Tonight at the pub, Björn tends bar and sets the eye on a quadrille.
A quadrille, is simply a poem of 44 words, excluding the title. It can be in any form, rhymed or unrhymed, metered, or unmetered. You MUST use the word “eye” or some form of the word in your poem.
Before me Its emptiness Is indeed a shock Remnants of its past fullness Cling in memory to mock
The fault Lays with me I cannot quibble Once full bag of crisps now done Thought I’d have a nibble Lost the bet on that one
“Lays Chips: betcha can’t eat just one“
dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Quadrille #145: Nibble
dVerse ~ Poets Pub
Tonight at the pub, Mish tends bar and gives us a a little something to nibble in a quadrille prompt.
I plead the fifth on whether the above poem is based on real or recent events.
A quadrille, is simply a poem of 44 words, excluding the title. It can be in any form, rhymed or unrhymed, metered, or unmetered. You MUST use the word “nibble” or some form of the word in your poem.
Today at dVerse Poets Pub, Grace tends the bar challenges us to take a sixty seconds, or so, to form a Minute Poem.
The Minute Poem, created by Verna Lee Hinegardner, once poet laureate of Arkansas, is a 60 syllable verse form, one syllable for each second in a minute.
It has the following rules…
1. narrative poetry. 2. a 12 line poem made up of 3 quatrains. (3 of 4-line stanzas) 3. syllabic, 8-4-4-4 8-4-4-4 8-4-4-4 (First line has 8 syllables of each stanza. Remaining lines has 4 syllables in each stanza) 4. rhymed, rhyme scheme of aabb ccdd eeff. 5. description of a finished event (preferably something done is 60 seconds). 6. is best suited to light verse, likely humorous, whimsical or semi-serious.
Yeah, about numbers 5 and 6 – I heard Melpomene scoff “What’s a minute to the sun?” in my mind and knew Muse, being contrary, was going to kick “humorous, whimsical or semi-serious” to the curb. I just write the report.
Tonight at the pub, Merrill tends bar and gives us a shivering invite for a quadrille.
A quadrille, is simply a poem of 44 words, excluding the title. It can be in any form, rhymed or unrhymed, metered, or unmetered. You MUST use the word “shiver” or some form of the word in your poem.
His placid face in no way shows the nervousness he feels. He has been here before. The expansive thrill is none the less valid for it.
Still, he keeps his tremulous sigh within as cameras focus on him and a few others.
In a shimmering moment of triumph that cannot be undone, several hearts quiver in anticipation of the reveal.
The tension mounts as the presenter’s fingers reach for and break the seal. Its cracking so loud it seems to filter away all other sound except for one voice…
“And the Academy Award goes to…”
The Sunday Whirl | Wordle 537
undone, cracking, triumph, expansive, reach, quiver, shimmering, filter, way, reveal, sigh, moment Use the words in a short story or poem
His eyes open in the bright room. Past open French doors, a single white cloud lazily drifts across the sky. He hears the waves crash against the rocks of the coast and knows it is late in the morning. From eastern rise to setting in the west, he is attuned to each tick of any given day.
Not today.
He runs a hand through his raven curls and feels the slide of the platinum ring that his been his honor to wear these twenty-four hours. It will be his honor to wear both, the rest of his life. He fists and flexes his fingers in awe of the ring’s existence. A story of two lives that blend into one, he knows people will speak of for eons – people do little else.
He sits up slowly, mentally chuckling at the soft cotton shirt twisted around his torso, still knotted at the waist, as he straightens it.
The only clothing left to the vagabond pirate after a night of ravishment by the rapscallions captain.
The captain whose blue eyes slowly open as he smiles. A left hand, whose ring finger bears a circle of platinum that matches his own reaches out for him as their lips meet.
The path was wrong to travel I know The seeds of which he did sow A darkness harvested to seep In full regret of the fruit he reaps
I’ll take you there is heard…
It is too much
He vales to his knees to ponder
If the means will be forgiven to cope With a prayer, he does dare hope That he will not be left to wail and wallow He closes his eyes in faith and follows
Oh!
I’ll take you there is heard…
It is too little
He opens his eyes in wonder
The core of his soul is shaken To learn he was mistaken He aimed his pleas to a gate higher But is led to a lower pit of fire
He knows the ‘there’ he deserves is the one he’ll see.
It started with an annoyed sigh. A moment of here we go again(!) that will lead into being fraught with worry. He’s already had a glimpse of this frustration with others in his family and knew the shape of things to come.
It could not be avoided, still he chaffed against it.
He first discovered it might be an issue when he could barely discern the gap that differentiated the characters he knows should be there. A gap he knows was there before today. His breath caught in the shift of self-awareness he was not happy about.
It wasn’t time for that yet. It couldn’t be.
Despite the low hanging lights, the bright lighting itself was not enough for him to read the tiny print on the restaurant menu thrust in front of him.
He glared at his girlfriend’s amused smirk as she offered the pair she wore.
Try as he might, he could not avoid the truth anymore. Vanity be damned, he needed glasses.
I googled eyeglasses restaurant. You have NO idea how stoked I was to find this perfect image!
I am amused, bemused By your rapier wit, And sharp tongue Where complements are calming And condemnations cutting You always keep me on en garde Whether I am Touched or touchéd You make your point With words That delight and damn My pen’s ink
Today at dVerse Dee, aka Whimsygizmo, asks us to takes our cues with muse in the form of a Quadrille, a poem of precisely 44 words, not including the title, and must include the prompt word MUSE.
Here I pay a slight homage to the two muse who fill my pen with prose and poem the most. Calliope and Melpomene.
The horns of the hunt echoed across the snow The air cold and crisp with its biting sting Such is the path this winter does sow But the chase was on, we felt not a thing
Ah ho! Ah ho! A hunting we go! The horns! The horns! Our tales echo!
Aye, with patience we stalked our quarry We laid in the deep snow at readiness Kills decisive and quick, never we tarry Our arrows loud in the emptiness
Through trees and brush, for buck and doe The horns! The horns! Our tales echo!
The necessities are done to prepare and pack We lift our horn so loud to blow Work done we celebrate and travel back For to our homes we the wearied go
Our horns lay tell of successful tow The horns! The horns! Our tales echo!
Our host Dylan provides the first line, we get to write whatever comes afterward. Length, genre, and structure are completely up to us. We are feel free to modify the line as we see fit, adding punctuation, quotes, or other bits if so desired. Or for more of a challenge, change nothing.
The line for this week is: The horns of the hunt echoed across the snow.
Raivenne-lations 