She Had Been the Beauty of Song

Music, when soft voices die, vibrates in the memory.

~Percy Bysse Shelley

She will end like the fading of music,

a lovely note drawn to its silent conclusion when

her song, having reached crescendo, dies. Soft

lilting, beautiful in its sad demise, she joins voices

of angelic choirs, all endearing songs that would die.
Every sound resonates and vibrates

filling the air with the cacophony of death’s knell. In

the evening when all is silent and still, she sings the

song of her beauty to live in my memory.

©CE-2016

"Golden Shovel" poem taken from "Music, when soft voices die"a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley

 From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 30, 2016:

 

January 30

The Borrowing Poet

In his poem “The Golden Shovel” Terrance Hayes takes “We Real Cool” by Gwendolyn Brooks and repeats it twice. Each word of the original becomes an end word in the poet’s new poem.
Read down the right margin of “Golden Shovel,” and you get “We Real Cool.”
“We Real Cool” by Gwendolyn Brooks
“The Golden Shovel” by Terrance Hayes

I want you to do something similar.
Choose a poem that you like or admire. (You’ll have noted that the Brooks poem is relatively short. You can use a line, a couple of lines, a stanza, an entire poem.)
Remember that your poem doesn’t have to be (probably shouldn’t be) about the same subject as the source poem.

OPTIONS:
1) Use your chosen section as Terrance Hayes did, to create your own Golden Shovel.
word word word word word the
word word word word fog
word word word word word comes
word word word word word on
word word word word word word little
word word word word word cat
word word word word word word word feet
2) Easier, but not as cool–let your selection read down the left margin. Begin your lines with its words.
the word word word word word
fog word word word word word
comes word word word word word
on word word word word word
etc
3) Forget the shovel, and use your chosen section as your poem’s title, first line, or epigraph
Whatever you do, give us the names of the poet and poem, and a link to the original piece.

Hoarder's Lament

I have too much "stuff",
it has to go
to the dump...
to the Goodwill...
to the consignment...

Who am I kidding?

I've saved for too many
"rainy days",
"could come in handy somedays",
"you never know when you'll need..."

I don't need it.

And I bought an umbrella.
Actually I bought two.
And a raincoat...

Obsolescence has been saved
and could lead to my grave
if I'm not careful. Pulling out
my hair by the handful.

One man's junk can be another man's junk
if I play my cards right!
I battle the inclination to replace my "stuff"
with more "stuff"; sadly, my junk drawer
needs another drawer. It ends up
on the floor or other flat surface.

Shelves are everywhere if you can find them.
My mind says "Purge, Purge, PURGE!"
I fight the urge.

I have too much "stuff"


**

From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 29, 2016:

It’s Safer Than Arson

I’d bet that –unless you’ve recently experienced fire, flood or some other disaster, or moved into a much smaller home–you have too much STUFF. Fortunes are there to be made selling containers, containers, and systems of containers. Books instruct on how to organize and how to winnow out. If you haven’t used it in a year. If it doesn’t give you joy. If it doesn’t open you to wealth, health, success, or happiness.

Yep. Then come the magic words:

THROW IT OUT! (or sell it–to someone who’s as buried under goods as you are, but hasn’t had that moment of epiphany/despair)

Today, write about your stuff. Love it, hate it, try to fit it in the trash. If it’s taking too much space, turn it into words.

Added A Wordpress Presence...

I've gone the route of adding a Wordpress blog to precipitate commenting and appreciating the works of other writers and poets.

New Site: Word Chase in Cyberspace

Tag line: Boldly Go Where Your Words Flow!

Site URL: http://wordchaseblog.wordpress.com


While this will remain my main blog, feel free to see where my words boldly go over there too!

Say You're Sorry, Say Goodbye

I thought of her the other day,
and in a way
I missed her so.
Why did she go?

Could it have been her heart grew tired?
Uninspired?
She'd had enough
and she was off.

Her departure left me muddled,
on the shuttle
We departed
broken hearted.


***

Directed by "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 26, 2016

Three-Day Midweek

Have we done any forms lately? No matter. We’ll do one now.

