I red her words,
Always a green to be hers,
Even if she is blue,
I’ll make her feel all white,
I rose to the occasion,
Orange you glad I did?
Now I pine for her touch,
Ivory decided,
Butter lips are like fire,
Stoking violet desire,
Olive in her thoughts,
And yellowed to the night,
When she tans my hide,
I mustered done something wrong,
I’ll sand and take it,
Gingerly fanning the flames,
I fawn over her beauty,
And want to be in cider,
I azure you it’s true,
So berry your doubts,
I’ll submit umber your will,
Never sable to imagine,
That you might pink me,
And now we cherry on together,
Swept along by the currant,
Just oat of reach,
Snow me the way,
And I’ll keep you safe from the gold,
As we dance in the colors,

image: Padre’s Ramblings

My wife and I were visiting a National Trust property, and while the formal gardens were beautiful, we decided to see what was “off the beaten path.”  We went through a gateway in an evergreen hedge and were greeted by the most amazing display along a forest walk (Photo above).  It was spectacular to behold, and it is now a cherished memory.

Spring-tide forest walk
Blaze of cerulean blue
Nature’s glory greets

Padre

Heeding Haiku With Chèvrefeuille, October 30th 2019, Bluebells

The last year has been hard,
I won’t pretend otherwise,
My last words were over a phone,
And my last picture is old.
***
You didn’t get to live long,
There are many things you taught me,
Like how to remain strong,
When life treats you wrong.
***
But lately I’ve been thinking,
And everything reminds me of you,
So many unasked questions,
And answers that will never be.
***
Life has failed to break me yet,
But taking you was a decent attempt,
I still can’t find the perfect way,
To say Goodbye Dad.

Interestingly, you will find many invented poetry forms tend not to be created brand new from whole cloth, but rather are either a variation on an existing traditional form or a mash-up of two different ones. The former is certainly true about a form I recently discovered while perusing Miller Williams’ excellent book “Patterns of Poetry: An Encyclopedia of Forms”. Created by the British scholar, publisher, and light verse poet Frank Sidgwick in the early 20th century, the monosyllabic sonnet (also known as a word sonnet) follows most of the rules of a traditional sonnet with one exception (as its name indicates). It has 14 lines and usually uses either the rhyme scheme of an Italian or English sonnet, but each line consists of just one syllable instead of the 10 syllables of iambic pentameter. You may notice I said, “usually uses either the rhyme scheme of an…

The sun was dying in the sky,
Reflecting on the water,
The trees turned golden in the light,
On the banks of the river’s mouth,
Everything this night was calm,
As the water ran out to the sea.

So often I’d looked at the waves of the sea,
Thrashing in the darkening sky,
My spirit then was not calm,
I was drawn towards the water,
I sensed the salt taste in my mouth,
At the dying of the light.

But now as night comes I can see light,
Calm now is the sea,
A sweeter taste is in my mouth,
A brilliance in the sky,
I am at peace looking at the water,
Within me a mystical calm.

The way I have walked has not been calm,
Deep pain obscured the light,
For so long I floundered on the rough water,
Tossed around on the sea,
Loud thundering in the…

Upon the grandest peaks and broadest plateaus, in cities sunken by age or angry gods and the darkest corners of winding caves, so sought he that woman he loved. Though they had never met, he knew her heart and would tear the world asunder for but a hint of where she had been trapped.

Through Nude trees
An autumn breeze
Does gust.
This season will pass
And all my lust
For a pretty lass
With whom I would make free
Will be
As the summer grass,
Long since past.

Title: The Boiler Room Cafe
Source:  Weekend Writing Prompt #130 – Ineffable
Objective: Write a poem or piece of prose in exactly 70 words

Photo by Patrick Tomasso on Unsplash

Salinger’s heart thudded in anticipation as he entered the famous Boiler Room Cafe. Roman couldn’t have recommended the place more highly. Posing as an organic coffee bar serving farm to table tidbits by day, it morphed into a grungy, hipster gin joint after hours. The skinny-jean, hipper-than-thou crowd sported man buns and ironic facial hair. The place reeked of an ineffable and hopelessly unattainable coolness. Salinger knew he was home.

__________________________________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer