’s another of my grammatical bugbears, so it is infuriating…
SCORELESS TIE
At a soccer game
I watch, stultified:
they run back and forth,
sweating fast and free,
all to no avail;
both the goaltenders
seem amused to be
spectators. Ah, such
serendipity!
I am bored to tears,
longing for a book;
running south to north
for naught but arrears
is like watching bugs
swirling in stale beers.
It’s no game for me;
give me back the fee.
copyright 2014, William Preston
Oops, I goofed. Let’s try this:
SCORELESS TIE
At a soccer game
I watch, stultified:
they run back and forth,
sweating fast and free,
all to no avail;
the goalies can be
spectators. Ah, such
serendipity!
I am bored to tears,
longing for a book;
running south to north
for naught but arrears
is like watching bugs
swirling in stale beers.
It’s no game for me;
give me back the fee.
“like watching bugs swirling in stale beers”
HA! 😀
A perfect phrase for the ennui that is football these days!
If anything, U.S. football is even deadlier, in my opinion.
What Marie said!
I know this feeling so well! Soccer in America is not interesting at all. I prefer to watch Chelsea play. 😉
Great poem, William! I love your descriptions.
William, your pen pouted the disgruntledness of this naught-to-naught frenziness well.
i can relate to this sentiment, Bill. All that running–you’d think they were on fire, and for what? To kick a small ball into a goal net. If that’s all they wanted, why not just put them so many meters from the goal and let each man have a try at getting it past the tender. Much easier. 🙂 Love this, btw.
Waly, your poem feels like a soothing mountain brook. Marie, yours ought to be in an English book (or, as I guess it’s called these days, English Language Arts). Such fun.
Thanks Bill! I’ll add it to the far-too-many I should polish up and submit somewhere. 😉
INDEPENDENCE
Freedom does not mean
doing what I please,
but independence
does mean being free:
free to follow rules;
free to pay a fee;
free, even, to loose
serendipity.
That is the notion:
independence means
free choices, and hence
no king, no potion
can bestow freedom
for, like the ocean,
freedom cannot be
anything but free.
copyright 2014, William Preston
Wow. This flows so flawlessly that the form is not even a consideration. That’s all well and good and impressive, but it’s the wisdom presented so clearly and beautifully that gets my attention and has my heart pounding.
Wow…
Well said, Marie…me, too, I agree.
Me three, don’t have anything more toad- beautifully written, sage words.
independence means free choices. . .so true. well down
Gosh, you’re good! (I admit this freely.)
This flows so well and with such truth. Excellent, Will!
You’ve brought in two of my favorite themes to think on, William…serendipity, (nice five syllable word there!), and the ocean. This set me to thinking about freedom…your last five lines are deep and thought-provoking, for me. Thank you!
You make this look sooooo Easy. I was kicking and tripping all over this form today.
This could be anthem lyrics. I salute.
So true, my friend. The circular reasoning of an abstract concept. It means itself, and its action in all things regarding life. That’s how I’ve always thought of it. “free to pay a fee” and “Free to follow rules” are indeed choices. Choices to obey or pay even more to the ones who made those rules and who often choose not to follow them. 🙂 That’s the paradox.
Perfect timing!
Lovely, Walt!! Meg, Brilliant!!
Teehee! Thanks Hen!
😀 !!
Walt, your poem made me sigh with its beauty, a portrait in words. Marie Elena, I laughed all the way through your poem.
I am always amazed at those of you who write such wonderful poems at this early hour.
Thanks Darlene!
As for the early hour, that’s part of the beauty of hosting … you get the prompt ahead of time. 😉
Handwritten Knight-Errantry
“I dip my pen in the blackest ink, because I’m not afraid of falling in my inkpot.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
I love to vary
my colors of ink
not out of some fear:
rather, adventure.
See, Emerson knew.
There’s no indenture
he would ever bear;
and even censure
will not stop my words.
Give me pen and ink:
I’ll strip the veneer
in whole or in thirds.
Ideas pour forth
from all the cupboards.
I crave no quencher:
it’s not calenture.*
*Calenture was a tropical fever believed to cause delirium.
