BEST

BEST

prevail  

overcome  

  

being poor's only  

a liability  

if she lets it define her  

  

"rising above the hand you're dealt."  

  

---

A note on form:  This little number is called a clarity pyramid.  It is meant to start with a single syllable word (all in caps that doubles as the title).  The two lines that follow are to be synonyms or some how clarify the definition of the word; these are two and three syllable lines (respectively).  The second stanza, also composed of three lines (5, 6, 7 syllables respectively) pose a scenario or real-life application of the original word.  The final stanza is a single 8-syllable line (written in quotes) that defines the first word.  

  

When beginning this explanation of the form, I said,"It is meant to start with a single syllable word."  The reason for this is that sometimes (as with any poem) inspiration does not always follow order.  In this case, the second stanza founds its way to me, followed by the last line.  The tricky part was finding the word that matched my definition.  

  

Inspiration for this piece:  3WW (Three Word Wednesday) post a challenge every week of three words to be used in one piece (be it a poem or prose); this week's words were badge, darken, and liability.  My intent as is the case on the last Wednesday of the month is to use all three words in a clarity pyramid.  I'm still working on that.  But in the mean time, this happened along; and rather than throw it out because it didn't hit each word, I ran with it.

Exposing word choice:  After coming up with the final line, I had a general idea of a word.  After my brain puzzled it through, "overcome," sunk in.  The trouble was identifying corresponding one and two syllable words.  "Prevail" came naturally.  But in working to find just the right opening word, the idea of using "best" with its less common use just spoke to me.  There was something in the idea that if she was able to best the hardships that lay in her way, then she would become the best her she could be.  It seemed all the more poetic.

Talk to Me, My Dear

The storm has passed, but still I fear
the charge that lingers might just steer
our hearts to diff'rent hemispheres.
Please stay right here! Please stay right here!

I've never know a love like this
where time stood still with every kiss;
oh how my heart just can't dismiss
this taste of bliss -- this taste of bliss.

So talk to me, don't shut me out;
dispel my fears and budding doubts
with gentle words that heal and shout
our love still sprouts -- our love still sprouts.

The storm has passed, but still no cheer;
the way we wade through this frontier
forecasts our future life, my dear.
Allay my fears!  Allay my fears!

---

A note on form:  The above verse is a monotetra.  I've spoken to this form before in two separate pieces here on LFA.  In actuality, I started this piece just after posting my first, (Smush) Like a Bug.  I made it through a stanza and a half before I meandered away.  I found my way back today (and yesterday).  And as I said in previously, while it has a fun sound to it (making it fun to read/listen to), writing to this form can be rather frustrating.  Of course that probably has more to do with my aversion to rhyming.

Reflection

Beautiful – it doesn't happen quite that often;
so I stared for awhile, unwilling to let her go.
 
I tried to hold the tears at bay
though they're far less rare than this sight,
maybe that's what sparked their journey.
 
Beau – tiful
                   Be – a – u – tiful –  
                                                Beautiful –  
silently whispers to me; I'm scared to let her
                                                                   go.
 

Our Dance (is Finally Over)

"Then the rain came knocked me sideways
   Hope the wind will catch my fall
      I know we all deserve a couple scars
         It's just getting old."
                                     –Almost Easy
                                       O.A.R. (of a revolution)

It's too easy – far too easy
to walk down this path again.
Then, drinking you in had me disappearing;
fading into me, into you, into us,
way more than I could handle.
But you were like a beautiful song that plays
entrancing me out of myself
your fingers strummed the very core of me
consuming my nights – stealing my days.
Then the rain came knocked me sideways.

You couldn't see the storm rage inside me
though you felt it I'm sure.
Now here we stand again and it seems so easy
to fall back in – let it take control – 
spin us around like an old record
whose perfectly worn grooves touch and enthrall
familiar waves (intoxicating) strive to take hold
and it's oh so easy to get lost in the music of us,
but when the storm returns, throws me against the wall,
(I) hope the wind will catch my fall.

Every time I think it won't happen
your hand stretches out before me
inviting me to dance.  I should know better
than getting caught in this whirlwind
where the only thing I'm left with is a bruised heart.
How many times will you play its strings like a guitar,
breaking them one by one – though really
it's my own damn fault thinking I was stronger
the past serving as a lesson – a guiding star;
I know we all deserve a couple of scars.

I said it before, I'll say it again
hurt is all I have to offer you, me, us
I'll always be undecided – torn up inside;
longing to feel our harmonies sync
knowing I'm to scarred to match your tune.
Still it's way too easy letting this feeling take hold,
finding everything I need in you, but not
what I need of me.  I have to let go;
this song of ours has been oversold.
(and) it's just getting old.

---

A note on form:  Yesterday, over at dVerse, they introduced the glosa.  It's an interesting form meant to pay tribute to a poet by incorporating/quoting four lines from a piece of their work.  It then is followed by four stanza of 10 lines where the tenth sequentially comes from the original quote.  For more detail, check out the Pub's FormForAll:  Paying Tribute, Page and the Glosa.

A side note on the form:  So I didn't technically (depending on how you look at it) choose a poet.  I chose a musical group that has a way of calming the storm that tends to rear it's ugly head.  Still, song is a poetic form; it just typically incorporates some musical instruments.

Bubble Letter Conjecture -- Negative Space Contradiction

"There's no 'I' in team."
 
"Yes, there is!"  she flits in her  
humming bird air.  
 
an "A" in bubble style is produced  
on the whiteboard.  
 
