Prompt for Hour Twenty Two
Write a poem that relies on heavy repetition of the same words or phrase.
Bond
Loved the way she carried
The colors were always perfect
For me they were always an angels dress
I used to name all of them
Always decided what she wore then
Pink,Maroon,Blue
My favorite
About the rest I didn’t care
Years have passed
Times still stayed
My mother still wears
What I say..
At the break of dawn
As an old soul
in a young body
I seldom find myself
turning to others
for company.
I walk alone
among the moss
in forests long forgotten.
As the the meak
morning light
shine upon rustling leaves,
I listen to
the elven tirads
still ringing in my ears.
I turn towards
the Northern light-
at last
my time has come.
mothers clothes
we have talked about them for years
this odd blend of simple shirt and knitted pants
never quite good enough to take the walk to school with us
or enter a classroom unannounced.
but it was her own mix of satin and lace that gave us
precious pause.
My mother, the fashionista
Fashion never really visited my mother,
or her wardrobe,
she despised the idea of following a
t r e n d,
to her that made you a sheep,
a label we were meant to dread,
my mother never bought new clothes,
like other mothers did,
to her that was a complete waste
of money,
so she made her own instead;
she would sit at her old machine,
unit the early morning hours,
obsessed with black material,
decorated with horrible gaudy flowers.
(xxi)
lips turn cerise with the
passion of her words, the love
of her emotions.
and sussurations of desire
curdle the ridges of his
cochleate heart…
( such are the secrets lovers share )
Not My Mother’s Daughter
Clothes for my birthday!
Surely my mother must know
Her style won’t suit me.
Ocean pier
He turned to me unexpectedly; a sense of urgency
tension rippling through his body.
A warning for those who never
learned to swim in the vast ocean
as waves are coming in, growing, twisting-
foam almost breaking beneath the weight
of all too many sea shells.
Wonderland
Poetry- a living, breathing, fiery thing.
Each piece contains a world of its own.
Words written in a grand fashion or secretely
between the breaths.
Take my hand and leap forward,
let us transcend to angels
descendant from a state of ignorant bliss.
Nyad’s Tears
The lady in blue
Her dress draped around her
Mingling with the ripples
In the water of her pool
Lined with rocks
Softened and
Covered in shag carpets
Of green and olive moss
The lady laughs
Her laughter echoes
Even dampened by the leaves
Of the slender birch nymphs
Her hero approaches
Strong and sure
Proud, impudent and kind
His eyes are the blue
Of her garments
She opens her arms
And he forces aside the waters
That drain off his thighs
In heavy green rivers
The skies are heavy
With pregnant red clouds
And he lifts her up
A shrieking, laughing
Lady Nyad in love
The heavy laden clouds
Murmur with thunder
Blue leaves the red
A bolt of lightning
From straight above
The bolt fills them
Their love protects them
As long as she remains young
And he stays strong
Nothing can touch them
How can he ever fill
The hole his dryad left?
No mortal woman
Could bring the lightning
Down on him
And he will always crave it
He left her without knowing
That the love that
She brought him
Was rare only to her
Too late to realize
When she aged
It wasn’t to deceive him
Then She had drank all her pool
And the waters destroyed her
She was Laid to rest in
An unmarked grave
Misunderstood and reviled
Her beauty inside her