A haiku for Colleen’s weekly challenge.
Photo ©David P. Howard
no time for singing
eaves aflutter with bright wings
A butterfly cinquain for Colleen’s weekly challenge. The word ‘spell’ comes from the Old English for a tale or narrative.
that enthrals with magic,
a gift of the wind that blows through
scatters the broken light of space
into our wondering
eyes, filling hearts
A tanka for Ronovan’s weekly prompt.
this stream runs pure
trailing green boughs through
of naked earth tamed and still
beneath the relentless plough
For Colleen’s weekly Tanka Tuesday, a shadorma.
Pick a ripe
sinfully sweet-scented and
luscious as Lilith.
For Colleen’s weekly poetry challenge, a butterfly cinquain.
is ours that stirs
only when our little
cup over-flows though death stalks for
Evil grows banal and we watch
with bored indifference
as the red tide
A shadorma for Colleen Chesebro’s Tanka Tuesday. This week a photo prompt.
roots, clothing bare dreams
futures with the golden hues
of shared warmth.
For Colleen’s weekly Tanka Tuesday challenge. A butterfly cinquain.
the trees’ wind dance
swallows’ wild dart and swoop
even the lane’s pale sinuous
as it meanders in dappled
shade away from the town’s
For Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday, a tanka (not) using the words Plan & Spend. I’ve used map and pass.
no time that passes
eyes fixed upon heaven’s map
or downcast to read
ancient words will change the fact
that only stars crowd the sky
For Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday, a shadorma.
From its source
stream leaps for the light,
I taste darkness in its bones,
stars in its glitter.
tumbling with a child’s
of when, why or tomorrow,
An etheree for Colleen Chesebro’s Tanka Tuesday.
The NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a poem based on questions, ending with a further question, leaving the debate open. Since I wrote a question poem yesterday, and the etheree for Colleen’s challenge also poses a question, I think this double version will do for both prompts. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have some answers.
How many times have these wide skies clouded,
cold wind risen bringing sheets of rain?
Spring marches, shod in mud, bearing
spears of green and leaf banners.
When petal storms strew white
the meadow, blackbirds
sing the louder,
in wild flutter,
toss their raw thrustings
to the spring breeze and wave
white blossom banners of peace
and plenty? Or will this one be
the year the earth closes iron fist
and turns her wounded face to the dark void?
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