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Rainbow Tiara – A Tale of Creation
1. Violet Light
It starts with light that slowly parts the dark
to separate beginnings’ night from day,
almost invisible, a slender arc
across the universe that seems to play.
While stroboscopic pulse expands with force
and tears the veil of nothingness apart,
creation must maintain its tireless course
for Tenebrae and nascent light to part.
No human then to watch that splendid sight,
no trace, no photograph, no movie shot;
we’re left to imagine the blinding might
of worlds appearing suddenly from nought.
One may call it a boson or a quark,
the mauve of sky is born from primal spark.
2. Indigo Sky
The mauve of sky is born from primal spark,
from sudden blast of heavenly wind gust,
its vastness boundlessly devoid of mark
but for those specks of stars’ galactic dust.
Though one may doubt about its sacred source,
it’s sure this accidental universe
expands as fast as some wild flying horse
in its fierce race, a beauty to observe!
Each speck of light that travels through the sky,
each planet orbiting that special sun
could be the place where newborn life came by,
but this here Terra was the chosen one.
Here turning through indigo sky, so free,
a planet features that deep blue of sea.
3. Blue Ocean
A planet features that deep blue of sea
where maybe life would sprout, expand on earth,
but it could take millennia to see
the first of humans show their thinking worth.
This place where dormant cells are waiting to
arouse to birth, transform into the mush
that floats about, awaiting ocean blue
to feed its rise, in ebb-and-flow’s swift gush.
Then water parts around a naked mound,
another one, more mountains, hills and vales,
as oceans pushed by volcanoes give ground
some space to carve its prehistoric tales.
And only then can nature, fresh with glee,
awake and prosper to green field and tree.
4. Green Fields
Awake and prosper to green field and tree—
that takes so long, but nature does her best
to offer us ‘a clover and one bee’,
a crisp expanse of grass from East to West.
Preparing slow to bloom in morning dew
one leaf, one twig, one fresh bud at a time,
it sows and grows, and gently makes it through,
intent, from tropical to frozen clime.
As green invades the earth and blooms unfold
and species thrive of wingy buzzing guests
who pollinate the grains of harvest’s gold,
some visitors come crawling, on a quest.
But then they stand; and now it has begun:
mankind’s long walk beneath the yellow sun.
”To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee” ~ Emily Dickinson
5. Yellow Sun
Mankind’s long walk beneath the yellow sun,
from Africa to places faraway,
while growing, gleaning strength along the run
and building tales of power and dismay,
along the tricky tracks of warmth and frost,
of fights and victory, and learning how
to pay the price of evolution’s cost,
is one of struggling conscience on the go.
But hope sings stronger than the wailing rain,
than hurricanes or thirsty desert sand;
it walks migrating paths, ignoring pain,
and scatters seedlings round the world, unplanned.
Man celebrates due thanks in orange fun,
as seasons bring delight in things well done.
6. Orange Fun
As seasons bring delight in things well done
and modern comfort makes life more serene
it’s tempting drifting from intent to none,
as daily walk from bed to fridge to screen
feels like an easy stroll, with all cares tossed.
The need to find subsistence every day,
the discipline of ‘work then fun’ long lost,
some humans simply sleep their life away.
From Halloween to Christmas Night and more,
they live for pleasure and sweet holidays—
while kings and business leaders go to war,
the lazy crowds let bullies own the place.
Then all that’s left is silent moral shames,
but men have always loved to play with flames.
7. Red Flames
But men have always loved to play with flames,
with dangers and the rush that comes from fear,
from awe, from admiration and acclaims—
they would do anything when pushed by cheer.
So red like hell might be their final games,
as rockets boldly fly from East to West,
while leaders call each other naughty names
and tweet barbaric words in fierce contest.
Perhaps some brilliant scientist will build
a vessel to escape before the storm,
where humans would be safe, that will be filled
with all who hope for peace and future warm.
