Tag Archives: Jingle Poetry

Seasons

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6

Seasons



The first day of his smile

Banishing the chill of a late frost

Thus my love comes

On the dawn of the first day

of the first spring

To tend my garden, till the sacred soil

Where the silky folds of my flower blossoms

Gently, widely

As my summer sun also rises

When he gazes past the twin hills

To the valley beyond

Offering the sweetest of nectars

Thus my love comes

To reap that which was so deeply sown

On a harvest moon divine

The fruit of his labor stretched out

Across a starlit ravine

Call him yet home again

Thus my love comes

On the last sunset of the last day

of the last fall

Stoking the hearth warmth

And we rest

The seventh day of my smile

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Poetry Picnic Week 37: Peace…

On Fire

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18

Conflagration doused

In an
Exquisite cacophony of aches
I wake

Ethereal reminisces
Running abstract through my psyche
I smile

Sweet Luna
Had lain witness to the battle
Picking sides

Twin flames
Of our conjoined fires danced under
Indigo skies

Dragon shelved
You sleep the sleep of the just
Of angels

El Sol
In spangling coda, makes nimbus of
Your hair

But I
I know the beast is still inside and
You stir

Gently unfolding
The origami of our limbs
You wake

And blink
The ferment in my eyes your only warning
You smile

I inhale
And watch as sparks shimmy anew in your eyes
Then exhale

Flame on!

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Written for:

Poetry Jam | The Flame

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The Sunday Whirl – Anniversary Wordle

Write a poem using the following words:

aches, abstract, cacophony, coda,  dragon, ethereal,
exquisite, ferment,  origami, shelved, shimmy, spangling

 

The List

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Them! She turns and points out to the ones
Sons of a son who once harmed her young dear
Years paid with glee at her blatant lying
Sighing, I check her on the list with ease

Please help! My child dies! A mom screams and begs
Dregs! Responds the suit ignoring her needs
Pleads we just can’t fund this, now close the doors!
Scores the suit on my list for lies, the fool

Cool water sprinkles her newly done face
Placed perfectly by the surgeon’s hand
Grand, she still wants a little done right there
Unaware her name has just been marked down

Frowns cross his brow as he simply just stares
Dares himself to leave her, just walk away
“Staaaay” purrs a voice not his wife and he smiles
While I write his name to my dossier

Beware! Fists comes down on unaware face
Trace the tears that fall along with his goal
Rolls the jewelry he’s craved so deep inside
Snide for a moment, I check off his name

Same old, same old she says with a sneer
Leers at the ones who can’t afford her styles
Smiles as she plied with even more trite things
Brings her to my list with renowned due haste

Waste best described most indolent ways
Staying far from hard work Oh she’ll try
Dry her nails is the most effort given
Livin’ as though, I can’t check one more name

Blame? I have none the choice made is their path
Wrath, Greed, Pride, Lust, Envy, Gluttony, Sloth,
Cloths my claim for the dark souls of theirs
Care not on the cause for their deadly sin
In smiling silence, add names to my list

Gist? Your name could be added next, ahem!

Anagram of Sin

Did anyone notice the pattern? This poetic form is called a Rime Enchainée. The pattern of the Rime Enchainée is very simple – the last word of each line rhymes with the first word of the following line, and the last word of the last line rhymes with the first word of the first line, bringing the form back full circle.

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Entered in:

Poetry Picnic | Week 26 – Seven Deadly Sins

The Chanteuse

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19


There were the songs she sang for lovers
There were the songs she sang for the souls departed
There were the songs she sang for dreamers
This is the song she sang for the brokenhearted
Joshua Kadison / Vanishing America – El Diablo Amor

She’ll parcel out her song as is her right
But they come to see her every night
To listen to her words in the smoky light
Audience of eight or a hundred and one
Captivated by whatever music is spun
For all the pain, all the joy she uncovers
With an opus of her choice
To the last trill of her voice
A soft lingering note that gently hovers
There were the songs she sang for lovers

With wail of discord or a comforting tune
Her voice shrieking notes high or the low of bassoon
Her words soft in true tribute or mocking lampoon
Be it last year, last week or just the other day
From the memories of love from those passed away
Full of the hope from sage’s last wisdom imparted
Whether the brief friendship or the closest of kin
A personal memorial from her to them
Who now walk paths only the heavens have charted 
There were the songs she sang for the souls departed

Just believe love will come all bright, shiny and new
Or your craziest wish will certainly come true
From her song, nothing is impossible to do
Twinkle with the moonbeams and become a new fish
Or savor the flavor of a favorite dish
From a childhood feast full of rambunctious screamers
We’ll have naught of ye olde stodgy civilities
Take a chance with infinite possibilities
Life is a parade complete with shiny streamers 
There were the songs she sang for dreamers

The audience’s mood takes a moment to gauge
Before setting a tempo designed to assuage
And all from the comfort of the dim, smoky stage
Whether an upbeat tempo or sad notes that swooned
Pure heartbreak is heard no matter what song is crooned
She always seems to know when love has been thwarted
Each table has candles lit in a glass that’s clear
Maybe the soft light glistened off my single tear
One look at my face and she knew that love had parted 
This is the song she sang for the brokenhearted

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Glosa poetic form

The Glosa is a Spanish form that also works well in English.   Glosas open with a quatrain from another poet, called the cabeza, followed by four ten-line stanzas terminating with the lines of the initial cabeza in consecutive order.  The sixth and ninth lines of each stanza rhyme with the borrowed tenth line and is the only required rhyme of the poem. There is no set meter or syllable count for a Glosa, however, a good flow is always recommended.

