The Mathematic (poem)

So, Mish, at dVerse Poets had an idea this week to get poetic about numbers, of which you can find the explanation here.

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The Mathematic

The Mathematic turned to poetry

beauty up his numbered dull

with colorful thoughts

or ugly pretty found bursts

of emotion and sight  

till he saw poets could count

emotions in rules

and breaths even, if they wished them just right

.

He wondered to witches

calling earth and then sky

and all in betwixt … us

unseen to our eye

for wardings and cures from curses and threats

till he saw difference … in

amount’s pinch or drop’s intent

could be worried life or harbingers of death

.

He examined too, to priests

held in such lofty regard

that he envied not bound

to explain earthly fears  

more instead some grand prescience beyond

no greater the bard

but also one to sing in sequential verses

spoke in congregated number feared curses

.

He thought, then, I too, count

but just so in stars

making maps as guides for their rides cross the sky

taking us in their own prettied word silence wind

above our footed clay

healing worries of our bound

or maybe, in those heavens

I too have numbers profound

and the Mathematic

found himself

unalone

First (poem)

Been thinking all week on a prompt from Lisa this past Monday, a new quadrille idea (dVerse 44 word poem) to include, this time around, the word “coax” and I really just had nothin’.

But then when I got home tonight I gave it another thought and suddenly remembered something that I had written quite a number of years ago (30 plus now) but could never find the copy of over all that time and so many moves, but something that had gotten a compliment, back then, from a well known, well published local poet and professor who frequented the cigar shop my fiancé managed and who agreed to take a moment to read after I convinced Danielle to ask him the big ask, if he would be so kind.

Now, I still have never found that copy but tonight some of it came to me, including the lead in of the title (I always remember that) so I thought to revisit and rework it then as best I could and it was a short bit, certainly one that could fit a quadrille.

So, my altered version (including “coax” replacing “feel” and meeting a 44) but still there in spirit and pretty close, I think, to the original.

The compliment from him, by the way, written in pencil at the bottom of the poem? He said he thought that it was complete.

That was pretty big.

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First

A girl leaned older

Outside the store

holding up a wall with a bent knee left foot

and a cigarette with a right hand lilt

and a waking sudden me

with both

through a smoke clouds glance  

coaxing me to something  

I didn’t know

The Sound and Shapes of Stars (poem)

So, a new prompt from Laura at dVerse Poets is to get Chaucerian with a Roundel. This is something I’m sure I would remember if I were to be transported back to my College days, and Doc Sipple and Doc Bowers but then, in that transporting back, I would most surely get distracted and totally forget the task at hand and forget about those classes and lessons.

But here, in the now?

Circling back to the 14th Century: Though we often associate the Roundel with Swinburne, his was a 19th century deviation because it is to Chaucer that we owe this poetry style, (as well as the iambic pentameter and the ‘rime royal’).

Thus we distinguish the Chaucerian Roundel from all other forms as well as from The Rondel and Rondeau. And by now you’ve guessed that our poetry today is to be written as Chaucer outlines:

Poetry Style:

  • 13 lines
  • 3 stanzas divided into 3 lines (tercet); 4 lines (quatrain) 6 lines (sestet)
  • rhyme scheme: A B1 B2/a b A B1/a b b A B1 B2
  • usually 10 syllables per line as iambic pentameter

As is evident from the above there are only 2 rhymes to the scheme, and once you have the first 3 lines, it repeats in two refrains so the poem is not too challenging!

Ok, now I will beg to differ on the “not too challenging” but?

So I went to where I’ve been on a few things somewhat recently and hope I kept to task Laura.

As to Doc Sipple and Doc Bower? Sorry I’m late, I was a bit distracted.

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The Sound and Shapes of Stars

Singing songs no one dears but me off key

stars grass at my back and breeze through my toes

of twilight verses and star choruses those

.

A menagerie of lighted point shapes stabled

fed above clouds of my head on clear eves

Singing songs no one dears but me off key

stars grass at my back and breeze through my toes

.

They crow and bubble and roar bark soundings

star shapes of animal comfort arms outstretched

to pet and grasp and sing at time’s knowing

Singing songs no one dears but me off key

stars grass at my back and breeze through my toes

singing songs in boy head of choruses those

Whirly Whirl Anxious Days (poem)

New Quadrille prompt this week at dVerse poets from Whimsygizmo, that dVerse 44 worder to include just one word.

The word this time around?

“Whirl”

Whimsy’s prompt is here

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Whirly Whirl Anxious Days     

It hovers, floats

above

with

Birds

it fast circles a drowning

swirling

Pool

down

to the depths

realizing sea monsters

it

Gigs

a carousel’s spin

it

rides overwhelming  

Wind

all in a blur

of a many

Whirl

curling fear’s toes

in anxiety’s

anxious days

Paper Pilot (poem)

So for a Tuesday Poetics at dVerse Poets Lisa / Li talks of getting Crafty.

