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!