They will observe rebirth from that new ark—
It starts with light that slowly parts the dark.
8. Rainbow (Reprise)
It starts with light that slowly parts the dark
while stroboscopic pulse expands with force.
The mauve of sky is born from primal spark,
though one may doubt about its sacred source.
A planet features that deep blue of sea,
this place where dormant cells are waiting to
awake and prosper to green field and tree,
preparing slow to bloom in morning dew.
Mankind’s long walk beneath the yellow sun
along the tricky tracks of warmth and frost,
as seasons bring delight in things well done,
feels like an easy stroll, with all cares tossed.
But men have always loved to play with flames
so red like hell might be their final games.
Created by Jo Elle writing as FrenchGirl on Allpoetry
November, 2017
Read more of her work, and get to her web-site at:
https://allpoetry.com/FrenchGirl
Dénouement (a sonnet tiara)
I
They hear the cracking sounds in Paradise
each giant movement racked with so much pain
those great ships plowing through the polar ice
sound damp as squibs caught in October rain.
Erosion downward fairly strikes the Earth
and if we thought it was a fallacy
that soil is wealth, yet there’s an end to worth,
that vitriol, degradability,
lies still as asphalt on a country road
deceptive, almost, in disquietude;
our SUVs skidmark their spoiled abode
but now must reckon with their plenitude.
Reality so bright, it hurts our eyes
with jagged lightning bolts of compromise.
II
With jagged lightning bolts of compromise
tectonic fates and bedrock come unsealed
gargantuan though it may seem in size
our billions dwarf the planet’s battlefield.
The heftiness of us constricts her girth;
the forced ballet she dances gaunt and thin
as metronomes can scarcely hide their mirth
they beat their triumph, and time closes in.
A breathless rasp is how to best describe
her scrap of voice, a denigrated blur;
for human rights, we mount a diatribe
and yet who spends one liberty for her?
Earth’s dénouement trails off in grand absurds.
And selfishly we grate out autumn words.
III
And selfishly we grate out autumn words,
malign and somber any sky of blue
delight in punished letters afterwards
twist every sunlight to a fading hue.
Inanimacy, tiny sharpnesses.
As if we’re filming and in two small frames
what once was priceless, craft in every tress,
lies shattered, edges on a heap in flames.
Without a second glance, the things we do —
behold Earth brazenly, pick up a knife
then murder air and water, only two
of all her children, as we autumn life.
Sweet embered light, forced to misshapen curds,
new moons, dry leaves blown free of hummingbirds.
IV
New moons, dry leaves blown free of hummingbirds;
we have the gall to wonder shamelessly
how we inherited a life of thirds.
Apocalypse arrives in tribes of three.
Like freshly emptied childhood happiness
how often does the globe just turn your way
if ev’rything you do will wrap distress
in sabotage, rolled up in disarray?
If you placed spike strips on the highway lanes,
forgot yourself, raced back and tires blew
your foolish act would aneuryse your veins,
your mind made ready for the death of you.
Bewilderment still dares to question why
as oceans spill into unearthly sky.
V
As oceans spill into unearthly sky,
dark endlessness lodged deep in outer space,
the body planet will transmogrify,
the laws of physics twisted out of place.
Lost forest splinters through the atmosphere
with China sticking to America
then swaths of mountain start to disappear
while Bundes Deutschland hugs South Africa.
Our world, now flattened, hurtles round the sun
still magnetizing Earthlings, ev’ry creed;
as sleek as coin, our home’s a graphic pun —
her mercenaries stamp her into greed.
As devastations slowly vilify,
a solar planet and her moon will cry.
VI
A solar planet and her moon will cry,
for lovely Earth was really born a twin.
Though almost no one knows or wonders why
her birthplace is the land where days begin.
The summer stolen and the winter near,
from birth kept locked apart without a key
transported by the sun, she strides in fear
this orphanage, Pluto to Mercury.
Yet somewhere far away her sister waits,
awash with joy while Earth must bide her time.
