While we were quarantined or just socially distanced during this pandemic, we’ve surely missed something to which we would have gathered together and toasted, feted and celebrated. We’ll cover specifics during the month, but for today, we’re celebrating poetry. How good is it that we can “come together” to write and comment here and on other poetry pages without restrictions or regulations? (OK, there is one demand we make here… Have fun!) Write about an aspect of poetry that keeps you coming back to write more. Let’s see where this will take you.

33 thoughts on “JULY COVID-19 P.A.D. – DAY 7 REASON TO CHEER

  1. SHARING THE WORDS, by Walter J Wojtanik

    The table is set. A banquet
    in the offing, Offering a bit,
    a morsel of thought in poet speak.
    Each week we gather
    as sisters and brothers
    who would rather serve their words
    than remain silent. Reliant
    on the words of others to spark
    our own poetic pyre, a fire
    burning fervently and unbridled.
    We celebrate another day
    in this poetic life, rife with everything
    we need to make this life vital.
    As the title says, spread the words,
    strive to be alive!

  2. Poetry forms are intimidating
    Tanka, sestina, cinquain, haiku, sonnet,
    I just can’t get any of them quite right.
    Syllable counts, rhyming schemes,
    rhythms of words on repeat,
    iambic pentameter,
    help me understand!

    Reading poetry by others
    brings my soul delight,
    but I’m always more than sorry
    for the “poetry” I write!

  3. Silence
    given a voice
    through written word on page.
    Hurt, tears long swallowed whispered now
    in ink.

  4. Mornin’ y’all

    Word Follows Word
    and sound, sound.
    When the end begins
    and I look at what
    was written, somehow,
    by my mind I feel
    giddy. And sometimes
    a little scared (as
    when adding 2 and 2
    gives VAMPIRES). This poetry
    thing–this scavenger hunt,
    wild food forage, pig iron
    forge, aloha, what a waste of
    time–keeps pulling mysteries
    out of a weird locked room.

  5. The Stuff of Memory

    Raw screams are chopped
    quatrains and triplets
    rhymed into endings
    we pretend to control

    watch how words run rampant
    spiraling up and out metered
    feet running barbed running
    tripped up on smilax the wild blackberry

    we touch only through glass
    try to feel grass and leaf
    imagine the gnarled trunk
    of lichened tree

    breathe deeply of sweet corn air
    remembered from a night drive
    only to turn again to paper and pen
    to capture memory.

  6. Poetry

    In the beginning was the Word…

    or the phrase or the line.

    Each word selected for
    what it conveys.

    The sense, the nuance, the
    meter and meaning.

    How they sound in your head, how
    they sound read aloud —

    How they look on the page,
    where they fit, where they don’t.

    The lilt, the energy, and the
    struggle to find them.

    For poetry, that’s all I’ve got,

    but today I think that
    it’s plenty.

  7. P


    Where did it go, the first poem
    before the keeping of things?
    Did it just evaporate in a summer’s sun,
    or incinerate in a winter’s fire?
    Was it remembered
    only as long as
    its creator’s last breath?

    Where did they go, those poems
    created before the written word?
    Were they, like dreams, soon forgotten,
    fading in their fragility, simply fallen away?

    How did they begin, the first poets,
    walking side by side on a summer’s day,
    or sitting alone, staring at the flames
    in a cavern, free from cold?

    What happened to those poets,
    the beginners of the craft,
    before there was history,
    did they simply die alone,
    in reverent solitude,
    monuments to the mind’s eye,
    a mere glimmer in a summer sky?

  8. Poetry Persists

    Forms are a challenge
    some of which I can’t manage,
    but some are fun–
    the triolet is one.

    I can write in any voice
    I want to use. It’s my choice.
    Fly with fantasy,
    unravel a dream’s meaning.

    Subjects are limitless,
    length is anyone’s guess.
    Poetry is freedom,
    its words, an art medium.

  9. “To Be or Not To Be” is one of the most famous of Shakespeare’s writings. Everyone knows the first line of two, but really don’t understand the entire soliloquy. It’s interesting, especially the many translations. In light of that, here’s another one to chew on. Hope y’all like it.

    To Poem or Not To Poem
    (just another interpretation)

    To poem, or not to poem, that is the question
    Whether ‘tis more acceptable in the mind to suffer
    The criticism and opinions of outrageous antagonists,
    Or to take a stand against the tsunami of denigration
    And by resisting eliminate them. To quit – to desist,
    No more – for to quit, we mean to write no more
    In spite of the thousands that may be deprived of words
    Destined to ease their minds and fill their hearts with hope.
    To quit, to desist? To retire, only to dream – yes.
    But there’s a problem. What of the dreams that might come
    In that time of sleep – after our days of poeming end –
    After we have cleansed our minds of rhymes and prose –
    What would we do with those dreams that haunt us?
    That consideration alone must be well thought through lest
    We suffer the hauntings of the ghost of poems unwritten.
    Who, that once wrote from the heart, could lay down the pen
    And bear the trials and tribulations of words never written?
    Who, that once wrote from their spirit, could risk depriving
    Their words from reaching the hearts of those God intended?
    Who, that once wrote from experience, could be so selfish
    As to keep life’s best secrets locked away from view?
    Who could remain silent in their selfish attempts to deny
    Those they love and care for the keys to their minds and hearts?
    Who – not I. For I have a message to sing and shout about.
    I have a love for mankind that necessitates that I write.
    I cannot deny the words that God gives me to pen to paper.
    If I chose to remain silent, I would die anxious and empty.
    Therefore, I choose to live through His words of encouragement.
    I choose to live with a goal of passing on life’s lessons.
    I will, to the best of my God-given abilities, write the truth
    For I cannot, and will not, lay down the pen, even in the face
    Of oppression or criticism from outrageous antagonists.
    God, give me the strength and the time to serve You.

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