I’ll be the first to admit that I’m no poet. But I do think that the study of poetry is important for prose writers as well. It helps us be more aware of the imagery, cadences, and sounds that our words make. I’ve collected a few of the poems I’ve tried out over the years and noted what form I was attempting if I could remember.
Summer
Sultry winds caress Heavenly sea of daydreams Fleeting cotton waves Golden fields shimmer Sunwarmed lavender incense Petals kissed by dew Twirling enraptured Urgent strains of sparrows Pulsing throaty cries Drowsy ‘neath oak boughs Repose in Helios’ embrace Sleep in dappled shade
Rejected
Mirror Cinquain poem
Fury What ignorance! What brash impertinence! Sacrifice repaid with cold scorn Aching The past Soft memories of sweet laughter Innocent embraces Tears of regret
Alone
Assonance and Consonance, Limerick, AABBA, A=7-10, B=5-7
On nights forsaken by the moon A forlorn ghoul gallops across the dunes Broken claws gouging rock Hollow eyes Sorrow pours from a mouth that cannot speak
Desert Sun God
They call it a barren, empty, wasteland The desert Sun god is a fierce, unforgiving lord Who destroys the unprepared. But I’ve heard the early morning chorus Of the singing coyote pack, I’ve heard the waking cicada Creaking in the dusk. I’ve smelled the oily scent of rain As it falls upon miles of ancient creosote bush. I’ve dug my toes into the coarse hot sand And found the two black eyes and long grey ears of a lightning quick jackrabbit beside me. I’ve tasted the sweet purple flesh of tunas And seen the bite marks left by javelinas Upon the needle-crusted prickly pear pads. The eagle soars above me The snake undulates beside me And if I stand very still at night, A kangaroo rat might visit me too. A thousand birds A million bees No, it is not a wasteland, But a dry, hot Amazon Teeming with creatures who respect the Sun god above A terrible god with a wicked smile But the desert does not cower, does not flee. In the gaze of their Sun god, the denizens of the desert thrive on the edge of his blazing knife.
Grit
Villanelle poem, A1 b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 / a b A2 / a b A1 A2
I shall get up again My heart is strong and firm No boot can keep me down They laughed at me each time I tried and failed to sing I shall get up again They scoffed when I first wed The man—he must be blind! No boot can keep me down They jeered with each proud step They took throughout my home I shall get up again My child adores my songs My home is filled with love I shall get up again No boot can keep me down
Anxiety
Written for a challenge on theprose.com
Fear—of failure, of humiliation, of ineptitude Fear—of success, of expectations, of false friends Fear—of waning health, of debilitating injury, of sudden death My greatest adversary is the immobilizing anxiety that protects me from loss and failure, but stops me from experiencing, from living, from loving. Each day is a battleground. Some days bring resounding success, and others find me slain among the corpses of my hopes and dreams.
Jupiter Vesuvius
Written for a challenge on theprose.com: “You’re a Pompeiian poet. Volcanic ash is raining down. You write one last poem. What is it?”
Jupiter Vesuvius Gouts of ash consume Summer’s scorching terminus— Divine serpent’s wrath. Shrines of sweet incense Desperate supplications Oh, what have we done?
Black Sands
Iambic pentameter
The shrieking roc dives from the endless sky Banshee's shrill scream urges me through thick sand The breath of its colossal wings pass by King of eagles blasts into the scorched land. Black embers score my skin as the roc strains In ebon sand that throbs with the sun's rays I drink in the sand's power--fire floods my veins; Set alight, I harness the charred sands' blaze. A charcoal swell surges at my command-- Then twists away of its own strange accord Given life by some invisible hand The sand's black coils claim the sky's fallen lord. I will never forget this novel feat Of the sand that lives in the searing heat.