May she be rescued past the solar gates
for all this galaxy inflicts is crime.
Will planets liberate themselves one day?
If Earth had palms, what would the reader say?
VII
If Earth had palms, what would the reader say?
That grand conceits can never speak for her.
We’re accidents with upright vertebrae,
all worthless fakes, yet never wealthier.
Time’s slipping through your fingers, day by day.
Illusion tethers your perimeter;
to gain your freedom, spin the other way!
Let courage shame your executioner.
Apotheosis of this woeful tale
sees Earthling locusts swarm into defeat
while reunited sister hearts prevail
to taste true justice, new and heaping sweet.
As Earth departs, the cosmic door slams twice.
They hear the cracking sounds in Paradise.
Reprise
They hear the cracking sounds in Paradise.
Erosion downward fairly strikes the Earth
with jagged lightning bolts of compromise.
The heftiness of us constricts her girth.
And selfishly we grate out autumn words,
inanimacy, tiny sharpnesses,
new moons, dry leaves blown free of hummingbirds.
Like freshly emptied childhood happiness.
As oceans spill into unearthly sky,
lost forest splinters through the atmosphere.
A solar planet and her moon will cry,
the summer stolen and the winter near.
If Earth had palms, what would the reader say?
time’s slipping through your fingers, day by day.
Deb Blondell-Pitt, November 2017
Writing on allpoetry as dblon
Read more of her work:
https://allpoetry.com/dblon
Your Fingers Wrote A Sonnet On My Thighs: a Tiara of Sonnets
Your Fingers Wrote A Sonnet On My Thighs: a Tiara of Sonnets
I
Your fingers wrote a sonnet on my thighs,
the ink a map, my flesh an open book
to trace the constellations of the skies,
my every murmur babbled like a brook.
A poem now indelible on skin
a permanent reminder of your touch
for surely words could never be a sin
upon a tongue that loved you quite as much.
A rhythm, like a love song on a breeze
you murmured long and slow against my ear,
I oscillated between burn and freeze
as lips said every word I longed to hear.
I saw the yearning there within your eyes,
urging from lips the whisper of my sighs.
II
Urging from lips the whisper of my sighs,
your smile graced skin, along my flustered wrists
and there a pulse reacted in surprise,
my mind a race with every turn and twist,
and all the words that caused my head to spin
a dance of moonlight, ballet round the room
the poetry, concerto violin
my breaths a song into the quiet gloom.
It’s funny how a body can forget
to take a breath when all that passion burns
and appetite is stoked with tease and whets
the smallest taste, that causes me to yearn.
Your poetry was marvelously penned,
you signed your name with flourish at the end.
III
You signed your name with flourish at the end,
the curves reflective of my arching spine
my heart, an ache, just trying to transcend
beyond its cage of ribs, the stars aligned.
A cursive wave with heady passion wrought,
the wine of every line straight to my head
and to the winds was scattered steady thought,
with you the only word, all else had fled.
You wrote with calming hand amidst the quake,
my thighs atremble with each noun and verb,
and sighs soon followed in the very wake
a period, an end to all those words.
My senses had an onslaught to contend,
it made the heat of every kiss ascend.
IV
It made the heat of every kiss ascend,
as lips wrote poetry along my cheek
so giddy, heady, I could not contend
with skipping heartbeat, I became so weak,
and there within my breaths, each rhyme was caught
a net of syllables, the threads entwined
with each inhale and exhale, they just brought
me closer to the edge of where you’d signed.
I drowned within your eyes, the chocolate pools
an endless lake of possibilities
and sparkling, they shone like glowing jewels
and flirted with my sensibilities.
I floated on your words, a buoyant cloud,
you smiled, then read the syllables aloud.
V
You smiled, then read the syllables aloud,
the cadence of your sonnet like a song
and let the meter perfectly endow
my soul with wings, the lyrics were so strong.
