The Trinity

The stretch of lives as we understand
That are pulled from chaos into strands
Then placed in care of three pairs of hands

Clotho gathers many strands to spin
Strands clean and pure without a sin
Into the threads where our lives begin

In the slips and slubs that’s sewn our way
Lachesis holds forth the role we play
Threads strong or weak are hers t0 say

Deigned to be neither our foe or friend
Whether worn smooth or with snags to mend
By Atropos’ shears we reach our end

Woven deep onto Life’s tapestry
Come all of the things that are to be
Under the eyes of this trinity

In this tapestry so tautly gripped
Where our twisting lives are woven, slipped
Thus our threads are spun, measured, and snipped

Nornsweavingarthurrackham

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Today at Real Toads, with today being the third Sunday of the month, Hedgewitch challenges us to consider the idea of three. I took on the trinity we tend to refer to in the singular: Fate (The Fates).
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Real Toads | Poetry To The Third Power

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National Poetry Month – Day 17

In honor of Hedgewitch’s celebration of three, I break my alphabetical run through poetic forms to do something original, original to me anyway.  I’m calling this the Monoterce.

The Monoterce is simply a mono-rhymed tercet (a three line stanza), of nine syllables per line,  done in multiples of three. It has to have a minimum of three stanzas to qualify, any following stanzas must be in multiples of three (3, 6, 9, 12… ).

The Memory Remains

Those old shoes that we lived in on the dance floor
The pretty dresses that could not worn anymore
All the old things we packed from times before
It was all boxed away in the attic to store

All these things are gone now, yes, that is plain
Burned to the core, only the memory remains

Old letters so brittle with time they would decay
The things we can no longer put out on display
May be old but in our hearts new is how they stay
Were all here, but in a moment all burned away

All these things are gone now, yes, that is plain
Burned to the core, only the memory remains

In the aftermath of flames barely left any trace
All those things gathered to be held in their space
Pieces of the our past that cannot be replaced
I am grateful – there go I, but for saving grace

All these things are gone now, yes, that is plain
Burned to the core, only the memory remains

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Today Karin challenges to write about what remains, however we envision it.
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Real Toads | In The Remains

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National Poetry Month – Day 16

I give you what remains in a Pendrangle.

Stanzaic: Two or more of quatrain couplet pairs
Refrain:  The couplet is a refrain repeated throughout
Isosyllabic:  Hexameter (12 syllable lines)
Rhymed-   mono-rhyme throughout: aaaa BB cccc BB…

Ivory and Coloured Glass

In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Are memories of then now gathering dust
Just one touch and in memories I’m thrust

Swift as the stirrings that came to amass
A moment’s surrender, I do remember
Those fleeting firsts uncovered in the grass

Wandering the world with equal lust
Fill vials of ivory and coloured glass

But vials of ivory and coloured glass
Needed a home with some stillness to trust
That our nomadic lives could not adjust

Allowing one last half-formed thought to pass
How it descended, bitterly ended
I pull myself from memory’s morass

Oh but for one more tryst in wanderlust
For vials of ivory and coloured glass

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For today’s prompt Angie challenges us to utilize T.S. Eliot’s complex and very long poem “Wasteland” in either a Fibonacci or free style poem. The only caveat being the write can not be about death, numbers, money or taxes – as it is Tax Day here in the U.S. A few lines random lines caught my eye, and my muse took over from there.

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Real Toads – Tax Day

 

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National Poetry Month – Day 15

Not knowing this was coming I already did a couple of Fibonacci Spiral poems just last week and did not want to do another one so soon. Free style is easy, so I’ll stay in keeping with my alphabetic run through poetic forms challenged myself to an Octain.

Year of Loving Dangerously

You warned of this sun solstice start
In you, I should not place my heart
Fault mine, to cry piteously
For soft like autumn leaves I fell
A spark winter kindled to swell
I did not heed seriously
My heart grew sore, as spring returned,
With summer’s kiss, I now stand spurned
Year of loving dangerously

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Today the idea of this challenge is to substitute words of our own into the well-known titles of novels or movies and write a poem from there. I played with The Year of Living Dangerously by Peter Weir.

