A HOUSE OF CARDS

Brick by brick we assembled
this life we've come to know.
Mortar provided strength,
but little else to solidify
these emotions. A devotion
cemented and inflexible;
an expected result of
living and learning
and burning all bridges behind us.
If they find us outlined in chalk,
the talk would be that I wore you out.
But I doubt your facade would crumble
as easily as that. Pointed and level,
every detail possessing its own devil,
dishevelling all your efforts
to build it better. Give yourself room
or your doom will be certain,
veiled by a curtain of doubt.
Maybe brick by brick is flawed
Each terra cotta block is rigid and hard
not like some wind-blown house of cards.

INVENTING A NEW POETIC FORM - FABRIQUE

The Fabrique takes its inspiration from the popular French forms (villanelle, pantoum, etc.) of poetry in that it makes use of rhyme and repetition throughout the verse, woven much like a thread through a swatch of fabric.


The pattern of the "Fabrique":

It requires a short (2-3 word) title.

Line 1: The title doubles as the first line (A)
Line 2: Two verbs depicting an action of the subject.
Line 3: Three adjectives describing something about the subject.
Line 4: Rhymes with line 1, seven syllables in length. (A)
Line 5: Twelve syllables; third word is an internal rhyme (A); last word (B)
Line 6: Twelve syllables (B)
Line 7: Twelve syllables (C)
Line 8: Seven syllables in length (C)
Line 9: Two rhyming adjectives (D-D)
Line 10: Two rhyming adjectives (E-E)
Line 11: Repeats line 2
Line 12: Repeats line 3
Line 13: Repeats line 4 (A)
Line 14: Repeats the title of the poem. (A)

Example:

CHRISTMAS LIGHTS
Christmas lights.
Blinking, twinkling.
Red, yellow, blue.
Green and white; burns all night, bright.
Beacons of light in a mid-December snowfall.
Offering a brilliance not seen since early fall.
Silent, accenting vignettes of serenity.
A Christmas amenity:
strung and hung,
eclectic and electric.
Blinking, twinkling.
Red, yellow, blue.
Green and white, burns all night. Bright
Christmas lights.
　
　　

WILDWOOD WEED (by Jim Stafford)

Hidden in the thicket,
near a picket fence it grows
wild and high. And so do I!

APPROACHING WINDS (A Sestinal Cascade)

The winds of change blow; they come and go,
everything in its wake is subject to an upheaval.
The retrieval of all usurped is best left for when the winds die;
unsuccessful tries will be your score until the winds are no more.
Ride out the storm, keep yourself warm, with visions of better times ahead,
there’s nothing with which to concern yourself.

Your one charge is you. Yourself.
From the day you were born, you were always on the go.
Not sure where you were headed, but it was full steam ahead,
causing your ruckus; an unspoken upheaval
that gave you a hunger for even more.
The retrieval of all usurped is best left for when the winds die.

On the day you will have died,
will people speak as highly of you, as you refused to do of yourself?
Or, will they shake their heads and lament your potential to do more?
Take your acclaim as you go,
and continue your poetic pyrotechnics despite the expected upheaval.
Ride out the storm, keep yourself warm, with visions of better times ahead.

Express yourself with more aplomb; show you are more than a heart and a head.
Carry through with worded wisdom, whether you stand and fight, or quietly die.
No one will blame you for the casualties of your upheaval,
for in the end, your passion will make them better poets, in spite of yourself.
Leave them to embrace you, or to scratch their heads as they go.
Unsuccessful tries will be your score until the winds are no more.

And if you just happen to leave them wanting more,
then get out of bed, because once again, it is full steam ahead.
The direction we all choose determines how we will go,
for life is to be savored, despite its labor, until we die.
Don’t live in delusion, you’ll find you need them as much as you deny yourself.
Everything in its wake is subject to an upheaval.

So, take up your armor daily, determined to up heave all
that tries to force your hand. Take a stand. Give them more!
You’ll find the confidence that has eluded. Treat yourself
to the accolades of which you are most deserving, and ahead
of all else, ride out the storm until the day you die.
The winds of change blow; they come and go.

As the prevailing winds go, the only obstacle to their upheaval
dies in the face of a strong will and words of a more direct nature.
Forget the nomenclature. Forge ahead. There’s nothing with which to concern yourself.

LIFTING THE VEIL

Clouds converge, a conglomeration

of confusion and doubt. Out of reasons

for all that deceives and perplexes;

vexing me with the hazy illusion of life.

Rife with the desire to think in complete

thoughts; it ought to be easy for one

who chooses to use his muse to express.
And yes, the persistence of my mind

gives me the urge to shed this shroud

and shout out loud to all that will listen.