Tracing the lines upon my shaking flesh
your fingers conducted a symphony
and I drank in the lines, each mark a fresh
reminder of our passion vividly.
And then I wrote a note upon your spine
declaring everything I felt, the tide
of oceans rushing, words that you were mine
and leaving love with nowhere left to hide.
Emotions riding high and fast and proud,
almost too much, more than should be allowed.
VI
Almost too much, more than should be allowed
a happiness that overflowed until
our bodies screamed each other’s names out loud
with poetry, our sonnets were fulfilled.
There with command, our words became enmeshed,
so intertwined there was no start or end
and nestled right beneath our heaving breasts
there beat one sound, a perfect lovers blend.
Our fingers laced, recited there the verse,
against my lips and taught me line by line
until I could from memory disperse
the nuance of the kisses’ very rhyme.
The night was lit by every single moan,
your poetry is writ within my bones.
VII
Your poetry is writ within my bones,
each word is captured here along my ribs,
an endless sonnet, reams becoming tomes
I am your book, and here you drag the nib.
I carry you with me, never alone
a love that only you and I can give
and in my heart, you’re always there at home
and here each day your sonnet I relive.
My skin will never be the same, I’m marked
with every constellation, stars and moon,
you read me and my love is triggered, sparked
by all those words that you’ll forever croon.
I thank heaven for you with each sunrise;
your fingers wrote a sonnet on my thighs.
Reprise:
Your fingers wrote a sonnet on my thighs,
a poem now indelible on skin
urging from lips the whisper of my sighs
and all the words that caused my head to spin.
You signed your name with flourish at the end,
a cursive wave with heady passion wrought
it made the heat of every kiss ascend
and there within my breaths, each rhyme was caught.
You smiled, then read the syllables aloud
tracing the lines upon my shaking flesh,
almost too much, more than should be allowed
there with command, our words became enmeshed.
Your poetry is writ within my bones,
I carry you with me, never alone.
Read more of her fine work at https://allpoetry.com/Virginia_Archer
Refrained Sonnet
The Refrained Sonnet- an Italian sonnet with a twist created by Lisa Morris writing on Allpoetry as Streambed.
This is a modified Italian Sonnet.
Metric: Iambic pentameter.
Rhyme Scheme: abba cbbc dbbd bb
Refrain: The first four syllables of line one, are repeated in lines 5 and 9.
The fourth syllable of the refrain establishes the b-rhyme.
Here is Lisa’s first example.
I Did Not Go
I did not go with thoughts of turning back;
regret is something I so little know,
though now green fields lay spread with loss’ snow,
I still take joy in leaving my boot-tracks.
I did not go because I hoped he’d change,
or more, to watch another flower blow;
I find new blooms all places that I sow;
I need not leave my footpath, or its range.
I did not go to only come again;
the stars above are hopeful in their glow
because I fled his murky undertow
and found myself, and God, and better men.
But if he calls for me in words sweet, low,
please tell him I’ve forgotten all, and grow.
My Example
The Electric Universe
If it is true from naught that something came
that opens up a metaphysics view,
but leaves us still without a single clue
from whence that something started just the same.
If it is true there once was a big pop,
that in a picosecond somehow grew
the stuff for zinc, and shale, and caribou
then must one wonder what might make it stop.
If it is true a steady state exists,
(and I’m inclined to think that that is true),
and gravity is not the only glue
that drives the order, which so far, persists
electric forces must receive their due;
and we’ve no way to guess when they’ll be through.
Lawrence Eberhart @ October, 2017
Here is a Visual Template
A Fool from Indiana (A Tiara of Sonnets)
I
In everything I saw from where I stood,
my vision spanning heaven and the earth,
were subtle kind reminders life was good,
enticing me to seek a sense of worth.
the way I saw no blessing was denied,
the flowing of the sunshine or the rain,
convinced me that where disciplines abide
the dross shall wash away and gold remain.
