writing

Poetry Form: The Jefferey’s Sonnet

This entry is one in a series I wrote for a previous writing challenge, for which I did “Poetry Forms.” I’m re-posting them here for archival purposes.


The Darner

Fluttering, like a bird in flight,
Her nimble hands moved, quick and slight.
Maneuvering hooks with subtle grace,
She conjured fractals out of silk,
Both dark as night and white as milk;
Created patterns out of lace,

Chased hidden shapes in balls of thread,
Sewed tapestries inside her head.
With those two hands, she wove a world,
To shield herself against the cold,
Safe and sound in the silken folds,
The warm embrace of knit and purl

Though just a girl, see how she shines
Without confines, as yarn unfurls.

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writing

Poetry Form: Imagist Poem

This entry is one in a series I wrote for a previous writing challenge, for which I did “Poetry Forms.” I’m re-posting them here for archival purposes.


Apple Picking

In one fluid movement, my husband
Twists and pulls;
A rose-gold globe the size of his fist.
He rubs it against his shirt, wipes away
The settled layer of dust, buffs
It to a vibrant sunset, red-and-yellow.
My son grabs with both hands, overeager;
Nails sinking greedy into tender flesh.
He crouches low beneath the trellised trees,
Glutting on the sweetness.

writing

Poetry Form: The Haibun

This entry is one in a series I wrote for a previous writing challenge, for which I did “Poetry Forms.” I’m re-posting them here for archival purposes.


After the rain, the silence hangs like mist in the air.  The smell of petrichor, of parched earth finally sated, of your strawberry shampoo as you shake out your head, laughing at how your mother will purse her lips, her mouth turning bitter, telling you how you’re too old to be doing this.  Already, our wet clothes too cold, clinging to our shivering limbs as we scrabble for patches of nascent sunlight, blossoming through a corona of clouds. Your arms alight with goosebumps, each translucent hair trembling, like shoots just emerging from the earth.

Wind shakes rain from trees
Droplets catching in your lashes
Like a spiderweb

writing

Poetry Form: The Ghazal

This entry is one in a series I wrote for a previous writing challenge, for which I did “Poetry Forms.” I’m re-posting them here for archival purposes.



After you’re washed, your mother dabs lavender oil on her hands;
She combs your hair, still glossy from the bath, with nimble hands.

She pulls the boar’s hair brush through your hair, smoothing as she goes.
Your unruly curls lay down in submission beneath her steady hands.

She spreads your sheets so smooth, like fondant on a wedding cake.
Bending to kiss you, she dimples your pillow beneath the heel of her hand.

(Once, when you were sick, you fell asleep tracing lines on her palms;
You know no maps so well as you know your mother’s hands.)

One day you’ll be too old for this, she says.  One day you’ll say, no more.
She smiles, balls fists in the fabric of your quilt to hide her trembling hands.

One night, your hair a mess, you close your door with her on the other side of it.
She waits until she thinks you are asleep before sobbing into her hands.

 

writing

Poetry Form: The Fibonacci

This entry is one in a series I wrote for a previous writing challenge, for which I did “Poetry Forms.” I’m re-posting them here for archival purposes.


I.  Kiss

Your
Lips
So sweet
Decadent
As ripe strawberries
Your tongue, no rarer fruit
Indulge me, let me gorge myself on your sinful mouth

 

II.  Self-Referential

These
Words
Become
Prosaic
This form, lacking grace
Math may be poetry, and yet
The more I add, the awkwardness seems to multiply

writing

Poetry Form: The Dizain

This entry is one in a series I wrote for a previous writing challenge, for which I did “Poetry Forms.” I’m re-posting them here for archival purposes.


My father’s fingers, tuberous and slow,
Still spent summer days knuckle deep in dirt
Tending garden: bed by bed, row by row.
I can still see the grass stains on his shirt,
Dirt rings on upturned cuffs.  It must have hurt
At his age, but if so he never said —
Just toiled on bended knee, and bowed his head,
And tended tender seedlings with such care,
That even I divined the truth unsaid:
His every sprouting seed an act of prayer.

writing

Poetry Form: The Bop

This entry is one in a series I wrote for a previous writing challenge, for which I did “Poetry Forms.” I’m re-posting them here for archival purposes.



Young, and drunk already on your youth,
You think maybe you’ll find religion at the bottom
Of a bottle: head thrown back, eyes to God,
You drink until every streetlight wears a halo,
Until every face, lit sinister in the club’s black lights,
Glows innocent and beatific.  

You don’t need Jesus, sweetheart,
You just need to find yourself.

Drunkeness forgives the broken glass,
Turns shards to stars, guttering neon signs
To heralding beacons.  Pressed against the brick
Facade, you part your lips the way angels
Spread their wings, magnificent and terrifying;
Your name an invocation on their tongues, whispered
Too close, too close, the dying echo of a last amen,
Lost on it’s way to God.

You don’t need Jesus, sweetheart,
You just need to find yourself.

Under back alley lighting, you are radiant;
The Blessed Virgin beneath her baldachin.
Tomorrow, you will wake beneath the canopy
Of your bed, still doubting; the pounding
in your temples the only reminder
Of where your halo sat too tight.

You don’t need Jesus, sweetheart,
You just need to find yourself.