Here is a quadrille on rock. Not the kind covered by rolling stone, but rather geologists. There’s forty four words, but how many stones?
Each grain of night
Sailor hands felt spar
Nomads in gypsy wagons
Flint, steel: fire fathers
Branded, castrated: marred bull
Met a more ficund
Elementary ingenious stoned sleuth
Drinking quarts, chasing quarry
As cats interrupt mice
can your ockhams razor
Find all the stones?
A little game for the ‘rock’ quadrille prompt over at http://dVersepoets.com. Hope you enjoy.
A hole in the wall, filled with a board
On a hinge, with a knob.
Like that heavy thing on the
Nozzle of the pressure cooker lid,
The bleeder on the furnace oil pump,
Or Framed floating panels on furniture
Or front doors. Green ground wire.
Cadmium control rods. Pot lids.
Box tops. Deconstructionist navels.
The fulcrum of everything we make
Pivots on the part that breaks it.
The container must be opened.
The moat must be drawbridged.
The wall must be breached.
The meaning explodes into being
By the undoing, the release point.
There are as many words for this
As there are made-things, the
Meaning of life, is found in death.
Paper words, so thin
Fearing a third dimension,
Skimming the mind layer
In the OSI model of me.
Undeepened, without the heart in
-volved, unevolved. Immature.
Do I deepen? Bring in verbs
To do, or to be, or to love?
Love is the wave lapping at the shore.
Some days it’s effect on the land is subtle,
Only near the edge, pushing some sand around
Playing with patterns in tidal pools perhaps.
Some days it is ferocious and terrible,
Tearing inlets through barrier islands,
Wrecking boats and smashing buildings,
Filling floors with sand.
Love is the wave, lapping at the heart shaped shore
With the rough tongue of a cat.
And just when this begins to make sense
(At least to folks on the coast)
The rains come to Iowa.
Unprompted, like the rain, this poem is a gift. Thank you.
Pots and bowls on
Cooks and scientists
Hot rod enthusiasts
Books by separatists
Hot dog eating contests
Worlds within the world appear
All, by some, are held dear
Find your must
In every sound.
Niggling or dumb
Draw your line
Wiggly or plumb
In the shifting fine
Sand of time
Just stay open
To unseen sign
What lurid espionage is this?
What dilettante whispers obscure incantations
solicited from a witches drop box?
Who has the gall to, with suede gloves, no less,
unlock the glistening bounty of calyxes
with a boxcutter?
From the prompt at MindLoveMisery Menagerie
Meaty or showers?
Dirty or hungry?
Dirt is more palatable than hunger
Hunger more terrible, but clean.
The filth of this world is all that stands
Between us and godliness
And soiled as we are by eating
The heavens remain at bay
And signal sly reminders streaking
Unseen by city eyes
But felt in every heart.
Fun with the prompt at Http://PoetryBlogRoll.blogspot.com