Hour 17: A Thorn May Have Its Rose
Might a beast not have its beauty?
The phantom his diva?
Nor the hunchback his gypsy?
Might a thorn not have its rose?
Haiku (hour 17)
Swaying in the breeze
dancing to the
Beat
Night
Night
Virginia Carraway Stark
Darkness settles
In the wind and the mist
That rise up from the wild clay soil
Like a cool cloak
Of dark moon splendour
The gloaming is alive
With tendrils of fog that seek
All that is warm and safe
Stars spakkel the sky
In slow degrees
As night seeks me with
The softest fingers
Luring me with the loss
Of my senses as dusk
Puts out my eyes
And wakes me from the world
Into slumber
For Liam
It is a precious thing to see
a baby born –
(An honour I hope you come to know)
Better still when the baby is
you; bursting forth
with such courage and conviction
blowing raspberries, and love, at me.
I watched you splutter and spurt,
breathe your first,
and step into your solidness –
an ethereal earthling with stars still attached.
And now I watch you grow;
the massive mixing with the miniature
the grand with the grounded…
I know I’ve loved you forever.
Botticelli saw you in his
dreams; and painted you
five hundred years early.
Poetry Form
The problem with poetry
Is there are too many rules
A sonnet is this way
You learn a haiku in school
There’s the ode and Epistle
The tanka, the bop
Seriously these people have got to be stopped
A sestina should be massacred
A Villanelle should be vilified
A poem should be wonder
The student runs away terrified
I know I’m just ranting
Poetry must have a form
But I am sounding the charge
Wailing the alarm
A poem should have rhythm
Just the right sound
But do we really need quintains
Roundels make me frown
No give me free verse
With nary a form
I’ll write you my best
Don’t make me conform
Poem #17: Country
The bonfire roars into the night
Crackling twigs erupt in a furor
They dance, drink, and laugh around the perimeter
In light of summer’s sweet charity
The crickets play violin on their legs
The music of night, the lullaby of the earth
Into the hay field they wade
Hushed giggles and soft tremors
Two link pinkies
Their faces close
Brushing up eyelashes
Tickle her cheeks
Rising smell of wood and leather
She tugs at the hem of her jeans
Hikes them up over her boots
Hops the fence and follows through
Nighttime nickers and velvet noses
Fingers weave into course manes
Ears tilt backward
They ride into twilight
My life is like a canvas
My life is like a canvas,sometimes colorful and in black and white.
As I grew old through the continuing cycles of change,
From harsh autumn wind,to a blizzard winter spell…
I remain unchanged.
My life is like a canvas with different strokes of colored paint and sometimes in black and white.
From the dry spell of summer sun,to a breezy wind of spring…
I remain unchanged.
My life keeps on twirling,like a spinning wheel and it all comes in divine order,I believe…
I remain unchanged.
My life will always remain, like a canvas of colors and sometimes in black and white.
Bounded truths
A book bounded
With lines
Amongst
More lines
These lines
Hold my truth
The ink
Which make
My words come alive
Paint
Those things festering
Deep in my mind
This book
Is something
I could not leave without
For it holds
Truths that are yet
To be confined by the hands of time
I could leave everything
In this place
But the one thing
I hold dear
Are these pages
Where my heart
Only knows how
To feel
Safe
-Angelica Villarruel
Blooming Nebulas
Just a drop of stardust
Sends out a ripple in my stomach
The love I feel for you
Could be seen throughout the entire galaxy
Splashed with colors and magical hues
Like watching a nebula bloom
You are a black hole
I want to get lost in you