Friday, September 30

Blank Pages

Our book of life falls open at a page
whereupon we write our stories daily,
with tracery that weaves our souls’ intent
into the fabric of the words we choose;
ours the choice to seek the light or dark
inks to embellish the script of our play.

We have to take the leading role. Each act
supplies a cast of characters for us,
without whom our production would be dull,
a monologue in shades of monotone
uniformity.  So raise the curtain,
let the orchestra play an overture
as we stand in the wings of a stage set
with backdrops poised to paint the scene for life.

Inspiration came today from Imaginary Garden's guided meditation, and I've linked it to Poetry Pantry , too.

Wednesday, September 28

Haunting

An unknown model, posed, half sits, half lies,
her flowing contours etching deep within
the movements of the artist's hand and eyes,

until her image, line by line, was there
upon the sketch book page beneath his pen.
Around him, life continued, unaware.

That night, the tilted shutters of his blind
were backdrop, as her ghostly form appeared.
In shades of grey she lingered in his mind...


Written for In Tandem #12 - why not come a join in? I've also linked this to Imaginary Garden and d'Verse-poets pub.

Tuesday, September 27

A Trying Triolet


The age old art of writing rhyme 
a poet’s fond endeavour,
can take unconscionable time
the age old art of writing rhyme;
he seeks perfection with each line
though he achieve it never,
the age old art of writing rhyme,
a poet’s fond endeavour.


I couldn't resist posting this ready made triolet when I saw that Grace had chosen the form for her Imaginary Garden post, and inspiration for a new one was lacking today - although I may add another later, if the muse strikes. Stranger things have happened...

And here is mark two, already. The muse must have been listening...

If words decide they must be heard
all poets have to pay them heed;
we know writing can't be deferred,
if words decide they must be heard.
They sing as sweet as any bird
rejoicing, as from cage it's freed...
If words decide they must be heard
all poets have to pay them heed.