I set my soul against the crouching dark
endeavoring to master every sin,
then blew to life each dimming, dying spark
of faith, pursuing purity within.
The choice to order better, when I could
was something to exalt my personhood
II
was something to exalt my personhood
a thing to be pursued? I could not say.
Humility bred doubt, but passion stood
heroically to chase all doubt away
and reinforce my sense of holy pride.
in all my hands endeavored to achieve.
My faith and works were seamlessly applied
to manifest the things that I believe.
I turned my eyes to those I saw with needs
and took the time to sooth a wounded soul.
Then gently I’d illuminate misdeeds
applying truth to make the errant whole.
In me were love and justice intertwined.
I saw I was a gift to all mankind,
III
I saw I was a gift to all mankind,
to those around who bear the human flaw.
Compassion, like an endlessstream inclined
my heart so outwardly, the angels saw
the way my footfalls bless this guilty sod.
Though others traveled through and left no trace,
I chose a tear-soaked path; where I had trod
each imprint that I left reflected grace.
I stood upon the pinnacle of me
and looked to see if someone, anyone,
wascapable of rising up to be
this awesome thing I am, but I found none.
“Is anyone like me,so wise and kind?”
Quite logically, the question came to mind,
IV
Quite logically, the question came to mind,
“If there is none like me so greatly blessed
to stride like one with sight among the blind,
with such compassion, unlike all the rest,
“What am I then, if I am not a god?”
Then like a prayer that’s borne on wings of lead,
that still-born thought of misdirected laud
returned its awful weight upon my head.
My words were daggers, plunging to the hilt
in my own belly, gravely wounded I
was bathed inblood insolvent to myguilt,
and would have tasted death. But gods can’t die!
Then lavished with your undeserved esteem,
You woke me from that egocentric dream
,
V
You woke me from that egocentric dream
where fantasy and pride wove dark and light
so seamlessly together, it would seem
I could not disentangle wrong from right
revealing my self-image was a sham.
Your spirit and your word cut like a knife
to separate the idol from the man.
It seems I’d worshipped self most all my life.
And once that deed was done, I would have thought
that I was left bereft of anyworth.
But purchasers envalue what is bought.
You purchased me, and offered me rebirth.
Creation has a unify ing theme:
You showed me your desire to redeem
VI
You showed me your desire to redeem
at any cost, for all, refusing none
had mandated the ultimate extreme.
The body and the blood of your own son
imbues me with your worth, just as I am.
My tarry guilt, in its totality
was lifted off, and placed upon the lamb
to justify my soul and set me free..
As though the stone which secreted his tomb
was lifted from my tongue, now I can raise
my heart and mind to heaven and assume
an attitude of endless, selfless praise.
The guilt was mine, you took it in my stead!
You own this heart, invade this sorry head,
VII
You own this heart, invade this sorry head,
this sometime haunt of fantasy and pride.
So sanctify my mind, and there imbed
you law, so that your spirit may abide
and I shall learn to dream your dream instead:
where kids shall rest with lions at their side.
Your people follow gladly where they’re led,
and by your throne of grace, all tears are dried.
`
Now leaving “worth” behind, I gaze across
your dreamless real vistas, old yet new
and sheltered in the shadow of the cross
I stand beside the pinnacle of you.
Uncovering reminders God is good
In everything I saw from where I stood,
Reprise:
In everything I saw from where I stood,
the way I saw no blessing was denied,
was something to exalt my personhood
and reinforce my sense of holy pride.
I saw I was a gift to all mankind,
the way my footfalls bless this guilty sod.
Quite logically, the question came to mind,
“What am I then, if I am not a god?”
You woke me from that egocentric dream
revealing my self-image was a sham.
You showed me your desire to redeem
imbues me with your worth, just as I am.
You own this heart, invade this sorry head,
and I shall learn to dream your dream instead.
