Posted tagged ‘Mourning dove poem’

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A Time (Not-Paradelled)

August 3, 2014

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A Time (Not-Paradelled)

Mourning doves marked time in those hours of rose.
Mourning, dove-marked, timed those hours in rows.
We listened as land listens to echoes, carefully.
(we listened as land listens to echoes carefully.)
Mourning time, we listened as echoes;
land listed, doves rose.

What else were we to do
with those carefully marked hours–

 

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Here’s a sort of poem that’s not quite right for two challenges–With Real Toad’s 55 prompt by Fireblossom/Shay. (The piece IS 55 words–) And part of a sort-of Paradelle for Brian Miller’s prompt on dVerse Poets Pub.  This is a form made up as a kind of joke by Billy Collins–so a modification seems fine to me.  (I think the full form would work better in a humorous poem.) 

For some reason my picture got cut. Agh! All rights reserved as always.

Also I’ve edited the poem since posting a couple of times–Thanks!  k.  

Categories: poetry
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Comments: 20 Comments

Just Hiding

March 18, 2014

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Just Hiding

Sometimes, I could just hide
in some lined wood,
my fingertips fitting bark prints
as if I were
all fingertip,
a chosen trunk my belly’s back
as if I were only spine,
flattening myself against growth’s bounds
as if vertical were how I always laid me down,
as if hiding turned me into treasure one might seek,
asking, like the mourning dove, who I was–
though you already know that
through and through,
and, like the mourning dove,
ask only because the call sounds
of water,
like a swallow of water,
like the soft swoop/rise of water,
and trees need
water.

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Here’s a poem of sorts not written for any prompt! Though I will link, belatedly, to With Real toads Open Link Night. The picture is an old one, and doesn’t really go with the poem (as I meant to describe someone hiding behind a tree, not in one.) (I like the picture though!)

P.S. I’m so sorry I’ve been slow to return comments. I’ve been away from home close to two weeks and I’m a bit off-schedule. (And I think I may have posted this poem inadvertently when going to sleep!)

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 13 Comments

Sometimes (Unsweetened) – Englyn unodi union

October 11, 2012

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Sometimes (Unsweetened)

I sometimes understand that we’ll all die,
without last try-again.
No refill of siphoned sand,
do-over (do what we can).

And that I too, and all I love, will die.
And my cry does not call
like the mourning dove, a fall/
rise, but has no interval.

—an Englyn unodi union

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Here’s my attempt at an Englyn unodi union (whatever that is!), a Welsh form, for dVerse Poets Pub. Form for All.  For more info, check out the wonderful article by Sue Judd and Gay Reiser Cannon at dVerse.  All I can say is that it’s a syllabic form with a slightly odd rhyme scheme that probably works better in Welsh or in someone else’s hands. 

But since my two-stanza version has (with the title and little identifying material at the end, exactly 55 words, please also tell it to the G-Man.)

P.S. The photo is of the old Domino Sugar Factory in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.  

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“Here Sounds The City” (A Fleurette? Maybe. Agh!)

May 7, 2012

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Here Sounds in City

Here sounds in city; hard to tell
each source, as if a starting bell
triggered buck-shot reverberation,
a clanging-to sensation from a scattered knell–

Neighbor?  Or a siren blocks away?
A din downstairs? Or, in ceiling’s sway?
But some tones sound inside the heart–
we hear those with a grasping start; they break our day,

not just with decibellic pierce
(though tuned at times to volume fierce):
a neon cry, you bitch, a crack
of sob; a dog’s strained bark, its back fur raised in tiers;

the loud and hipster’s swank and file;
the dumpster 3 A.M.–the pile
of what we were last week acrashing–
and (at it again) the smashing of coupled bile.

But the sound I’m trying to get
at–that gets to me–that, when met,
uplifts me to a golden mean
(present perhaps in every scene though I don’t let

myself much feel such measured calm)–
is that softly intervaled psalm
of a somehow-urban mourning dove–
a healing pulse that sounds in love though every balm

seems petrified where blocked cement
must be pushed by.  Yet, the call’s ascent
makes all that forces its stubborn way
through brick—weeds, worry, will—say ah, nest the moment.

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This is my attempt at a Fleurette – a rather odd form – AABA (with a extra long fourth line that internally rhymes with B – the third line.)  I wrote it as part of a challenge posted by the poetry blog With Real Toads.

The mourning dove is that wonderful bird whose call lilts so wistfully and that can, amazingly, be sometimes heard even here in New York City.

Categories: New York City, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 22 Comments