Sunday, July 15, 2018

Poetry Pantry #411

Mystic Beach, Vancouver Island, Canada

Greetings, Poets!  Today I am featuring a photo from Wikimedia Commons.  Really looks like a beautiful place.

Hope everyone had a chance to read Sherry's feature on Sumana's poetry last Monday.  If you haven't read it, DO scroll back.

Glad to see so many of you participated in Sumana's Midweek Motif City this past week

Next Wednesday Susan's Midweek Motif will be:  Greatness/ in Honor of Nelson Mandela International Day.

I really enjoyed reading Rosemary's One Sentence Poems Revisited on Friday.  I wonder if some of the rest of you felt inspired to try your hand at writing a one-sentence poem after reading it.

Monday Sherry will feature a chat about art with one of our prolific poets.  I wonder if you can guess who.  Smiles.

With no further delay, let's share poetry.  Link your one poem below.  Stop in to say hello.  Visit the poems of others who share.

Look forward to seeing YOU along the trail.

Friday, July 13, 2018

I Wish I'd Written This

One Sentence Poems revisited

White Flowers

might miss
split second

your eyes
their blinds

your lips
to open

for me,
the clouds

to rest
every car

for gas,
like noticing

first whiff

summer air

it pauses
my skin.

Austin Davis is a widely published poet and his first full-length collection, Cloudy Days, Still Nights, is being released by Moran Press this spring.

Where most are ...

Where most are
too shy or numb to
you lodge,
mossy and shadow,
awaiting dictation.

Karen Stanislaw, fighting for her right to poet, is in current wrestle with - relatives and muddier Saturnian forces - the idea that she's not honored "enough" survival and security concerns.


My brother sits across from me
in the prison visiting room,
his jumpsuit the color
of coffee-stained teeth, and says,
“Keep the letters coming.
Whenever I read them, I’m free.”

Scott Hughes typically writes fiction much longer than one sentence.

The Book of Hours

The sun sets on enhanced interrogation,
even as it rose, exponentially, on drone strikes,
like the sum of collateral damage
became a euphemism, beyond our peripheral
vision, & we held the shining black eye
of history in our mouth, as if
we imagined God in our every breath, as if we
are, all of us, alone in the complicity of others.

henry 7.reneau, jr. writes words in conflagration to wake the world ablaze.


I carry my burdens,
sing my songs,
hold goodness within,
not much different, it seems,
than a common wooden chair,
the bells of a working clock,
an ordinary vessel of clay.

Larry Schug says, "I could be considered old, though I am terminally immature."


flame flickers
and quickly you
turn from flesh to
silhouette and weave
through the curtains then
exit the open window and float
above the storm-swept garden where
the frogs that survived the devastation insist
to stay and croak aloud undying love to one another.

Karlo Sevilla writes from Quezon City, Philippines, and suffers from a lagging inertia of consciousness.

One Cannot Use

One cannot use
a pen and a pistol
at the same time,
and that is all
I have to say on
the subject of
poetry as therapy.

J. R. Solonche has been publishing in magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early '70s and is author of six collections of poetry.

Wind Song 

There’s so much
going on here
it's always worth
getting out of the car,
and if you listen
really quietly,
you can hear
the stream flowing
and these people
who survived
by eating weeds
and even talk
proudly about it.

Howie Good is on the pavement, thinking about the government.


I wish I’d met him after
I stopped hating myself,
for he was kinder than I was,
more easily pleased, and unlike me,
comfortable seeming feminine,
which made him more masculine
as he slowly bit and sucked my lips
until they stung slightly,
vibrating, his blunt hands warm
and strong as we embraced
by a lawn sprinkler,
ratty jeans sodden,
heard atonal wind chimes,
our breath catching,
and a breeze rustling
through the eucalyptus.

Hannah Bleier is a special education teacher living in Brooklyn.


I ride the air balloon
of your love, soaring

higher and higher as
I drop the ballast overboard:

my ego, that anvil,
that anchor made of lead.

Steve Klepetar knows it's the month before the month of May, and spring comes slowly up this way.

