?

they scurry at night

i hear them

not real footsteps just

faint scrabbling sounds

on low pile carpets

they hide from me

somewhere under the furniture

unseen

i see movement

out of the corner of my eye

was it them or just

a twitch of the dog's tail

i don't see anything now

and the dog is

nowhere in sight

imagined

quiet nights i could swear

i hear giggles

from under the recliner

where i am reading

i stop to listen

was it imagined

or is it them mocking me

nothing

they escape all efforts

at detection

but i know they are there

those minutes of life

that add up to hours

then days and then years

they are the last ones left

escaping

The goal is to write a poem in the classic form of a sonnet that is also a short story with characters, plot etc. Here is my attempt. What do you think? Care to give it a try and post it as a reply? Just to review, 14 lines of ten syllables. One quatrain introduces the subject. Second quatrain expands. Third quatrain introduces a new take or twist in the story. Final couplet brings a conclusion. In my poem, I chose not to rhyme. I also varied from the tradition of iambs somewhat.

"She Begins Again"

The spider, living in her solitude,

sits waiting at the corner of her web;

The new one that she worked on all day long,

With never a pause in her endeavor.

Now comes the new dawn of a bright new morning.

She waits with the patience instinct demands.

Dew drips from new spun strands of heavenly silk.

She waits for that all-telling vibration.

He, not knowing her, unaware of her,

He, not caring to know her or her kind,

He, who lives in another world only

Different in scale but still part of hers,

Opens the garage door, destroying all.

As the sun warms her, she begins again.

“Cold Outside”

streaks of phosphorescent dawn

skim the snow like darting swallows

oblique bands of January sunlight

dance with youthful grace of motion

clear air bites like hungry wolves

where wind and wilderness meet

like the two halves of a muffin

baby it’s cold outside

"Where Did You Go To Church Today?"

tall grasses

form a stockade at

the margins of the marsh

they murmur in slow winds

like a congregation

in humble prayer

one frosted old pine

stands before all

and whispers the homily

shoulders drooping

under the weight

of overnight snows

a choir of cedars sings psalms

from their crowns

clumps of snow they shed

drift silently down

dimpling the drifts below

it’s sunday

"New Years"

fine old New Years with snowy hair

ruddy face and all the other

colors found in rounded sloping drifts

piled up from a year of living

a season that seems to mean well

but one that can fool you with tricks

of time that flow in dark rivers

filled with mispent days and hours

choirs of hopeful human faces

singing supernatural songs

at that magic hour of midnight

to a fickle old man New Year

Time with his mighty slow-beating heart

never made a promise to spread

his blessings of another year

evenly to every hearth and heart

...that doesn't involve anybody bleeding, crying, dying. No boyfriends leaving, disappearing or lying. No hearts torn asunder or ripped from any chest. Just a simple poem with imagery and some meter.

"A Book I Found"

I picked up a tattered volume

missing cover and title page

an amazing antiquity

at first glance not an enthralling

book but of generous margins

suited to notes made in pencil

dog-eared corners missing pages

one abandoned not on purpose

a book that must be read slowly

with complex tables, charts and

illustrations to be studied

and poured over late into the night

exposing pear-shaped mysteries

I’ll read it, study it, think on it

memorize parts that seem essential

‘til at last it explains you

I posted a simple photo essay earlier today. Each photo was given a caption and when I strung the captions together they sounded quite poetic. In my essay they read:

Winds Subside

.....Calm Ensues

.............Trees Relax

.....................Marsh Sighs

So this form, which has no name, consists of four lines: Noun Verb/ Noun Verb/ Noun Verb/ Noun Verb.

So write me one in your answer and see if you can think up a name for the form.

Here's the link to the original photo essay if you want to see it:

http://lookingforwisdom.tumblr.com/post/2188530602...

"Does Your Species Have A Name?

The Earth spins and spins

on wobbly legs,

a drunk careening

down a badly lit sidewalk.

With each wobble

comes cold,

comes ice,

comes a new round of extinctions.

The Earth doesn’t care

if your species even

has a name,

never mind who your god is.

Scratch and Dent People

They're the scratch and dent people

With thrift shop

Bargain basement dreams

They carry in black plastic trash bags,

The pockets of oil stained winter coats

Or orange back packs

Salvaged from

Salvation Army racks.

Dumpster diving denizens

Of alleys and streets

Named after presidents,

heroes and trees,

They sit warming in libraries,

Stand smoking hand-rolled humility

And rest on benches

Covered with snow and futility.

