Yep, you guessed it. Poetic Asides took up the Wordle banner today. See my responses on Two Voices, One Song.
Enjoy and join in the fun. Try your hand at something new, or perhaps something put aside for too long.
Today’s poetry prompt, though, asks for that very thing. Poetic Asides Two-for-Tuesday Prompt Challenge: Write a science fiction poem and a fantasy poem. So without further ado, I give you my response to that challenge. (Note: For me, it can be serious and filled with drama. I can also do the twist.)
Where mottled sky and earth meet,
Dark shadows pool amid cliffs and plains.
Under stars making up Ryan’s Hope,
All my children begin their pilgrimage
Toward the annual space dome challenge,
On a search for tomorrow’s new tech,
That will ease the days of our lives
And take us through the coming cycles
Of our guiding light, with the bold
And the beautiful flashes of Earth’s last
I wait for their return, for their new knowledge,
Knowledge that will temper our fears,
Watching as the world turns its face once
More toward our sun, to live in constant day.
© Claudette J. Young 2012
Road traveling star lanes
Divested weather vanes,
Enter worlds before unknown
Ever searching adventure,
Many times liquid streams,
Plains, mountains, fancy dreams.
© Claudette J. Young 2012
Dream of Home
Green-lit caverns deep
Warmth-washed moisture seep,
Emerald pool crystalline
Bathers recline, eased within.
Muffled laughter ripples soft
Against pinnacle ceiling aloft,
Spending regard gentle and pure
Ever drawing me toward the lure,
Of sweetest home beyond compare
Acceptance true in the heart’s lair,
Smiling eyes open embrace here
Evaporating distant fear.
Know longing gentle breath
Inside home’s green caverns depth.
© Claudette J. Young 2012
We’ve come back to Two-For-Tuesday on Poetic Asides. This morning’s prompt calls for a poem about a Forest and one about a Tree.
Verse in the tradition of Theocritus (3 BCE), who wrote idealized accounts of shepherds and their loves living simple, virtuous lives in Arcadia, a mountainous region of Greece. Poets writing in English drew on the pastoral tradition by retreating from the trappings of modernity to the imagined virtues and romance of rural life, as in Edmund Spenser’s The Shepheardes Calendar, Christopher Marlowe’s “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love,” and Sir Walter Ralegh’s response, “The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd.” The pastoral poem faded after the European Industrial Revolution of the 18th century, but its themes persist in poems that romanticize rural life or reappraise the natural world; see Leonie Adams’s“Country Summer,” Dylan Thomas’s “Fern Hill,” or Allen Ginsberg’s “Wales Visitation.”Browse more pastoral poems.
Some of us continue to write about those sublime, still pools populated with lilies like freckles on a lady’s cheek. We enjoy finding new and different ways to express the feeling experienced within the deep woods while spring rains moisturize the earth and wild ginger puts out its sweet scent to rival the subtle hint of redbud blossoms and dogwood earthiness.
There are also cowboys out there who produce some terrific verse about life on the plain, gardeners who speak to their labors and rewards, and fishermen who wax eloquent about reeling in hard and losing face and fish at the last second.
Verse about nature themes, love, and virtues could blanket the earth several times over if stretched end to end and side by side. Poets won’t let it die out, anymore than epic style will ever disappear. Sometimes everyone needs to be reminded of things other than strife and worry.
Therefore, I’ve plunged into this prompt pool feet first. The first poem is about the forest, and the last deals with the single tree. I hope all can enjoy these small offerings on this poet’s plate.
Within the Hollow
Peepers call across sun-dappled greens,
Tiny echoes of lives spent unseen in trees.
A brook, shallow and meandering,
Carries a fallen leaf on a journey through
Villages of mushroom houses, where
Does dwell toads and skinks, diminutive folk who
Reap the bounty from forest caches.
Sweet treasures Nature provides for food.
Ancient trees soar above, granting peeks.
Sky clouds act as shutters on God’s camera,
Dimming or brightening as needs be,
To see small creatures and life’s minor doings.
Green fosters cool breezes, teasing all
With tickles of scent, moisture, and sound,
Making calm for growing peace among
Those who walk here to meet with God.
