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Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month.
Topic 15: Write a poem inspired by Spring! Yes, I am in a spring mood today and in the manner of treading where every poet's gone before we need to write poems of spring!
Form : any
Line requirements: 10 lines or more.
Questions?
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In her day
May, feeling unseasonably hot, at the end of her day.
saw pictures of ice that caused the ruination of her day.
Upon a page - firm ice; a hallucination in thrusting spikes.
May swooned, then determined on a destination for her day.
The new found passion was planned. An icy rejuvination.
April questioned the iced inclinations of May in her day.
May continued in her spiky peregrination plans.
she fixed a date to make good the combination in her day.
No longer would May have only soft pollination seed grains,
she sought harder ways of insemination in her day.
April rained on May with cool disinclination and grey
clouds of dissmissive procrastination concerning her day.
Oh the cruel and heartless guile of sisterly machinations!
April knew the icy touch of transformation in her day.
Unwilling to share her frozen associations April smiled
and blew warm winds of misinformation on May in her day.
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spring fare
Oh look! a lovely little lamb;
to skin it for the frying pan.
A chop, a leg, a neck, who cares
in mint and buttered oven-wares.
From spit to dinner plate it's clear
a baby sheep, and glass of beer,
in spring there are no finer feasts
than grilling these four legged beasts.
A barbie, Greek kebab, or roast
I love the farmer's hogget most.
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(04-16-2013, 05:27 PM)cidermaid Wrote: In her day
May, feeling unseasonably hot, at the end of her day.
saw pictures of ice that caused the ruination of her day.
Upon a page - firm ice; a hallucination in thrusting spikes.
May swooned, then determined on a destination for her day.
The new found passion was planned. An icy rejuvination.
April then questioned the inclination of May in her day.
May continued in her spiky peregrination plans.
she fixed a date to make good the combination in her day.
No longer would May have only soft pollination seed grains,
she sought harder ways of insemination in her day.
April rained on May with cool disinclination and grey
clouds of dissmissive procrastination concerning her day.
Oh the cruel and heartless guile of sisterly machinations!
April knew the icy touch of transformation in her day.
Unwilling to share her frozen associations april smiled
and blew warm winds of misinformation on May in her day.
nice ghazal
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(04-16-2013, 05:27 PM)cidermaid Wrote: In her day
May, feeling unseasonably hot, at the end of her day.
saw pictures of ice that caused the ruination of her day.
Upon a page - firm ice; a hallucination in thrusting spikes.
May swooned, then determined on a destination for her day.
The new found passion was planned. An icy rejuvination.
April then questioned the inclination of May in her day.
May continued in her spiky peregrination plans.
she fixed a date to make good the cobination in her day.
No longer would May have only soft pollination seed grains,
she sought harder ways of insemination in her day.
April rained on May with cool disinclination and grey
clouds of dissmissive procrastination concerning her day.
Oh the cruel and heartless guile of sisterly machinations!
April knew the icy touch of transformation in her day.
Unwilling to share her frozen associations april smiled
and blew warm winds of misinformation on May in her day.
great effort, a few spelling errors but the form and content are okay
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04-16-2013, 07:05 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-16-2013, 07:07 PM by Todd.)
A Fable Told by Winter
Each year, the groundhogs froze
to fall like icicles upon stone
in a symphony of broken crystal.
Soon, only Punxsutawney Phil remained.
It was a year of no shadow,
with the cast scent of black eyed Susan
and upturned soil.
Winter though was implacable as the glacier,
as death itself, for Winter lived in every grave.
At the moment of decision, it draped
Phil with the sewn shadows of his fallen brothers,
and Pennsylvania was blotted from the Earth.
The clouds gave command, and snow coursed
like a baying pack of hunting hounds
across open meadow. Spring was brought down,
a panting hare beneath a flurry of white teeth.
Her blood spreading in frozen droplets of red
corn poppies mellowing to hibiscus stains
in the ever and always gray morning.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
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(04-16-2013, 07:05 PM)Todd Wrote: A Fable Told by Winter
Each year, the groundhogs froze
to fall like icicles upon stone
in a symphony of broken crystal.
Soon, only Punxsutawney Phil remained.
It was a year of no shadow,
with the cast scent of black eyed Susan
and upturned soil.
Winter though was implacable as the glacier,
as death itself, for Winter lived in every grave.
At the moment of decision, it draped
Phil with the sewn shadows of his fallen brothers,
and Pennsylvania was blotted from the Earth.
