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.
I have to say the Oxford definition of persistence “firm or obstinate continuance in a course of action in spite of difficulty or opposition” has certainly been descriptive of me and my writing of the last few years.
I can either write blog and poems or read blogs and comment on others, not both, but I persist.
I can either write my own fanfiction or read and comment on the works of other’s, not both, but I persist.
I can also paint or draw, but not both. Unfortunately, that particular outlet has fallen – if not necessarily by the wayside, definitely down quite a number of rungs on the ladder, but I persist.
Yet even while I’m in the kitchen making lemon bars from scratch, I’ll be damned if Erato, Calliope, and even Melpomene won’t suddenly spark an idea in my brain that wants to be written down RIGHT NOW. And naturally Polymnia wants a visual of it that my mind can see, but regretfully my talent and patience cannot always procure to my satisfaction, but I persist.
To write or to read or to comment or to paint or to bake or to any of the several creative outlets that I try to enjoy has been both a bane and a blessing. A blessing that I can, to highly varying levels of proficiency by my eyes, do all of the above. A bane, because I cannot do all of the above all at once.
I know! I know! How DARE I be only human!
Only human in a small apartment where one corner of my dining room does double duty as my office when I work remotely and my creative writing station for blogging/poems/story writing, another as my painting crafts station, the third corner a multi-utility station and the fourth corner is my window and closet. Oddly enough what my dining table has not been used for in ages is that thing called you know dining.
Still, I can’t / refuse to call it my studio, because I cannot afford, never mind actually fit a kiln in it to pursue the glass and metal creative work that remains in my head.
Though it’s my fanfiction that gets most of my creative time, sans the items in need of a kiln, I doggedly try to indulge in all of my various creative outlets. Thus why I have chosen persistence as my one not-so-little word for this year.
I’m determined to somehow find a balance where my blog does not suffer as much this year as it has in past couple of years. Let’s see just how persistent I can be.
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.
From a distance I watched the koi in the man-made pond. Seemingly heedless to the world around them, they swim peacefully, their tranquil moves a narcotic in these hectic times. I step a little closer watching. They continue to swim in ever lazy circles. It is a game we play. Well, a game I play. I am never sure if they are in on it or not. I play the game, nonetheless.
The game? How close can I get before they notice me?
There are concentric circles around the pond that mark my progress. So far, I have made it as far the third circle before I am spotted. I am at that line now, trying to get to the second, knowing it will take divine intervention to reach the first line.
Slowly creeping upon the pond, I take my time.
For a moment there is a single erratic movement and I think the jig is up. I still and after a moment the idle swimming continues. I am almost there.
I advance barely, barely lifting my foot from the ground, and slide it ever so slowly forward. All I have to do now is…
DAMN ! I’ve been spotted.
In a blink the formerly calm water is a frenzy of movement. Mouths agape, they all rush forward in a circle synchronized swimmers might envy.
Defeated once again, I take out the bag of food n my packet and feed the koi.
Each week Cyranny provides a prompt to inspire one to write a very short story. The idea being to type the whole story in a minute or less. Of course, you can think about it before hitting the keyboard, and you can take all your time to edit it afterwards…
For most people in the United States, Fall unofficially begins the Tuesday after Labor Day.
But not for Bree.
For her autumn truly began in mid-November nearly two months after its official start.
By mid-November, the many trees that line her street reach their peak orange, red and yellow colors. And each year, a week or two before Thanksgiving without fail, it happens: the last hurrah of the hurricane season. While usually not worthy enough to be graced with a name, it is a storm strong enough that the colorful jewels of the trees are mercilessly flung to the ground.
Bree will step out onto her yard where seemingly overnight it is littered near slick with the torn wet remnants of color that once graced the trees. She’ll look upon the many gnarled branches left clawing at the shortening hours of gray daylight. Then, and only then, does she feel it is autumn at last.
Each week Cyranny provides a prompt to inspire one to write a very short story. The idea being to type the whole story in a minute or less. Of course, you can think about it before hitting the keyboard, and you can take all your time to edit it afterwards…
The prince sighed at the tragic tableau before him.
Two mothers sobbed against their husbands whose own tears fell in silent grief. All bemoaned their part played in what has come to pass. The two men glanced at one another, but neither could sustain the visual contact. Their hate too old. Their pain too fresh.
“What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?” he looked to each of the four red rimmed eyes, but none could return his stare.
“It could have begun here. Grown into something beautiful had you let it. Instead, it ends with them and with you, now the last of your line.”
“Was it worth it?” He spread his arms to the ones before him, but each knew the gesture encompassed several others no longer there to speak. “Capulet. Montague. Go bury your children.”
At dVerse Mish tends bar and welcomes us to another round of Prosery where we are asked to write a very short piece of prose that tells a story, with a beginning, a middle and an end, in any genre of our choice.
Since it is a kind of Flash Fiction, there is a limit of 144 words. It must include a complete line from a poem in the story, within the word limit.
Punctuation can be changed, but it is not allowed to subtract or insert words in between parts of the original quotation.
Today quote is from T.S. Eliiott’s The Wasteland“What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?”
In my mind Romeo and Juliet are the branches that would have grown from the stony rubbish of their families’ hate had it been allowed to take root.
All day and night I want of you – I Want so deeply that “want” Is too trite a word – this To me, my very breath – is to Be in this love – to be Yours and yours only Forever and a day
What you ask of me, I ignore it all Yes, I submit easily, but I Don’t want what you want This moment is all there is This is all I want – to Have you now – to be Yours and only yours But only for tonight
Lillian is hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub where she shares her love of how one word leads to another in crossword puzzles and their cousins in style: Acrostic Poetry.
In Word Acrostic poetry the first word or the last word of each line in a single stanza poem spells out a message.
Lillian has created an Acrostic Plus where the first letter of each line in the first stanza spells out one or more words, while the last letter of each line in the next stanza spells out something different, and so on, but together there is one message.
We’re challenged to either write a poem that in some way relates to a puzzle, includes the word “puzzle”; or try our hand at an Acrostic poem. I combine a Word Acrostic with Lillian’s Acrostic Plus to tell a familiar tale of Mars and Venus,
The monotetra, a poetic form created by Michael Walker, 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
This poem can be as short as 1 or 2 quatrains and as long as a poet wishes.
Raivenne-lations 