CanaLife

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
A Venice Canal, 1868/Eugenio Lucas Velazquez (1817-1870)
Public Domain

Canaliculi

What secrets bridge the span as they stand, bestridden

across the damp, ancient sandstone façade?

While the view may appear handsome, it is still forbidden,

since its face, its veneer, remains impenetrable and unsolvable.

Perhaps, in the aged mortar, someone slid in

a secret message or a cipher,

locked within the seams because that person didn’t

want the significance known by man or god,

and so, for all eternity, it shall remain hidden. 

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Notes: The form is Magic 9, a very fun, addicting form.  It was recently featured at Poetic Asides, as the latest in their Forms Challenges.  The poem was inspired by Sepia Saturday's picture prompt: 

Can't Hide

Untitled/TurgoArt (Turgo Bastien)/public domain/Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Can’t Hide

“Like a church bell, a coffin, and a vat of melted chocolate, a supply closet is rarely a comfortable place to hide.” ― Lemony Snicket, The Blank Book

                                            

‘Twas lookin’ for a place to hide

right after one late night joyride.

But nothin’ worked.  Still in plain sight.

A bell can’t shade a bright headlight.

We knew we were in trouble ‘cause

we broke some laws.  At least, a clause

or two.  Think they will expedite

the coffins?  Damn! A bright headlight.

So Jerry tried to run.  Not me.

Was snagged by Officer McGee.

And choc or closet?  Full of spite.
Can’t hide when lit by bright headlight.

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Form: Kyrielle.  Inspired by Poetic Asides' Wednesday prompt of 'hiding.'

Choices

On the Pont de l’Europe by Gustave Caillebotte, public domain. Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Asked and Answered

“Which would you rather be if you had the choice--divinely beautiful or dazzlingly clever or angelically good?” ― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

It is a question, I suppose.

Three choices: what to choose of those.

I don’t think I’ll reply too fast.

The implications might well last.

So, beautiful.  Would that I’d see

a thing divine.  Could that be me?

And clever.  Let me but contrast

the implications.  Might well last.

I think I’m good, ‘though angel-ish?

I doubt it.  Should that be my wish?

I fear I’m at a strong impasse.
Thus, I won’t choose just one, at last.

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The form is Kyrielle.  The poem was inspired by the Wednesday Poetic Asides' prompt of 'At Last.'

Lego My SnowPlow - An Ovillejo Thing

Images courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.  Public Domain.  Edited for content.

On this very blizzardly (is that a word?) day, I decided to write a few more Ovillejo poems.  Over at Poetic Asides, the prompt this week was to write a Persona Poem.  I penned two of them, with two very different voices.  That should, hopefully explain the weird, doctored picture, above.

Ovillejo for a Snow Plow Driver

The snow was piling high.

That’s why

with plow, I soon ‘decapped’

(it snapped!)

some mailbox from its post,

almost.

The owner yelled, “You’re toast!”

He witnessed my mistake.

I didn’t swerve or brake.
That’s why it snapped, almost.

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Mom Who Steps on a Lego Piece in Her Bare Feet

O anguish on my rug! 

It dug

into my poor bare sole,

a hole

that was quite vast, it seemed.

I screamed.

Yes, Legos double teamed.

But what can you expect?

My foot was sorely wrecked!

It dug a hole.  I screamed.

###

And now, I guess I'll go back to bingewatching television.  Stay warm, dry and safe.

Apocalyptically speaking...

Image courtesy of  The Meta Picture

Zombie Apocalypse

“Zombies are people, too.  Okay, dead people with poor grammar skills.” ~Night of the Living Dead

Let’s celebrate apocalypse –
the zombie kind. Here are my tips:
So…one: you moan, and two: eat brains.
Three: Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ reigns.

It’s ‘Doomsday’ – zombies can be found
at Starbucks, Game Stop…all around
the shopping malls and bowling lanes
where Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ reigns.

Their biggest problem? When they talk.
But only zombies rock ‘the walk.’
It’s even better done in chains
‘cause Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ reigns.

