I went to London with my hound.
She ran away on foggy ground.
I questioned and cried.
Alas, my voice died!
Has her hide
found the pound?
Tag Archives: formal poetry
Cinquain/LVII
pixies
prance ere cockcrow
amidst fine sterling trees,
but, dreams will come when morning’s glow
is known
——
57 is an older cinquain.
Cinquain/LXXXII
those beets
smell foul, like feet
encased in dirty sheets;
thank you, but I’ll just stick to meat
and wheat!
—–
When I was a little girl, I really disliked beets. Now, I will consume them with pleasure. I suppose that my taste buds had to mature in order to enjoy them.
Is there a traditional Thanksgiving food that you have/had an aversion to? If you eat this food now, what swayed your taste buds into liking it? Merely the passage of time? I would be interested to hear your stories.
Happy Thanksgiving to my fellow Americans! I hope that you are able to spend the day with loved ones–whether that means family, friends, or both.
Tritina For a Beloved One
I watch a maddening display of fear.
Small anxious eyes peer out from sallow shades
while trembling at the thought of future change.
We are the children of eternal change
despite a long companionship with fear;
yet, hues of hearts come in uncounted shades.
If we should be reduced to bitter shades
the feats of ancestors, my dear, would change.
Shake off the ruthless mantle of your fear!
Rich shades of fear—stitched into
skin—must change.
Jack’s Judgement
I was doltish, I was dumb,
I burned the dermis off my thumb.
—–
It really isn’t a wise idea to jump over candle sticks, now is it?
Cinquain/LXXX
mistakes
and false fancies
betray the feisty fakes
who have been attempting to seize
our keys
for a friend, on her birthday
This birthday is a time to think
of moments now gone by,
while sipping on a vinous drink
until your glass is dry.
:::aural anxiety:::
Inside my ear there dwelt a mouse
who lived within a ham hock house.
He liked to sport a three-piece suit
and toot upon a Gouda flute,
but when he jammed all through the night,
we fell against one nasty fight,
and thus he split in a sedan
stitched from a quilted frying pan.
Cinquain/LXXVIII
trumpets
raised to heaven
bellow for three cadets
whose days beneath the cruel sun
are done
Cutting the Cord
But oddly when you tell me that
my face looks like a sickly rat,
you neglect to think
of our zygote link;
this sad skin,
is your twin.
sundry folly 