Minute Poem

We’ve done this one before, but since then I’ve met up with a variation, so you get two for the price of one.
Here’s the version offered by Robert Lee Brewer:

Some forms have a long, exotic history. Some forms are relatively new, but have a well-known founder. Others just seem to spring out of nowhere. Such appears to be the case with our most recent poetic form: the minute poem.

The rules are rather simple:
3 quatrains (or 4-line stanzas)
8 syllables in the first line of each stanza
4 syllables in the remaining lines of each stanza
rhyme scheme: aabb/ccdd/eeff
written in strict iambic meter

So each stanza contains 20 syllables times 3 stanzas equals 60 syllables total. Since there are 60 seconds in a minute, I’m going to go out on a limb and proclaim that’s the origin of the name minute poem.

:::::

And the one from Jeff Hardin:

The form is three stanzas with each stanza using the following syllable count:

8
4
4
4

(That is, essentially the same, but NO need for rhyme, and no specific meter.)

I like the unrhymed Minute, myself, but the choice is yours.
OR
Hey, you’ve got three days. Go wild and do both.

Casablanca Revisited

So, of all the lousy gin joints

everything points

to that damn song!

It’s just so wrong

that she should leave. Play that song Sam,

and I will jam

your damn fingers!

The pain lingers

long. Paris has no appeal

and the real

sin would be this:

Kiss? Still a kiss!


**

Directed by "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 26, 2016

Three-Day Midweek

Have we done any forms lately? No matter. We’ll do one now.

Minute Poem

We’ve done this one before, but since then I’ve met up with a variation, so you get two for the price of one.
Here’s the version offered by Robert Lee Brewer:

Some forms have a long, exotic history. Some forms are relatively new, but have a well-known founder. Others just seem to spring out of nowhere. Such appears to be the case with our most recent poetic form: the minute poem.

The rules are rather simple:
3 quatrains (or 4-line stanzas)
8 syllables in the first line of each stanza
4 syllables in the remaining lines of each stanza
rhyme scheme: aabb/ccdd/eeff
written in strict iambic meter

So each stanza contains 20 syllables times 3 stanzas equals 60 syllables total. Since there are 60 seconds in a minute, I’m going to go out on a limb and proclaim that’s the origin of the name minute poem.

:::::

And the one from Jeff Hardin:

The form is three stanzas with each stanza using the following syllable count:

8
4
4
4

(That is, essentially the same, but NO need for rhyme, and no specific meter.)

I like the unrhymed Minute, myself, but the choice is yours.
OR
Hey, you’ve got three days. Go wild and do both.

To the Streams in Vessels

They came in vessels,
relatives of a culture
borne to travel under
pressure. Fluid & mobile,

beneath the banner
of orange or red
(or maybe red and white)
held in cells, complete &
whole, & of a type not seen.

Running hot & cold,
passing the test
without disease,
a pleasing work un-clotted

or spotted.

Take this to the bank
& you can count on this -
your survival does not rely
on donors or diamonds.
Your circulation will not be restricted.


**

Wriiten to "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 25, 2016:

Trees, Kings, Jump Rope Chants

 

Sorry I’m a bit late this morning (or afternoon).
Let’s try this.
Make a list of things that share some attribute. A list of white things, maybe. Or wooden things. Things that roll. Fragile things. You’ll come up with something, and it’ll be cool.
Pick two or three to build your piece with. It can be ABOUT something else entirely, if you like–with your list-y bits only there for decor or contrast, whatever.
BUT. HOWEVER. OH, YEAH:
Don’t (directly) mention the attribute your items have in common.

Remember

remember all doors are trap doors, and our fires
should be barely more than sticks. We must remember
remembering is always futuristic.
 *
 from “Post-Apocalyptic” by Stacia M. Fleegal

All doors are trap doors.

Some lead to destinations,

others to other trap doors.

A mind’s cavernous hollow

lets you follow where knowledge

and memory lead. Knowing bears

a confidence to pursue. Memory

plays in a constant loop

revisiting that which we have left

behind or forgotten. Yet, ignoring

the past becomes a destiny to repeat it;

a step forward from where recollection

is buried. Step away from the past,

remembering is always futuristic.

