Tag: dversepoets.com

When We (I) Were Writers (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry13 Comments on When We (I) Were Writers (poem)

The idea here, from Grace, was to make a try at at a different poetry form, Trolaan.

As per Grace’s prompt:

Trolaan, created by Valerie Peterson Brown, is a poem consisting of 4 quatrains. Each quatrain begins with the same letter. The rhyme scheme is abab for each quatrain.

Starting with the second stanza you use the second letter of the first line of the first stanza to write the second, each line beginning with that letter.

On the third stanza you will use the second letter on the first line of the second stanza and write the third each line beginning with that letter.

On the fourth stanza you will use the second letter on the first line of the third stanza and write the fourth each line beginning with that letter.

//////////////////////////////////////////

So, I thought back here to my undergraduate days when I, and my friends, envisioned ourselves as writers, poets.

.

When We (I) Were Writers

We (I) were words at seeming will

Wrought with grand poetic intent

With a hubris of great writers of skill

Willing envied youth to supplement

.

Every piece was poring/pouring soul

Even knowing in my heart to avoid such a thing

Easy it was claim “soul” glorying to all my one unfounded old

Entreating “hearts” then even made me worse for sing

.

Vanity of but soul would make readers quake at my depth

Vowing to pen classics worthy of masters

Vacating a notion of things just, just things to be said

Venturing not into words that mattered

.

And I came about but in slow, still, revelation

Amid not the soul nor heart’s cliche but the every day

Aweing how sudden old wrought dramatic word made way for just, just simple observation

And that that, that simplest of thought, just might be the true soul say

Songs of Angels & Devils Or Devils & Angels (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry8 Comments on Songs of Angels & Devils Or Devils & Angels (poem)

New Quadrille prompt this week and this one from Kim. It’s that dVerse Poets 44 worder that asks to include one word.

Here?

“Quiet”

//////////////////////////////////////////

Songs of Angels & Devils or Devils & Angels

One sang itself as quiet

One sang itself as noise

Another tuned truth

While another lyric’d lies

Yet another was fear of light

And that one? Fear of night

Yet they sang, sung together

To confound

Leaving us decipher songs, sing on/of our own

The Black Hole (prosery flash fiction)

by Stephen J Frankenberry8 Comments on The Black Hole (prosery flash fiction)

So from Merill’s prompt. 144 word max and use the line I have no skills for flight or wings to skim the waves effortlessly, like the wind itself . Prompt explained here in full..

The Black Hole

He lay back in tall grass, hands behind his head, with a straw sprig dangling his lips like those renderings of old book covers watching seagulls (they were called) dart between tall buildings, over snowcapped mountains, straight through cliffs (with glitches) out around a backyard table of children and cake, over charred cities up into horizons angry busy streets of untold stretches of war, water …

“I wish I had one of those wide straw hats too, to go with this strand Marty … peaceful”

“Letzzzetetzzzmebuddlefiddlefixxxxsssses thingzzsssglipat Ssssszzir … oldoldololddzzzsszz vid stories are cracrascrasssszzzzshingtogtozobdgether a-a-mmm-aaa-a-g-gg-gg-gainnnzznnzzngain“

“Don’t bother (looking to a shingle’s thought above the visor) I have no skills for flight or wings to skim the waves effortlessly, like the wind itself joking irony come to life my friend. No, let them crash together Marty … a new ride, like of those called seagulls huh?”

“Peazzzzsssblipburpful”

Sheets (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry9 Comments on Sheets (poem)

New Quadrille poem prompt this week at dVerse Poets from Mish

The 44 word (title not included) dVerse Poets specialty that asks you to include one word.

The new Quadrille prompt word here?

“Tangle”

//////////////////////////////////////////

Sheets

Turning over and over sheets get tangled

in creases

that cut my toes  

in wary dreams

always trying push them whole

disguising away monsters

smelling blood in their air scare stares up from around the foot of the bed

at a child’s grown feet

Pantomime Madness in Spring (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry14 Comments on Pantomime Madness in Spring (poem)

A dVerse Poets prompt from Grace for exploring some “Magical Realism”, blending the ordinary with the extraordinary, placing magical or fantastical elements into a realistic, yet grounded, setting.

