Petals of a flower open to capture the dew of a misty morning / sweet perfume lingers over pretty color dresses / enticing and enchanting drawn like the bee / I wander through a garden of open petals / need I choose one to pick to be mine
This is from a dVerse prompt: “Write a quadrille (a poem of EXACTLY 44 words, not including the title) AND include the word “petals” or a form of the word within the body of the poem. A synonym for petals does not fulfill the prompt. It must be the word, or a form of the word.” Hope you enjoy!
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The easy thing to do would be to use red. I’ve done it before. Hot and fiery. The color of blood, bleeding on the page. Red in its many hues pink as a blush or the dark burgundy of spilled wine.
But no. How about blue? Such a poet’s color. Blues beat down from the avenue, weaving their melancholy melody over the street. Looking down from the sky, reflections of an ocean on teardrops from the atmosphere. Blue bells, blue balls, blue suede shoes dancing to a slow song alone.
But no. None of those will do. I need something new.
So white. White sounds right. Ooops, that might not sound too right. Colored in controversy especially in today’s light. White is all the colors, tightly contained in a single line, a point on the spectrum, of the visible and invisible, light, matter and energy, wave, say hello, oh I see you, white light. Bright is white. The color of my flashlight on my phone, flash bulb, say hello to the selfie, oh but that ain’t white. Still bright though … right?
White is a winter’s day, with a polar bear, with the snow blowing, eyes closed so the black pupils can’t be seen, ruining our blank paper masterpiece. White is the beginning of every written story ever told. In the beginning was not the word but the blank page. Oh God does spoken word performances, didn’t you know? Only writes on stone tablets. In lists of ten. No wonder He only works six days of the week.
White is absence. Pigment gone, albino trace without the pink eyes. White lilies don't tan in the sun. Frosted tips of grass, but just the tip. The cause of the crunch under your feet. Bleached tissue, no longer brown, now suitable for wiping tears or blowing your nose.
White I might write as the color tonight. A flight of fancy, lightbulb bright. White no longer is my screen or my page as it seems; that white is no longer a beginning but the end after the period.
This is for a dVerse prompt: poetry with a colour motif:
take one or more literal colours (not a fancy colour name)
repeat the colour word(s) throughout the poem (e.g. refrain; anaphora, epistrophe)
use colour synonyms
employ colour with its specific meaning to the poem’s theme
let your colour motif(s) also become symbolic
I obviously chose white. I hope you enjoy the poem! 😊
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Claude Monet, The Studio Boat, 1876, Oil on canvas
Stiff lines and harsh brush strokes The impression of a summer’s day Green for trees upswept by the breeze Along the river blue and white Reflections in the water show bare branches Winter's chill beneath the surface Behind the green of a summer day
Alone on a boat Sits a man in a coat Hat on his head With doors open
Does he see the summer trees above Or the winter branches reflected below Or are his eyes instead focused inside Reflecting
This is a poem for the dVerse prompt: So, for my prompt today you have two options.
You may write an ekphrastic poem inspired by Claude Monet’s “The Studio Boat.” Your poem does not need to include anything about reflecting or reflections, but it can. AND/OR
You may write a poem on reflection, whatever that means to you—self-reflection, reflection on time’s passing, a reflection in a pool of water, etc.
NYC in 1983. Unnamed photographer. Not 5th and 51st.
New York City. 1983. The city that never sleeps, though she may spit on your lapel if you piss her off. The air was thick and humid in the summer, the yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes was either the pollution or a bum reliving himself, either way you woke up wanting to wash your mouth out before your morning coffee.
This was my city, my mistress. She sucked every ounce of strength from my bones and every cent from my wallet. One day she was gonna pay me back. Little did I know. I was going to get paid back, in spades.
The corner of 5th and 51st street, down the block some kids were breakdancing on a flat cardboard box, up the street some hustler was taking money from a tourist, on the corner, I was creating poetic lyrics.
This is for a dVerse prompt: To write a contribution you will have to incorporate the given line into a piece of prose of no longer than 144 words (including the given line but excluding the title). You may punctuate and divide the line as you want, but you cannot insert any words into the line. The line: ‘The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes’ from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Elliot.
Hope you enjoy!
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Two four Six Eight Let’s go! Celebrate! Party right! Gonna have fun all the night! Weekend!
Goodnight Time for sleeping Pull down the sheets slip in Resting now no longer awake Weekend
This was for a dVerse poetry prompt: to create a Cinquain poem. “It is a short poem based on syllable count and is a five-line poem with a syllable count of 2-4-6-8-2, but there are plenty of variations.” Hope you enjoy!
Setbacks? What are these? Just steps towards the future unseen Good or bad? Not for me to judge I just continue to step on the stone in front of me Life hands you lemons I thank her and move on No time to make lemonade or meringue a pie I’ll put them in my pocket perhaps to trade For a cup of sugar and water on a hot day Fallen and can’t get up I’ll crawl to my destination Or perhaps it’s time for a nap Just because I’ve fallen Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy where I’m at Life has you down? Then time to rise up! I’ll go under thank you But good luck Poor me, Unfortunately so But richer am I than the other fellow.
This is for a dVerse prompt: I would love to know how you deal with setbacks in life. Share with us in the form of a poem, of course, are you the kind to bounce back, do you curse and rant when things go wrong or do you wallow in self pity. As always you are free to interpret the prompt in any which way. I hope you enjoy!
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