A Sestina in Anticipation of Skiing

The skis that whisper down the mountainside

are simple vessels for the urge to fly

We clip on equipment to overcome

human short fallings; Opposable thumbs

mean nothing when our reach exceeds our grasp

The snow we’re carving beneath us won’t last

Just last season tree boughs reached out bare and dry

The whisper of winter spoke inaudible

We grasp transient seasons on the tips of our tongues

Earth is a paltry vessel for so much carbon

The opposable desires of stability and speed

clip at our heels as we ride shifting snow 

Clip a bird’s wings and he is insatiable but safe

We want life to last but hurry through days

Opposable forces propel the human race

Trees poke the sky, whisper, and anxiously wait

Our vessels carry blood toward the heart, then away

We’re grasping at straws – but that’s a cliché!

Straws on the riverbank give us something to grasp

A well kempt, clipped lawn leaves nothing to bloom

Earth’s vessels, tree roots, are not to be tamed

Entropy is the only lasting law on the books

Still snow blowers whisper and spit pristine white

Bare tree trunks stand opposite snow-laden slopes

The opposable wisdom of beauty and might

Leaves little snowflakes clutching the strong mountainside

Snowy crowds whisper and jostle grass blades aside

We clip on our skis

for one last ride

These eyes are feeble vessels for so much beauty

Our skis cut open blood vessels along the mountain flank

Opposable urges to preserve and to take

On the last ride down, the sun starts to drop

Over the edge of the slope and just out of grasp

We unclip our skis to step back into our skin

The whisper of winter melts away

These bodies, soul vessels, reach beyond our grasp

Our opposable thumbnails at the surface scratch
Winter whispers and sighs its last

* Thanks to Gene Christopher for the pics!

You can have your cake...

You can have your cake --
and eat it, too!

My mother let me lick
the electric mixer
whir of spinning bliss
tongue between prongs --
once it stopped.

She would slop a cloud
of icing onto the cake
and spread it across the top.

Chocolate cliffs rose at Christmas,
Cinderella's dress swirled with vanilla,
coconut tendrils curled
from the Easter bunny's whiskers.

Each cake sits on
bakery shelves
in my memory --
still warm, still moist,
icing smooth and soft.

And so it is with poetry.

Gobs of gelatinous similes
stick to our fingers
as we lick language
from the sides of the bowl.

We sink our teeth
into slice after
stanza.

* This one wasn't a strict form I suppose, but there were restrictions!  The poem had to start with a twist on a cliched saying.  Then, it had to include the words mother, lick, whir, cloud, and cliffs. This is what I came up with for the exercise. Yum!

Flu Villanelle

Stock up on soup, tissues, and get to bed!
The world outside your window won't stand still
Focus on now, on warmth, on breath instead

Lie still, don't move, to ease your aching head
Deadlines, dog walks, can wait for you until
You stock up on soup, tissues, and get to bed!

Sunlight streams in, an interrupting thread
Outside the window bird songs seem so shrill
Focus on now, on warmth, on breath instead

The day's once moving parts have now stopped dead
Your plans, appointments, others can fulfill
Stock up on soup, tissues, and get to bed!

Piles of books are waiting to be read
Such knowledge lies untapped, for now a frill
Focus on now, on warmth, on breath instead

Perhaps we love life most when close to dead
The act of waking up demands no bill
Stock up on soup, tissues, and get to bed!
Focus on now, on warmth, on breath instead

The Rules

I know it sounds counter-intuitive, but I think there's something freeing about strict poetic forms.  I find that I'm better able to play with language, re-imagine syntax, and free up word order when I'm forced to fit a certain structure.  Plus, it seems like a challenging assignment to give my teacher-writer self.

RULES:

#1 Write a poem a week. Some are bound to be lousy, but hopefully quantity will lead to a line or two of quality.

#2 Each poem must deal with a quotidian topic.  I like the word quotidian.

#3 Each poem must follow a strict poetic form. We're talking Villanelles. Iambic pentameter. Sonnets. Also other structures that I may not have heard of yet but will most certainly be able to master in a week (wink wink)

#4 Poems are due before 12:00am on Sunday.

#5 If the poem stinks, I blame the form.  If the poem is brilliant, I take all the credit.