Between Forever and Never (Rictameter Poem)
An apology crafts a key –
A way to unlock the rusted guard gates
Of the zombie cemetary
Where undead pain begs for
Words to soothe the
H. Bullough 05-24-2017
Sweet! It’s a little love note!
Epoxy Holds the World Together
Early, during the denial of dawn,
Dreams overlap my day’s to-do list
And I remember you.
I think of the projects ahead and
Wish I could ask,
How would you?
I can learn from
But you were
My favorite teacher –
My how-to manual:
How to make and fly a kite.
How to ice skate on a pond.
How to fish.
How to fix broken things.
How to make old things new.
How to build a world with words,
And hold it together with epoxy.
Your lessons epoxied us.
Now you are gone.
In the pre-dawn, I wonder
What are your current projects?
Are you building
Whatever it is, I know there will be epoxy.
-H. Bullough 05-16-2017
H. Bullough 2016
There are many nights as a mother when you need sleep so badly but your baby just won’t let you put her down. At times like this, every thought becomes a desperate plea. “Please, Baby, go to sleep.”
If you sleep, Baby
Go to sleep, Baby
Then Mama can go to sleep, too.
You’re awake, Baby,
What’s it take, Baby?
You need to have some dream-time, too.
We will play, Baby
While we pray, Baby
That you will rest in slumber, too.
Quiet sighs, Baby
Close your eyes, Baby
So Mama can close her eyes, too.
So now sleep, Baby
Go to sleep, Baby
So Mama can go to sleep, too.
– H. Bullough 5-2-2017
From a poetry prompt to write a poem like a lullaby.
Not related to the poem below at all, but I liked the picture.
My UPS Driver Works for the CIA – Rictameter Verse
He grabs the box –
Carries it to the door –
Stashes it where no one will see –
Runs to the waiting van and speeds away.
The dog stayed silent – No one saw.
She came – the dog bellowed.
Heeled shoes are not
H. Bullough 4-21-2017
Rictameter Verse: Nine lines in the poem, and a strict syllable count —
2 syllables in the first line, then 4 syllables in the next, then 6, then 8, then 10,
then 8, then 6, then 4, then 2 in the last, with the first line repeating itself in the last line.
Please Understand, I’m Writing
I want to say –
I can’t answer my phone
While I’m at work. It’s destructive.
Disorienting. I get yanked away –
Time and space shatter and I’m lost –
Will I find my way back?
Tell the prince, I’m
H. Bullough 4-21-2017
An abecedarian poem. This kind of poem starts each line with the next letter of the alphabet, in order. Why? Because I saw one on someone else’s blog and just had to try it. Besides, I always wanted an excuse to actually use that word. Did anybody else ever read the Children of the Lamp series, by P.B. Kerr?
Daydreams of Perfection
Analog or digital? I wonder, standing in the
Baking aisle at the supermarket.
Can’t cook without a timer.
Everything else gets
Forgotten. Burn the house to the
Ground if I’m not careful. A timer gives a measure of
Hope that all is not charcoal.
I may never be gourmet, but
Just once, I’d like my cookies
Kind to the teeth. Not
Like hockey pucks or something that begs for
Milk to help choke it down.
Nobody wants cookies like that. For
Once, I’d like them to be
Perfect. The kind you wake up in the
Quiet of night, mouth watering, unable to
Resist the temptation to
Sneak down the dark hall barefoot on cold
Tile floors, braving the Legos you
Unwisely thought could wait till morning to clean up. I have
Visions of pain and
Writhing on the floor because of a
Xyphoid piece of plastic. Digital, I decide.
You need precision to make cookies worth risking pain and nighttime
-H. Bullough 4-20-2017
This Jealous Day ran off –
Stealing my muse for an intimate tete-a-tete.
Their betrayal hardened my heart and
Convinced me in deed,
There is nothing new under the sun.
Anything worth saying has long-since been said,
Even published on the internet.
Don’t believe it? Ask Google.
Until at sunset,
Clouded in a perfume of rain,
She gusted through the front entry
In a flurry of pages, and slammed the kitchen door.
She found me despairing over a white page,
Kissed my head in apology,
And combed cool fingers through my hair.
Though I know her contrition is short-lived,
Her sisterly attention reminded me –
The world overlooked the red maple leaves
Teeter-tottering in the rain –
Wet spatters against the window.
She revealed vivid red, yellow, and green
Painted over a backdrop of gray clouds.
Together, we listened to the far-off thunder,
Telling of a fearless adventurer
Seeking refuge in the mountains.
Even the cat cried out in sympathy –
But perhaps she was just hungry.
-H. Bullough 4-18-2017