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With Real Toads | In Other Words

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National Poetry Month Day 14

Today I write dangerously with a Nove Otto.

The Nove Otto poetry form  is a nine-lined poem with 8 syllables per line. The rhyme scheme is as follows: aabccbddb

The Sacred Dead

A pointed gaze, a look askew
A hex, a curse, an ancient brew
A casting old, known by scant few
A spell anew, a spell anew

My wont to horde secrets and lies
My will now met in cold disguise
My turns do rise and hide the skies
My laugh derides, my laugh derides

Treasures to me your rise, your fall
Treasures – your cries to me are small
Treasures – your deaths culled in these halls
Treasures them all, treasures them all

Upon this room that’s now gravestone
Upon here where my power’s honed
Upon mandibles now made throne
Upon your bones, upon your bones

The site that thrives on horrors spread
The pause that gives from things once dread
The faith that rose here in its stead
The sacred dead, the sacred dead

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Having a bone to pick indeed. Mama Zens prompts us to let the walls speak for themselves.
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With Real Toads –  If These Walls Could Talk

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National Poetry Month 2016 – Day 13

Today’s faithful morbidness is brought to you via the Monotetra.

The monotetra is a poetic form developed by Michael Walker.  The form must be written in tetrameter, either iambic or trochaic, approximately 8 syllables per line.  Each stanza is a quatrain (four lines), that is monorhymed. The fourth line of each stanza must be a dimeter, or 4-syllable phrase, that is repeat twice.

The stanza structure:

Line 1: 8 syllables; A1
Line 2: 8 syllables; A2
Line 3: 8 syllables; A3
Line 4: 4 syllables, repeated; A4, A4

Pages Left To Turn

Waiting for the day when I was too old to scold
Not knowing such a time would never come my way
My younger years once spent being reckless and bold
Those pages burned away in such furious blaze
In fantasia that thirty is considered old
Oh how the numbers changed as I added on days
Now I’m the one telling, instead of being told
Back then are not the words I’d thought so soon to say

Now I wonder if I will reach a point of sage
To look back upon the times of my days before
Some tales I have told in this pen and pixeled stage
Some tales are only known in memory to store
Should older me still have plenty of time to gauge
This life I’ll live from babe to days of hoar
I’ll fill these lines with joy before I turn the page
‘Till the pages left for me to turn are no more

My dossier holds Raivenne-lations nevermore

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Today I have something of a trifecta:

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1. At dVerse Lillian challenges us to create a poem that includes the word fantasia, phantasia, or fantasy. The word can be used in the title or the body of the poem itself.

dVerse Poets Pub | Poetics – Fantasia

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2. At Real Toads Kerry provides us the side inspiration of writing about living through the years.

Real Toads | Open Platform Tuesday

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3. National Poetry Writing Month – Day 12

It is still NaPoWriMo and today’s form is: The  Lucubration

The Lucubration is a form by Amanda J. Norton. It has two octave (eight line) stanzas, followed by a single line for 17 lines all together.

It has a rhyme scheme of abababab cdcdcdcd d.

The poem’s title must be a 5 syllable title. The two octave stanzas have 12 syllables per line. The final line must be 12 syllables in only 5 words and in italics.

Deckard’s Lament

She knows not when her time will end
Tomorrow or when all Earth rends?
Or just until Time’s hands align
But until then I’ll call her mine

She lives, she loves, in unknown span
I oft forget she’s not human
What makes her whole she redefines
But until then I’ll call her mine

Should she die first I’ll feel the pain
And I’ll be lost like tears in rain
She may go first by cruel design
But until then I’ll call her mine

She knows not when her time will end
But until then I’ll call her mine

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Written for today’s
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Real Toads Prompt for Today: Monday – Soviet Kitsch Where we’re invited to write a poem based on a sci-fi movie poster. We were given a choice of amazing posters from classic Sci-Fi movies in the soviet union as inspiration, or to choose a different poster found online. It’s not as classic as the Soviet kitsch posters, but my muse stopped searching the moment it saw:

