Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “poetic forms”

The Garden Green

The garden of my dreams is green on green,
every step alive with sighing shadow.
Each twig and leaf a real and sentient soul
whispering peace with every snap and bruise,
forgiveness in each drop of sap it bleeds
to heal my heart and send me out renewed.

Pondering the cost of my renewal
I wonder how I could have been so green
to worry those old wounds until they bled.
Mem’ries pool upon the floor like shadows
that in the morning light will leave a bruise,
a dark patch on the floor boards of my soul.

It must be such a tender thing,  this soul,
to be in constant need of renewal,
easy to hurt and all too quick to bruise,
to bloom in shades of yellow, mauve, and green
not unlike the garden, deeply shadowed,
the only place I can staunch the bleeding.

It’s dawn now in the garden, daylight bleeds
through leaf and bough and lands upon my soul
spreading warmth and dazzling the shadows.
I rise to face the world again, renewed.
and watch the rising sun lick the trees green,
purple night recedes like fading bruises

The coffee sings and hiccoughs as it brews,
dribbling stains like rings of ochre blood
across a tablecloth of white and green
sprinkled with daisies that some lonely soul
stitched upon it long ago renewing
faith that simple things can banish shadows.

I close my eyes and I see the shadows,
the green on green where every blooming bruise
becomes a flower in a world renewed,
where strength to carry on runs in the blood,
where one can always save a wounded soul
within the sacred garden, green on green.

There is no shadow so dark or bleeding,
so damaged, so bruised, that the tired soul
can’t find renewal in the garden green.

 

#338

Okay, I’m throwing it out there – who knows what form this poem is written in? The first one to answer correctly gets a copy of the book.

 

Song of the Tree

 

If
I
was
a
tree
I’d
hold out
my
branches in
the
wind that moves
the
clouds around and I’d
feel
it in my needles and cones and
let
it sift through my swaying limbs singing
all
the
way
to my roots and vibrating
the       earth      with     its     song
of life         of joy         of             the       music
of the              spheres            as               they          spin.  

 

#184

Alone I Live in the Dream of Tomorrows

     
A I dream love’s moonlit hero went for I
L a swim in the moon, forever rooted L
O onto waves of terror. Hemmed in I
N with a foredoom no mere rest V
E reforms. I woo the dormant E
  morrow adrift on moths  

 

An odd, self imposed torture and I believe, an original form, each line is an anagram of the one previous (first line is anagrammed from the title) with two letters removed. These removed letters form a type of acrostic, as they spell out the first three words in the title.

Since I think I just invented this poetic form, I’ll call it a Lindacs Poem, until someone bursts my inventive bubble and informs me otherwise!

 

#134

Poetic Forms and Hodags

I recently came across a challenge in the latest Writer’s Digest magazine to write a poem with ten lines, with each line having ten syllables; rhyme scheme optional. So I gave it a try and used an ab ba rhyme scheme with an aa scheme for the middle stanza. I happened to be looking out my bedroom window at the time and saw a hodag. A hodag, for the uninitiated, is when a stump or branch or any formation looks like something else, usually an animal. I don’t know how localized this word is. Possibly it’s a northern BC thing. Anyway, there I was looking at a branch stub that looked like a little cat and I started writing.

Hodags
The broken branch resembles a grey cat
Perched, waiting, twig tail twitching in the breeze.

“Hodags” he calls them. Lurking in the trees
And at the corner of your eyes. Leaf bat,

Bear stump, moss toad; visual delusions
Bark owl, shade wolf; optical illusions.

Hodags. He calls them when we go walking.
Turn again to leaf and moss, shade and bark.

To stump and branch, silent now, but after dark
Hodags wake, smell my scent, and go stalking.

 

Anagrams as Form Poems – Original Art or Personal Masochism?

Occasionally I will write an anagrammatic poem; one where each line is an anagram of the first one. It’s a strange little form that I believe I have invented because I certainly have never heard of anyone else subjecting themselves to this form of literary masochism. 
There are plenty of poetic forms out there that dictate rhyme schemes, meter, how many syllables per line, repeating lines etc… but so far I’ve never bumped into anyone doing the anagram poem.
Granted, the computer is a great boon to the anagrammer (no, I don’t use any ‘software’ to generate words! That’s cheating).
I come up with a first line, fairly long (more potential), and hopefully with a good variety of letters (‘e’ is the most commonly used letter in the English language – anyone who’s ever watched Jeopardy knows that!).  Then I copy and paste it below and reduce it to a list of letters. Example. “I never thought of myself as a masochist” would look like this:
aaa eee  ii ooo u c ff g hhh l mm n r ssss ttt v y
Then you start pulling the letters down and making words and creating, hopefully, intelligent lines that make some sort of sense on some plain of existence! Sometimes the original line doesn’t even make the final poem and although the result may not be earthshattering poetry, it uncovers some rich words and word combinations that you may want to use in another poem.

O Child, O Sing
I desire no long, soft moan; no witch charmed fever.
Romance carved words of this feeling in the moon.
She looms, dreaming forever, not confined. I watch
conditional freedoms grow, even from the chains
of failing memories, coveted crowns, and the horn
on the moon, sin scarred, formed of light. We cave in.
I have fed the incandescent mirrors of moon glow
I never dance far from the two omens. o child, o sing.

 

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