Call Him Black Jack
He’d stood in his corner for nigh on fifty years,
A tall specimen of strength and endurance,
Weathering storms that stripped others of all they owned,
Though he barely noticed a slight breeze passing by.
Many had come to him through those long years,
Children would climb up his body to look him in the eye.
Other’s sat quietly, speaking of their loneliness or dreams,
While never asking for his opinion or his approval.
She came, placed her hand on his side, and breathed deep.
On a sigh she whispered, “Hello, Black Jack. You’re still here.”
She patted him, laying her head on his bare skin, and relaxed.
“I see you’re still vigorous, with many children,” she whispered.
The woman saw thousands of acorns scattered at her feet,
She’d planted Jack to chronicle a family history,
One woven of love and promise, care and hope eternal.
Now history returned, one left to remember this oak tree.
© Claudette J. Young 2012
- Tobacco – A Poem about Sir Walter Ralegh (hobbinol.wordpress.com)
- gift (theotherdayatportrait.com)
- A Friend Was Feeling Down. I Read Her A Poem. (cubiyanqui.com)
- Good Friday Freeforall (margoroby.wordpress.com)
- Poem Written where Space and Mind Mingle (fmpoetry.wordpress.com)
- Switch It, Swell Gig, Eh? (lindastudley.com)
When a prompt for a “Hiding Poem” comes at me early in the morning, I’m baffled for a moment. I’m not a morning person to start with—no pun intended, which means that throwing actual creative thoughts at me at 8 am isn’t exactly inspiring.
My night owl tendencies keep churning out those lovely little brain chemicals that induce grogginess, if not slumber. On the off chance that Robert might have called off today’s participation requirement for his challenge, I popped over to Poetic Asides to peek at the daily headline.
Nope, no such luck for those of us who didn’t get into bed at a “reasonable” hour. Instead, he was ever-so perky—can a guy be perky? He’d gotten up early, posted his perky challenge prompt and then left before the onslaught of poets gone mad with the power of the written word. None of these writers seemed to be hiding today. That much was certain.
I made a note of the prompt and escaped, hoping against all hope that I could come up with something before the end of the day. In my continuing befuddled state, I slogged over to Robert’s other blog “My Name is Not Bob” to check out the daily task for his Author’s Platform Development Challenge. Eureka! God had smiled on me.
Today’s task was something that I already do on a regular basis. I was ahead for the day. I posted my compliance after quickly doing as requested and escaped again. I’ll go back later to do a couple of additional compliance bits.
After pondering the problem of hiding poems while chugging decaf—I know, but I can have caffeine—I got down to dealing with verse for the morning. Once started, I didn’t have much difficulty. I think I had to convince myself that having my eyes open and brain functioning was an okay thing to do at that hour. Well, you see… nevermind, off topic. Must stay focused.
Here are my posted poems concerning aspects of HIDING. Enjoy the trip through my morning thoughts. Feel free to leave a comment about your own idea of hiding or on a night owl’s foggy morning.
Hiding From Ourselves
These things we call feelings with their soaring, diving passes,
Could, if they but would, teach us much of ourselves.
Yet these emotions cause such fearful contemplation that
We cringe within prison walls of personal making,
Daring never to pay heed to those lessons which could free us,
And allow a deeper understanding of ourselves,
Or this rapidly expanding, ever-more complex world.
A Mask for Inspiration
What comes between sleep and dream,
When wakefulness rises
To disrupt almost memory
Of visions crucial to knowing?
What are these veils that hide from us
Those precious portents that clamor
For our attention upon waking?
Flashes of clarity, fresh and new,
Fog over as mist clouds windowpanes.
Our minds surge forward, searching,
Vainly scouring wispy threads of dream
On the scent of forgotten nightly films.
Would that the mind lowered curtains
As any decent stage crew does before
Shouts of Encore! Bravo! ring forth.
It wafts, this thought
The mind; one toe
In the present,
The rest only
A dim specter,
From future’s edge;
Nagging with fog,
The reader’s eye
To see the words,
Or ear listen
To letters’ sounds.
© Claudette J. Young 2012
Poetic Asides has its Two for Tuesday prompt up this morning for its challenge within a challenge. Apologize or not apologize, that is the prompt.