**

 As presented at "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 24, 2016

Questions and Answers

Miz Quickly may scoff, but deep within her thumpy heart she does believe in fortune tellers, seers, and oracles. She knows for a fact that if you hold your mouth right when you ask your question, Tarot and the Book of Changes have your answer.
Today we’re playing Fun With Oracles.

First (Do NOT skip this. Seriously. Don’t.)

Make a list of questions. Five, ten, twenty (but don’t go overboard–this IS only step One). What should you ask? That’s up to you. Do you really want to know the meaning of life? What happened to that earring? Should you buy a new car. What color to paint the kitchen? Was Sara Palin drunk?

Second

Choose one.

Third

(Optional) Write it out by hand, in big block letters

Fourth

Concentrate on your question. (Screw up your face and THINK.)

Fifth

Press the button below, and when you reach the destination, follow the directions.
Write down your answer.
Repeat as necessary.

Sixth

Use what you’ve found, or what you’ve learned–or what you haven’t found or learned–and write a poem.

*CLICK*

A Tale of Two Trees and Lands

Tall and thickly rooted,
an orchard amidst a garden.
The hardened immigrant toils
muddied soil his base,
and his face ruddy and worn.
He had been removed
from the home he knew trans-
planted between two trees
shading his vegetable patch.
An apple tree reaching,
arms raised in prayer for a fruit-
ful yield. Across the way
plums, purple and regal.
Leather hands holding a hoe,
a “Hokka” he says, chopping
and tilling clods of sod.
Plans for tomatoes, potatoes,
beets and cucumbers
and a number of other plants.
Bandanna flailing raised to brow
mopping the flop-sweat
under the noon day sun, baking.
A curse in his mother tongue,
chopping against bark to free
the mud held tightly. Releasing
his place of birth for home!

**

From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 23, 2016:

Borrowed Prompt

Borrowing a prompt from poet and teacher, Jeff Hardin.

I’ll give you the beginning. Follow the link to his website. (And look around while you’re visiting)

W.S. Merwin’s “Alba”

Jeff Hardin

Our minds are filled with fleeting glimpses of moments we have inhabited in our lives, moments that have remained, for whatever reason, a part of who we are.  W. S. Merwin’s poem “Alba” captures what appears to be a memory of coming “to a terrace wall” and being in that moment, eventually hearing a man praising a mule.  The poem simply brings to life this mysterious (and perhaps mystical) experience.  Read the poem below:

Alba

Climbing in the mist I came to a terrace wall
and saw above it a small field of broad beans in flower
their white fragrance was flowing through the first light
of morning there a little way up the mountain

Read the rest Here

Then come back and let us see where it has taken you.

Good Words, Cuss Words

With great knowledge
comes great responsibility.
From the cradle, we press our head
against life's grindstone,
for experience and the resulting flat spot
becomes a wonderful teacher.
Holy hell, who wants a round
pumpkin head anyway?
Keep stirring the primordial soup,
what you learn will help your cause!
Damn it!


**


As per "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 22, 2016:


Use one, two, three.. all? Create a poem or something.

A Man Enclosed (Revision)

men have no souls

dark and brooding creatures

cloaked in ugliness

hidden - not protected

unchanging and concrete

not comfortable in their skin

better to shed it or be dead

 

A Man Enclosed (Original)

Dark.
Brooding.
A creature of the night.
My cloak hides my ugliness,
it protects me from nothing.
No light will shine through.
But I function despite my flaws.
It is because I wish to stay
focused on earning this edifice,
no longer comfortable in this false facade.
I will shed this skin;
molting,
emerging,
a rebirth worth wearing.


**

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday

While Miz Q is loafing, flipping through the seed catalogs and dreaming beautiful gardens, you get the opportunity to

Revise

(Yes. You, too, missy.)
Take some time, and really look at what you’ve written.

Suggestion:

Revise a poem from earlier this month. (or last month, or the month before. one that has had a chance to cool and get a little dust on it)

Treat it like a stranger

Write it out as if it were prose, but with no caps or punctuation. Just a long string of words.

Don’t read it, look at it. Look for repeated words (that you didn’t intend). Is it article-heavy, piled with prepositions and/or conjunctions?

