Not related to the poem below at all, but I liked the picture.
Stealthy.
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
Stealthy.
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.
Sorry.
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
Sorry.
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?
Analog or digital? I wonder, standing in the
Baking aisle at the supermarket.
Can’t cook without a timer.
Distractions happen.
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
Zzz’s.
-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
Scribbling Today 