###
Oh so beautiful! I love your word choices – the word veneer adds so much to your meaning, I think. Lovely! 🙂
I think this is utterly superb, and the rhyming would make Willard Espy (Words to Rhyme With) beam with pleasure.
Oh my word, yes. RJ, you impress the living daylights out of me!!
Oh, I love to use different colored pens. A poem many of us can identify with.
Your rhyming words are weighty and well used and I love your jumping point for inspiration, RJ…Excellent write!!
Deliriously stupendous!!!
RJ, aren’t poems about writing so satisfying! Both to read and to write them? Loved this.
This is why I never read the posts before I write, otherwise I’d never even try. Masterful, RJ
Wonderful poem, RJ. It rolls like the prairies, each rise to see beyond the words to the meaning; each dip carrying the intent which drives the meaning. I like it.
Love this, RJ! Excellent title, as well.
BTW…Walt and Marie – I loved both of your poems. Thanks for the new form (I did not know of this one!) Each of you gave me a bit of insight into how this form should work. Wow.
Not me. I cheat. 😀
WEATHERED
The ocean rolls in.
Foam covers my toes,
wet sand grabs my feet.
I’m locked in this place.
My lifeless statue,
with sad, empty face
and nothing to feel,
refuses embrace.
The sea sprays its mist.
An angry sun burns.
Denying defeat,
my dry eyes insist
that nothing is wrong.
Yet letdowns persist.
I hide in this space
with no saving grace.
© Susan Schoeffield
I think this is great. The short lines recall the lapping waves on a windy day, a sort of insistent wearying.
I agree with William but I couldn’t verbalize it with such accuracy.
That empty unable to feel place…yes, this is poignant and expressed well in the imagery. Nicely done, Susan.
Yes, exactly. I couldn’t have said it better.
Me neither
That should have been, “I completely agree.). 🙂
Susan, this was lovely and your lines transferred the sadness like the surf, Denial can be a lonely refuge.
Your title is completely defined in the poem. Just as the sun, salt spray and sand weathers everything around it so too does pain and despair weather the soul. Lovely work.
Such a sad poem, Susan. Very well done and it reads wonderfully well. But sad. I could visualize the entire thing. Almost a movie with a setting sun at the end.
Wow! This rolls like the ocean.
[…] for the 6/25/14 prompt at Creative Bloomings “Inform Poets” to write a poem in the Octameter […]
Finally got something done for this. It’s fun to practice fiction in poetry and that’s what I did here. It was a chance to write a character I hadn’t tried before. Back later for comment making.
Cliché Ending
You are my sunshine,
my clear blue sky kind,
and when you say “’Bye,”
wild tears erupt, flow
amid memories
in my mind aglow
with you and how we’d
track efforts to grow.
You were my sunshine,
my fertilizer,
emphasis on lie.
You were always mine,
from start to finish;
beware—I will whine
when you say “Let go,”
and I must say no.
Ooo…emphasis on lie…I really like that twist, Claudsy. I love that lie is there in the sound of the word fertilizer but is not actually physically there…if you know what I mean. Any way, great write!
Again, EXACTLY. And Clauds, this is amazing in its emotion. I feel this relationship that isn’t even described, really, all in the framework of a tough form. Yowzers!!
Aw, thank, Hannah. I just couldn’t resist the little bugger. I had hoped that the reader would recognize why I used fertilizer when I add “lie” to the mix. 🙂 Glad you liked it.
🙂 Absolutely!!
Absolutely squared.
Thank you!!
Geez, thanks, Marie. I’ll have to move it into a real story now. I’m glad it did what I intended. So glad you found it worthwhile, my friend. Thanks again. ❤
Clauds, delightfully suspicious. Enjoyed this.
Thanks, Damon. I’m so happy you did.
This is a fascinating poem. The “i” sounds run throughout like a bell, for me anyway.
Thanks so much, Bill. It’s good to know that such little things have impact.
: ) love the ending and the “lie”
Thanks, Debi. I rewrote those lines at least five or six times before I figured out what I needed to do. I’m happy I finally got a spark of inspiration on it.
