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.

Says It All, Really...

A tongue in cheek offering for Magpie Tales this week - sorry, Tess!

Fact Or Fantasy?

When Alice tumbled down the rabbit hole, the last thing she expected to encounter was David Attenborough in the midst of his latest quest for the Easter Bunny.

This flight of fancy is in answer to Poetry Jam's request for something nobody knew about before, whether in myth or fiction. By a strange coincidence, I have captured the astonishing story in 160 characters, which will no doubt please Monkey Man, too. Nobody can accuse me of not being economical - either with the truth, or the words...
And Haiku Heights have the word 'lost' for today, so I couldn't resist adding an offering for that, inspired by the same graphic..

Alice lost balance
and found an unexpected
world awaitng her.

TWIST

Imaginary Garden chose the word 'twist'. and this is what my twisted mind made of the prompt!

Ice Cave

by jinksy

Temperatures rise.
Melting drips of ice water
sing Spring's melody.


A last minute entry for Haiku Heights challenge this week. They gave us the prompt word 'Water', and I took a chilly view!

Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid!

Imaginary Garden sent us in search of Big Bad Wolf, or other scary creatures. I've found one I'd not like to meet on a dark night...                             

Fear

In the night
colours fight;
they instil fear,
exploding here.
A shapeless form
far from norm
makes us quake
until we wake...

In The Pink

Margaret Bednar's  picture of a pink house, featured on In Tandem #11, inspired me to paint this. Rather than write a poem, I chose to paint the 'feel' of her work...

 

And for the second picture I wrote a trio of shadormas - six lines of 3/5/3/3/7/5 syllables.

Night Boat

Ferryman

steers his patient craft
through the dusk,
a beacon
brighter than My Lady Moon
who has yet to rise.

Rhythmic wash
of waves on pebbles
weaves around
chugging sound
of ferryboat melody,
a symphonic poem.

Islanders
listen to its voice,
familiar
assurance
saying all's well in their world
where sea is master.

Including the title, would you believe that this trilogy comes to exactly 55 words? G-man must have been looking over my shoulder as I wrote! LOL

Nearly Missed It!

Detail: Ainsley Allmark

Night Songs

When  moonlight lulls the land in dreamless sleep
and blanket shadows nestle on the hills,
the world sings lullabies. Each note rings true
as carillions of bells chime echoes
across the mountains. Faery music drifts
on breezes which disturb the still night air
to waft away all traces of the day.

Their melodies invade our sleep-locked minds
though eyelids flutter, and the sleepers sigh
with contentment, wrapped in night's soft mantle
till morning plays its waking symphony.

I can't believe that Poetry Jam had an Ainsley Allmark moon picture prompt this week. Without seeing their blog, I wrote this poem on Thursday, and had almost forgotten about it.  But here it is now.
And as it wasn't written specifically for any prompt, I'm now linking it to Imaginary Garden....

A Friday 55 Flash In The Pan!

The Circle of Life and the Wheel of Fortune roll in unison, sometimes synchronized, but occasionally out of kilter. We sense life speeding by, but remain static. Locked in combat with the passing days, attempting to slow the roundabout race  in which time remains the passive victor, we are little more than cog or wheel.

With thanks to the creator of the image and to G-Man for the concept of 55 flashes.

Tides

Tides rise and fall, and in their wake
we're left to bridge the gaps they make
in sea wall barriers of stone.
We fight the sea, which on its own
can cause the very shores to shake.

Its salty waters cannot slake
our thirst for knowledge. It would take
a greater man than I to own
tide's rise and fall.

Such power we cannot mistake.
Beneath the foaming waves that break,
land masses, used to lying prone,
will take on shapes as yet unknown,
until wild water gods forsake
tides' rise and fall.

An In Tandem rondeau for Imaginary Garden... and shared with The Poetry Pantry.

A Toad Of A Rondeau

For love grows cold when passion dies
and damps the fire in those eyes
which once had managed to beguile
in such an overwhelming style,
albeit overlaid with lies.

Perhaps it would have been more wise,
to forego wistful lover's sighs?
They last for such a little while,
for love grows cold.

And lovers who think otherwise,
as foolish thoughts start to arise,
may carry on full many a mile
to hide their doubts behind a smile.
But you and I learned how love flies,
for love grows cold.

With thanks to Paul Laurence Dunbar for 99% of the rhyme scheme, and to Grace at Imaginary Garden for getting my brain in gear this morning!

Early Bird Shadorma

For Poets United  prompt - 
Midnight Snack. (002)

Painting green
all over the skin
as a joke
is less fun
when it needs to be washed off
using cold water!

Spectres

 From an original painting by Andrew Wyeth
adapted by Jinksy

Out of dark-dream mists the spectres loom,
to swirl mis-shapen features through our minds
when shadow beings lurk inside each room.