One Sentence Poems is a poetry site I subscribe to by email. I have shared pieces from it before, and thought it was time for some more.

They tend to be short. Not that they have to be, but it must be harder to sustain a very long sentence. The rules say:

  • It must truly be a sentence. 
  • Start with an uppercase letter. 
  • End with a terminal punctuation mark. But don’t die. 
  • Semicolons are discouraged, especially when used to merge what should be multiple sentences into one long sentence. 
  • Format: There must be at least one line break. Some indents ok, but we can’t handle highly scattered formats. (We prefer left-justified.) 
  • The sentence must be grammatically correct (subject + verb), with generally conventional punctuation. 

I've selected from recent posts a few I particularly like, for whatever reason – whether because they are beautiful or interesting (some are downright disturbing!); whether because of content or form. There were many more worth sharing; I selected for variety. 

Every time I read one, I think, 'I must try a one sentence poem!' (and also when I sometimes find one amongst the poems shared in our Poets United community). But then I forget. One day....

Material shared in 'I Wish I'd Written This' is presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings remain the property of the copyright owners, usually their authors.

Wednesday, July 11, 2018

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ City

“But a city is more than a place in space, it is a drama in time.”— Patrick Geddes


“The fact that over 50 percent of the residents of Toronto are not from Canada, that is always a good thing, creatively, and for food specially. That is easily a city’s biggest strength, and it is Toronto’s unique strength.” — Anthony Bourdain

Midweek Motif ~ City

In the eyes of a poet what would a busy city look like? A dream or a nightmare?

Is it easier to integrate and interact with others or is it a place for the aliens?
Will the poet ignore the bodily glamour and glitter and all those lucrative amenities and rather strike up a conversation with the soul of the city? Or will not?

Or what is your kind of city?

Have a city air in your poems today:

City Trees
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

The trees along this city street,
Save for the traffic and the trains,
Would make a sound as thin and sweet
As trees in country lanes.

And people standing in their shade
Out of a shower, undoubtedly
Would hear such music as is made
Upon a country tree.

Oh, little leaves that are so dumb
Against the shrieking city air,
I watch you when the wind has come,—
I know what sound is there. 

The City Dead-House

by Walt Whitman

BY the City Dead-House, by the gate,
As idly sauntering, wending my way from the clangor,
I curious pause--for lo! an outcast form, a poor dead prostitute
Her corpse they deposit unclaim'd--it lies on the damp brick
The divine woman, her body--I see the Body--I look on it alone,
That house once full of passion and beauty--all else I notice not;
Nor stillness so cold, nor running water from faucet, nor odors
morbific impress me;
But the house alone--that wondrous house--that delicate fair house--
that ruin!
That immortal house, more than all the rows of dwellings ever built!
Or white-domed Capitol itself, with majestic figure surmounted--or
all the old high-spired cathedrals;
That little house alone, more than them all--poor, desperate house!
Fair, fearful wreck! tenement of a Soul! itself a Soul!
Unclaim'd, avoided house! take one breath from my tremulous lips;
Take one tear, dropt aside as I go, for thought of you,
Dead house of love! house of madness and sin, crumbled! crush'd!
House of life--erewhile talking and laughing--but ah, poor house!
dead, even then;
Months, years, an echoing, garnish'd house--but dead, dead, dead. 

Nightfall In The City Of Hyderabad
by Sarojini Naidu

SEE how the speckled sky burns like a pigeon's throat,
Jewelled with embers of opal and peridote.

See the white river that flashes and scintillates,
Curved like a tusk from the mouth of the city-gates.

Hark, from the minaret, how the muezzin's call
Floats like a battle-flag over the city wall.

From trellised balconies, languid and luminous
Faces gleam, veiled in a splendour voluminous.

Leisurely elephants wind through the winding lanes,
Swinging their silver bells hung from their silver chains.

Round the high Char Minar sounds of gay cavalcades
Blend with the music of cymbals and serenades.

Over the city bridge Night comes majestical,
Borne like a queen to a sumptuous festival. 

Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community—
                (Next week Susan’s Midweek Motif will be ~ Greatness / in honor of Nelson Mandela International day)