Dictionary.com gives these 3 options as definitions of craftsmanship:
the art or skill of a craftsperson.
the quality of being well-crafted or well-built.
the product or result of skilled labor or craft.

Another site gives craft three meanings:
an object made with skill
a vehicle for traveling on water or through air
an individual who makes objects in a skilled way.

Your challenge today is to use one or more of the definitions of craft or craftspersonship that have been given and write a poem in any format or length you choose.

So I thought, then, to crafting Paper Airplanes and just kind of flew along for a bit.

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Paper Pilot

It started with a blank stories sheet

that began all

folded in half

the top bent in never quite matching tri corners

then

to a point

made about flight

and escaping into the sky

of mind

if only to try

and think why

not

where Pilot would sit

in thoughts of finding a breeze  

maybe reserved for the kites

from a sprinting giggling hillside

with pretty painted wind flushed chests

and colorful tails

but no strings to hold this flight

Pilot just hoping

it might alight, soar on its own

before a new crumpled ball

added

in a quiet crashing pile

underneath

them all

till …

A folded blank sheet

new

from a fresh ream of paper

another that started

all stories

of flights

maybe this one

with newly engineered tale,

one of its own,

something folded extra aero

dynamic

might do the trick

of flight

this time

Molting Verse (a rengay poem with David B)

David, of The Skeptic’s Kaddish, reached out to me and asked if I would like to work a poetry Rengay with him.

Now this is something I hadn’t done before, a Rengay, a call and response sort of thing that has a base in Haiku. That’s here for definition.

But the fact that he thought of me for such?

Waaaaay cool.

And the time it took, over a couple of weeks? Cooler still as it just paced itself along with that time and with life thrown in for the extend.

So to a Rengay then and one of renewal …

Molting Verse

(sjf)
pinfeather words flitted
shed old skin to be more spry
to fly, tomorrow

(db)
curled deep in borrowed burrow
 African   rock    python   molts

(sjf)
and the earth itself
found lost hopes in the middle
ground thoughts in the sky

(db)
upon dawn
dreams barely linger —
me? half-known

(sjf)
half dreamt full dirt … then … then
but now new story out in the blue

(db)
soot-dark quill amends
fluttering fledgling fable—
shadow dries in breeze

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Molting Verse

pinfeather words flitted
shed old skin to be more spry
to fly, tomorrow

curled deep in borrowed burrow
 African rock python molts

and the earth itself
found lost hopes in the middle
ground thoughts in the sky

upon dawn
dreams barely linger —
me? half-known

half dreamt full dirt … then … then
but now new story out in the blue

soot-dark quill amends
fluttering fledgling fable—
shadow dries in breeze

Cheers David

Raven’s Night (poem revisit for this Halloween Night)

Well, time to close out a week or so then, a week or so’s worth of creepy-esque things of mine leading up to this Halloween Night.

I had already planned on finishing up the week with this one but, as a true Halloween night might call and cliche for, it is actually wildly windy out there in this Albany, NY area right now, with unrelenting cold drizzly bone seeping wet, evident all day foreboding an extra blustery, chillingly dark night and most apropos too as it was a similar night I wrote about here, in this one, for the Raven just before he came to made famous.

The post explains a bit more but. simply, to write a prequel to a literary character’s story …

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January 24, 2024

So, at a newly found for me “Poet’s Pub” of a site, dVersepoets.com, I came across a post that had a prompt to write what it refers to as a poetic Quadrille, a 44 word poem (not including the title) but in this prompt it said you need include the word “pinch” in any way you saw fit.

This I did and it is the most recent post in the Attic here, “Don’t Pinch Me”.

Well, came across another poem prompt yesterday that asked that you write a prequel for a character from literature.

Write a poem that is a prequel to a particular character from a nursery rhyme, Aesop’s fable, book , mythology etc.  

And the responses that I have read thus far to this prompt are so imaginative and colorful and haunting that I can’t wait to finish them all.

But for me, after running through a few possibilities in my head, I thought to Edgar Allen Poe and the Raven and of the Raven himself.

.

Raven’s Night

I am not dead nor demon to be read or written of

I implore you open your door

or window

shutter’s curtains

flitting

with welcome inside out air

and any manner of candlelit care

with which to let me see your floor

please

to just walk that floor

or even alight a door

that I implore

again

you

to open

outside no place for me tonight

in weary last vestige of now blustery light

that casts shadows that scare me from flight

and I don’t scare

for I am Raven

confused of crow brethren

curse-ed cousins

but stronger than they even as they crow foot in murder of friends

what they needs simple

with simple’s ends

while I seek a just solitude and to depart nights

now

tired of taking flight in dark

reputation

just a me to be me but I am scared of he me

and what I no longer want see

in the dim

even eve’s with path clear in crisp moonlight

but worse on nights like  

these

this

this one

this night at hand

and I see your light

window

harks

a place maybe to land

and

I will make amends for this slight into

your solitude

.

