Iron Poet Challenge #36

 

Iron Poet Challenge #36

Poetic Form: Double Acrostic

Writers:  Moira McArthur, Matt Henderson, Maureen Larter, Nerisha Kemraj

Paddock Theater
Maureen Larter

Patches of dirt
And grass, green and lush,
Dotted with cattle.
Distance giving the area
Opalescent patterns of bright
Colour, spots all over.
Keeping my imagination alive.

***

A Poem of Paean
M. Henderson

Maybe another word or two; a polished phrase, poised, boot to wing–to unzip
at just the right time, flowing with just the right balance—grace, gusto,
momentum—soft enough to touch but resilient enough to invoke
intimations of reverence to look at with awe and wonder—a red butterfly’s dream
Everything one could expect and delight in from a poet’s words–magic spells.

***

 

Daughter
Nerisha Kemraj

Dancing, laughing, sharing joy, with her spirit so kind

Always forgiving, and ready to learn, without a quota

Understanding total love, whether through her presence or a chocolate gateau

Giving her all in everything she does, she’s forever smiling

Heart of gold, she strives for truth

Thankful for the things, to her, we’ve taught

Earth has known no greater joy or love,

Radiantly presented through the compassion of a true DAUGHTER…

***

Rewriting
Moira McArthur

 

Rewritings and edits are making you cuss.

Every time, says Finn, We get this fuss.

Writing is all about getting things down.

Reader decides dunce cap or crown.

If all you wish is fortune and fame

Then sister, you’re certainly in the wrong game.

I guess what I’m trying to say, is keep going

No giving in, keep that story growing.

Give me tonight, a chapter or three.

See? I’m behind you. Now get me my tea.

 

Iron Poet Challenge #35

 

Iron Poet Challenge #35
Poetic Form:  Haiku
Theme/Prompt: Anticipation

A traditional Japanese haiku is a three-line poem with seventeen syllables, written in a 5/7/5 syllable count. Often focusing on images from nature, haiku emphasizes simplicity, intensity, and directness of expression.

Writers: Nerisha Kemraj, Michael Cottle, Wes Choc, Maureen Larter, Mamie Willoughby Pound, M. Henderson

 

Nerisha Kemraj

Dusky sun glowing,

Mountains await chilly night

Fire burning bright

***

Michael Cottle

I await for you
In the early pouring rain
Sunshine never came

***

Wes Choc
Eyes cannot fathom

What a broken heart finds missed

Unless there are tears.

***

Maureen Larter

Sitting and waiting

Air clear, fire warm, clouds forming

Moon lighting my way

***

M. Henderson

cold night–warm hands wait
where the borderline divides
the elements’ edge.

        ***

Mamie Willoughby Pound

drowsing daffodils
grass-green lizard pink with love
dandelion suns

 

 

 

Iron Poet #29

Iron Poet #29

Style / Meter: Free verse
Theme / Keyword: You are a tree. Tell me what you see.


Leaving ~ Wes Choc

Sprouting lean …I boldly shouted green
But no one up-there heard a word lest such unfolding was even seen
Until once, three winters hence, shiny green grew bark …dark
…gently, intently emerging.

Oh, wind carried my song along, year after year
With naked whims beneath those first slinky darkening limbs
Until roots could don more than just sprigs or sprays
…foraging, flowering, urging.

Like adolescent beard, marking bark to attest its trunk
Amid gnarly branches dancing, bended by the breezes
As mounting freezes triggered tree-rings, counting out inside my core
…concentric circles slowly surging.

And as ages wage those brawny sinews dry
Each year paces by, with dignity as bristly limbs snap and break
To shadow little sprouts that try to grow below my children’s leaving
… overlooking a thousand seeds into the soil converging.

I am a Tree ~ Nerisha Kemraj

Standing in the open air,
birds and bees around
Sun is shining brightly,
Leaves upon the ground

My many branches hold them,
Until the wind arrives,
My trunk is rooted deep,
My fruits bring in the flies

My flowers bloom so beautifully,
An attraction to one and all,
Until they start abusing me,
And pluck them, till they fall

My fruits grow rosy and radiant
And tastes delicious, I’ve heard
I don’t mind when they pick them,
And I love feeding the birds

But then sometimes i hurt,
When they come and hack at me
To use me for production,
Until i no longer see,

Sometimes I do grow back,
To live another life,
And then it starts again,
Until I see the knife..

My Chimera ~ Violet Teagan

Mossy and mottled
keeper of secrets
my stairway to the stars

your heart beats in a wooden box

dreams and chimera
nest in your imagination
make tracks
all along the length of you
like braille
or phonograph music
waiting to be read

Arctic night
or fevered August day

I listen for your rustle
feel your silent lines
over and over again
move with you in the wind

Recapitulations Of An Old Pine Tree ~ Matt Henderson

“Generations come and generations go, but the earth remains forever.”

If you can stand in one place long enough, you would see the connective aspects of this world in a way that you might miss if you move around. Travel accords you to look at a lot but the still point allows for seeing synergy and cycles of synchronicity—the comings and goings of things moving toward or away from each other in circular dances. You would see what little things make the balance up for later, bigger things. If you could see what I have seen…

I sink my roots in and stretch my trunk
and, as above
so below,
I stretch my limbs and offshoots of those
all with a great humming OM
a tingling stretch of the elan vital
a reaching out for life and a sinking into roots–
It is how I have stood here and witnessed 200 years come and go.

One night, when I was a sapling, swaying low to the ground
I saw several of my uncles topple over, with their heads high in the wind.
That is what remains, just over the gulch that separates us:
A young boy’s fort in the early days of summer.
At dusk, a couple of teens
I have watched them grow closer together
as they have grown
I can see both their homes across the highway
They take the fort at the first sight of evening stars and
share it as a place to discover the wonders of change
and the sweet taste of new love.

Mr. Paul.
I remember when his wife first became ill.
He’d kneel and pray at a place of comfort and
something to lean on
When it became certain that she wouldn’t make another winter
he would stand against me and beat against the hardness of my bark
One day, in the heat of the summer, 1986
I watched him walk out with a straight and purposeful stride.
I stood tall and absolutely helpless and he leaned against me
said a prayer and took a long drink from the whiskey bottle
that had been drinking from him since she passed.
And then I felt every needle on my limbs shake in frustration and horror
when he pulled out a pistol and put it in his mouth
left this world with the smell of sap, skull and sulfur
on both of us.

His hand landed on the unmarked grave
where the Clason’s buried their infant daughter 75 years earlier.