OctPoWriMo: Day 6 – Free Verse – October 6, 2016


a sunset in padua

a sunset in padua

The Old Couple

ripe in the silhouette of time
sprouts barbed thistle-down
inside their heart they face
the dark down-side of self

even as they speak of love,
(the cold rain of reason drizzles)
they shore up their autumn souls
against a reckless flood of passion

how far from romance here …
[read between the empty lines
of endless puerile competition]
lives the desire – to walk alone

© G.s.k. ‘15

Autumn Rain – Trimeric Poem – September 24, 2015

The couple

but now the rains begin to fall
soulful – autumn winds howl
mourning the passing of another summer
he laments his passing youth

soulful – autumn winds howl
the trees shudder in their anger
and bend before their might

mourning the passing of another summer
he sits in a pathetic funk
apparently sedate – apparently sedate

he laments his passing youth
he’s taken by a righteous rage
but nothing changes – except the leaves

© G.s.k. ‘15

i just discovered this lovely form this morning  (it’s called the Trimeric) on Two Paise Poetry … who learnt it from Darklight Harbor  and wanted to try it out immediately. The Trimeric was created by Dr. Charles A. Stone and here’s how it works:

a four stanza poem in which the first stanza has four lines and the last three stanzas have three lines each, with the first line of each repeating the respective line of the first stanza. The sequence of lines, then, is abcd, b – -, c – -, d – -.

I also used the words from Three Word Wednesday – pathetic, sedate and righteous.

3 Word Wednesday

3 Word Wednesday – Week No. 446

A late Whirligig – Wordleing – April 17, 2015

 photo 8e2aec42-c20f-47e1-aa74-0e200988c1f8_zpspfxveprd.jpg

Into the mirror
He vented about age
While brushing his hair
And washing his face.
Ah! How time seemed to ravish him
Tooth, nail and pate!
Then he looked at his weight,
And just shook his head …
So, he spooned up some syrup
To make a change in his fate –
An orange flavoured mixture
To stop the aging process
To leave a page maybe yet unturned
(At least for a while, or so he prayed)
Hoping to cement
At least, his hair on his head
And not dirty the sink
Each morning at dawn
And before he went to bed!
He wanted to stop
His aging prematurely
After all he was just barely ninety-one.

© G.s.k. ‘15

 This is a late entry for Sunday Whirligig 2 which comes out on Wednesday April 8 … I thought I had an e-mail that would advise me when the post came out, but I was mistaken … Many thanks to Magical Mystical Teacher for subbing for the Sunday Whirl!

Sunday's Whirligig logo

The Seasons – Sijo – March 29, 2015

See how this winter landscape melts the beauty of a soft autumn day.
Then look ever more carefully, the spring has stolen winter’s crown.
Would I were like the seasons and could follow my winter with spring.

© G.s.k. ‘15

This is my first Sijo, a Korean song-like poetry from introduced at BJ’s Shadorma & Beyond here follows the rules!

How to Write a Sijo

* There are three lines which average 14-16 syllables. The final count is 44-46 syllables;

* Line one introduces the theme;
* Line two elaborates on the theme;
* Line three introduces a counter-theme and concludes with a “twist”;

* Each line has a pause – or caesura – roughly in the middle (commas are great for this);
* Each half line is 6-9 syllables long;

* There is no end rhyme;
* There is no title;
* Western sijo are often printed in six lines, breaking lines at the pause.
…This is because a 16-syllable line is quite long – spilling beyond the space allotted to one printed line.