The clouds gave command, and snow coursed
like a baying pack of hunting hounds
across open meadow. Spring was brought down,
a panting hare beneath a flurry of white teeth.
Her blood spreading in frozen droplets of red
corn poppies mellowing to hibiscus stains
in the ever and always gray morning.
if only Pennsylvania /was/ blotted from the earth . . .
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No love for Penslyvania?
Who am I to talk? 
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
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my main exposure to Pennsylvania is driving through it. In such instances, Pennsylvania breaks free of the bonds of time and space and stretches to unimaginable lengths. What does the state of Pennsylvania do with these new physical impossibilities? Well, for starters it tries to pave them all at the same time leaving the smallest trickles in the stream for traffic.
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(04-16-2013, 07:41 PM)milo Wrote: my main exposure to Pennsylvania is driving through it. In such instances, Pennsylvania breaks free of the bonds of time and space and stretches to unimaginable lengths. What does the state of Pennsylvania do with these new physical impossibilities? Well, for starters it tries to pave them all at the same time leaving the smallest trickles in the stream for traffic.
And think, driving through it is still immeasurably better than living there.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
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Spring
Spring is a cracked vase of wilted flowers
that we happen to remember.
An explosion of bold water colours
that drips down like raindrops on bus windows.
It’s smiling about memories of the sweet shop in the corner,
and glooming at the condo built in its place.
Glorifying the past, creating ideals out of averages
because new beginnings lost their novelty long ago.
It’s the silence between us, after so many years,
speaking a million words about how we still feel.
Our affection hasn’t changed, surprisingly,
but the air between us has, along with time, turned old and stale.
Back!
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Revised (first one was too rough for my taste - this one a bit better):
He rose and left his soiled sheets to others for the washing,
while mine are wrapped still tighter by my mottled hands, white and grey.
And beneath his dirty, thread bare sheet the earth is wet in chilly sweat,
which runs between his coarse brown hairs so thickly filled with winter dandruff.
This land seems most like elder man who shakes away impoverished waste,
to soon descend to scanty grave, not to rise again as one afresh and flower graced,
who casts upon the sky his warmth less wrap to fall again as mana,
collecting on the grass, while I stay cold and without faith in this,
the promised and miraculous return.
Original:
He rose and left his soiled sheets to other’s for the washing,
while mine are wrapped still closer by my mottled hands, white and grey.
And beneath the dirty, thread bare sheet the earth is wet in chilly sweat,
which runs between his coarse browns hairs filled with winter dandruff.
This land seems most like an elder man shaking away his impoverished waste,
soon to descend to scanty grave, not to rise again afresh and flower graced,
to cast up his pitiful wrappings through the sky as mana,
falling to collect upon the grass.
I hardly believe it could happen again.
I live in the North America's Moscow (same latitude). Luckily I don't live in some of other Canadian town still further north (poor blighters). And I envy those of you loving the spring rains.
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Morning bear soaks his feet
in honeysuckle dew;
Chases fairies on the lawn
then lazily spins
and collapses with a yawn.
In the crisp sheets
of a nighttime clover breeze
he climbs the Chinaberry tree
and paws a playful pause
at fireflies that dance like stars.
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Each season boasts a color
of roadside wild bloom:
sticky necks brush purest white
lacy, dainty, baby’s breathing
sends shivers out so violet rears
its kingly head of beauty,
eyes peek from furry hoods
orange livens up the gloom,
and shifts to taxi yellow
crying out in clustered joy
the beach beckons once again.
ahhh the ups of living on the 33rd parallel N. ^_____^
_______________________________________
The howling beast is back.
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Spring
The earth is akin to 'Benjamin Button',
phoenix awakened in all that was dead.
Sweeping meadows and valleys alike
the magic of growing things is spread.
Earth's canvas is no more blanched
it's been sprayed with umpteen shades.
Imploring arms of the trees are now
blessed, bejeweled are their braids.
Emerald, purple, indigo and yellow,
Orange, fuchsia, lavender and red,
confetti lying on a vast green spread,
Glittering crystals or flowers' bed.
The mango blossom's sweet beckoning,
cooing cuckoos in shady groves.
Afternoons have turned nostalgic,
all the fun in hidden alcoves.
Deciphering unknown constellations,
lying on the roof together,
cool breeze touches my cheeks
with her palms of soft gossamer.
~Neena
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