- Status
I'm picturing Krusty by the pool with one of those drinks with a bamboo umbrella, vacationing at the Dr's office!
Maybe next year you can go to the Dentist's for a vacation, that sounds like paradise for sure!
I'm picturing Krusty by the pool with one of those drinks with a bamboo umbrella, vacationing at the Dr's office!
Maybe next year you can go to the Dentist's for a vacation, that sounds like paradise for sure!
Krusty had to stay away from the pool, because he had a cyst lanced. But I did visit the bar at the Dr's office
And Wed Krusty has to go back, so another vacation day!!!!!!!!!!
As threatened.... Poetry. I will start nice and easy with a bit of free verse before getting all complicated.
IN MOTION
The steady hum of the engine still solid
after all these years of abuse, thousands of miles
with never an oil-change. The weird hiss of the
bald tires that still stick to the road, mainly because
gravity works. The sounds of the outer passing world
rushing in; because all the door seals have come
unglued. The frame is bent and sagging. All
this though, enfolds, protects. Because it was the last gift
given before a parting; offered so softly and flippantly,
“Daughter if you want it, take it. If not, I will donate
it to the Salvation Army.”
This aged and decrepit car has transported me
whirring regularly
over the wide sweep of the Earth’s surface, how
many thousands of miles? Through how many
sudden brake squeals, near collisions, how many
times has the scream of burnt and twisted metal
echoed only in my mind; as this vessel continues
and is filled up with all the love
he never gave me.
Wrapping me like a coat, my own portable
self and extension of my will and body
in rusty metal colors, dark pipes, electrical wires
and gasoline explosions.
And sometimes, the sound of the engine
ticking over to cool down after a long drive
is not unlike
the sound of a father’s heart beating
when a small daughter rests her cheek against
his chest; to hear the sounds
of safety echoing there. Which is why some days
when I seek memory; I rest my head
against the hood and hear again
the clock of childhood.
I always think it's so fun for a poet to get a chance to explain their poetry a bit. I am a supreme fan of rhyme and rhythm schemes and my favorite format is the Villanelle, but this is something I wrote after my parents divorced and my dad swiftly remarried and moved back to Aus... He was a great dad when I was young and the divorce was ugly so this car was a transitional object for me for awhile. Ppl seem to like it, though I am not the greatest fan of free verse though it has its place... I will save some of the darker rhyming and rhythm stuff for later... unless ya'll beg me to stop.
Anna
IN MOTION
The steady hum of the engine still solid
after all these years of abuse, thousands of miles
with never an oil-change. The weird hiss of the
bald tires that still stick to the road, mainly because
gravity works. The sounds of the outer passing world
rushing in; because all the door seals have come
unglued. The frame is bent and sagging. All
this though, enfolds, protects. Because it was the last gift
given before a parting; offered so softly and flippantly,
“Daughter if you want it, take it. If not, I will donate
it to the Salvation Army.”
This aged and decrepit car has transported me
whirring regularly
over the wide sweep of the Earth’s surface, how
many thousands of miles? Through how many
sudden brake squeals, near collisions, how many
times has the scream of burnt and twisted metal
echoed only in my mind; as this vessel continues
and is filled up with all the love
he never gave me.
Wrapping me like a coat, my own portable
self and extension of my will and body
in rusty metal colors, dark pipes, electrical wires
and gasoline explosions.
And sometimes, the sound of the engine
ticking over to cool down after a long drive
is not unlike
the sound of a father’s heart beating
when a small daughter rests her cheek against
his chest; to hear the sounds
of safety echoing there. Which is why some days
when I seek memory; I rest my head
against the hood and hear again
the clock of childhood.
I always think it's so fun for a poet to get a chance to explain their poetry a bit. I am a supreme fan of rhyme and rhythm schemes and my favorite format is the Villanelle, but this is something I wrote after my parents divorced and my dad swiftly remarried and moved back to Aus... He was a great dad when I was young and the divorce was ugly so this car was a transitional object for me for awhile. Ppl seem to like it, though I am not the greatest fan of free verse though it has its place...
I will save some of the darker rhyming and rhythm stuff for later... unless ya'll beg me to stop. Anna
ty for sharing..i really enjoyed it and please do share more!!!!As threatened.... Poetry. I will start nice and easy with a bit of free verse before getting all complicated.
IN MOTION
The steady hum of the engine still solid
after all these years of abuse, thousands of miles
with never an oil-change. The weird hiss of the
bald tires that still stick to the road, mainly because
gravity works. The sounds of the outer passing world
rushing in; because all the door seals have come
unglued. The frame is bent and sagging. All
this though, enfolds, protects. Because it was the last gift
given before a parting; offered so softly and flippantly,
“Daughter if you want it, take it. If not, I will donate
it to the Salvation Army.”