"See here...and that's the dot."
 
low & behold a lowercase i.
 
"Wow, using negative space,
I'm impressed!"
 
not that she knows what
negative space is, but...
 
Doesn't an i found in negative
space only reinforce my
original statement?
 
Plus, a lowercase i never
stands alone
               supported always
by other letters - friends - peers.

Except for when it doesn't,
but then it's a complex mathematical
enigma expanding the world of #s
where real meets imaginary.

That's right it's imaginary.
 
Seriously, i = square root of
negative (go figure - negative)
one.
 
So there you have it an
imaginary i living in negative  
space and I
                   repeat...
 
There is no "I" in team!
 

Letter #1: Walk Away

If you are reading this, then somehow you,
my love, have broken through my fortress wall.
I never once thought someone would pursue 

this heart of mine.  Yet here you stand enthralled
and I am at a loss to understand
how someone -- anyone -- could ever fall

for me.  Yet here you are with heart in hand.
I would have thought by now I'd have deterred
your interest.  So now I must demand

you turn and walk away without a word
just hand me back these pages -- leave before
you dig inside my soul where pain's interred.

You've reached the point of no return; explore
beyond this line and risk destroying me.
Still here -- *sigh* -- foolish man, I so adore.

---

A note on form:  On Thursday, dVerse Poets Pub FormForAll threw out a challenge--to write a terza rima.  Six syllables shy of completing the third stanza I crashed.  Instead I turned the pages of my notebook and toyed with a sevenling.  But I found my way back last night ending off the stanza and adding one, before turning out the lights.  This afternoon, I tacked on the last stanza and rounded off this piece.

Inspiration for this piece:  I stole inspiration from a series that I had hoped to write, but never made it passed letter #2.  The series was called Letters from D. Prest.  I decided to maintain the title of the first letter, which is roughly what this piece is based off of.  I am aware in doing so I leave this open for additional pieces, but after getting sucked into ten acts of a ballad after a similar challenge, I'm not sure I'm naive enough to allow myself to be tortured by another frustrating form.

Sevenling (I dream of)

I dream of everlasting love,
finally feeling whole, and
waking from this nightmare.

I wake to anxiety, tears that
refuse to fade and dreams
that dissolve in sunlight.

The only monster in the closet is of my own making.

---

A note on form:  This is another (oddball) exploration of the sevenling form.  I'm not sure what has brought this form back into my line of write, but here it is rearing its strange little head -- even though I'm still not really comfortable with the form (though maybe that is part of its charm).

Rebirth

Blushed Hues
(image by rmp, that's me)

Hidden in the whispering wind  

lies a secret only trees hear;  

a message so sweet and touching,  

they dust the earth with their pink tears  

blushed hues of love, joy and rebirth.  

---

Behind the image:  My favorite part of spring is the blossoms that adorn the winter bare limbs of trees.  While in general, I do appreciate a lovely flower, there is something about their presence on trees that instills an odd sense of peace.  So, I have been finding myself, when the occasion arises, photographing these blooms.  Afterwards, I have some extra fun tweaking them with an photo editing app.  Just for the fun of it and because it is easier to show and view the images, I have begun posting them (original next to recreation) on a blog.  As the blooms slowly disappear, I'm sure I'll find other things to transform.  For now, I'll stick with the delicate hues of spring dusted trees.

Stay

Still,
I hold my breath,
as tears perch
on eyelids.
 
Oh how I fear
blinking you away.
 

Sevenling (It's the law)

It's the law!  Buckle UP!
Hang UP!  Speed UP!  No
wait, forget that last one.

Tell the truth!  Cross your heart --
hope to die -- cross your fingers;
don't let them catch that last one.

Perfectly timed tears still ticketing pen.

---

A note on form: The Sevenling was one of the early forms I explored and to be quite honest it still puzzles me a bit. The poem has an seven lines (go figure) and each of the first two stanzas has an element of three (what exactly that means is for the experts to understand and me never to figure out). The final stanza is a single line that "should act as a narrative summary or punchline or as an unusual juxtaposition."

I think what I like most about the form is that it should be "mysterious, offbeat or disturbing, giving a feeling that only part of the story is being told." Oh, and some of my are definitely odd. Just for the fun of it, I have included all of my previous sevenlings.  Some more odd than others....

---

Powerless to Help

She stood there in the corner--her back to me
tears ran like wild fire from her eyes
with trembling lips she refused to turn to me

Fear bubbled up within me--holding me still
the desire to calm overwhelmed
with trembling arms I reached out to her with love

I curse the stupid chair and kiss her finger

Sevenling (I came across)
I came across a receipt in the hamper,
change rattling about in the washing machine,
and a twenty dollar bill in the lint trap.

I turned myself around searching
for my lost marbles, my misplaced lip balm,
and my elusive car keys. "Where else can I look?"

Aside from the keys in the fridge, I really should check my pockets.

Sevenling (I remember)

I remember the smell of fresh popped popcorn,
frogs flipping onto lily pads but mostly into water,
and the evil looking clowns drinking from water guns.

I wish to forget the sound of the organ grinder,
the sound of coins clinking against metal, and
the feel of being shot. But not the lesson learned.

Never trust a monkey wearing a top hat carrying a pocketbook.

Sevenling (Your laugh sounds like)
Your laugh sounds like nails
scratching on a chalkboard, tires
screeching, and jackhammers on a busy street.

I grew up on country music and reading
Stephen King. Have you ever heard of
Carrie, Misery, or how about Firestarter?

You have way more to worry about than your car being keyed.