//////////////////////////////////////////

Pantomime Madness in Spring

I curse and I sign

some nonsensical finger pantomime

of guessed import

asking myself to ask myself if I am losing my mind

(don’t tell your friends or family or enemies to then confirm

or yourself

for that matter

for any matter

at any time

to maybe infirm)

some swiped in air construct

that scatters symbols I saw maybe movie many once

or numerous too book look in one bulging volume

but thin for dunce

enough

to comprehend

found in dances and trances and drinks of history

family

in the field or wood or street

or square

all bursting, blurting, bustling, blustering

“you are crazy”

into dream’s fractured wholes

repeating

holes

with made up symboled twist musts

of fingers

to ward off gists only you seem to

get

well

but

not well enough

git

now

it’s cold

.

But you asked of me, of little sprites, of flower winged mites

and whisperers

whispering between trees

asked of all me’s to explain what went bump

what went thump

in the cold stark of winter

what bursted or blurted or bustled or blustered

what silenced loud to still

find

what was lost

just out of in under around the corner of your extra nesting eye

.

I did

I apologize

but will you will with me

bump and thump

and burst and blurt or bustle or bluster

and loud silence still

night

heal fractures that come to light

only then

soothe in day

through flowered walks, down path’s of plenty

scents of perfumed many

it is Spring again

after all

have you seen?

have you been?

to help me entertain what I don’t know and how lost lost lost and how it came

to be?

.

Of course of course

(quite pretty)

and of course

I am your Sprite after all

in Spring

and all things

To help explain

.

I curse and I sign

some nonsensical pantomime

but comforting

now

in

what I still hold mine

warmer in mind

I’m Ready (part one & two – poems)

by Stephen J Frankenberry6 Comments on I’m Ready (part one & two – poems)

Dora of Dreams from a Pilgrimage has a new prompt this week at dVerse Poets to write a dialogue poem so I thought to a second part of something recent, the first part of which I included.

I’m Ready (part one)

I steal steely crazed glances between the blinds

through goggle glasses with cool blinder flaps

and a crushed torn beat bent brim ballcap

in moonlight  

peeking from out a blanket …

with binoculars too

under chairs and baseball bats

and plungers and sticks I gathered during the day

for stand in the heels of sneakers  

that no one would miss

unless there was suddenly company and mom presented trays

or an incident in the bathroom

or the woods missed their kids

or if game time suddenly discovered night had been turned to day

just something THEY would do

… draped over pillows and nosing cats and snoring dogs and sci-fi books

and I waited

by flashlight for the louding star hymns only I could hear

.

I’m ready for you,

I thought,

This time

//////////////////////////////////////////

I’m Ready (part two)

I startled to it all still in place

the baseball bats and plungers and sticks  

standing in sneaker heels

or balanced ‘cross chair tops

now

still

in place

still

under the blanket for peering from out

that hadn’t been disturbed by Mom company needs or accidents or trees

or nosy still cats or possible waking dogs

startled by a light in the sky through blinds but with naked eye

my binoculars to my side

cool goggle blinder flap glasses almost crushed under my bent brim ball cap

by my pillow star head

a light that woke to ask

“Why I waited?”

“For you” I stated   

.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

I startled to Mom from a Mom’s soft nudge

“Time to bed my little sleepy head, did you have any dreaming luck just yet?”

“You didn’t see?!”

“Of course I did”

.

I startled alone after days upon days and more

after I had grown sore and out from under blanket looks

and my own lore

of forts

built of pillows and dreams and chairs and baseball bats

and plungers and sticks but

with stones

now

new blankets heavier

for tired forts to hide my head

under and pillows just for escape

instead

from these days upon days and more

.

But I still check through the blinds at night

when I can

when it feels right

with still kept nosing cats at hand

but

wishing my binoculars were somewhere in sight

and those cool goggle blinder flap glasses and my old cap

or Mom with a nudge and a love

for my sleepy, wishing, dreamy boy head

to tell me it was alright

that she saw

too

.

“You’re still waiting, we see”

“I always will be”

even more so

now

The Cul-De-Sac (fiction)

by Stephen J FrankenberryLeave a Comment on The Cul-De-Sac (fiction)

This started as a haibun response to a prompt from Merril at dVerse poets this week and began with a remembrance of a time once spent on a Spring break from college to visit a Joanie and where we were, indeed, laid out hand in hand on a blanket in a darkening cul-de-sac whispering the sweet sweets of young love and treacly envisioned futures to each other.