For I am Raven

I can build things from sticks and stones

peck and grab and stab and stack and foot place just right

or even

build things from thoughts and words alone

to assist you

in candlelight

I just don’t want to flight

in dark

any longer

and

not this night

in most simple order

I just need walk a floor

or alight a door

allow

please

me bring inside

at least

for

this just

one night

The Scrapbook And The Man In The Black Fedora (Flash Fiction revisit for this Halloween Week)

And continuing with revisiting a poem or a story every day this week that fit a creepy theme as we approach Halloween. This one from a Flash Fiction prompt, August of last year.

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August 12, 2024

It’s Monday and, at the dVerse Poets Pub, we are writing Prosery, the very short piece of prose or flash fiction . It can be in any genre of your choice, but it does have a limit of 144 words; an additional challenge is to hit 144 exactly. The special thing about Prosery is that we give you a complete line or two from a poem, which must be included somewhere in your story, within the 144-word limit.

The complete line or two in this case are from Leonard Cohen and his poem “Take this Waltz” with the lines being …

And I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook,
with the photographs there and the moss

.

The Scrapbook And The Man In The Black Fedora

“Hey Jaimie, check this out, just found this covered in moss behind a tree”

Presents a tattered book with dead flowers pinned to it and a warning “DO NOT OPEN”

“Well, let’s see what’s in it”

“It says not to open Billy”

“C’mon, probably just a note left by the 11 year old girl who lost it. It looks like a scrapbook”

“I don’t know, it doesn’t feel right”

Billy opening the scrapbook finds it filled with photo’s of people and notations of the date/time of their deaths and scribbled inside the cover …

And I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook,
with the photographs there and the moss

At that moment a man in a black fedora appeared.

The air stilled.

Then Billy was gone and all Jaimie caught as the fedora’d man closed the scrapbook was a quick glimpse of Billy’s picture.

Third Eye Harvest Moon (poem revisit for the season)

Another re-post of something for this creepy season.

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October 2, 2024

In response to Merril’s “Haunted Harvest” prompt at dVerse poets.

“You can take the themes of harvest or haunted literally or use them metaphorically in any way you wish. Harvest grain, organs, fish, or emotions; imagine the grim reaper with a scythe. Write about something that haunts you, regret, a long-ago love, thoughts of someone who has died, or actual ghosts. Explore a haunted harvest”.

You may also use the painting above “The Harvest Moon” by Samuel Palmer as inspiration.

Took a little bit of both of these ideas …

.

Third Eye Harvest Moon

He woke in a long field itching

of tall blades and short hungry bugs

chilled but not cold wondering of from where that single pocked light

hung high

had fell

.

“From my third eye” said a voice

.

he sudden colding and chilled now

as there was no from where for a lone voice to fall

no trees above nor craggy hills distance

far called with walls

to call back

friend or foe

score or none

to settle

or even from rock tall

smoke black

altars he may have been layed upon  

in the stark

back

then

.

You are man are you not?

I am?

Yes, you are

Then from why where do you ask?

To see if you knew

But I just woke, food for bugs in tall grass in almost dark task

save for one light

high hung

just

right

.

Will you rise and pay threshed tithes

under my third eye

Why?

It is that time of harvest, of tall grasses wrapped with long blades twined

tribute

in the richness of grains

… and the harvest of souls

.

From why where must you have mine after such riches?

.

Because you are the first and quench a stronger thirst

Headstone (a gothic flash fiction video short by Stephen Murray & Frankenberry)

Was talking a little while ago with good friend and co-worker, Steve, about this current spooky season, a one still more “on the way” then when we spoke and he mentioned that he wanted to build something for it, a dramatic piece of some sort, a video short, with a haunting story as well as some music, effects, images and, of course, said story that he could voice and make a cool production of.

Besides doing what we do for our jobs, radio production, he is also a working voice actor and wanted to be creative with something as he had put together such productions in the past, plus, he also wanted to add another something to his body of voice work +.

Now when it came to a possible story I noted that he had liked some things of mine that I had sent his way in the past, plus some others I had and that a number were short, quick and might just fit into what he was looking to do.

So, I re-sent the few previously seen things and also some he hadn’t and he eventually told me that he liked a flash fiction piece I had done a year or so ago courtesy of a prompt from a writing community’s website that I frequent and collaborate at quite often, dVerse Poets, everything from poetry to fictions of one sort or another, a place that I will forever be grateful that I found and even more grateful that I was welcomed with open arms when I did join in even though, in some regards, I felt like I was sort of starting from scratch, especially with poetry.

Anyway, the flash fiction piece he liked was one I called “Headstone” and was a short story of a graveyard’s groundskeeper coming across Death kneeling at a “lost” headstone that the dVerse Poets flash fiction prompt asked to include a line from Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Sleeper”

I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye
.

This then, is Steve’s production.

Cheers and well done my friend!