They're from everywhere, nowhere

And points in between.

They once had fathers and mothers

Sisters and brothers

Some have forgotten who

Doesn't think about them anymore.

Most never will trust us

With their dreams from before.

How did they land here

And Why do they stay

In freezing cold climates?

Who are these hungry

Scratch and dent people

We see on the bus?

If you want to know their story

It's the story of us.

http://lookingforwisdom.tumblr.com/

I'm sorry we can't post this sort of thing here. I like to caption my photos with poetry. Here is a Haiku for your comment. Both photo and verse are from this contemplative morning.

I mean I don't think this poem can stand on it's own without your reading the explanation of what it's about. Read the poem first. Does it make any sense at all? Probably not. Then scroll to the bottom and read the explanation. Got any suggestions on how to make it make sense?

"Death Chime"

I carry a death chime with me

Everywhere I go.

A gentle chime that chimes,

With two tones softly, often after midnight,

A favorite time of dying.

Bong

Bong

While I’m asleep

It sits patiently silent

On my bedside table.

Then when it’s time

It gently awakens me,

Bong

Bong

It signals the passing

Of mortal men and women

Who have been waiting.

It lets me know someone’s

Wait is finally over.

Bong

Bong

The chime is not a morbid sound

When I hear it

I know there is rest somewhere

For someone and think how

One day I’ll wait for it to chime for me.

Bong

Bong

.

.

.

.

Okay, here's the thing. I work on-call 24/7 for a Hospice agency. I wear a cell phone that has both phone and email service. The chime is the email alert. During the day there is often just regular old email traffic between nurses, aids and social workers, but after hours the only email that comes through would be about a death. We do that right away so that when the work day begins anyone who has a scheduled appointment with the patient would be aware and not go to the home. So how much explaining to do or just abandon this now?

I live on the coast of Lake Michigan. Every day I get to see the mood of the lake change.

Dead End

Makers and users of tools

Miners of Earth’s treasure

Burners of carbon

Creators of bizarre gods

Founders of agriculture

Husbanders of animals

Workers in stone and metal

Conquerors and murderers of each other

Harnessers of the universe’s power

Writers of history

Thinkers of great and wonderful thoughts

Evolutionary dead end.

http://lookingforwisdom.tumblr.com/

Grief

Loss floats on the slow

Current of bereavement

For life taken from us.

The Earth, broken by grief,

Sits half in darkness

And moans very low.

Matriculate

Sleep late

Read Kerouac

Demonstrate

Dylan song

Glass bong

2-S

Viet Cong

SDS

War mess

Black Power

Herman Hesse

Chicago’s Daley

F. Lee Bailey

Gene McCarthy

William Calley

Kent State

Peace or hate

Draft Card

Incinerate

Get it straight

Girlfriend late

Take the final

Graduate

Finish class

Bust your %ss

Take a job

Middle class

Nothing lies

Better than a mirror

Or more often.

I don’t look like that.

I’m not old.

My cheeks don’t sag that way.

That’s someone else.

Who is it that’s wearing that stupid look

On a ruddy face that resembles

The full moon in shape?

Not me.

The expression on my face

Doesn’t look like that.

The expression on my face is wise.

If you saw it you’d want to talk to me.

And my neck is longer too, and thinner.

With one chin less than that and a nose

That doesn’t look like it was shortened

On a grindstone.

My eyes look nothing like those.

They aren’t dull or tired looking.

My eyes betray my intelligence,

Not hide it.

I know my own face

Better than any mirror does.

Nothing lies

Better than a mirror.

Nothing and no one.

I'll start

Dark near-Earth object

I know your out there somewhere...

Waiting to get us

Khyber Rifles

Cyrus the Great, Alexander the Great,

Chadragupta, Demetrius I, Mahmud Ghaznavi,

Muhammad Ghori, Genghis Khan,

Outlugh Khwaja, Tamerlane,

Babur the Tiger, Ranjit Singh,

Humayun, Shah Jahan,

Ahmad Shah Durrani, Nader Shah Afshar,

George Pollock, Sir Donald Stewart,

Valentin Varennikov, David Petraeus.

Nothing’s there but stones soaked in blood;

Everybody’s blood.

Why the %uck should we add

My son’s or yours?

Can anyone aswer this question? My son leaves for Afghanistan the first of the year. Why?

http://lookingforwisdom.tumblr.com/