Narcissist in Charge
Narcissist in Charge (A Tiara of Sonnets)
I
When arguments are simply otiose
because he thinks he truly knows it all
and he’s aware that he’s the one we chose,
some facts, to him, are not real facts at all.
Because his mind’s his mind, mind you, not yours.
his self-importance dims all other lights.
His plans, most often, pause for quick detours
to “tweet”, as disagreements must be fights.
Obnoxious though he’s now days come to be,
we knew he’d flown along a selfish path.
The fear that he’s insane’s what frightens me;
that war will bloom to sooth this one man’s wrath.
A joke’s been played, and now the whole world knows
when strategists can simply not come close.
II
When strategists can simply not come close
to structuring a social plan he’ll own
because that’s not his nature, I suppose,
to countenance a theme not his alone.
it’s up to us to put in place the cures.
to emphasize the common traits we share
to act in ways that lifts and reassures,
and in so doing, demonstrate we care.
For when embracing one who’s not like us
we elevate each other in one act
and make one wonder, “Why’s there such a fuss”
because some folks are white and others black?”
Humanity can’t push the dark away
When prejudice and ownership hold sway
III
When prejudice and ownership hold sway
we’ll learn from him of course, “both sides are nice”;
torch waivers shouting, and the KKK
our leader told us that, not once – but twice.
Division’s easily sparked by self-served men.
“divide and conquer”‘s been a rule of war
and politicians use it now and then.
and clearly for this man, it’s worked before.
His second cadre is the really rich.
He promised he’d not act to steal their swag
so they’re secure within that favored niche
and they’ll support him, though he makes them gag.
It will take time; can’t all be done today.
Supremacy is hard to take away
IV
Supremacy is hard to take away
when it’s a myth embedded in one’s thought.
My hubris is my due, and it’s okay.
I can’t reject the mantra I’ve been taught
when it’s been taught since God himself knows when.
Intra species violence seems nature’s rule
but man’s cerebra’s special to our ken;
that ought to elevate mankind from drool.
I think, therefore I am; and I can hate,
and love, and hoard, and share, and laugh, and cry
and better that I learn before too late
my legacy will be here when I die.
Let’s shut down hate before a darkness starts
While ample strength abides in good men’s hearts
V
While ample strength abides in good men’s hearts
an egotist in power can raise hell.
Our being, (set forth by Rene’ Descartes)
is not enough, unless that self does well
to overpower fulminating hate.
So join me, partner, let us all arise,
and show by actions, we’ll not take the bait
to shed the human love that he’d abscise.
Ask one whose dress, or style, or even race
sets him apart from what defines your norm,
to join you, (when in a convenient place)
then feel your prejudice and fears deform.
A compliment, or kindness, is the start;
It comes from human consciousness, in part.
VI
It comes from human consciousness, in part,
the urge to hug or shake a friendly hand.
The urge to smile, I think, comes from our heart
and goodness urges us to take a stand.
But conscious will’s required to give it weight.
If we’ve an appetite for brotherhood
our reasons and results will resonate
by sharing joy of doing others good.
Sometimes I want to quit this muddled mess,
just stand aside and let the chaos reign,
but that would yield to his nurtured abscess
and bullies’ volume would increase again.
Our humor’s something we need never ration
So laugh at “tweets”, then spread around compassion.
VII
So laugh at “tweets”, then spread around compassion.
A bonded population’s more effective
at viewing “tweets” with thought and calm dispassion
then smiling at, and mocking his invective.
Diminish him until he’s out of fashion.
We sometimes make electoral mistakes
and cast a vote that’s lacking any passion.
Then riding out the storm is what it takes.
When we, object, to no avail, devices
he’s used to denigrate and target some,
we must reject and obviate his vices.
Til all can see how little he’s become.
The odds we’ll change his mind are not that close,
When arguments are simply otiose
Reprise:
When arguments are simply otiose
because his mind’s his mind, mind you, not yours.
when strategists can simply not come close
it’s up to us to put in place the cures.