Zombies, existentially,
are what the world will zombday be.
If zombies are the last remains,
then Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ reigns. 

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Notes:  The form is Kyrielle.  Over at the Poetic Asides PAD Challenge, Day 14's theme is 'Doomsday.'  Well, anyone who knows me knows my poetry typically doesn't want to be a downer. It's meant to be clever and funny (I said 'meant to be', you know) and it's really just shiny, happy people poetry.  

Usually.  

I mean, I have my causes and my rants (and don't get me started, okay?)  But I also believe that life is too short ('though not in a doomsday kind of way, of course) so why not laugh.

After all, the zombies will get you zombday anyway.

Branching Out

Image courtesy of gardentreeslandscape

Slumber Leaves

There is a tree on my front lawn

where all the mourning doves are drawn.

They caw, they woot and even peep.

What’s in my tree won’t let me sleep.

Some gusts whip branches high atop

this tree, now banging without stop.

Between the doves and branches … *bleep*!

What’s in my tree won’t let me sleep.

And just when I might think, ‘That’s it,’

cicadas in my tree transmit

‘cicada song.’  I want to leap.

What’s in my tree won’t let me sleep.

At last, I doze, but not for long.

Woodpeckers?!  Buzzing bees?!  Wind gong?!

They join the noisefest as I weep.

What’s in my tree won’t let me sleep.

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Metaphorest

“You can’t sit in your corner of the Forest waiting for others to come to you.  You have to go to them sometimes.” ~Winnie the Pooh

A canopy of leaves may arc

above my head.  Tree limbs and bark

may give me shelter, but I know

my friends are waiting.  Gotta go.

That old bear understood the need

which says, ‘Once anchored, then proceed

to branch out.  Life is waiting.’ So…

my friends are waiting.  Gotta go.

A forest corner’s safe…secure,

but only briefly.  Trees obscure

the view until their leaves will blow.

My friends are waiting.  Gotta go.

A metaphor can only state

the obvious, so let’s translate:

I’ve got my roots; now I must grow.

My friends are waiting.  Gotta go.

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Notes:  Poetic Asides' PAD Challenge sported a two-fer today:  trees and forests.  Both of my poems, are you might have already figured out, are Kyrielles.

Contrast Sketch

Image courtesy of Kapajen/'Reverie', 2003 - Conté crayon

Contrast Sketch

“Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.” ~Carl Sandburg

A voice, with Conté crayon, draws

the light and shadow, all because

imagination wants to fetch

a life in words: a contrast sketch.

An echo is a study of

the shades and tints of hate and love:

a danse macabre, a blooming vetch,

a life in words: a contrast sketch.

In bright sunlight, a shadow grows

but not in silence: Poems. Prose.

It’s  ballet…jazz…it’s movement…stretch…

a life in words: a contrast sketch.

The shady sides of streets are just

one place to hide the pixie dust

which, when it’s found, can score and etch

a life in words: a contrast sketch.  

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Notes: The form is Kyrielle.  My poem was inspired by the Poetic Asides' PAD prompt today of 'shady' (or shade and shadows, if so interpreted.) My muse also got a happy little assist from Saint-Saëns and Sandburg...and Bob Ross.

Am I reading something into this?

This image is of the library on the ill-fated Mauritania.  The photograph was provided for by Sepia Saturday,

Synchrony

I sit and read a much-worn tome…

that’s when it suddenly hits home.

I know where I was meant to be:

‘midst silent crowds; the library.

So many words are spoken but

that’s only when books are not shut.

And then I’ll hear the symphony,

‘midst silent crowds, the library.

Each person reads a narrative.

Ideas dance, declarative.

The hushed room’s filled with bel esprit

‘midst silent crowds; the library.

Unspoken conversations stream

while literate companions dream.

We’re all the same, a synchrony

‘midst silent crowds; the library.  

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Notes:  The form is Kyrielle.  The poem was written based on two separate prompts:  Sepia Saturday's theme of 'library' (because this is National Library Week) and Poetic Asides' prompt about people interacting without saying any words.