Entered in:

Thursday Poets Rally Week 61 (January 25-Feb 3, 2012)

Poetry Picnic Week 23: New York Times Headline Topics
Inspired by NYT article: Sounds That Come From in the Head and on the Street

The Summons

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Already restless, I had turned to my favored place to seek peace. I had knelt beneath the moonlit branches of the tree, letting nightingale song wash over me, when I am summoned and know not why. I am told his mood is strange. I have but moments to prepare myself, yet not test the goodwill of he who summons. Moonlight shines through the blossoming trees as I ride on the mare provided. Not finding my favorite combs, I hastily extend a hand to snatch blossoms, hoping their beauty compensates. The same moonlight shows the hurried manner of my dress.

The bright moon of night
Shines on all that can help you
And all that can harm

I breathe deep the scent of local flora as I ride along. Perfect gardens seen off in the distance are soothing. The road I travel is not. I knew not the king had returned from his sojourn; let alone have chance to know the cause this distress. The lumps I feel are more than mere nervousness. The not gentle roads jangle already frayed thoughts. My king who places a premium on the upholding of traditions, entrusts me with its upkeep. A delicate balance accomplished too well. Hours spent side-by-side this past year, yet he knows naught. My heart as improper as the lack of grace of a more appropriate attire. The night is as dark as my mood. My beloved moonlight bears me not a cheer.

The trickle of fear
Thorns that can grow sharp within
As well as without

I take in the increasing view of the palace up ahead. Its peaks rise in golden tones as though the setting sun cached its luminescence there for the night and comes now to collect upon rising. My king acknowledges my kneeling by kneeling himself. He kneels! To me! His rough, beefy hand a contrast to my pale delicate fingers. I am shocked by his most gentle of touch – our first physical contact. Ever. An embroidered gown placed in my arms, he bows. He bows! The gown is of a refinement only she who will become queen can wear. Characters of my name intricately stitched within its fine threads. My missing combs, now jewel encrusted, nervously placed on top. And like this new day, it dawns on me. He knows. He reciprocates. All protocol cast aside at our second physical contact ever – our first kiss.

Deep shades of gold sun
Extend like love’s warm fingers
Dawn a brand new day

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Entered in:

Poetry Picnic Week 33: Fortresses, Castles, Palaces and Royal houses

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dVerse ~Poets Pub | Meeting the bar – the Haibun

Longing For The Feel Of Spring

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Crocus buds in snow

I’m longing for the feel of spring;
The walls are closing on this room.
The fresh snowfall does not joy bring;
I want flowers in blush of bloom.

Oh, morning bluebird please come sing,
and chase away the winter gloom.
I’m longing for the feel of spring;
The walls are closing on this room.

As the phoenix’s prayer doth cling,
Of rising from the ashes womb;
I long to escape from this tomb.
Oh, just a glimpse one green thing!
I’m longing for the feel of spring.

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Entered in

Poetry Picnic Week 22:
Spring, Colors, Trees, and New Lives

Aspect

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11

A warm summer’s sunset out on the shore
Water filters sunlight as golden ore
Gently subdued, perfectly cued
To order the beautiful night in store
Evening spent with the one I adore
It sets a mood, but one to brood

I know these are the cusp of summer’s days
Each growing shorter as it gently sways
With each downed sun, into autumn
A sense of farewell drifts upon the haze
And Fall’s aspect settles into phase
It has begun, yes it’s begun

She reaches out and pulls me close to hear
Her former words now ringing crystal clear
Reminded twice, this was her vice
She pushes back and I must face my fears
For the first time ever seeing her tears
That turn to ice, pure drops of ice

A sense of welkin shows before my eyes
As sudden snow storm transforms her disguise
then my heart aches, oh how it breaks
As Winter Aspect clears the stormy skies
And is called to home even while she cries
Each love she takes, she must forsake

Snow Queen

It is their ilk, this temporary quest
It is how each season in turn must rest
Refreshed to be, so completely
To continue to do what they do best
A joy and pain to which they all attest
It’s hard you see, for them as me

She handles her snow mare most expertly
And once she’s proven her veracity
Heads for the sky, darkening sky
And just before she’s out of view to see
Her breathy kiss slowly wafts back to me
Saying good-bye, her last good-bye

Throughout the night, I remain defensive
Before I find reason to her motive
Equally drawn to be loves pawn
I ponder how to go on now and live
But there was one last mercy left to give
As comes the dawn, memory gone
Snow Queen on glacier

Treasures of the Mind

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Hot chocolate on a winter’s day

The way her hips to music sway

The smile that reaches to her eyes

That to this day makes your heart sigh

The feel of safety in loved ones arms

The smirk as another falls for your charms

Catching ‘your song’ on the radio twice in a day

Watching your child perform in a school play

Getting that solid A on a hard book report,
The satisfaction of a job well done
Their smart remark, your quick retort
Then kicking back and having fun 

The clearing of your head after a few good sneezes

The clearing of your head after a published thesis

The joy of hearing your newborn’s first cry

The frustrating age of “How come…” and “Why?”