Okay, I should be editing my book due on July 1st. But I had fun with one of my favorite images and hope to share a smile with you as well
THE CAT IN THE BOX
Never a box a cat
Does not love, nor a
Bag left unexplored
Whiskers quivering
Measure for green light
Head first, paws on springs
Legs hugging body
As snug as bird’s wings
Dangling tail swishes
Warning to leave alone
Or face his claws in war
Backing out, his wish
demands more comfort
Legs first, not too squished
around him, tail swings
In box, cat is king
I love the likening of the legs hugging the body to the wings of a bird…very visual piece!!
I love to watch a cat play with a new box, and their pride when they fit in it.
Such fun!! 🙂
Oh how fun! I can completely envision this scene! Excellent job with the form, Darlene. Best wishes for your July 1 deadline!!
Thanks, Marie.
Haha! Playful and “catterly” colorful.
Thanks! I loved your poem below, with the “scarred prayers”
Darlene, so well pictured, especially “paws on springs.”
Amen to that.
Leap over tall buildings in a single bound, like Superman. . .that’s a cat.
Cats know how to amuse themselves. They are so independent. Your poem is fun.
After my rather morbid poem about “crushed till I die” I looked for something fun. . .and I thought of my favorite cat trick (brought on by the “out of the box” discussion I mention below)
What fun! This so reminds me of the kitties at the shelter where my kids and I go.
Love this!
MEOW!
This is one of my favorite delights with those of feline persuasion, Darlene. You’ve done it proud with this poem. It details the process and the fun. Terrific!
HOW WE STAYED ALIVE
What sense in asking
how to live long lives.
why some reach old age
we don’t have a clue.
It’s not a question
we can answer to.
It’s just not the same
for me and for you.
How did we survive
the storms of our youth,
the tempests that raged,
how we stayed alive,
walked around landmines,
despite the pain, thrived?
One thing’s surely true:
The Lord alone knew!
#
You make this form seem so easy, Sal…and you convey this relational topic of time and surviving it well. Great work!
Deep contemplation here; excellent mastery of the form.
Sal, this was well done. Makes me treasure the “grace” in our stars…
I love the wry tone in this.
Looking back at my own life I wonder, too. Only by keeping the angel’s on overtime, I think.
Can relate to this one, Sal. You’ve spoken for all of us in one line or another. Marvelous testament to life and living.
FOREVER LOVE
My fairy tale dream
of forever love
lasted a season
of orange colors
a sizzling autumn
with minty flavors
jasmine scented bows
and sunset capers
A thunderstorm shook
and shattered its moon
no rhyme or reason
just shredded its book
seasons come and go
breathing, changing looks
yet, my heart’s tracer
Was THAT, – Fall’s savor——–
I was just thinking about how much I love Fall! You’ve brought such beauty to this form, Priti!
My favorite time of year. And so much more than season contained in this beautiful piece. I have to read it again…
I agree; the phrase, “”season / of orange colors,” is a keeper for me.
Autumn memories have an earthiness that lasts more than any fleeting spring fling. Beautiful, Priti.
That is a beautiful sentence Seven.
I love this poem and autumn is my favorite season.
Wonderful, Priti. This reads so well. A joy.
[…] Bloomings -INFORM POETS – OCTAMETER – A poem made up of 16 lines divided into two stanzas of 8 lines each. Each line has a […]
Joy in the Journey
It’s in little things –
in the small pebbles
in the heart-shaped stones,
in the ones with stripes
and the mottled rocks,
no matter the type…
in a field or beach,
on a mountain ripe –
a treasure’s found there.
Placed in one’s palm sound,
granite feels at home.
Holder is aware
history in her hand,
mystery in the air.
It’s simple and nice…
little things of life.
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014
Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous. Love the title, the flow, the beauty of your words, sounds, and message. ❤
♥ I’m so glad you enjoyed it, Marie! Thank you. 🙂
So very pretty, Hannah! I like “history in her hand.”
Thank you, J.lynne…and for the specifics, too!! :)!!
Hannah, such a beautiful piece about the tiny tangibilities of small discoveries that make a large testament of the beauty around us.
Thank you Damon, for such a thoughtful comment, I appreciate it, always.
