The Sweet 16 - Round 3

It's Voting Time Again!  I made it to Round 3!  It's fun!  It's challenging!  Come visit and vote!

Here's the link: http://www.thinkkidthink.com/3-stitched-vs-10-waylay/

Thanks for your support!!!

March Madness 2015 - Round 2

I made it through Round 1!!!  Now, it's time for Round 2.  Please visit and vote for my poem, 'The Short Cut - An Aesop Fable.'  Thank you!!!

The current bracket - for Round 2

March Madness 2015

ThinkKidThink's March Madness 2015/my 1st round bracket

Hi there!  As you can see by the above picture, I managed to snag a spot amongst the 64 awesome 'authletes' who are competing in the bracketed kids' poetry competition of the year.

So, I need your help.  This is the link to my particular bracket.  Please visit it and vote for my poem. Thank you from the bottom of my sweet little poetic form fundament to the top of my perfectly coiffed (yeah, right!) metric & scansion head.

And while you are at it, I have a couple of talented friends who are in the running too - so please vote for their poems as well.  Damon Dean and Tiffany Strelitz Haber.

Thank you...thank you...thank you!!!

Temptress of Cookies

Biscuits Lefèvre-Utile by Alphons Mucha, 1897/Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons/Public Domain

Temptress of Cookies

She proffers up a gilded plate.

I wonder, could this be her bait?

“Biscotti or a bourbon ball?”

Surrender!  I am in her thrall.

“Taste this cantucci di Prato.

Just one bite…”  I’ve won the Lotto!

Those Florentines!  I can’t forestall

surrender!  I am in her thrall.

She’s wicked.  She’s a temptress.  I’ve

just never felt so – S’mores! – alive!

Her schnecken’s my confectioned all.

Surrender!  I am in her thrall.

“Rochers à la noix de coco?

Petit fours?” She drives me loco!

She’s a Pfeffernüsse doll.
Surrender!  I am in her thrall. 

###

Notes:  The form is Kyrielle (yes, I love this form!)  The artwork which inspired this poem is by my favorite La Belle Epoque artist, Alphons Mucha.  Especially with the Girl Scout cookie season (yum!) well upon us, I thought this poem was kind of apropos.  And for more noisy treats, please check out the Phoenix Rising site.  And don't forget, Poetic Asides is serving up treats, too.

Reaction in Copper

Ludwik Misky, A girl plaiting her hair, 1916.  Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons/PublicDomain.

Anamnesis

She watches.  A defiant glare.

She sighs, and then she pulls more hair

into the burnished copper braid.

She should be scared; she’s not afraid.

Some light streaks through a window slat

illuminating ginger plait

which shows one tendril'd lock has strayed.

She should be scared; she’s not afraid.

She brushes back the errant strand,

then glances at her empty hand

which soon will grasp a smallish blade.

She should be scared; she’s not afraid.

And with a swipe, that auburn tress

falls to the floor. “Let them obsess

about the one who disobeyed.
She should be scared; she’s not afraid.

###

Notes:  Form: Kyrielle.  The poem was inspired by the above artwork.  When I first saw it, I thought that the girl in the picture was wary and very much wanted freedom, even if it came with a cost.  From that, she decided that the only way to get to that good and safe place would be to cut off her beautiful hair.

Onomatopoeia Dreamscape

"SYNTAX(1813) - 27 - The Doctor's Dream" by Thomas Rowlandson - Image extracted from page 293 of The Tour of Doctor Syntax: in search of the picturesque ... Fifth edition, with new plates., by William Combe. Original held and digitised by the British/image courtesy of WikimediaCommons/Public Domain.

Onomatopoeia Dreamscape 

Flip-flap-flip-flap-flippetty-fling,
books go flying zig…zag…zing.
Words are all a-clink, a-clatter.
In my dream, there’s naught a-matter.
Fwoosh! A novel buzzes ‘round,
blurting out each verb and noun!
Next, some poems play with patter.
Words are all a-clink, a-clatter.
Bam! I clap my hands while trilling,
“Ding! Dang! Dong! It’s all quite thrilling!”
Cream-white paper, inky spatter…
In my dream, there’s naught a-matter.
Giggle, giggle! Themes now mingle.
Flying tomes give me a tingle.
Oh, so fun, this chitterchatter!
In my dream, there’s naught a-matter.

###

Notes:  The form is Kyrielle. The poem was inspired by the above picture in conjunction with the prompt of Onomatopoeia from Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild.

Pianissimo

Jules Pascin, Café Scene.  Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.  Public Domain.

Pianissimo

“If love played an instrument, I’ll bet it would be the piano.  88 keys, double infinity, and the ability to chop down trees with a sharpened mustache.”  ~Jarod Kintz, This Book Has No Title

Oh, play one song, one simple tune.