This aged and decrepit car has transported me
whirring regularly
over the wide sweep of the Earth’s surface, how
many thousands of miles? Through how many
sudden brake squeals, near collisions, how many
times has the scream of burnt and twisted metal
echoed only in my mind; as this vessel continues
and is filled up with all the love
he never gave me.
Wrapping me like a coat, my own portable
self and extension of my will and body
in rusty metal colors, dark pipes, electrical wires
and gasoline explosions.
And sometimes, the sound of the engine
ticking over to cool down after a long drive
is not unlike
the sound of a father’s heart beating
when a small daughter rests her cheek against
his chest; to hear the sounds
of safety echoing there. Which is why some days
when I seek memory; I rest my head
against the hood and hear again
the clock of childhood.
I always think it's so fun for a poet to get a chance to explain their poetry a bit. I am a supreme fan of rhyme and rhythm schemes and my favorite format is the Villanelle, but this is something I wrote after my parents divorced and my dad swiftly remarried and moved back to Aus... He was a great dad when I was young and the divorce was ugly so this car was a transitional object for me for awhile. Ppl seem to like it, though I am not the greatest fan of free verse though it has its place...
Anna
ty for sharing..i really enjoyed it and please do share more!!!!
I enjoyed it also!!
Okay, here's a villanelle.... A poetry form named some time ago by some French dude, from the root word "villain" so your stereotypical Evil Demon in whatever horror movie as they are so drastically hard to write. You are stuck with a rhyme and rhythm scheme that you have to hold to, as well as having a 7 stanza format in which the last two lines of the first stanza must be alternated as the last line of each successive stanza culminating in a final 4 line stanza that uses both alternating lines. Most famously known is Dylan Thomas's Do not go gentle into that good night..... and Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Modern villanelles allow slight changes to the alternating lines, which can be fun, though I've written plenty of more "traditional" villanelles in which the lines do NOT change, also fun. They're useful if you are into poetry... if you can write a decent villanelle then you can write anything, really.
This one, one of my favorites, talks about the exact opposite of Dylan Thomas's poem, which is about a desire to live.... It's really more about those moments where death calls to you and it's a bittersweet feeling so enough explanation!
The Ebb of Dusk
Some days exist when I long only for the sweet and soft Hereafter,
it’s not the bugle calls at nightfall, nor assessment from Peter at the pearly gates of Heaven,
but the glow, the dusk, the sunset that I long to blend within, charred into alabaster.
When heavy steps and darkened skies require staving off disaster,
and trumpets call, reporting gentle rain, but also drought, war, and famine
some days exist, when I long sorely for the sweet and soft Hereafter.
When I turn outward and blow adrift beside tornados raising me high, an attacker;
I cannot see a path, a way, a momentary peace and so I burn, a human torch, ascension,
the glow and sunset that I long to dematerialize within sustain, One day I’ll burn to alabaster.
I know it’s not my time; my burdens won’t be lifted farther, hefted faster,
and Peter still takes time to log the acts I undertake, completed often,
yet days exist when I long solely for the sweet and soft Hereafter.
I want to go, I want to head there sooner, lasting, running swifter,
I watch my veins, my hands for signs of aging prints, curated resin,
and still the glow, the dusk, the dark I'd blend within turning to alabaster.
A ghost, a vision in my sights reminds—it’s only for an instant that we tend to last here,
pale copies of the past, the voices linger in my hearing, whispering deeper,
yet days remain, when I long purely for the sweet and soft Hereafter.
And though I know I’m loved here: stronger, better, vaster,
I want to still myself in taxidermy as a statue, perfect, stricken,
if I could but retain alone, all days of joy in the sweet and soft Hereafter,
I might delay—I will—if dusk descends, no perfect sunset calls to me, as burning alabaster.
So, that's a villanelle.
Anna
Modern villanelles allow slight changes to the alternating lines, which can be fun, though I've written plenty of more "traditional" villanelles in which the lines do NOT change, also fun. They're useful if you are into poetry... if you can write a decent villanelle then you can write anything, really.
This one, one of my favorites, talks about the exact opposite of Dylan Thomas's poem, which is about a desire to live.... It's really more about those moments where death calls to you and it's a bittersweet feeling so enough explanation!
The Ebb of Dusk
Some days exist when I long only for the sweet and soft Hereafter,
it’s not the bugle calls at nightfall, nor assessment from Peter at the pearly gates of Heaven,
but the glow, the dusk, the sunset that I long to blend within, charred into alabaster.
When heavy steps and darkened skies require staving off disaster,
and trumpets call, reporting gentle rain, but also drought, war, and famine
some days exist, when I long sorely for the sweet and soft Hereafter.