The prompt also included some paint chip names to use like random words if you were so inclined, one of which was “Big Dipper”.

Then, well, it went in a bit of a different direction, though I did still finish with a haibun’s haiku.

The Cul-De-Sac

We lay together with a small billboard for Allgrove Estates “Coming Soon!” behind us, sharing a blanket and large pillow that we had brought along after being drawn unexpectedly to the quiet darkened cul-de-sac on this slightly askew Spring evening.

Just she and I, some half-finished modern homes encroaching the Darker Wood in a broken unfinished circle, and the stars.

We both had heard the talk about the why’s of the new home’s incomplete and why Mr. Allgrove had to leave town very quickly, flown in the middle of the night actually, as one story went, something about possible angry jilted investors and why his wife and family had left just as quickly to move in with someone’s in-laws or grandparents or cousins, or some extended family someone’s or others a few towns or states or even countries over, as the continued story went, but we didn’t care of any of that as we just held hands willed together now in that darkened quiet of the unfinished cul-de-sac, on our blanket and shared large pillow, in front of the small Allgrove billboard looking up at the Big Dipper and other constellations (the big dipper was the only one we could name) wondering which stars to wish young love upon and which one of us would dare a first kiss as we felt a sudden unexplained want, a pull we didn’t know or understand.

There were other stories too, floating about in the mist of whispered townsfolk conversations or just nervous singular darting eyed declarations before they all just silenced themselves with quick left fingered signs at hips, or behind backs or, for most, in pockets, hidden, and quicker turns away to eventual slammed doors and curses. She and I even talked briefly of this, but in throes, with our sweating palms grasping each others much more tightly now, more tightly than we had thought could or wanted, especially the rumors of Ol’ Mrs. Gladstone, the only one who would talk openly, and not haltingly in fear, of the cul-de-sac, what was there before and why the Darker Wood had never been developed and how Mr. Allgrove should have known better having long family history here, something the former Mr Gladstone knew full well according to Mrs. Gladstone with also a quick left fingered sign but one made with no intent to hide.

There were no angered investors she would tell me when I delivered her newspapers in weeks before this night. That was just the “story” she would say with a winking glint eyed rasp, to have his and his family’s disappearance make sense and that, NO, that he had ventured too far into Darker Wood out of greed, overstepped  his bounds and a town’s long history’s understanding of lines not crossed.

Then the Big Dipper disappeared and all the other constellations as well (the ones we couldn’t name) all the stars we tried to wish Spring wishes upon were gone, blackened into a pitch above us that we could feel settling and seeping into our blanket and onto our large shared pillow and slowly enveloping the Allgrove billboard like a heavy burden’s damp and with the smell of old embers and ash after the fire was out from Spring rains. Then it was that we couldn’t unclasp our hands, or star thought wishes, or now, even move, other than to lean into a mutual first kiss till we couldn’t even unclasp our lips. 

Then we heard the scrape of metal on stone.

/////

Spring brings birds in night

Feeling the pull of days come

To prepare new light

I Was A Mountain Once (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry10 Comments on I Was A Mountain Once (poem)

A dVerse Poets prompt, this one from Mish, to personifying the abstract

.

I Was A Mountain Once

I was a mountain once that held pathed treks to enlightenment

I was (a) small mound (s) wearying those trek steps footed steep heavy minded way

.

I was a sky’s wind once that carried gale words thrown into it with profound or misguided intent

I was a small breath naked angry aloud from red hands to bare ass, bare hands to red ass, to hold me alive screaming to hopes and dismays

.

I was an ocean’s currents once, tide’s ins, tide’s outs, navigated with expert sailor’s aplomb or hubris

I was a small tear (s) peering over a water’s ever shaping shape at broken piecemeal ships or grand full chested sails, falling, aiding the waters   

.

I was a flame once that warmed pairs of hearts or burned everything down

I was a small flinted flicker where alone began

.

I was all things at once, once

And none at all, small, still, to begin, again

.

I was a mountain once

I was a small mound