"Anyone can slay a dragon. . .but try waking up every morning and loving the world all over again. That's what takes a real hero." - BRIAN ANDREAS
|
Originally posted June 14, 2009 I failed my birthday word count challenge, and Pete wrote: My "punishment" for you is to write a poem of at least six lines and no more than 40 lines that describes the feeling of coming >this< close to a stretch goal but falling just short at the deadline.Neither Pete or Janey was as harsh on me as McK is going to be, so I'm still in an okay place with my lack of word count. Perhaps I will rewrite the poem after I've received the sharp end of the Koala Klaws. I chose to write a poem in the pattern of a Quatern, which, according to Shadow Poetry, is a sixteen line French form composed of four quatrains. It is similar to the Kyrielle Example #1: True Love, Redefined One day she hopes true love to find, One soul, one mind, two hearts entwined; Somewhere out there’s the perfect guy, For Youth has set her standards high. He must be rich, handsome, refined, One day she hopes true love to find; Yet no one seems to measure up And disappointment fills her cup. The years go by, her nights grow long, Her aging voice sings sorrow’s song. One day she hopes true love to find, Her definition redefined; Simply a plain and faithful friend To see her to life’s journey’s end; For though her face with age be lined, One day she hopes true love to find. Copyright © 2003 Linda Newman Example #2: The Master's Feet Those who sat at the Master’s feet, Brothers who fished in waters deep, Threw down their nets and followed Him, Forsaking all to fish for men. The crowds pressed ‘round to hear Him speak, Those who sat at the Master’s feet, Those who he said would be a light, For others lost in dark of night. In the upper room hands were rung, When told a traitor was among, Those who sat at the Master’s feet, With emblems of Himself to eat. The Master’s mother held her breath, When savage men cried for his death, And vainly struggled to defeat, Those who sat at the Master’s feet. Copyright © 2006 James Dupy Example #3: Life’s Pulse - The Gypsies’ Song As dark-haired beauties celebrate while moving round the fire light, their slender swirling hips gyrate, and on they dance, into the night. The flames dance too, beneath the moon. As dark-haired beauties celebrate, their fathers clap or play a tune the merry clan perpetuate! Then each young man takes hold a mate he’s chosen in the ring of fire. As dark-haired beauties celebrate, their flashing eyes ignite desire. The mothers sit and smile. They know the music will not soon abate. Life’s pulse is found by camp fire’s glow as dark-haired beauties celebrate. Copyright © 2006 Andrea DietrichAll right, so I know you've been waiting with bated breath. Without further ado (or cliches), here is my original poem. Wild Words The words themselves run high and wild, seeking to be corralled and tamed. This adverb is a willful child; that noun’s impatient to be named. By sunrise we must reach our home. The words themselves run high and wild. A question mark is bound to roam. The “being” verbs have formed a pile. Even the sun is not beguiled as she dips closer to her bed. The words themselves run high and wild, resist the stories in my head. Despite the claws, the whips, the threat, my heart is calm, frustration’s mild. I watch the beauty as I let the words themselves run high and wild.
2 Comments
7/14/2015 09:54:32 am
High, girl!
Reply
Leave a Reply. |
Categories
All
Archives
March 2020
|