Look at the individual words. Are there any massy concept bags that sound pretty but don’t mean anything? What can you cut? What can you replace with a fresher word or a word that fits better or one that improves the sound?

Try different line lengths. Go against your habit. Play around with several arbitrary lengths before you look at end words and enjambments. When you get to the breaks, make certain those work for you.

Do the same with stanza breaks. Try imposing couplets, three-line stanzas, quatrains.
If you get tired, or bored before you put the poem back together, make an appointment with it. Set it to show up on your calendar in three or so weeks. Finish it then.

Go eat a cookie. Tell us how good the cookie was.

I Have a Cookie

I have a cookie.
It is chocolate chip.
I wish it weren’t.
I’d rather it a mudpie,
or tree bark.
Oatmeal raisin does me.
I have a cookie.
It’s not one of those.


**

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday

While Miz Q is loafing, flipping through the seed catalogs and dreaming beautiful gardens, you get the opportunity to

Revise

(Yes. You, too, missy.)
Take some time, and really look at what you’ve written.

Suggestion:
Revise a poem from earlier this month. (or last month, or the month before. one that has had a chance to cool and get a little dust on it)

Treat it like a stranger

Write it out as if it were prose, but with no caps or punctuation. Just a long string of words.

Don’t read it, look at it. Look for repeated words (that you didn’t intend). Is it article-heavy, piled with prepositions and/or conjunctions?

Look at the individual words. Are there any massy concept bags that sound pretty but don’t mean anything?

What can you cut? What can you replace with a fresher word or a word that fits better or one that improves the sound?

Try different line lengths. Go against your habit. Play around with several arbitrary lengths before you look at end words and enjambments. When you get to the breaks, make certain those work for you.
Do the same with stanza breaks. Try imposing couplets, three-line stanzas, quatrains.

If you get tired, or bored before you put the poem back together, make an appointment with it. Set it to show up on your calendar in three or so weeks. Finish it then.

Go eat a cookie. Tell us how good the cookie was.

Dreams of Forgiveness

The bane of every man:

to correct every wrong he had

precipitated or has contributed to.

Visions of a bigger picture go asunder

thinking he could placate the many

by only considering the few.

Or the one; himself.

But in the long run, reality beats him

into a sad submission. The error of his way

comes to the fore and he begs

for an acceptance, hoping forgiveness

is included with it. But he'll settle

that they know he is truly sorry.

And he prays that it will promote the healing.

He dreams to soothe that which he harmed,

and mend the content of his character.

**

From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 18, 2016:

I Have a Dream

This day (in the U.S.) is dedicated to the memory of Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr.

“Modern man, through his scientific genius, has been able to dwarf distance and put time in chains,” King said at the podium that day. “Yes, we’ve been able to carve highways through the stratosphere, and our jet planes have compressed into minutes distances that once took weeks and months. And so this is a small world from a geographical point of view. What we are facing today is the fact that through our scientific and technological genius we’ve made of this world a neighborhood. And now through our moral and ethical commitment we must make of it a brotherhood. We must all learn to live together as brothers – or we will all perish together as fools.”

Write about your dream of a better world. Not, though, about the large and important things–peace, honor, understanding.
Think. Dreams are made of detail.
And seldom tell us what they’re really about.
Dream a good world.

Owed to Joy

Euphoria abounds,
can exuberance be far behind?
Hearts swell with pleasure,
a prize of destiny's whim.
A gift unexpectedly given,
forming bubbles that rise
like pockets of gas to explode
into the atmosphere happily.
You attribute pleasure to your
being open to accept it.
The strange dance you perform
is a by-product of your gaseous state.
What isn't owed to joy, gets hung on fate.


**


From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 17, 2016:

Rejoice

Write a joyful poem.

Escaping Joy

Distant hearts do not grow fond of distance,
and the ability to embrace that joy
seems to slip from your hands as if those charms
become like roadmarkers in your distorted sideview
mirrors. Trying to milk human kindness
from the swollen teat of reality gets harder
as the lactate begins to dry up.
Joy seems so overrated in that moment
of ill-decision. Removing yourself
does not render a solution, yet
you walk away anyway. Maybe someday
you will come to know joy and rejoice,
even if it doesn't smack you in the head.


