Zodarax
  • Books
  • Poetry
  • Books
  • Poetry
Search by typing & pressing enter

YOUR CART

Scribble Poetry

1/9/2018 0 Comments

Elegy

Picture
a sad and thoughtful poem about the death of an individual.  Look for It here:

Elegy for Jane by Theodore Roethke

Book Ends by S.M.(M).L.

We are the stories we tell,
the lives we become.
Every page a new moment,
every moment a new page.
Some stories are broad and beautiful
and deep. Some short and sweet.
Each one as meaningful as the next,
a library of who we become.

You were at the start of my story.
I am here for the end of yours,
but in this way you live,
and so the story goes on.
Volumes into an eternity 
we can't comprehend
exactly where we begin
and where we end.  
0 Comments

1/6/2018 0 Comments

Allusion

Picture
an expression that calls to mind an idea outside of the work itself.  Most effective when the reader has a reference for what is being alluded to because it adds meaning to the work without further explanation from the writer.  Look for it here:

Prometheus by Lord Byron

Ethereal by S.M.(M).L.

These mortal cages hold us in but a little while. 
Locked with blood and bone, we knock around,
bump into each other to let a little bit out, 
a little bit in, a way to save our selves--
reincarnate incarceration.  As if we have found
the key, we behave, lending this unto the next,
never stopping to peer through the hole
to see what's on the other side.  Out there, space,
star after star, beyond until these ribs
are nothingness holding us together.  So far 
out there, there's no coming back except 
that we've chained our hearts in inescapable love.

It seems. Except. That's all there was all along.
Love in and out, around, folded over on itself,
infinite, not a chain, but a link, not a cage, 
but a scaffold to lift ourselves back to whence
we came if only we can let go these bounds
desirous of Prometheus that seem to hold
us in but merely let us perceive the impossibility
of existence for a breath of time, in, out, exist,
out        in        love        breathe        be 


0 Comments

12/31/2017 0 Comments

Mood

Picture
is the emotion felt by the reader which in part is created by the word choice and description of the writer, but is unique to and influenced by each reader which, in some ways, is why certain pieces are powerful for some readers more so than others.  Look for it here:

The Chairs that No One Sits In by Billy Collins

Snow Globe by S.M.(M).L.

Look without, 

snow drops on our silent moment.
One sleeps soundly, at peace 
with what will come, so thoughtful
his heart filled with kindness.

One fights desperately, not to miss
a second of the exuberant life,
so bold within her.

The snow piles high, swirls.

We are cozy and calm, quiet,
mostly.  Whole. For now.
Outside it just keeps piling up.  
Insulate us in our snow globe
while the world twists
and shakes around us.
We'll stay here with you, 
little ones, restless and 
restful, our souls full,
​
look within.  
0 Comments

12/25/2017 0 Comments

Cinquain

Picture
simply, is a five-line poem, but a unique twist of such a poem is to have the number of words in the number of the line:  line one, one word (the title), line two, two words, a description, line three, three words that tell the action, line four, four words that express emotion, and line 5 recalls the title in a single word. There are many variations of this type of poetry, so no need to be structure bound, a quick way to express for the writer, and a sudden glimpse for the reader.  Look for it here:

The Sun-Dial by Adelaide Crapsey
Sparkle 
be bright
let it shine
your heart and mine
sparkle

by S.M.(M).L.

Picture
0 Comments

12/17/2017 0 Comments

Iambic Pentameter

Picture
is 5 unstressed syllables followed by 5 stressed syllables per line, used by playwrights like Shakespeare because it resembles the rhythms of speech, and it lends itself to memory, unrhymed it is called Blank Verse, but when it follows a pattern of rhyme consisting of fourteen lines, it becomes a sonnet. Look for it here:

Schoolboys in Winter by John Clare

Hibernate by S.M.(M).L.

Winter wraps itself around us with flakes.
Soon we are settled in drifts, beside fires,
snuggled deep into down, books read pile up,
and the frost creeps up from the pane's corners.
Outside the trees are still and sun glitters
in  the many prisms of ice.  Venture
out, find lakes' shores treacherously lengthened.  
Shiver in our scarves and mittens, tremble
our deep sighs of breath come in bursts of white;
back inside, fingers and toes tingle and
warm drinks steam.  Soon enough we start to yawn
and slip back into slumber like the trees
and lake and soil as they patiently wait.  
What comes next will come, whether we sleep or wake.


0 Comments

12/10/2017 0 Comments

Concision

Picture
is what poets do.  If a book is living another life, then a poem is living a brief moment of another life.  By being concise, poets are forced through their art to select the most precise words and ways in which to express an idea, leaving room for the reader to interpret and examine the idea for themselves.  Look for it here:
​
"Just This" by W.S. Merwin

Lunar by S.M.(M).L.

Awake to moonshine
brilliantly superb as she
wanes into morning.
Here she is, a guide
for humanity, explode
from Earth, composed of
this same stuff. We look
on her face, seem to
never turn away, except 
when she is in solitude.
She must go there to
get away, blamed for
cycles and lunacy, but
probably reality.
Inching away, she 
weathers anything
stillness, a bowl of fire,
or a mirror, no matter.
However we perceive her
we dance, a partner
swung round our dizzying
existence, wax, wane
until we burn ourselves out.