When I turn outward and blow adrift beside tornados raising me high, an attacker;
I cannot see a path, a way, a momentary peace and so I burn, a human torch, ascension,
the glow and sunset that I long to dematerialize within sustain, One day I’ll burn to alabaster.
I know it’s not my time; my burdens won’t be lifted farther, hefted faster,
and Peter still takes time to log the acts I undertake, completed often,
yet days exist when I long solely for the sweet and soft Hereafter.
I want to go, I want to head there sooner, lasting, running swifter,
I watch my veins, my hands for signs of aging prints, curated resin,
and still the glow, the dusk, the dark I'd blend within turning to alabaster.
A ghost, a vision in my sights reminds—it’s only for an instant that we tend to last here,
pale copies of the past, the voices linger in my hearing, whispering deeper,
yet days remain, when I long purely for the sweet and soft Hereafter.
And though I know I’m loved here: stronger, better, vaster,
I want to still myself in taxidermy as a statue, perfect, stricken,
if I could but retain alone, all days of joy in the sweet and soft Hereafter,
I might delay—I will—if dusk descends, no perfect sunset calls to me, as burning alabaster.
So, that's a villanelle.
Anna
Very nice Anna and I really enjoyed you defining this type of poetry before I read it. Like I said earlier, I am not well versed in poetry in fact, I had to look up alabaster
Alabaster:
a finely granular variety of gypsum, often white and translucent, used for ornamental objects or work, such as lamp bases, figurines, etc. 2. Also called Oriental alabaster. a variety of calcite, often banded, used or sold as alabaster.
I have so much to learn but I do enjoy it.
Thanks!
and I really enjoyed you defining this type of poetry before I read it. Like I said earlier, I am not well versed in poetry in fact, I had to look up alabasterAlabaster:
a finely granular variety of gypsum, often white and translucent, used for ornamental objects or work, such as lamp bases, figurines, etc. 2. Also called Oriental alabaster. a variety of calcite, often banded, used or sold as alabaster.
I have so much to learn but I do enjoy it.
Thanks!
just wonderful! and i also like the way you explain things also!!
keep em commin girl! u can write for sho!!
Okay, here's a villanelle.... A poetry form named some time ago by some French dude, from the root word "villain" so your stereotypical Evil Demon in whatever horror movie as they are so drastically hard to write. You are stuck with a rhyme and rhythm scheme that you have to hold to, as well as having a 7 stanza format in which the last two lines of the first stanza must be alternated as the last line of each successive stanza culminating in a final 4 line stanza that uses both alternating lines. Most famously known is Dylan Thomas's Do not go gentle into that good night..... and Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Modern villanelles allow slight changes to the alternating lines, which can be fun, though I've written plenty of more "traditional" villanelles in which the lines do NOT change, also fun. They're useful if you are into poetry... if you can write a decent villanelle then you can write anything, really.
This one, one of my favorites, talks about the exact opposite of Dylan Thomas's poem, which is about a desire to live.... It's really more about those moments where death calls to you and it's a bittersweet feeling so enough explanation!
The Ebb of Dusk
Some days exist when I long only for the sweet and soft Hereafter,
it’s not the bugle calls at nightfall, nor assessment from Peter at the pearly gates of Heaven,
but the glow, the dusk, the sunset that I long to blend within, charred into alabaster.
When heavy steps and darkened skies require staving off disaster,
and trumpets call, reporting gentle rain, but also drought, war, and famine
some days exist, when I long sorely for the sweet and soft Hereafter.
When I turn outward and blow adrift beside tornados raising me high, an attacker;
I cannot see a path, a way, a momentary peace and so I burn, a human torch, ascension,
the glow and sunset that I long to dematerialize within sustain, One day I’ll burn to alabaster.
I know it’s not my time; my burdens won’t be lifted farther, hefted faster,
and Peter still takes time to log the acts I undertake, completed often,
yet days exist when I long solely for the sweet and soft Hereafter.
I want to go, I want to head there sooner, lasting, running swifter,
I watch my veins, my hands for signs of aging prints, curated resin,
and still the glow, the dusk, the dark I'd blend within turning to alabaster.
A ghost, a vision in my sights reminds—it’s only for an instant that we tend to last here,
pale copies of the past, the voices linger in my hearing, whispering deeper,
yet days remain, when I long purely for the sweet and soft Hereafter.
And though I know I’m loved here: stronger, better, vaster,
I want to still myself in taxidermy as a statue, perfect, stricken,
if I could but retain alone, all days of joy in the sweet and soft Hereafter,
I might delay—I will—if dusk descends, no perfect sunset calls to me, as burning alabaster.
So, that's a villanelle.
Anna
- Status
Similar threads
- Locked
- Locked
- Locked