When prejudice and ownership hold sway
division’s easily sparked by self-served men.
Supremacy is hard to take away
when it’s been taught since God himself knows when.
While ample strength abides in good men’s hearts
to overpower fulminating hate
It comes from human consciousness, in part,
but conscious will’s required to give it weight.
So laugh at “tweets”, then spread around compassion.
Diminish him until he’s out of fashion.
Dreams of Flight
Dreams of Flight (Sonnet Crown + Reprise)
I
When all attempts at flight just end in “can’t,”
with noses windward, knees of black and blue,
the only recourse left is to recant;
admit the laws of gravity are true.
But others soar a stratospheric arc!
How blessed are they to watch the earth recede.
And yet for those earth-bound, the view is stark,
and hope alone will not fulfill the need.
What cruel adjudicator of our fate
should choose who’s born with wings and who with paws?
What discipline permits us to relate
impersonal but universal laws?
The dreams of flight do little to supplant
confinement to this dusty low secant.
II
Confinement to this dusty low secant
itself should not preclude a happy life.
But some are predisposed to whine and rant.
Their choice to foment pain and augur strife
ensures the path just turns a darker dark,
where even those who try to use their gifts
find dampened tinder won’t accept a spark.
Such efforts only serve to widen rifts.
So blinded, then, by raging jealousy,
that even if our skills should raise the dead,
then speaking out of total honesty,
we’d choose the more mundane effect instead.
A heavy, darkened heart will not apprise
the miracles we work, in our own eyes.
III
The miracles we work, in our own eyes
do not appear to be worth much at all.
In retrospect, they’re more akin to lies,
enchantments, and in truth they are banal,
are rubbish, lacking substance, will not last.
And even if they suit another’s need
they’re lifeless vain reminders of the past
which tarnish as vague memories recede.
So arms which could have resurrected hope
and point another toward a rising star
instead are made to vainly flap or grope,
like who we wish to be, not who we are.
Conclusions that we know our past implies,
conceited with the future, we don’t prize.
IV
Conceited with the future, we don’t prize
abilities we know that we possess.
They atrophy, while haughty mocking skies
stare back, and we are wont to dispossess
the pyramids and sphinxes of our past.
The world views them with wonderment, and they
should give a sense of self-esteem to last
but fail, somehow, to keep the dark at bay.
There comes a sense of wonder, does there not?
The eagle, peering down must think us dumb,
but is he satisfied with what he’s got?
Or does he rue the lack of working thumb?
We cannot pick. No matter how we mourn,
we do not choose our dreams, they’re softly born.
V
We do not choose our dreams, they’re softly born
where fantasies and follies might collide
and flutter wingless downward in the morn,
the love-child unexpected come betide
of water and the spirit in our heart.
Then reared within the arms of Meant-to-be
While flitting moths keep watch, and minnows dart.
Then weaned on solid food of Wait-and-see.
The universe falls hushed a moment yet
while destiny unveils the work she’d sewn
like some heroic and eternal bet…
then prince or princess Dream ascends the throne.
There is no fear to feel while blood stays warm,
but if abilities do not conform.
VI
But if abilities do not conform,
despite all hope to nurture aptitude
with certain deviations from the norm,
anticipating future attitude,
then disappointment’s destined from the start.
The prince will surely never gain the throne.
The threaded tapestries all fall apart
the princess shall a-spinster all alone.
But no, no fatal crash nor grand decree
accompanies the dying of a dream
for what once was, just simply ceased to be
at most, perhaps, tears trickle in a stream.
No answers, then, we’re left to wonder why,
when we can’t use the limbs we have to fly.
VII
When we can’t use the limbs we have to fly,
no parting gift, or hope for better days,
no recompense, or “someday” left to buy,
but somehow life proceeds in hoary haze,
there’s naught to do but shake them at the sky.
From whence the cursed edict emanates:
“Fix leaden feet to earth, where dead things lie.”
