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Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

This House Shines Dark – a Triolet

 
This house shines dark while you’re away;
Bring home your sunshine drenched in loving smiles.
–  I drown with anguish every time you stray,
This house shines dark while you’re away.
Remembering the words you’d always say,
   “No worries my dear – Not so many miles!”
This house shines dark while you’re away;
   Bring home your sunshine drenched in loving smiles.
 
☮TheMsLvh © 2011
Image source: Dark House
 
French in origin, and likely dating to the thirteenth century, the triolet is a short poem of eight lines with only two rhymes used throughout. The requirements of this fixed form are straightforward: the first line is repeated in the fourth and seventh lines; the second line is repeated in the final line; and only the first two end-words are used to complete the tight rhyme scheme.

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California Ink In Motion by TheMsLvh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License

Mighty Wurlitzer

 
The music played the voice of yesterday,
old silent films of black and white.
When dialogue replaced by score;
the “Mighty Wurlitzer” delights.
 
The Maestro armed with paper photoplay;
piano, organ, and cue sheet.
Told us effects and moods to feel –
stage movie actors felt complete.
 
Composed original scores proudly sang,
strong epic music to enhance.
The lover’s build-up ‘till the kiss,
film’s end finality sweet embrace.
 
As Hollywood of silent era roars;
employment of musicians soars.
The “talkies” popularized film –
creating music by the scores!
 
 
☮TheMsLvh © 2011
Image source: Mighty Wurlitzer
Google image – Gish and Barthelmess – Broken Blossoms
submitted to dVerse prompt for Silent  Movie Era

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Politician’s Sonnet

 
A northern breeze ignites a raging storm;
exposing cloaked deceptions in my head –
dark ebullition of emotions churn.
 
Malaise surrounds my vessel to conform;
those fervent pleas -the trunk of your words said.
The residue: your shallow truth will stain
 
and sweep away my heart – ablaze to burn.
Black clouds of spoken dust rehearsed to swarm;
enrage my thoughts –integrity is dead.
 
Words matter – sober truth is what I yearn;
regardless if lies bring unyielding pain.
Protect me not; your tales pulsate my skin.
 
Evading truth – your spin will never gain
my fervid heart – not credulous within.
 
 
☮TheMsLvh © 2011
 
Google Image – The Faceless Politian
 

ebullition – a seething or overflowing, as a passion or feeling
credulous – gullible
fervid – intensely passionate; ardent

submitted – dVerse and Sunday Whirl #19

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Paranoia – Sestina

 

 
Reflections show a shattered withered life,
while peering through suspicious sleepless tears.
Dark hopes of white lines chase false fears –
relieving pains the mornings always give.
Nonchalant lies brings forth abandoned trust –
confusing love, so run fast as you can.
 
Hands trembling, unable to pop a beer can;
aware this has become part of that life.
Internal voices shouting words to trust –
imagined visions haunt spent salty tears.
Neglecting life for thrills the sharp points give,
forgetting all those secret doubts and fears.
 
Another day presents recurring fears;
play trickery on you because they can.
Insanely living – nothing seems to give. 
Surreal surprise to your short precious life;
not hearing pleas from loved one’s painful tears,
’cause there is no one you would ever trust.
 
Saliva aliens hold you in trust –
to scare away unwanted mental fears;
which breaks you down and brings forth screaming tears.
Are you aware the only one who can
save you from paranoid unnerving life:
do you know any one whose love would give?
 
There comes a time that something has to give,
perhaps your inability to trust.
You see small men in trees critique your life,
awake the darkest nightmares of your fears.
Go ahead, do all the white lines you can –
burn mucus raw – enough to bring on tears.
 
Disjointed twisted thoughts allow dry tears  
to flow,  deflect the sympathy I give.-
Detox the brain – but ponder if you can;
which voice in your head do you truly trust?
Sweat dripping off your brow – all due to fears,
encroaching your space, a disrupted life.
 
Your paranoia tears can darken life.
Give time a chance to heal invented fears;
if you can, change your life, believe in trust.
 
 
☮TheMsLvh © 2011
 submitted to d’Verse – Poets United
painting by MariaBurd
 For A. & M.
 

Sestinas are a poetic tour-de-force which takes skill to create and a subtle ear for the sound of language to keep from seeming contrived or stilted.The sestina repeats the initial six end-words of the first stanza through the remaining five six-line stanzas, and then ends in a three-line envoi. The lines may be of any length, though traditionally a sestina is set in iambic pentameter.

1. ABCDEF
2. FAEBDC
3. CFDABE
4. ECBFAD
5. DEACFB
6. BDFECA
7. (envoi) ECA or ACE

The envoi, sometimes known as the tornada, must also include the remaining three end-words, BDF, in the course of the three lines so that all six recurring words appear in the final three lines. In place of a rhyme scheme, the sestina relies on end-word repetition to effect a sort of rhyme.

This information was found at Poets.org
 

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Thunder Buffalo -Sonnet

John Keats (1795-1821) used elaborate choice of words and very sensational imagery. It is no wonder he is one of the main pioneers of England ‘s Romantic Movement. This sonnet follows Keats’s sonnet format with abcabdcabcdede rhyming scheme   Keats was particular in his iambic pentameter rhyming scheme and structure of the entire sonnet . 
 
 
A feathered ritual danced long ago;
she faintly heard the elders ancient call,
envisioned – living nature’s way of life.
The primal drone of thunder buffalo;.
abruptly crossing earthly hallow sprawl –
Lakota warriors on horseback dare.
Life’s rhymic cycle dawns, awakes the ear –
resounding earth’s cold tremble ‘neath white snow;
alerting wolves in winter’s bondage thrall.
She questioned, self-induced bewildered fear –
and clutches tight her sacred totem bear;
accepts her blood; the blood of native lore.
 