**

From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 17, 2016:

Rejoice

Write a joyful poem.

Free as the Breeze

V97.33XD   Sucked into jet engine, subsequent encounter.

I've never felt so free.
A great wide world awaits
and my wish was to leave
a little piece of me everywhere
i could. But I guess standing
that close to the front of a DC-10
was not the distribution
I had in mind. So I ask of you,
if you come across a part of me
in your travels, smile and
please just leave me be,
but speak of me kindly!

**


From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 16, 2016

Life Ain’t Healthy

ICD-10 is the 10th revision of the International Statistical Classification of Diseases and Related Health Problems (ICD), a medical classification list by the World Health Organization (WHO). It contains codes for diseases, signs and symptoms, abnormal findings, complaints, social circumstances, and external causes of injury or diseases.[1]

The code set allows more than 14,400 different codes[2] and permits the tracking of many new diagnoses. The codes can be expanded to over 16,000 codes by using optional sub-classifications.[3] The detail reported by ICD can be further increased, with a simplified multi-axial approach, by using codes meant to be reported in a separate data field. (Wikipedia)

V97.33XDSucked into jet engine, subsequent encounter.

X52

My rocket propels me;
speed of light excursions
into the darkness of deep space.
It is silent, serene and no one
can hear me scream.
My days blur into each other
and it effects my equilibrium.
A floating trash compactor
in the expanse of nothingness.
Major Tom has gone home,
and ground control has shut down
leaving me the clown staying
weightless in a prolonged environment!


**


From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 16, 2016:

Life Ain’t Healthy

ICD-10 is the 10th revision of the International Statistical Classification of Diseases and Related Health Problems (ICD), a medical classification list by the World Health Organization (WHO). It contains codes for diseases, signs and symptoms, abnormal findings, complaints, social circumstances, and external causes of injury or diseases.[1]

The code set allows more than 14,400 different codes[2] and permits the tracking of many new diagnoses. The codes can be expanded to over 16,000 codes by using optional sub-classifications.[3] The detail reported by ICD can be further increased, with a simplified multi-axial approach, by using codes meant to be reported in a separate data field. (Wikipedia)

Here are a few examples, gathered from around the internet. I’m certain there’s a poem or two in there somewhere.

ENJOY!

V91.07
Burn due to water skis on fire.

V94.810
Civilian watercraft involved in water transport accident with military watercraft

V97.33
Sucked into jet engine

V97.33XD
Sucked into jet engine, subsequent encounter.

X52
Prolonged stay in weightless environment

V95.40
Unspecified spacecraft accident injuring occupant

V00.01XD
Pedestrian on foot injured in collision with roller-skater, subsequent encounter.

Y93.D
Activities involved arts and handcrafts.

W220.2XD
Walked into lamppost, subsequent encounter

R46.1
Bizarre personal appearance.

A Minor Deformity

On one fine summer day,
a rousing crowd of men -
the very best that you will find in town
(in all the country round)
anything they say is simply... nothing.
Mixing up stuff in bottles
and pills, they'll make you sick enough
to have many aches and pains,
neglected for want of faith in leisure,
a belly-ache may get your final measure;
render you unfit. Heathen, Christian,
Mormon or Jew playing in life's circuses
and challenging devotions.
That would be a sin
at least if what some say be true.
Not all are saints, however hard they try.


Another Found Poem.


**

From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 15, 2016:

Let Your Conscience Be Your Guide

I’m not certain what to ask you to do with these.
But I found them in Flickr Commons, from the SMU Central University Libraries, and just can’t NOT use them. Somehow.

You should be able to click each one a time or two, and enlarge to a readable size.

You Will Die in a Raucous To-Do

In times of peace,
it pays to find
your common sense.
Don't forget:
as gospel writ
you may search anywhere.
Since your birth
as fine as things taste,
positively none can cope.
Ladies, lovely and healthy
and sweet - delight,
left to lay down,
powder rouge and other stuff
for ladies lift your thoughts
to the skies. Sublime in the air,
constant bright visions and castles.
Scorned she is sometimes, you know.
And though not least on your mind,
don't put it off for Death's cold clutch.
He'd be left to disgrace and to lay
down and die in the shade.
Tetotatiously expunctified!


