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Scribble Poetry

10/27/2017 0 Comments

Alphabet Poetry

Today, alphabet poetry is something fun that children might try in their elementary classrooms, but like many forms, it has existed for centuries--as long as we have been using our alphabets, we have been writing alphabet or abecedarian poetry.  Like acrostic poetry, the trick is in the first letter, but instead of revealing a hidden meaning, it uses each letter of the alphabet to reveal more where the writer has been taken than what the reader can decipher. Look for it here:

"Abecedarian Requiring Further Examination of Anglikan Seraphym Subjugation of a Wild Indian Rezervation" by Natalie Diaz

Prismatic Soul by S.M.(M).L.

Ask yourself why you love a color:
Bright blue of sea just off the beach
     where waves don't crash.
Coral red of painted toenails in 
     golden sandals.
Dandelion yellow of a wingback chair
     that belonged to no one you remember.
Emerald black-green of happy little trees
     sprung from oils.
Forgotten silver-brown of empty barns
    and school houses.
Gorgeous mahogany of what were once
    baby blues rimmed with dark lashes.
Handsome tan of hard-worked hands
    speckled with freckles.
Icy gray of cumulous clouds filled to the brim
just waiting to explode in a
kaleidoscope of rainbows 
leaving drenched 
muddy clots of soil
now the perfume 
only decomposition can ensure
pleasing amidst its
quilted squares:  green and gold.

Reddish sun
sets behind rolling hills while
teal darkens in an 
umber that blends a 
verisimilitude 
with tree's bark. The
xenagogy leading 
you home, the
zenith of imagination
     where you ask yourself
     why you love a color and find
     your prismatic soul.  

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10/18/2017 0 Comments

Concrete Poetry

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is also known as size or shape poetry.  It uses word or typographical arrangement to visually show an aspect of the poem. It is, in part, a form of visual art; if the poem isn't seen, there is a component of the meaning missing for the reader.  Look for it here:  

"Swan and Shadow" by John Hollander

Idaho by S.M.(M).L.

Idaho 
you 
are 
mournful 
today with 
your deep-gray 
filled clouds.
West winds 
prove spring 
is pushing 
winter out,
but it is just March.
      There is something 
Sorrowful in your look today
—bringing the low,
reverberate howl of wolves to mind.  Idaho you
are green; you are gracious; you are mountain 
peak and cavernous canyon.  Your smell is sweet, 
cleansed in an aroma that wraps around and drags 
down into the depths of your lakes.  Idaho you are 
earth at her pinnacle, called gem for good reason.
Idaho you are home to few but the land-locked lucky.
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10/12/2017 0 Comments

Ballad

This ancient form began in the oral story-telling tradition possessing both lyrical and musical qualities. Today, it relies more heavily on the story-telling component with imagery that holds each moment together. Traditionally, it follows a specific form with quatrains (four-line stanzas) and an alternating rhyme scheme to keep the reader invested in the story told.  Look for it here:

"Ballad" by Sonia Sanchez

Hawaii by S.M.(M).L.

Something new is boiling,
but no one knows it.
There's a hot spot
in the Pacific today.

Molten magma bubbling
and burbling its way
to the surface,
cooling as it reaches
its first breath of salt-sea air.

Maybe it was just today,
suddenly land, or maybe
it was months, years,
millennia in the making,
no matter.

Birds find reprieve on its
black beaches leaving treasure
dropped in unsavory packages,
a fertilizer to new life.
Time passes. Trees grow
rain falls, brilliance abounds.

Something new runs up
on now sandy beaches, leaving five-
toed footprints never felt before,
digging holes and tamping down
different roots. A new sound,
Hawaii, forms on parched lips.

Fires burn bright, feet stomp out 
the hula, homes and love are made.
Peace reigns. Time passes.
Children grow, beauty abounds.

Something new pulls into port.
A mission is made, bringing new
ideas to an old place. A different 
sound, Lahaina, forms on seasick lips.
Languages are translated, hands are shaken,
a treaty is made. Change comes.
Time passes. Tolerance grows,
belief abounds.

Something new flies in 
from the blue. Gifts of leis are
placed around bowed-heads. First
taste of sun-warmed pineapple
passes through lustful lips.
Tourism begins, rest is found,
friendships are made. Joy comes.
Time passes. Knowledge grows,
beach-bathing abounds.

History is forgotten by most,
but is there in the lava flows,
the Molokini crater, the Leper 
Colony of Molokai, the bomb-
dropping on Pearl Harbor, and
the detonation on Kaho'olawe.

The whales still make their way
from frigid Alaska to birth their
babies in the shallow waters of
the sunken landmass, waterfalls
still pour into the valleys; and,
the Iao Needle still remembers
sacred rituals performed there.

Turtles swimming near Napili
remember and their return
to those beaches should remind
that time passes and change 
will come, but it is in our hands
to preserve the precious.

~With thanks to James A. Michener and his epic Hawaii


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10/5/2017 0 Comments

Imagism

is a type of poetry that relies heavily on concrete images, much like the still life of painters.  Although typically short and an attempt at being void of any message, the simplicity itself often has something more to say.  Even among its founders there was room for derision.  Look for it here:

"The Red Wheelbarrow" by William Carlos Williams

Still Life by S.M.(M).L.

Those flowers in that vase.
That overflowing fruit bowl.

The window always open,
curtains blowing
a distant scenic view:
quaint town quieting
lapis water lapping
soundless snowflakes falling
     or, blossoms of an overgrown
     garden growing.
Sun always, just come up, or down.

The candles always but a stub; 
it must be up, after all.
A broken-open day glistening
on the partially peeled orange
the scent of certainty cloying
alongside wilting flowers.

No one is ever home 
having left in such a hurry.
Nature seeps in on a breeze:
fall leaves lie strewn
sometimes a lime green
parrot or elegant butterfly
alights among the petals.
Half camouflaged by brightness
but a nod that life exists.

Left in such disarray
exactly as it will be 
exactly as it was when
there was nothing but:
a chair by the window
a book on the sill
pen in the seam waiting,
     still.

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    S.M.(M).L.

    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.  

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