Today’s the day she’ll run with white-tail deer –
within the Shaman’s love, forever more.
 
☮TheMsLvh © 2011
 
“Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity—it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.”-John Keats
 
artist – Pam McCabe – Art.com
Summited to dVerse Poetry Pub

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California Ink In Motion by TheMsLvh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License

Cloud Shapes in Blue Skies – Itialian Sonnet

Italian Sonnet
Night’s shelter brings relief to end the day,
exhaling whispers grieve from parched dry lips.
As if cold wind abandoned sailing ships;
marooned –  in deep lost waters, here I lay.
Conflicting thoughts merge, lacking words to say, 
my willing heart drawn into your eclipse –
has left me drained. A warm tear gently slips
down a familiar path, wet lines portray.
I long for truth behind your phantom eyes;
release your secret world, allow me in.
I hunger laughter shared on sunny days –
remember finding cloud shapes in blue skies?
I miss your music dancing on my skin,
provoking trust – Oh friend, won’t you please stay?
☮TheMsLvh © 2011
sumitted to dVerse poets
Image borrowed from Google

California Style Morning

 

Grey stillness clutches morning sky,
not willing to release the sun.
Between the slate horizon line,
low flying seagulls slice the fog.

A piquant smell of saline mist,
released by crashing ocean waves;
drifts hauntly over barren beach.
True nature’s breath of living sea.

White fragments of sand dollars spilled,
along the water’s broken edge.
Low tide’s exposing gift, tossed free –
from tumbling ’round the ocean floor.

Salt air surmounts steep rocky cliffs,
dull silhouettes of coastal trees.
Commanding roar, the siren’s song –
brings high tide, California style.

☮TheMsLvh © 2011

 Submitted to We Write Poems #67
*My theme song in the early 70’s, yet I am California native.
 

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Think Only This of Me

Prompt #17 for Carry On Tuesday, http://carryontuesdayprompt.blogspot.com/, was to use all or part of “If I should die, think only this of me” (the first line of Rupert Brooks poem, The Soldier). *Thanks Mike Patrick for inspiring me to write this after reading his poem*. I used iambic pentameter in Quatrain.
 
 
Remembering past days of childhood dreams,
explored the world through starry wild eyes,
Adventure was attractive;  I must say,
unbridled freedom was my crowning prize!
 
With money saved, I flew across the pond,
experiencing new lands with scenic views.
Impoverished days or wealthy party ways,
I traveled miles, wearing holes in shoes.
 
The love for people I hold dear to heart,
along with animals who roamed the land.
True nature’s gifts of rainbow pots of gold;
and warmth of sunlight with cool ocean sand.
 
I lived my life embracing truth of love,
to give much more of me than to receive.
Delightfully filled heart with love to give,
unselfish quest for those who are in need.
 
If I should die, think only this of me,
my soul belongs to Mother Nature’s thread.
Don’t shed a tear because my life’s been full,
just put that party hat upon my head!
 
TheMsLvh  © 2011

Image source: Go Green

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Setting Sun

   This was inspired by watching the damage caused by hard drugs. The rise of drug use in my area has stolen many young lives recently. Perhaps you also  have witnessed this on your local news. Without insurance of their own or parents, kids are being lost.  There are little to no recourses for these kids when they do cry for help. Everyone cannot afford Betty Ford or Malibu in U.S.A.  Prison might be their only survival, but then, prisons are over-filled,  full of nasty drugs as well.

SETTING SUN

Each morning’s painful breath you took,
your body screamed –
addiction gleamed.
Sharp points and rusty spoons; you cook.
 
To rid the touch of crawling skin,
hot needle prick –
perhaps get sick.
Warm rush cements the deadly sin.
 
A long exhale – all worries drain;
erase torment,
without lament.
Your precious scars walk deep in vein.
 
As pain subsides from tender soul,
the prophets cry –
to watch you fly.
The needle swept you in a hole.
 
First glimpse of sun ignites the crave,
as pain returns –
the stomach churns.
Ignoring death’s note etched on grave.
 
Collapsing veins of rivers gone,
in search for new –
within eye’s view.
Dead lines depict a lifestyle drawn.
 
Sad eyes with black holes blindly stray,
to be so lost –
at such a cost.
Their struggle sickens by the day.
 
The needle and the damage done,
Neil Young once wrote –
a famous quote:
“A junkie’s like a setting sun.”
 
_TheMsLvh   © 2011
Image source: The Grantham Journal

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California Ink In Motion by TheMsLvh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License

The Poet Artist

 
Opining souls; a heart-felt plea,
from deep within, the writer chimes.
Selecting prime words is the key,
which draws the reader into rhymes.
 
All poets strive to paint their worlds,
with spilled black ink and feathered tip.
A writer feels the words unfurled,
creating pictures with each script.
 
At times, cold print will strike a chord,
a shock-filled verse brings forth dismay.
Requesting poems – sweetly poured,
inhibit words the poets say.
 
To cavil lines in verses read,
with captious thoughts of words repulse.
Sad broken lives or souls which bled,
disrupt the reader’s warm steel pulse.
 
Addiction plagues the writers quill,
the need to write fulfills the heart.
Imploding spirits scribe to fill
the void, and thus creating art.
 
-TheMsLvh  © 2011
Image source: Google

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California Ink In Motion by TheMsLvh is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License

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