Oh, this is superb. Little lines, little words, little things; it all fits so memorably.
Thank you, William!! I’m so glad you liked the way this came together!! :)It was a fun one.
When we went on our cross country trek a few summers ago I brought back rocks as souvenirs. A heart shaped one from my sister’s in Az, and a sparkly granite for a donation where they are carving at the Crazy Horse Memorial in SD, among others along the way. Those mean more to me than a tee-shirt or magnet could ever mean. Beautiful poem!
Those sound like lovely treasures, Debi!! Thank you for sharing them with me here and for your kind comment!
What a joy this was to read!
Thank you, Sara!!
You would have gotten along with my mom so well, Hannah. She loved rock-hounding, finding those tiny gems that spoke of a personal history with its trials. Give you a fossil of any size and you had her heart and thoughts forever. Well done, my friend.
I bet I would have, Claudsy! Thank you so much for sharing this precious snippet of your mom with me and for the kudos on the poem…I appreciate it! 🙂
You’re so welcome, Hannah.
My apologies for my lacking returned comments…this weekend got crazy fast…everything’s okay but I’ll need to play catch-up…thank you hosts for the space this week and to all poets!
Wow…Marie! I was literally just in this very quandary…yesterday, I think. Always a problem for me…I think your poem will help me if I read it again a few times!! 🙂
I love the way your title ties in with your last lines, Walt. Crafted well. 🙂
It’s a stickler for me as well, my friend! I always have to think about how affect starts with an “a,” which is perfect because it is mostly used as a verb — an action word (and action starts with “a”). That helps me, but I have to think of it every time. If you memorize just the last 3 lines, that would help.
Action of affect
generates effect,
just as we’d expect!
Yes, those three help and the memory trick with the a in action will help as well!! One to revisit! Thank you, too for the further clarification, Marie that helped! 🙂
You’re welcome!
Here is another box poem, without the rhyme scheme (working without my computer).
THROW OUT THE BOX
Hand-painted box fort
Felled by driving rain
Do-it-yourself Dad
Questions the standard
PVC pipe and
Camouflage replace
Thinks outside the box
Creates something new
The Man Upstairs and
The Good Book both speak
Casual truth, facts
Made from cardboard, pricked
And torn, thrown around
Easy to replace
Throw out inept box
Nothing contains God
“Throw out inept box.” Fascinating concept.
Darlene, this fascinates me. Especially the second stanza in its entirety, but especially the final two lines (which could stand alone). Deep truth “contained” herein; uniquely presented. Cause for contemplation.
Thank you, Marie. This grew out of a conversation we had yesterday. . .the man had remade his son’s fort and that grew into a conversation of things we put in a box. . .including God. I’m glad it’s thought provoking.
When I read your explanation it confirmed my first thought of “God in a box” which we all do at some point. I’m trying so hard to think outside the box spiritually these days. Thought-provoking poem.
Very good, Darlene. A take few would have thought of. It’s true, but we still try to contain all the impossibilities in a container built as a sieve. Even when we’re told otherwise. 🙂
“Night sways”
The sounds of midnight
gather beneath my
scars and written prayers.
I could not breathe a
moment if not for
you. Nor will a day
endure a dawn if
our frail love betrays
the gift of veiled vows.
All morning I read
the poets’ despair
of lone hearts aroused
in storms. Time beats on,
dear, and as you bow
to the moon’s charmed sway
our love fades away.
J. Lynn, this desperation in shrouds of moonlight is haunting, an unsettled fear of abandonment. Well done.
Yes. Damon describes it with perfection. Janice, I’ve been impressed with your work since we first “met,” but you keep getting better and better. Wow.
“Nor will a day endure s dawn…” Magic is flowing here, in my opinion: “… lone hearts aroused / in storms.” Such marvellous writing.
All morning I read
the poets’ despair… love that line. It adds so much to the tone of the poem.
Chilling and gorgeous!
Lovely, Jlynn. This reads so smoothly and with such emotion, a delicate offering that says more than mere words.
Moonlight Mistake
On a moonlit night
they met in the park.
She was young and free,
while he was older
and married with kids.
The night grew colder.