Thankfully, when you lift the veil, you find clarity.

It is a rarity that you seldom see. A vision

meant to stimulate you and allows you to emulate

nature's narcissistic nudge, inspired and confident.

The view obscured by the muted curtain is brighter for certain,

and your thoughts drape gracefully like a technicolor tapestry.

**Writer's Island - Prompt #24 "Envision"

JUST A JOKE!

May 12th Prompt from Flashy Fiction:

Donal was not amused. Once again, someone in the Guest Care office (Mrs. Cooks!) thought it would be funny to photoshop his head onto a drawing. Of Donald Duck. Because that never got old.

Once again, someone in the Guest Care office (Mrs. Cooks!) thought it would be funny to Photoshop his head onto a drawing of Donald Duck, because frankly, that never got old. Donal was not amused.

He sat patiently, hands still lightly gripping his steering wheel. "Twelve and two", he smirked inwardly as he waited. Three squad cars and the S.W.A.T. team flashed their semaphore behind him. The show of force afforded Donal some importance.

"They should see this, then they'd know not to laugh", he thought, his hands clearly visible.

An officer approached on either side of his vehicle, pistols drawn as Donal's breathing remained slow and rhythmic. He pressed the button on his power window, as it lowered fully open. Donal smiled.

"Problem officers?" he cracked, but the patrolman was far from playful.

"Get out of the car, Scumbag, and keep your hands where I can see them!" the cop shouted at Donal as the officer's partner rounded the front of the car, revolver still trained on Donal's chest.

He slowly pushed his door opened and stepped out into the crisp morning air, closing the door behind him. Officer Creedy and Patrolman Habib rushed the calm assailant, harshly pressing his face against the dust encrusted glass of his passenger window. Habib gave his handcuffs an extra twist as he slapped them around Donal's wrists.

The two took turns shoving Donal toward their squad car. But at one point, Donal hardened his stance, glancing back at his car. Through the rear window she stared, her designer sunglasses covering her eyes. A grotesque smile was fashioned across the stiffening lips of Mrs Cooks decapitated head, which Donal had "pasted" on the rear shelf above his back seat.

He knew he would always remember that smile as he entered the police car harshly. In his mind, it would never get old.

PASSING THROUGH

You lived down the street,

the brown house with the privet hedge.

The grass, manicured and perfect,

marigolds planted along the drive.

I used to cut through your yard.

Your father would yell for me
to stay off of the grass.
But I would chance a pass
to get to the next street.
In the upstairs window, a face

always appeared when your father

released his gentle tirade. You.

Dark eyes and a generous smile.

Dark flowing tresses and

happy sun dresses were your appeal.

And every time you would steal

a glance out your window, our eyes met.

Your smile drew mine out of the

shadowy thicket of inexperience,

and I welcomed your "intrusion"

into the realm of my consciousness.
A day came when I entered your yard,
clean jeans and hair combed,
sweaty palms rubbing against
the coarse denim of my youth.

"Excuse me, Sir" I called.

"Would it be alright if I

went through your yard?"

And your father looked up

from tending his garden, hoe in hand.

In that moment, I knew from where

your smile had come. Waving a gloved hand,

he relented. "Go right ahead"

I saw him glance upward and

again his smile beamed. I turned to look.

You. Dark eyes and a generous smile.
Dark flowing hair and a flair
for always appearing when I would
pass through. I searched your father's eyes
for permission of a sort, and he simply nodded.

When I looked back to your window,

you were gone. You had come to stand

on the back porch of your nervousness.

"Good Morning" you demurely cooed.

"Hello" my voice cracked, as I turned

in my sudden shyness. "Hey!" you recovered,

"Can I walk with you?" Again to your father;

a broad smile and a wave of a gloved hand.

"Go right ahead" his smile beamed.

Many times I crossed through under the guise of

getting to the next street, but I knew your
smile would always be waiting, Cheshire Cat
at the ready; touched by your grace.
We've met many times in our imaginations.
I've known your smile in the beauty of your words.

Friends in the sharing of distance and

our known anonymity. And the wave of a gloved hand.

EPIPHANY

The amazing muse of Mr. Muggle,
(writing for him wasn't much of a struggle),
astounded his readers who wanted to know,
how Mr. Muggle made his words flow.
He rubbed his chin and said whole-heartedly,
"'Tis lack of a wife what got me started, see?
The women I've met are a bit short sighted,
and I think that's the reason my love life is blighted."
"I look on my heart as a forlorn museum,
these gals wouldn't know Mr. Write when they see 'im!"

MEDITATIONAL HAIKU

Cross-legged on the floor
contemplating my navel
finding innie peace