The Poetry Marathon

Prompt for Hour Sixteen

Write a sestina! A sestina is a poem with six stanzas of six lines and a final triplet, all stanzas having the same six words at the line-ends in six different sequences that follow a fixed pattern, and with all six words appearing in the closing three-line envoi.

Does that sound intimidating and time consuming? It only is if you do it from scratch, however there is a website that helps with the creation of sestinas: http://dilute.net/sestinas/

All you have to do is come up with 6 words and they will figure out the order of everything, then you can add the rest of the text yourself. A sestina can really get you writing about something you would normally not. They are great in that way.

Poem 12

Black cat, Luna, sits

in window, gazes at night

Moon smiles at namesake

 

Eve Remillard

6/13/2015

Poem #24: Pencils

Never wrote a single line in ink, all
graphite lyricism, swabbed by constant indecisive eraser smudges.
Dixons, Ticonderogas–the works–
torturing a pencil until it was shorter than my pinky finger,
burdensome, my forearm earning its exercise from hours
of writing and mindless music in the background.

Ticonderogas, however, were the best, always one in the single
helix spine of my notebook. When the eraser f!attens,
sparse of any more use, I would sharpen and remove
its green-metallic carapace, extending its lifespan surgically.
Although pencil lead tends to fade with every closing of covers,
I enjoy knowing that however old the words become,
I’ll still be able to read my sloppy handwriting,
and know its age is not finished.

The Path to Light

I didn’t choose that path back then.
I was afraid. Too oft warned of the
Consequence of being myself.

I am Janice Joy, not Joy Elizabeth,
The child whose body lay in blood
That hot August day.

The dogs were gone, and my arm
Still whole, yet wrapped in bloody
Cotton torn from the shirt of my hero.

I have chosen the wrong path
Again and again, wondering of the
Consequence of truth, or opening the door.

It’s been the devil waiting there
To test the sacredness of life,
And prove that Jews are not a chosen few.

Who knew a child could prove them wrong,
Come back again, and with a song
Remind these demons of eternity?

Yet still, the pain of death and life
Is not a pastime I adore
Or want still more.

No.

I am done being her.
Probably the wrong path again
To take in this fascist state.

Hour Fifteen

I, being of sound mind and body, do hereby leave you:

My mind-

Where dreams of greatness once manifested,

Where a plethora of useless knowledge once swam,

Where words of wisdom once danced,

Where hopes and aspirations once congregated,

Where fond memories now lie.

My hands-

That once held the precious cargo of my future,

That once caressed the intimate places of ones who promised forever,

That once cradled my head weary of the world,

That once clenched in outrage, anger, and grief,

That once rose in compliance and surrender.

My heart-

Full of love for ones deserving and undeserving,

Full of admiration for those who stood brave and strong,

Full of compassion for the downtrodden and despaired,

Full of regret for chances not taken and mistakes made,

Full of sorrow for broken trust and untruth.

My soul-

Which embodies all of me:

Every thought, every feeling, every hope, every dream, every memory, every secret of who I was truly meant to be.

Mind, Hand, Heart, and Soul: My Legacy for You…

Kisses

Need your kisses.

On my lips.

Need your magic that only you can.

Give me.

Need your love too caress my heart.

Too place of love

Hour Fifteen

Write a poem that has a chance of being very meaningful to someone you are very close to, or someone you want to be close to.
——————————————————————————————————————-

Gone from all we were
together we sat at night
watching the same moon.

work to make it work,
and you can make it through,
only forming dust into chalk?

#16 – System of taste

Tasteful you are

Tasteful I am

Is that enough?

For a love story

 

Your state system

And my system of taste

Are they compatible?

When you turn your back to me

 

Tasteful I am

Tasteful you are

Is that enough?

For a love story

 

 

 

 

Ode to a character

My book (movie) in my head never ends,

so placing you in the leading role was

easy; your wit and charm give others pause,

but your chameleon ways help my plot blend.

 

I laugh when people are taken a back

by the many things you do to cause thought,

as if they own you, not a movie, but

the person wrapped up in plastic sack.

 

Perhaps its your swift smile, or boisterous laugh

that make them forget the fiction of the tale

told through digital, celluloid  and stage;

the person they create is real, full of life

even if, like in my head, it’s a pale

ghost in front of them, sitting on the page