They climbed in his car.
He tried to hold her.
She expected more–
at least a clean room.
How cheap could he be?
She was getting sore.
This is a mistake,
she thought, he’s a boor.
He touched her shoulder,
she fled, he smoldered.
The moon shows best the shadows of desire. Classic scene, Sara.
Thanks, Damon. I do have a thing for the moon.
It strikes me that this is an almost perfect use of the form because the short lines fit the short duration of this “mistake.” I also like the play of “smoldered” against “colder.” I think this is well done, the tough form notwithstanding.
Thanks, William.
Hard? You make it look like a cakewalk. Great rhyming-great story.
Thanks so much, Debi. I almost gave up on it.
Great little short story in a poem, Sara. You do these so well. I love the rhyming words you used. They add punch and emphasis without throwing the reader outside the rhythm. Terrific work.
Thanks, Claudsy!
You’re welcome, Sara.
This was really a tough form!
I agree. My brain is TIRED.
Yes, but I found it fascinating in the way it acts like a build-up to rhyme.
That is true.
Yes, but you’d never know it in your piece. It flows as through no framework; no rules to “live by.” As Damon says, “classic scene.” And I must say, rhyming “hold her” with colder is brilliant.
Thanks so much, Marie.
Refurbishing
She paints a deck chair,
sanded first of course
to smooth the rough
scars winter’s weather
left, betraying use.
Scars that may infer
despair. The chair’s new
hue a bright cover.
Fresh looks might delay
damage seasons rend.
Is thin hope enough
to bear brazen rays,
summer storms’ hard rain?
A second coat she’ll lay.
Bold strokes imply her
confidence in layers.
© Damon Dean, 2014
Wow. I love this. The painting metaphor is almost startling.
Excellence, here! Pure excellence. The line “Bold strokes imply her confidence in layers” contains layers of meaning in and of itself. Speaking of brilliant use of the form….
her confidence in layers… that speaks volumes. Very Nice
‘scars that may infer despair’ – love those words! Excellent poem, well painted.
Nice one, Damon. Her “bold strokes imply her confidence in layers,” but the poem itself is layered with both image and meaning. Well done.
THE GHOST OF THE GARDEN
In the underbrush
I hear a meow
uttered tenderly,
utterly discreet.
I wait for a while,
watching for the beat
of wavering leaves
or fluttering feet.
I know what I heard
and I know at once
the sound has to be
a cat or a bird,
and soon a shape flies,
so grey and so blurred;
I laugh at the treat
from my catbird seat.
copyright 2014, William Preston
My Keith and I always watch (and listen) for catbirds along our bike trail. Pretty, sleek, and verbal little beings they are. 🙂
Your imaginative title would never give a clue to what is in store. Love the flow of this, and play of “uttered” and “utterly.”
It flows so well. I wasn’t even aware of form just the story. Love this, William.
This was a perfectly performed response to the prompt! Wow, just flowed with story and captured the moment in perfect verse. Rhyme and meter right on. I love poetic commentary on everyday encounters like this.
this is a keeper. I’m a sucker for your birdie poems, anyway, but this paints so gentle a picture, such delight in the recognition of the greatest mimic ever.
You do justice to birds, William. This is wonderful.
Love this, Bill. Catbird, indeed. One doesn’t get to see any of those around here, but I remember the times back in Indiana when Dad would whistle duets with these shy avians friends. Thanks for the nudge to the memory. I needed that today.
[…] to prompt for Poetic Bloomings and Poetic Asides (paper/howl/right-night) and Margo’s Poem Tryout “summer […]
The Craig Motel
That summer folded
Across prairies, creased
Lines that sent rivers
Wandering blind, lost
Deep in maps we creased
Hard against the edge
Of thumbs. We crossed
West to east. We drove
Every night enclosed
In stars, deepest night
Sang lively chitters,
Crickets, I supposed.
And I thought, here’s where
Angels watch o’r those
Who sleep so well – at
The Craig Motel.
