Butterfly at a Spa
Went to a spa for a nice steam.
When she fluttered out she began to cry
“This is not part of my dream!”
Her beautiful etchings were gone and this spiked hair?
She looked like a moth flying over the lake.
What was she to do? She went to ask mare.
But, mare didn’t have time; she was going to be late.
Maybe butterfly thought, I could do a test,
All I need is colorful petals and honey to create.
“No, No, No!” she said, “That will only cause a mess.”
Butterfly decided to see a tattoo artist who could sedate.
Now she’s the prettiest butterfly... for her scheme.
She’s relaxing at the spa in a chair of white wicker.
Untitled Cento
With one struck match put out the moon and sun
But in that brief look straight into the sun
The eyes were blinded and the brain struck mad.
with them. In the downy wedlocked bed
that sanctum
sanctorum where I sport
Swung intimate views out of a foreign room,
Wall-eyed alleys, coils of husky smells,
The breath of journeys strong there.
With aged remorseless eyes
Damp in the tidal dark, it whimpers,
These are the old places, and walking there
And from this little distance under earth
Will break the sun
Another place: that you contrived
And at the hard hilt twisted it.
Your eyes will crack as ours to see one night
Yet here deep under is my doom.
It settles in the interstice.
But as one part warbles
To be normal, another puts a spin on things.
Something has come between us-
Blue blown out of the sky into their eyes,
To feel how restlessly the bones live out
Unfinished life.
To touch your face and give you from deep breasts
With earth’s most nourishing and nervous rain
The white rich milk of her perpetual peace.
-->
Above is my first Cento. Title suggestions are welcome. Here are the works that inspired my poem.
Belleau Wood by Paul Engle
My Second Marriage To My First Husband by Alice Fulton
It Is There by Babette Deutsch
The Catch by A. E. Stallings
Belleau Wood by Paul Engle
My Second Marriage To My First Husband by Alice Fulton
It Is There by Babette Deutsch
The Catch by A. E. Stallings
the woods of rorschach
Labels:
abc poem,
flickr,
naquillity,
nonsense,
poesaics,
tea rorschach,
the woods of rorschach
·
by Jennifer Hinesartwork Tea Rorschach
from Flickr
apples lie in a wooded womb,
centuries old its heart, where a woman walked
evening away eating octopus as beef.
gruff, shaking hands reached for the snail’s borough
inadvertently spinning moon and sun before the taj.
kempt hornet’s nest smoked out by the indian fell,
much like ice cream with cherries, while the man
operating his pipe wilted a flower into a honey pot trap.
quietly he walked along the porcupine grass at wood’s rear
stopping before a poodle chasing a butterfly with its snout.
until the mouse’s teeth like a lion’s became a shiv
waxing his leg did he become a pole jumper, a funny xerox.
yapping from downward facing dog his outstretched arms felt the dance of a hornet’s buzz.
I wrote this poem using 21 images that came to mind after viewing the above picture. I incorporated them into an ABC poem where each line starts with a letter of the alphabet and ends with the next. For example, my first line starts with a and ends with b. The second line starts with c and ends with d. And, so goes the pattern to the end. Hope you enjoy.
oak tree
Labels:
15 words or less,
james bond,
naquillity,
oak tree,
poesaics
·
along rope and tire swing
james bond spy movie
Check out the others at 15 words or less.
minute mannequins
Labels:
haiku,
minute mannequins,
naquillity,
poesaics
·
human expressionism
outside the window
favorite t-shirt
Labels:
3ww,
favorite t-shirt,
naquillity,
poesaics,
punch,
t-shirt,
unraveling
·
never felt a sucker punch
unraveling threads
3WW words are in bold.
mosaic moon
Labels:
mosaic moon,
naquillity,
poesaics
·
broken off like ripe flower petals
from a red flower brilliant as
one thousand suns.
her fingers delicate asdried Tenuifoliabreaks medium glass pieces
and places them where
the island stretches off the coast like
reflections inside a sepia afternoon.
your backbone rigid like
the KY mountains you used to climb,
aches as you lean over the vivid canvas.
colors are spinning inside your head
similar to the bicycle
careening down the hill like a child's cartwheels.
my landing isn't as soft asthe smoldering dust but,
i brush off broken glass residue
from my fingers and keep going.
crazy bird its song like sweet nectar
sips through my throatuntil the cement river dries
between the bank's shards.
there- she spun off likewhite milk over a waterfall
and, held his monotonous voice like
like an echo inside my head.my days pass like
a slow summer breeze
while i gaze upon the moon,
broken off like ripe flower petals
from a red flower brilliant as
one thousand suns.
The bold phrases I used are from a prompt given at The Last Piaster.
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