Having a quiet moment if for a short while

Taking a hurting soul to happy smiles

Seeing the tom-boy turn to lady before your sight

And that 3’6” terror became a 6’3” man over night

The pure white of the first good snow
The first buds of flowers to answer spring’s call
The summer fling that might yet grow
The sight of geese heading south in the fall

An outburst of laughter when you’re by yourself

Putting the championship trophy on the shelf

The feel of babies hand within your own

Eating Mama’s fried chicken to the bone

Massive holiday dinners and you’re stuffed to the gills

You’re asked for your hand and “Yes” you will

Lying in the grass, shaping clouds above

The first time you knew that you were loved

Being able to lay your head down at night
Without a worry or a fright
With the peace that comes from living right
And knowing God has you in His sight

All this and so much more you’re bound to find
Within the treasures of the mind


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Entered in:

Poetry Picnic Week 17:
Photos, Nostalgia, Memories, and Families

Nothing Else…

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20

So close, no matter how far 
Couldn’t be much more from the heart 
Forever trusting who we are 
No, nothing else matters
Nothing Else Matters – Metallica – The Black Album 

I was singer and she my muse
Not famous north of here, but holding my own
My songs weren’t quite rock, weren’t quite blues
Trying to cross that line into the well known
Together she helped me pay my dues
Would pin any bad press, to them being bizarre
She saw past my state of little visibility
Looking at the things, I shall never see
Told me one day I’d touch a star
So close, no matter how far 

She was but a little wisp of a sweet fruity thing
She said she could blow too, I thought it was jive
I gave her a mike, to she what she could bring
Suddenly this small world just blew open wide
And yes! Dear Lord, yes! The girl could sing!
A voice so pure, one heard the veil of heaven’s part
I wanted the cosmos to hear the beauty of such
All the dreams I thought, I shall never touch
She wanted the same, who was I to thwart
Couldn’t be much more from the heart 

I lifted her high so they could all see
And hear the voice that can make the devil cry
She became her own star as she was meant to be
But then She flew away without a goodbye
I never dreamed her dreams didn’t include me
Somewhere our worlds stretched apart too far
No longer her equal my life was now waste
She the dish of a life, I shall never taste
Knowing our lives will never make par
Forever trusting who we are 

Loneliness is the price incurred
My scales balance to instability
I say it all, yet I say not a word
Soulless I drift the dim streets of the city
Like Munch, I’m screaming but not a sound is heard
I’m once again voiceless in the constant chatter
Locked in a cloak of my own self inflicted fears
Trapped with all the songs, I shall never hear
When all hopes and dreams finally shatter
No, nothing else matters

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Entered in:

Thursday Poets’ Rally Week 57
(December 1-December 7, 2011)

Using my beloved glosa form again.

WINNER:

It’s such a small word
To capture all that I feel
Thanks is all I have

Thank you for the Perfect Poet Award for Week 57!

I nominate The Lonely Recluse.

Take Me Home

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5

The surefooted sun smiles upon us
In summer evening’s sweet dream
Where we heaved ourselves into the willows
Not that far from the bubbling stream
Aye, it has been so long a time
Yes, time’s spent many a day
Since dandelions crowned my hair
As a precocious child at play
It seemed from the moment
The golden sun starts to show
All the way through ‘till the fireflies
Light the night with their soft glow
Counting cloud daring to dent the sky so blue
While lying in the back of Grandpa’s cart
Letting the sun fry me to a nice bronze
During those weekly treks to the mart
Oh the lush green hills stretching forever
To these once young eyes it seemed
Became closed walls over night
To the teenaged me, now steamed
At how there just had to be more
Than just a life of living on the farm
Thought I travel a little and come back
What could be the harm?
How far a road I’ve journeyed since
I first loaded my things and started to travel
Yet found I’m searching for home in foreign places
All sense of such starting to unravel
To lose touch with those lush green fields
What part of my soul was so easily sold?
To make my way in this dizzying swirl
Of concrete hot and skyscrapers cold
How to regain the small wonders in my life?
To re-enjoy all the small simple things
Like how the crocus by the shed blossoms
Before the calendar says it is spring
It took decades to find that balance
I’m still a country girl at heart it seems
My plans were true to all but me I learned
But shattered plans don’t shatter dreams
Aye I’m an old woman now, seen many a thing
Among the highways and byways I still love to roam
But now and then I get a hankering for quiet, for peace
And my mantra becomes “Take me home, take me home”

For Poetry Picnic – Week 10