Between the realms of fantasy and fact,
they populate all corridors of night,
and beckon us with talons gnarled and cracked.

Shades which come from Hades feed these ghouls
with blackest terrors. In sleep, they're unleashed
to pray upon unwary human's souls.

Thanks to Tess at Magpie Tales for her ghostly prompt this week, and to Poets United who provide another venue.

Loss

by jinksy

I could not easily express the thoughts
which wrapped my soul in saddest cloth of blue,
coloured every day with emptiness
in those spaces in between each breath.
Through chinks in time I glimpsed companionship
the like of which I never thought to know.
What a paradox. The closer that I came
to you, the further you withdrew, and I,
I was left more alone than ever...

Last weekend, D'verse  - Poets Pub** highlighted the subject of sorrow and loss of all kinds. I think this poem might have been a contender, but I missed the Linky List by 25 minutes.  In the meantime, I  am linking to Poets United who have a better time scale, and Theme Thursday who have communication as a subject which I need to practise...
And as Blogland Time seems to be in a different dimension, here's a link to Monday's Imaginary Garden on Tuesday...
** So I've linked to Open Link Night, instead!

Poor Sam!

Cad, at A Trellis Fencing  used the character of Sam for his latest In Tandem offering, and I've taken this same Sam as role model in my post for Poetry Jam this week. Their chosen subject ?  A drug-driven society!

Sam went to the doctor's with backache
he'd been gardening out in the rain,
and he'd ended up with the lumbago.
The Doc said "Oh, Sam, not again!

I'll give you some pills to correct it
would you like 'em red, yellow or blue?
Of course they might be a placebo,
but just swallow 'em. There, that'll do!"

So Sam swallowed the pills like a good 'un.
The backache was gone in a week,
and Sam carried on his garden -
he's a bit of a gardening freak.

But then a calamity struck him -
or really the end of the rake -
for Sam managed to stand on the wrong end,
and clout his own chin by mistake.

Sam went to the doctor's with face-ache,
though he wasn't the sort to complain,
not even when he felt his heart ache,
but Doc said "Oh Sam, Not again!"

I'll give you some pills to correct it
would you like 'em red, yellow or blue?
Of course they might be a placebo,
but just swallow 'em. There, that'll do!"

The Source

For In Tandem #9

Bright waters of oblivion, in deepest streams of consciousness,
ripple and refresh all hidden corners of our lives.

Their currents move us forward at a pace the river chooses,
and as human flotsam-jetsam, we all float, but who knows why?

Still across the crystal surface of this source which bubbles upwards,
the shadow leaves goes whirling, each a life with its own path.

But these rivers do not falter, are fulfilled by every journey
without a thought of where they flow or what is meant to be...

This was what the second In Tandem image called forth this afternoon -  I only wrote down the words - I leave the interpretation to the reader!
And today. 8/10/2012, I've linked to IGWRT, fo a second airing...

Means To An End

For In Tandem #9

In Autumn,
dessicated leaves
remember
a Summer
when drought was their enemy.
They whisper " Farewell!"

By next year
their scattered remains
will enrich
a seed bed
planted with their progeny
who'll whisper "Hello!"

This is for In Tandem #9, first image..

Bad Poetry? Here I Come!

Imaginary Garden with Real Toads have surpassed themselves, by introducing a Bad Poetry Competition. They dare us to write a cringe making example on the spot, so how could I resist? It's not even 7am, but a ghostly shade of McGonagall crept close and whispered these words straight into my ear...

Ballad Verse From Bad To Worse

O mighty pen so full of ink,
of a bad poem make me think!
I long to see your old blue-black
pile up words like a pancake stack
of syrup covered waffle writing.
Mind you don't make it exciting.
Use no dictionary's rhyming,
only simple words let climb in

to your carefully built tower
of random ideas, wielding power.
Let them trickle down the page
and send real poets, in a rage,
to tear their hair and leave the scene
to stanzas who are all has beens..
"Has been whats?" I hear you cry
as a tear spills from your eye.


Then add a cliché, maybe two -
my heart will bleed for love of you.
And if you could concoct a sonnet,
I'd put a feather in my bonnet
in your honour, O quill pen.
When shall we two meet again?
Will it be before nightfall?
Or even, please God, not at all!

And I've linked this to d'Verse, hopefully to stop people becoming too serious over poetic niceties! LOL

Inspiration

Mind like a kaleidoscope stores
images and whirls them into space.
They loose identity,  but reclaim soul
with each reincarnation of form.
Shapes and colours reinvent themselves,
lead down different pathways to an end
entirely unknown to their creator,
but recognised as the destination,
once is has appeared upon the screen.

Thanks to Tess at Magpie Tales for giving us this chance of yet another flight of fancy..