0 Comments

12/2/2017 0 Comments

Epistrophe

is the opposite of anaphora.  Instead of the repetition of a single word or phrase at the beginning of the line, it is repeated at the end.  The effect is often a resonating tone left with the reader.  Together, the use of anaphora and epistrophe are called symploce.  Look for it here:

"From Blossoms" by Li-Young Lee

Stop by S.M.(M).L.

Sometimes the world doesn't stop
never does the world stop
on and on, spinning and spinning,
its centrifuge a molten core, a heart
beaten upon by billions of trembling feet,
by oceans of fear and terror pushing and 
pulling.  By time ticking and ticking and never stopping.

Sometimes the world doesn't stop,
and you need it to; you need winds to quiet, 
storms to calm, missiles to not be shooting
beyond satellites, people to close their
mouths, open their eyes, and just shut up.
Just shut up, inside yourself, hardened 
around your own molten core, smoldering,
learning to be quiet, calm, weathering.

Sometimes the world doesn't stop,
but instead implodes; hills shudder and
mountains crumble, rivers rage and 
volcanoes explode--panic ensues all around,
and you wonder why you just didn't stop,
get quiet, and sit in solitude before you made this mess.

Sometimes the world doesn't stop, 
but you should, shut up.  
Picture
0 Comments

11/23/2017 0 Comments

Prose Poetry

Picture
Although contradictory in name, prose poetry is a blending of art forms in which the devices of poetry appear in lines of prose.  Anything from repetition to imagery to alliteration may appear in these lines making the singular difference the length of the line.  Look for it here:

Prose Poems by Gertrude Stein

Gratitude by S.M.(M).L.

A French Proverb says, "Gratitude is the heart's memory."  And, thinking on all for which I am grateful, my heart swells with joy like the mind when it's full of thoughts.  For family, friendship, presence, "thank you" never seems enough, but I take with me the memories in my heart you gave and dole them out a little at time.  My gratitude for your kindness is the rhythm to my joy.  
0 Comments

11/14/2017 0 Comments

Imagery

Picture
vivid descriptive language that paints a picture in the reader's mind often employing one or more of the five senses.  In doing so, it deepens the reader's experience of the work and helps them feel as if they are a part of the reality that is created by the writer.  Look for it here:

The Summer Day by Mary Oliver

Vellichor by S.M.(M).L.

A creaky wooden door
jingles open, breathe in vellichor.
Shelves like branches full 
of paper leaves.  Smell vanilla
tannins drift down and surround,
spores sift through sunlight while
cross-legged our limbs the roots,
fingers skim over bindings,
searching, selecting, 
the inevitability and impossibility 
of just one choice this time.

A creaky wooden door 
jingles behind, breathe in salt sea.
Wind whips our hair, we tip-
toe across the sands, barely 
leaving footprints, our toes bare.
We settle in, nestled:
arms like wings wrap around,
cozied together as the sun
just starts to warm,
We pull the pages open and
dive in as the waves splash,
and the wind whips; the sand
swirls, and your wings hold 
me steady just long enough
to point the way this time.  
0 Comments

11/11/2017 0 Comments

Vers Libre

better known as free verse if you're not trying to be fancy about it which you shouldn't be because it's not.  It can rhyme, or not, but it does not have a set metrical pattern or conform to any traditional form; thereby, it is free.  Free to do and be whatever it will become. Look for it here:

A World of Daughters by Yusef Komunyakaa

Pura Vida by S.M.(M).L.

It's a dream-like state 
we've entered into
because people aren't 
supposed to get on this well,
and everyone isn't supposed 
to be this beautiful.
It's not so simple
to just be
yourself.
We stepped into the humidity
emptied of our realities.
Cleansed of our pasts,
we were without faults.
We were regressed 
to a world where even
if we understood those
we heard we couldn't
portray what we felt.
We simply did not have the words.
We were innocent and wide-
eyed again.
Surrounded by ocean
we became grown again
in a new life,
with new love.
In an abstract world 
that means nothing
to the outsider
but everything to those within
because we called it home.
We slept soundly 
in our beds.
Became accustomed 
to new ways and places.
It seemed regular.
Life appeared real.
And now, we slip from
our slumber and
vividness fades and like
all dreams we'll never
be able to portray exactly 
what it meant.
The sound of Hermosa waves
crashed is never quite 
so clear.
Vibrant turquoise Caribbean
will appear faded.
Sun slit through palm
leaves won't squint 
their eyes,
but we will remember,
we can see it clearly.
We know pura vida.
Picture
0 Comments
<<Previous
Forward>>

    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.  

    Archives

    March 2020
    July 2019
    May 2019
    October 2018
    July 2018
    May 2018
    February 2018
    January 2018
    December 2017
    November 2017
    October 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017

    Categories

    All

    RSS Feed

Contact 

Proudly powered by Weebly
We are a participant in the Amazon LLC Associates program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide means for us to earn fees by linking to Amazon.com and affiliated sites.
This does not affect the views expressed in any reviews or posts.