Each line of the poem begins with a letter that together spell out a secret message that lends more insight into the content of the poem. Look for it here:
"A Boat, Beneath a Sunny Sky" by Lewis Carroll
Clandestine by S.M.(M).L.
Riotous ruckus of words
eagerly explain while you're
acting ambivalent, but really
dreaming ideas and your
imagination is exploding, yet
no one else knows you've
gone to a whole other world.
purely, found poetry, is made up of all words and lines that are found by the poet, (re)arranged to create the poetic form, but variations can be created with part found/part written pieces as well. Considered the Pop Art of poetry, it can be visual or written. Look for it here:
"Amelia" by Charles Reznikoff
Dave by S.M.(M).L.
We stand on the Watch Tower of the Gorge's rim.
Satellites hum interspersed with stars whose lights
reflect in the Columbia's waters.
Music reverberates off the rock
walls behind the stage. We are
Dancing Nancies in a sea of Big Eyed Fish
who have swam upriver to be here, to hear
Halloween and Number 41.
The notes of instruments Crash
Into Me, and our Grey-Blue Eyes flash
because we have lived on Grey Street.
In many ways, this is what it means to be
American Baby; road trips with best friends
to build tradition, to be So Damn Lucky, You Never Know.
The Space Between your soul and mine shrinks,
and we are back where we began.
We rise up like a Butterfly on Loving Wings.
We both know that whether we Stay or Leave
this moment everything is So Right, and we will
always say, Hello Again.
Dedicated to those who ever saw Dave at the Gorge and know what that means.
is a type of repetition in which words or phrases are repeated at the beginning of verses or stanzas to the effect of drawing the reader back in and adding emphasis to the selected lines. Look for it here:
"In School Days" by John Greenleaf Whittier
Still by S.M.(M).L.
Still the red barn sits where once the hay
was gathered. A young man raked it out
the door and piled it high to feed cattle.
Beneath those smooth-worn boards a girl
wandered looking through the cracks. Just a
musty mess then, no cows to feed.
Still the silver shop stands where once the tractor
was fixed. A father puttered to put it
back together before it was time to be in the field.
At the handmade welded bench a girl
picked up the pieces. Just a
bunch of junk now, no fields to till and plow.
Still the farmhouse looms beneath the maple trees.
A grandmother waits for a grandfather
to return, but neither one is home. At the road a girl
imagines this impossibility. The house is gone,
the people too, but her memories are yet to be.
There's a poet in my soul; she's always been there, but is often neglected. I'm letting her out here. I hope you will too. Here's some unsolicited advice: When your poet speaks to you, just let it out, there's something there, I promise you. Here you'll find ideas about how to hone your craft as I practice mine and lead you to some of my favorite published poems and poets.
This does not affect the views expressed in any reviews or posts.