Love, to your charms, I’m not immune.

Your joyful noise is such a tease,

unlocked by your piano keys.

I am that audience of one

who longs for magic to be spun.

There’s eighty-eight varieties.

Unlock each note, piano keys.

I hear the music in my head.

I know that nothing’s left unsaid,

despite the chords of congeries

unlocked by your piano keys.

Crescendo, passion, and release

not tempered by my heart’s caprice.

It’s all about those ivories,

since love unlocks what’s in the keys.

###

Notes:  The form is Kyrielle.  The poem was written based upon a suggestion offered from the newly created and launched Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild website.

The Pose

Léopold-Émile Reutlinger - LOTI, Manon_SIP. 934. Photo Reutlinger/
Wikimedia Commons/Public Domain

1903

I think I’ll rip these curtains down.

They clash with my charmeuse Worth gown.

I’d break the Internet, you see,

but it is just nineteen-oh-three.

Instead of grease, I wear this dress.

that’s quite notorious.  The press

would love to see some more of me,

but it is just nineteen-oh-three.

No Internet.  No YouTube buzz.

No Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr.  Does

that mean I can’t break hearts?  How dree,

but it is just nineteen-oh-three.

Celebutants must feed the need

of culture or they won’t  succeed.

‘Though I am hardly bourgeoisie,
the year is still nineteen-oh-three.

###

Notes: The form is Kyrielle.  The pose which was struck in this portrait reminded me of a certain woman on the cover of a certain magazine, who was supposed to 'Break the Internet.'  I thought it was kind of an interesting comparison.  Also, although the woman in the above postcard was clearly wearing Edwardian dress, I do not know if the dress was actually Worth, or if the picture was even taken in 1903 - although it was from a collection that was created in that general era.

Germs

Microbes/Sewage, 2014…Author: Sustainable Sanitation Alliance.  This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.  Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.  

Path-O-Gens

Salmonella – what a fella!

He went viral with Rubella

on the YouTube site ‘Infective.’

Are you sick?  That’s their objective.

E. Coli’s best friend is Crypto.

They both never walk on tiptoe

when your system’s ineffective.

Are you sick?  That’s their objective.

Pseudomonas, Fungi, MRSA -

they’re another gang.  A curse, a

blight, a pestilence collective.

Are you sick?  That’s their objective.

Salmonella – what a fella!
Are you sick?  That’s their objective.

###

Notes:  The form is Kyrielle Sonnet.  I came across the above graphic, and it just seemed to lend itself to this poem instantly. 

A Toast to Socks

The maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes...from A Song of Sixpence by Walter Crane, 1909.
Image is courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.  Public Domain.

Just Plain Wrong

“Never put a sock in a toaster.” ~Eddie Izzard

I sniff and smell a thing that’s burnt.

The scent is bad.  I haven’t learnt

that socks just simply don’t belong

in things like toasters. Just plain wrong.

It’s just that my toes feel like ice,

and toasty socks would be quite nice!

I should have known this all along:

No socks in toasters.  Just plain wrong.         

But if I’d put my toes inside

the toaster…well…my hide’d be fried.

A sock plus toaster? My torch song.

No socks in toasters.  Just plain wrong.

I sniff and smell a thing that’s burnt
in things like toasters. Just plain wrong. 

###

The poetic form is Kyrielle Sonnet.  I happened to see the above quote (which is serving as my epigraph here) and it just conjured up some funny mental images.  My imagination was ignited, so to speak, and thus a poetic conflagration ensued.

Ruins

A woodcut of the ruins of Kildare Cathedral, c. 1835.  Anonymous - The Penny Magazine of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge. Vol. 4. 11 July 1835. London.  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. Public domain.

Ruins

“Love is a springtime plant that perfumes everything with its hope, even the ruins to which it clings.” ~Gustave Flaubert

Amidst these ruins, I can see

a ghost who quite impossibly

still hints that I will somehow find

a love whom I’d once left behind.

I won’t believe this ghost.  But then,

I’m more concerned with now; not when.

Still…maybe it’s my state of mind:

A love that I’d once left behind?

My thoughts might haunt me, as they may,

but in these ruins, thoughts don’t weigh

much more than leaves with wind entwined

for love.  I've left regret behind.

Amidst these ruins, I can see
a love; but love was left behind.

###

Notes: The form is Kyrielle Sonnet.  The poem was inspired by both the above artwork and the above quote.  It was posted on Poetic Asides today, since their Wednesday prompt theme is, "State of the ..."  

I would also like to add that the poem is merely a creation; that is, the words came to mind to form the poem, and they do not have any real life bearing on me or my past, although I suppose in an alternative universe, it could have happened that way.