Isn’t it funny how we do both each day for the unlikeliest of reasons? We’re so conditioned that we even apologize to ourselves for piddly things that have little or no consequence. Or, even better to my way of thinking, is when I apologize to my computer because I’ve either entered an inadvertent command or taken too long to complete a function. Explain that one to me, if you can.
“Sorry Doesn’t Cut It Anymore”
Why do words of encouragement
Ring hollow, without bringing hope,
Without helping to find solutions?
How can you keep holding me down,
When all I want is to soar among clouds,
White with purity of thought and intent,
Moist with possibility, light as a feather’s touch?
Where can I go to be rid of you, to not ever see you,
Waving at me again each time I window shop,
Each time I brush my teeth or comb my hair?
Why have I believed the excuses all these years,
Never expecting any better treatment from you,
When I expect even less from she who lives within me?
The time for “Sorry” is gone.
Today, I am ridding myself of your excuses.
Today, I am beginning my future without you.
I will not apologize for removing you from my life.
Today, Proboscis, you will leave my sight forever,
And I’ll not ever feel sorry about that!
A quick glance told the story.
She with fists balled,
He with hands raised in supplication.
Fear, rage, and confusion ruled her,
While he tried to explain that which
Filled her with hurt, a sense of betrayal.
She could only react, not hear words.
Hissed argument oozed from the room,
Barely above the whispers of those nearby.
Murmurs rippled from within, telling of joys
Gone, trust broken, futures destroyed.
No apology from him could be adequate now.
No apology will be accepted by her battered heart.
Another love story comes to an end, an eavesdropping
Interlude for those knowing all sides of the triangle.
I’m so happy that so many are stopping by to read these small offerings of a wandering mind. Feel free to leave a comment as you pass through on your way to another whistle stop.
Enjoy your day. If you’d like to read all or part of today’s Poetic Asides entrees, drive down The Street at:
© Claudette J. Young 2012
April will soon control the calendar and some writers’ lives—at least for 30 days. The favorite month of Parisians will take on a poetic ring on many websites across the globe. April is National Poetry Month, giving poets of every stripe impetus to fling words to passersby at every opportunity.
Robert Brewer’s Poetic Asides, an uncommonly good poetry blog operated through Writer’s Digest, issues a challenge each year to poets. The poets are set the task of creating a poem per day to a specific writing prompt. Many manage to post several poems per day, escalating the tension for others to “try to match this” on the blog.
Oddly enough, camaraderie is the norm here, with poets commenting on each other’s efforts, supporting and encouraging rather than critiquing. “The Street,” as the blog is known by regular contributors, fosters its patrons as community members with something to say and value to add to the whole. Not many blogs can claim that ability.
Along the same lines, other poetry blogs across cyberville also have their own challenges on a regular basis and will be cranking up the thermostat to get words on the screen and rhyme into the heart.
One of these sites is Poetic Bloomings, operated by Marie Elena Good and Walt Wojtanik. This daily blog has much to offer both poet and reader. Sunday’s writing prompt challenge might visual, emotional, or situational. It could be fiction/non-fiction. Each day has purpose and is filled with contributor participation. It’s a marvelous site all around.
Whether you wander over to The River or go to see the Sea Giraffes, you’ll find poetry everywhere at the click of the mouse. Of course, these sites have poetry all the time, but it gets accentuated at this time of year. Enjoy it.
I’ve chosen to take up Brewer’s gauntlet this time around again. I couldn’t participate last year since I was on the road, but this year will give me a chance to write enough to fill out a nice book of poetry with an eclectic flair, but themed nonetheless. I’m looking forward to it.
Brewer also issued a second challenge this year for those who felt their platforms needed reconstruction work done or those who hadn’t yet built their platforms. It consists of a task per day for the writer to build a viable, effective platform. The goal is a power platform by the end of the month of April.
Yep, you guessed it. I’m signing up for that one, too. Is it just me or does it seem like I just can’t leave a challenge lying on the table without at least giving it a shot? I hate not knowing whether I can do something or not.
Whether April has me showering words across specific blogs or in submissions to publications, I will be part of Ares’ madness come the first. That Fool’s Day could be the beginning of something very good or simply exhausting, but I will learn from it and that’s worth my time.
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