~
Notes: (1) This poem was inspired by photo included with poem on my blog at http://miskmask.wordpress.com/2014/06/26/the-motel/ (2) I had to rejig this to flow so rhyme: abcdedfd ghcgigdd (alt: line 8 g, lines 15-16 jj)
Haunting photo accompanying this excellent poem! One of the things I love out here at Bloomings is that there are so many variations on brilliance. Perfection as usual, Misk!
Hmm, I hope the angels do watch over those that sleep there. It looks pretty desolate. Wonderful poem to go along with that picture. Well done, Misky
Misky, you elicited a longing in me for a road trip with this–I love night driving, and random arrivals at points of rest, where the ramble of day’s sights and sounds are ‘enclosed in stars.’ This was lovely.
I’m pleased that you liked it.
‘every night enclosed in stars’ – stunning!
Yes, to put it mildly.
This brought so many vivid images to mind, Misky. I’ve traveled and lived among the prairies. This was lovely and a great reminder.
This form is hard to do without ‘poetic license’ being employed. Hard work but joy afterwards ; )
The Soul Uplifted
Overhead the sky
Beneath the feet earth
Wonders in between.
Butterflies and bees,
Blackbears and badgers
Do just as they please.
But leaves on the oak
Must bend in the breeze
And the back of man
In his laboring.
But his great reward
In this trying land
of work and worry
Is that the soul can
Soar, unbridled, free …
His truth guarantees.
I love this.
Likewise. It is as uplifting as a song.
Lovely, Debi. You should feel joy.
I feel enriched. THANK YOU, Debi, for this.
Thank you all. I appreciate your kind comments.
Ah, this struck such a nerve with me, Debi. I kept seeing my Grandfathers. Each with his small farm, an extra job on the side when needed. This is lovely and poignant, as it shows its truth.
Thanks Claudsy.
You’re welcome, Debi.
Debi, your poem fills the space of “wonders in between” for lives of labor with the promise of unbridled rest…this is indeed uplifting.
Thank you so much.
Sound and Sense
I train my fingers,
eyes, and brain to work
together, create
and transmit feeling
down conduits of
sense, sounds congealing
until chords blend heart
and notes, appealing
to listening ears
to pull their song from
within, join their fate
to mine without fears
for one brief moment,
to rise above tears.
All nature kneeling;
harmony, healing.
Tough form, you guys. Love what you both did with it.
For me, this says more about the charm of music, in short, than anything else I ever read. It ought to have a score, I think. I love it.
“transmit feeling down conduits of sense” – BRILLIANT.
“All nature kneeling: harmony, healing” – Like a cool breeze this morning.
Lovely work, with or without form constraints. You amaze me.
Lovely, Jane. And you do this work so very well and seemingly without effort.
Harmony
He’s getting more stooped
these days, his back bowed
like a comma from
years of tending plants.
He’s gentle with them,
talks to them in chants,
sing-song, daily news,
common happenstance.
Sometimes he whistles
handling foliage,
‘til warbling birds come
and share epistles
about seeds and flight,
tweeting on thistles,
these garden bacchantes,
of granting a chance.
For me, this poem is like watching aging in reverse. Despite the “back bowed / like a comma,” this man is a kid again in that second stanza. Your words, especially those “istle” rhymes, are enchanting. I admire your work greatly.
Jane, I’m running out of complimentary words to describe how fabulous is your work. GOODNESS, girl!!
Yes, and I sweated over every word and Jane does it so (seemingly, at least) effortlessly.
Super images, Jane, and wonderfully flowing stanzas. You look to have this form down pat. Thoroughly enjoyed this.
Jane,
I feel like Marie. What’s left to say, your work is outside the bounds of my vocabulary. I loved Sound and Sense, the flow of feelings being the musician’s craft….but Harmony made me cry with joy and elicited a deep satisfying sigh.
When warbling birds share epistles, all’s right with the world.
Traveling
Travlin’ down the road
till backsides are sore.
All the cars we passed
along with our time!
Patience helps us wait.
Thoughts not worth a dime.
The truck engines sound,
a guttural rhyme.
Counting off the miles.
Red, white, black, gray cars.
Some zip by so fast.
Drivers have their styles.
Munchers sip and eat.
Singers are all smiles.
Bikers like the clime
and don’t mind the grime.