Don’t ponder motives deep or speculate.
No matter how the chalice overflows
or what Divinity has filled the cup
if it is not the beverage that you chose,
you’re more than justified to turn it up.
The future, then, has nothing left to grant,
When all attempts at flight just end in “can’t.”
Reprise:
When all attempts at flight just end in “can’t,”
but others soar a stratospheric arc,
confinement to this dusty low secant
ensures the path just turns a darker dark.
The miracles we work in our own eyes
are rubbish, lacking substance, will not last.
Conceited with the future, we don’t prize
the pyramids and sphinxes of our past.
We do not choose our dreams, they’re softly born
of water and the spirit in our heart.
But if abilities do not conform,
then disappointment’s destined from the start.
When we can’t use the limbs we have to fly
there’s naught to do but shake them at the sky.
by Kenn Henry, 2014
Acrostic Tribute Sonnet
Acrostic Tribute Sonnet
Form invented by Ron Morris writing as Nobody Special on All Poetry.
Stanzaic:
Meter: Optional
Rhyme Scheme: Poet’s choice
Structured: The first letters of each line, followed by the title sets forth the message.
This is his first example:
An Angel
Golden smile and silver hair
Remarkable stories she would share
Always a laugh and never despair
Note that everyone would swear
None to this lady could ever compare
You knew this lady was very rare.
Could say she was a millionaire
Love she got from everywhere
And even from her armchair
I would say she’ll always care
Red roses belong to this lady fair
Even George and Cecil would declare.
I’ll know her by her wit and flair
Should I ever see another Granny Claire. . . . .
Here is my first attempt:
Cheer to Friends (Acrostic Tribute Sonnet)
Until you’ve spent some time with Bob, you will
Not know the pain he’s overcome and yet
Clearly his determination still
Lets joy and optimism be his bet
Each day. An outing with him is a thrill
Because he thinks if you’re alive you’re set.
On family matters, he is thrilled to pieces
Because of siblings who always have cared,
Bob’s proud of pretty, cool and loving nieces
Recalling happiness they all have shared.
In nature, Bob sees God’s own masterpieces!
No one from friendly humor will be spared.
Get out with Bob, and be prepared to smile
Since he believes those smiles are well worthwhile.
Lawrence Eberhart, July 2017
Here is a visual template for this iambic pentameter poem
Queen’s Sonnet
Created by Lisa Morris writing on All Poetry as Streambed
Syllabic: 10 syllables per line, meter optional
Stanzaic: 3 Quatrain plus a couplet
Rhyme Scheme: abba ccac deed ff
Her initial poem:
Lady of the House(Queen’s Sonnet)
I went back to the tree he gave to me
along with all the land that held its roots;
it was the first of many of love’s fruits.
He bought me next a fine house by the sea,
Yes, filled its every place with roses, rare.
He gilded out the room that we would share,
and gave me its emerald-laden key;
Inside, I found new wardrobes there to wear.
But in this bed, while he held me so near
I missed my father’s farmhouse and my sheep
which on clear nights I heard, though sound asleep.
I felt so safe at home; my flocks were dear!
Now I am over many grand estates,
sweet sheep far off, outside great golden gates.
Lisa Morris @ 2017
My attempt:
Pioneer Souls (Queen’s Sonnet)
Besotted, Quigly quickly lost his heart.
He worked long days a’herding Long-horn steers
but, weekly danced and quaffed a couple beers;
then dreamed all week of Queenie, quite the tart.
She ran the doves, (called soiled), who worked upstairs
and gave them larger than their normal shares,
for this for each, was only but a start,
and madam Queenie was a gal who cares.
Each year the town put on a social dance
and there the Queen and Quigly stepped and swayed
and Quigly, quiet, calm and unafraid
proposed and both accepted life’s new chance.
The town turned out to see the couple wed
then watched them grow a pretty country spread.
Lawrence Eberhart, July 2017
Visual Template for Iambic Pentameter
