[rev]

flag fold triangle
memory triggered
time collapses
I fall into childhood
cheek against hardwood
playing with toy soldiers

I'm still happy with this sestina I wrote. It's a difficult form. The title is "Strata."
poemblaze.wordpress.com/2010/1

A small rant on the mind
Then the brain is rent
And the rant runs amok

Sewn back up
But the damage done
The rant is out
And telling on me

I fold my hands and feign ignorance

The rant crawls back in
And I pay it rent
Same as before

What also appeals to me about the Elizabeth Bishop poem is how well it evokes a particular time and place, a memory. Since it's art there are probably elements changed. But I feel as if I'm in a moment that happened 105 years ago.

Elizabeth Bishop. In the Waiting Room

A poem about the humanness of all of us. Our interconnectedness. The birth of empathy.
poets.org/poem/waiting-room

the clouds are weeping again

the drops take on
colors
of where they land

small green lenses on leaves
brown rivulets through mud

earth wears
heaven's sorrow
and drinks in
what it can

Bleeding sounded more interesting, but weeping is more consistent with the end of the poem. I think.

Am going to try to post

Haven't done so on this platform. I now have the link to a sestina I wrote as a pinned post. A sestina is a fixed verse form consisting of six stanzas of six lines each, normally followed by a three-line envoi. The words that end each line of the first stanza are used as line endings in each of the following stanzas, rotated in a set pattern.

This poem I wrote sums up a major element of the past 22 years of my life.

Is that a heart
in my chest
or a ticking bomb?
No one is willing
to take the risk
so I'm forwarded
postage due
to see if God
will sign
for my delivery.

I haven't written much of anything in a long time. This is a sample poem. It's not my best, but it ties into my love of history. The photo is of the farmhouse that stood here previous to this one. You can rummage around the site if you want. Many poems there. poemblaze.wordpress.com/2015/1

I grasp small shadows
in my tight fists
so they won't fly away
& disappear
like everything else

unexpected the daylight
holds fast to me
it stays past sunset & midnight
& folds into my dreams
these waves & particles
of fission warm my heart
now ablaze

and open hands


A rare poem these days. I may be rusty. It's difficult for me to judge.

Thankful Turkey

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