Blade Runner Poster

Blade Runner Poster

And because this is

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National Poetry Writing Month 2016 – Day 11

Today’s poetic form: Kyrielle Sonnet

A Kyrielle Sonnet consists of 14 lines (three rhyming quatrain stanzas and a non-rhyming couplet). Just like the traditional Kyrielle poem, the Kyrielle Sonnet also has a repeating line or phrase as a refrain, usually but not always appearing as the last line of each stanza. Each line within the Kyrielle Sonnet consists of only eight syllables. French poetry forms have a tendency to link back to the beginning of the poem, so common practice is to use the first and last line of the first quatrain as the ending couplet. This would also re-enforce the refrain within the poem. Therefore, a good rhyming scheme for a Kyrielle Sonnet would be:

AabB, ccbB, ddbB, AB -or- AbaB, cbcB, dbdB, AB.

 

A Solo Sail

She’s lived her life in a fish bowl
Always under another’s gaze
Done as was told year after year
And lost her self in small degrees

She looks back on her once young days
From this view now like tales of yore
When she once had a ‘joie de vie”
Now social mores fill her with fears

She grew up from a girl dirt poor
”Oh good girls don’t” was all she learned
Self taught to yield to make her way
Through ranks of yacht society

But decades passed by all she yearned
Daughter, lover, wife and mother
She dutifully played her role
Her wants pushed to another day

She stifles one, then another
Of yawns that had become the rote
Until she saw yards of bright sails
Unfurl and it just grabbed her soul

Decided she will sail a boat
All have their time and hers was now
“She’ll turn yellow once hands hit helm”
They laughed, for ywis she would fail

But she laughs last standing on bow
As salty winds blow through her hair
She sails on terms all of her own
The thrill of it near overwhelms

Sees horizon and thinks “to there”
For destination’s not the goal
Flying solo upon the seas
This moment hers and hers alone

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Written for today’s
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Real Toads Prompt for Today: In the Footsteps of the Suffragettes

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National Poetry Writing Month 2016 – Day 8

For The Love of Persephone

First day of spring–
I keep thinking about
The end of autumn.
Matsuo Basho – First day of spring

Lo, how she trembled that first day
Flowers grew where she tread
To quickly die as she walked away
An incongruous sight for the dead
Even Charon was saddened to bring
To the damned, such a beautiful thing
Nor did she bother pretending to resist
When her first earthly return, Demeter insists
For above the living do sing
First day of spring

Years pass and a rapport twixt us grew
I had a golden circlet woven for her as balm
A token of my love as our time to part was due
Adorned with flames and a pomegranate charm
She laughs and I thought I felt love sprout
Yet she left it on our bed with a pout
A hope had glimmered
But her eyes shimmered
It is in the doubt
I keep thinking about

The underworld was hell anew in her wake
Yet the surprise was mine upon her return
To learn her leaving it was not mistake
But to remind me that her love in turn does burn
Now laden with eternities under the sun
From first bud to last leaf it compares to none
For she now returns without regret
To lay claim to me, her love, and the bracelet
Aye, my love, my life always comes
The end of autumn

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Today at Real Toads, Susie prompts us with “bracelet” as inspiration. Basho’s classic haiku brings to mind Hades longing for Persephone.

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National Poetry Writing Month 2016 – Day 7

Today as I continue through the alphabet of poetry forms this month I reach the letter G, and my favorite poetry form, the Glosa.

Something Changed

That
Eve
We trailed
Upstream where
The fireflies were
Fireworks in the new moonlight
And the riverbank shimmered its reflection to us
Water lapping at the shoreline
We sat unafraid
Yet nervous
As some
Thing
Changed
Changed
Beneath
The scent of
Sweet honeysuckle
Wafting in the indigo skies
Where something that was once lukewarm in the sultry day
Became more in the soft nightfall
And with one sweet look
You and I
Were now
An
Us

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Written for today’s
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Real Toads: Compound Word Edition

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National Poetry Writing Month 2016 – Day 6

Today’s form adds up to the Fibonacci Spiral