And this is Paloma’s example:

With peeling skin and open sores, this old school is a zombie – /
Dragging bare bones, seeking prey, creeping nightly in my brain. /
Who could have known I’d be devoured by memories & regrets? //

© Paloma

Here is another example, the oldest surviving sijo, by U T’ak (1262-1342):

The spring breeze melted snow on the hills then quickly disappeared. /
I wish I could borrow it briefly to blow over my hair /
And melt away the aging frost forming now about my ears. //

Five Sentence Fiction – Abandon – January 24, 2015

In the darkness of time, covered in cobwebs and dust, an old man sits inside an abandoned house.
Reflecting upon the years that had sped past him, wondering if it had been worthwhile, indeed he pondered, should he keep going on, his anxiety grew.
Visions of abandonment came to him, how often he’d felt alone, how often he’d left without a word;  now here he stood in an old abandoned house full of fear.
Awakening suddenly from his dusty dream, fear and anxiety made his heart pound painfully, his lips were dry and a tear trickled down his cheek.
Looking around him, he saw  bright sunshine stream into his room, making dust motes swirl like dervishes before his eyes – he rolled over and kissed his wife.
Lillie McFerrin Writes

Golden Books – Free Verse – October 10, 2014

Toblino Castle by GSK

Toblino Castle by GSK

In the spring of my existence
Glorious are the illustrations
Of my beloved Golden Books.
Laying here on a rug in October
I meet :
Inviting, a mysterious wise stranger,
Or maybe a horrible dark wicked witch,
Mud-streaked travellers through dank woods
And I gallop through the skies on a flying pony …
Day in and day out …
I while away the long seeming empty hours,
Alone but rarely lonely,
Inventing stories for these illustrations,
Since Mommy has no time to read to me.

Nursery rhymes and fairy tales
Are now my poetry and flash fiction
In this October of my waning years
I’m never lonely but accompanied
By the strangers that I meet each day
Who lead me to startling illuminations
From the mud-streaked reality of society
To startling encounters within my soul
This road may now be in decline,
No lofty mountains do I wish to climb …
Soon I’ll walk in winter cold
But for now …
This is the harvest of my days
Seeded in my early spring
From a Library of Golden Books.

(c) G.s.k. ’14


The Wordle:

Jules: illuminations
Hannah: October
Irene: stranger
Barbara: mud-streaked
Debi: library

The prompt:

“October is a transformative month.

It’s harvest season. It is said “to bend with apples”. Said of course, in eternal reference to Keats’s “Ode to Autumn”. It harkens toward winter, and that, my friends, is the great harbinger that engenders a great mellowing. An internal transformation that mere mortals are forced to undergo. If only we never grow up.


If you had to write a story, I want that story to include these elements:

1) passage of time – perhaps have the character speaking in childhood or youth in part one; and then speaking as an older person in part two.

2) an ending that has so little and so much to do with the earlier parts of your story. Digression becomes the core of the story.

3) yet it is an ending that lightens the load.”


Red Wolf Poems – We Wordle



Tattered Steps (For My Mother)- Free Verse – July 19, 2014


Stair prompt by Tess Kincade

I walked these stairs a million times
Since I was wed to my own man.
Our children came,  then left the nest,
Then their kids too came into the world.

Clothed in bright deep crimson runners
My feet felt the soft nap and weave.
I loved their beauty and their flare,
‘Twas proud to walk upon those steps.

They were always there, a part of us.
Something we never thought about …
Years added up and took their toll,
Like us they became tattered and old.

Now, my own man, he’s gone too
Taken from me a few years ago
Now its just me and these old stairs,
And our memories of a life well spent.

magpie tales statue stamp 185

A Poet Died – For Speakeasy


There is no warning rattle at the door
Emotions grow from seeds adrift
Inside the wind or on a cloud
Unannounced love is born.

There is no warning rattle at the door
One day a child becomes a woman
The years like a river flows
Unannounced childhood retreats.

There is no warning rattle at the door
Babies suddenly are full-grown
They leave the nest and form their own
Unannounced life moves on.

There is no warning rattle at the door
Grey hairs grow more than black
Little pains deny sleep at night

Unannounced old age comes.

There is no warning rattle at the door
The bell tolls in the city plaza
A poet died – people mourn
Unannounced the reaper comes.

Written for Speakeasy # 164

In memory of Maya Angelou, a poet.

Haibun: The Swings


The Swings

We bought the children’s swing set when they were respectively 4 and 2 years old.  It was a lovely spring day and laughing, we read the silly instructions twice before we were able to mount the frame and swings.  Mary Ellen loved flying into the air on her special seat, Michael felt he was quite the man, now that he could use “the big kids” swing. Continue reading