Wordles

 Where Art Thou Calm?

Silent clouds drift in seditious march to thunderclaps

and the shutter snaps a rainbow’s sporadic dance

from pot of gold to pot of gold. Neither here nor there,

while leaves tremor in the grumblings of a sacred mist.

Where, oh where art thou, dear calm?

The croak of an aging cicada pledges

the return, the rebirth, the life of earth.

A semblance of chaos masks the grand plan.

Unpredictability stamps a stigma of ignorance,

yet Mother Earth allows for nothing to hinder

her tread of constance and authority that

plasters time with absolute control.

Within the tangled tuft of man’s mind

therein lies, enmeshed in the weeds' garden,

a bit of harmony strangled by uncertainty.

Still,

silent clouds drift in seditious march to thunderclaps.

Granite Wishes

The crackled revolution is upon us,

full of cheap strangers who screw

and spin a cleansed desperation. Wasted

light burns hope to ash that piles,

compacted to granite wishes.

It's Not Quiet

Oats simmered with raisins and caramelized brown sugar.

A sprinkle of cinnamon freckles a pat of sweet cream butter.

Squirrels chatter at finches stopping by the dogwood.

Air is crisp, too crisp for a September Georgia morning.

Sun rests on fluffy gray clouds.

It’s not quiet.

Rooster’s crow and crows caw, while

Blue jays flutter through autumn tinged limbs.

Beneath the peace, beneath the tranquility,

Sorrowful voices from StoryCorp remember,

Memorialize loved ones of 9-11.

A young boy tells his grandfather that he is

The only grandfather and he is missed. A son

Remembers the sharing of last words: I love you.

Words carried on the hoot of the morning dove,

On the beat of hummingbird wings,

Float tenderly on the golden leaf transported

In the eternal breeze, that caresses a cheek

High in the mountains and mingles with black coffee steam.

Meter and Form Poetry

Working on meter and form poetry over at Writing Our Way Home. This is a struggle for me. I've always been a free verse girl, but wanted deeply to learn forms. My attempts at tercets (without counting the meter):

The Hiding Hermit

Where does one go when one isn’t present

Cramped in a hole twisted, stuck and bent

Worry swirls round with evil intent

The sun may shine or the clouds may roll

Matters not to the sunk and buried mole

Who fears the world beyond his little hole

Wait it out and this too shall pass away

Maybe tomorrow, next week, who can say

When the hiding hermit will come out to play

And then:

Heavens Serenade

The skies split and the water flowed

No birds, no crickets, nothing showed

Up for days ‘cept a tiny thrilled toad

Only the patter and pound on dry earth

The gulps and belches of merry and mirth

For the end of the regions dusty dearth

Flowers bloomed bright and bold

All glittered and gleamed like polished gold

The creatures were content, young and old

Rockers on the front porch creaked and swayed

As life once again flourished and played

In the sweet nectar of heavens serenade

My Father's People

My Father's People

My father’s people walked here,

amidst the blue ridges and crystal waters;

slept here, loved here, long before.

Their whispers reached through the distance,

wound their way through the smog,

along the smoldering cement,

over steel and glass to wrap gently

‘round my heart.

Tone tightened, softened only when heeded—

heeded that voice of freedom, the voice of earth —

constricted and chattered when I forgot.

Call of my father’s people, my people,

guiding me home.

Home to the rivers, home to the mountains

home to my brother trees.

I sit amongst then now and can almost hear clearly.

I am here with hi-da-da-tse-li who labor

lovingly to remove the world, and flood with life.

My father’s people, my people, I walk here

amongst the blue ridges and crystal waters.

S’gi!

The Body Rejoices

So, I'm working on form and meter over on the writers site Writing Our Way Home.  It's really an inspirational site with a bunch of lovely people who are welcoming, warm, and supportive. Right now we're working on Heroic Couplets. For example:

True EASE in WRIting COMES from ART, not CHANCE, 
As THOSE move EASiest WHO have LEARN'D to DANCE. 
'Tis NOT eNOUGH no HARSHness GIVES ofFENCE, 
the SOUND must SEEM an ECho TO the SENSE. 

~Alexander Pope 

I didn't think the last one I did was very good, which is why I haven't posted it here. I 'try' to share only my good stuff-you'd thank me, really. 

So, I thought maybe if I just write and then re-arrange the piece to 'make' a heroic couplet. I struggled with that until I broke out in a cold sweat and before I stamped off and threw myself in bed, I quit. Here is the original piece, which obviously I like since I'm sharing.

The Body Rejoices

The body rejoices

Then it rebels

Sunrise meditation, deep morning mountain air breaths

Crisp, cool and damp with night’s sleepy dew.

Tai-chi stretches confident before mindful trees

Warms and caresses stagnant muscles

Breaking dead branches fallen to the earth,

Pulling overgrown horseweed

The bulk of being whispers

“Thank you”

Raking years of layered hickory nuts, shells and leaves

Closer to the compost, closer to the fire pit

Whispers becomes murmurs, turn to screams

Head reels and stomach churns

The body rejoices

Then it rebels

Hot water steams down and soothes into lullaby’s

Senses heightened, oxygen pumps robust,

Words tumble, poetry flows

The mind rejoices

The body—content.