And so, I’m planning on attempting Poetic Asides November Chapbook Challenge. A poem a day for the month? I may hate myself in the morning. Good luck to all contestants and poets. We’re all winners!
Alright, I’m not buying the bullshite either. Good luck inspite of that!
The sorrow in parting diminishes
as one phase finishes and the next cycles.
But there is only interruption to the norm,
there is no separation from the one
and only you know that for sure.
She hath languished in her beauty
and her devotion to you was more of want
than duty. But distance beckons and you
take your leave, believing your hearts
ne’er part. You draw her high and amidst
the tears and embraces, your faces touch
a mere taste to last your journey. Goodbye
ne’er enters into thought; you warmly smile
whispering “Luv, Fare thee Wiel”!
Learn your lesson, Dyson,
and surely don’t think twice, son.
Sure, Scots pipers flounce and flirt,
not all guys look good in a skirt!
–The poetic form Clerihew is featured at Poetic Bloomings
The winds chill leaving remnants
of September’s sour breath lingering.
In the hollow, the animate search
for the place to settle, to join in their
sedentary brethren’s hibernate states.
Rivers and streams convey their coolness,
a restless meander through valley
and hill. The trees are still holding
the foliage foisted upon them, barely
releasing the palette presented.
The sound of October’s afternoon
sings like an anthem; a stoic hymn
to nature’s wonderment. But, there
is a resentment in the fading of the light
as night comes earlier and the days
are an endless play, friendless in a way
that lonely hearts can attest. At best
October is more appreciated in decline.
A case of mind over decayed matter.
Through the clearing there is hope.
But it seems months removed.
Treading to keep your head above water,
catching a lungful from time to time.
Going down too many times to count,
but you struggle to survive. You remain
alive with the words that drip with the emotion
that has always been your forte. Drowning in a sea
of night sweats and blankets tangled, and things
that go bump have you stumped as your sleeplessness
offers only anxiety and paranoia. Hold your breath
and allow rest to resuscitate your muse.
You’ve abused yourself far too long. Be strong
and let nature heal what it has destroyed.
The king is not dead, he merely sleeps.
We think it is about time.
You can’t keep a good poet down. Best wishes and thoughtful prayers for Walt Wojtanik an extraordinary poet who has fallen prey to his demon. He will surely bounce back.