Eleven forty-two
and I’m missing you
You said you’d be back between
eleven thirty and twelve o’clock
I hope you didn’t stop anywhere because it seems
The minutes are hours and I’m powerless
with longing. I guess this means
I love you, even though now it’s
eleven fifty-two
.
.
.
.
(Actually, he came through the door at 11:47, right on schedule. Poetic license!) 🙂
Snapshot
image of this place
image of these faces
image of our laughter
after time passes
memories encased in this
snapshot
She falls through time
he’s everywhere
assumes a crime.
She’s gone to where
her heart finds home;
leaving despair
he waits by stones
then moves along,
lost while she roams.
New life, new song
Heart home, the past
She learns she’s strong
her love slips from her grasp
tears her in agony
The question must be asked
Is it him, or is it me?
For this is destiny
A journey through time
to find her love sublime.
Today’s NaPoWriMo.net prompt is to write a terzanelle: a cross between a villanelle and a terza rima. I chose to write on Outlander, a little awkwardly! lol But I only have half an hour to spare for this, so don’t be too demanding. 😉 The rhyme scheme is
ABA
bCB
cDC
dED
eFE
fAFA or fFAA.
Of course ghosts are real
Haven’t you felt them
swirling about you
like leaves in the wind?
Memories that haunt
spinning through your head
with joys and sorrows
that have no place in
tomorrow.
I lean against stone
eyes closed
longing for what was
or what will be,
what was lost without
reason or rhyme.
I lean against stone
and in dreams,
see time.
.
.
.
An Outlander themed poem
Your photo
sends me back thirty years.
In your place,
I see your old man:
his suspicious eye
pot belly
and bald head.
He was nearly eighty
and always angry.
You hardly look younger
with your belly and baldness,
and you’re wearing
his discontent
like an inherited suit.
It’s ageing you more
than your years are.
I remember you: new
baby powder smell
tiny ears like velvet
cries like a lamb
and here is your
baby daughter
in my arms.
On this
summer day,
lost in you,
I see no end.
.
.
.
This poem is my 1500th post! 🙂
There are a few ways to read this one, each painting a slightly different picture.
I have lost her words
The narrative spun away
across the void of time.
I no longer hear her voice
echoing through my mind.
But here
a grocery list
a flash of history
Though mostly she is lost
to time and left
a mystery.
Today,
I’m picketing injustice
with my son’s guitar.
Time to learn
how to play.
A rainy picket day
may as well bring new skills,
since there’s no other pay.
Shawn L. Bird 