A found poem.
***


From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 15, 2016:

Let Your Conscience Be Your Guide

I’m not certain what to ask you to do with these.
But I found them in Flickr Commons, from the SMU Central University Libraries, and just can’t NOT use them. Somehow.

You should be able to click each one a time or two, and enlarge to a readable size.


 
 

A Man Enclosed

Dark.
Brooding.
A creature of the night.
My cloak hides my ugliness,
it protects me from nothing.
No light will shine through.
But I function despite my flaws.
It is because I wish to stay
focused on earning this edifice,
no longer comfortable in this false facade.
I will shed this skin;
molting,
emerging,
a rebirth worth wearing

***

From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 12, 2016

An almost free day. A seam-easement, too. A couple of days of wiggle room. Catch up on the prompts you haven’t had time for, revisit one that didn’t work for you and look at it from a different angle or in a different mood. Combine a couple. Or just kick back.

Here’s this week’s rerun prompt. It may even be a rerun-rerun. Use it or ignore it. Fresh prompt on Friday.

Wear your spirit totem.

A costume. A manifestation of your inner self.
Your self, hidden. Your self, exposed.

What do you look like? Are you an abstract, a Calder? Are you indistinguishable from the rest of the herd or pod? Maybe talk about that. Maybe what you sound like when you move. How does it feel to be yourself writ large, and writ selectively?  Do you have background music?
What’s inside you? Talk about yourself in spirit drag.

We’ve seen these before, Nick Cave’s soundsuits. (Because I like them) But they’re just to give you some scale, some idea of motion and weird beauty. Think, also, of the Mummers Parade and the Mardi Gras Chiefs.

On the Thin Ice of a New Day

He felt it,
going around in circles
and never seeing an end to it.

Every new sunrise
offered little in the way of surprise.
Mundane. Ordinary. A fear held deeply

settling into a mind
left muddled. Choices and decisions
made more difficult by the unknowns presented.

He steps out
cautiously treading; steel runners
on a suspect and slippery surface.

Around and around,
the noise of blades cutting,
wearing thin the depth once sound.

Praying for it to break
free to devour him and surround him.
Never seeing an end to it.

Around and around
on the thin ice of a new day!
 

***

From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 11, 2016

You get no extra points for using everything, but anything here is fair game.
READY?

…GO!

Baby in Despair

It was essential that she’d watch the video clip.

It was she as a child going down the green slide.

She had her father’s ear and his kind voice soothed her.

She was not afraid; he was always there to catch her.

She only wished he were there now when she needed him most.

***

From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 11, 2016:

You get no extra points for using everything, but anything here is fair game.
READY?

…GO!

essential watch clip slide
green ear kind knife
couple clip slide peek

Telegram to Tomorrow

***

From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 10, 2016

Write a poem in the form of a letter or postcard.

(Or letter in the form of a poem)

Full of Hops

Malted and brewed
Golden hued
Bubbly and frothy
Bottled and canned
In high demand
Ales and pilsners
Pints, quarts or kegs
They’re all here,
the champagne of bottled
Beer.

***

From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 9, 2016:

This is a love-it or hate-it situation.
I don’t know what this form/technique is called.
And I’m fuzzy on the details.
But I think it will work for you.

I want you to define something by listing its attributes.
( Yes. I know.) Let’s see if I can tell you what I’m looking for. If I can’t get it right, and leave you scratching your head [ “what was that about?” ] just do your best. Write a list.
This is a little bit like the Blazon form, where the lady is described (usually in an outlandish manner) by describing her parts. ( Her eyes are suns, her lips are pouting roses, her fingertips are kitten taps, and so on, ad nauseum)

But that’s inflated and false–I want you to tell some truths in your poem, even if they aren’t entirely factual.
Quick example:
a ball is round
a ball is a spherical toy
with baby slobber
or dog slobber
or both
a ball is red
a ball is green
a ball is covered with horsehide,
is thrown, is kicked, is smashed with a racket
a ball is autographed, sold for thousands
a ball is left in the grass, in the pool, in the rain

etc

What you define doesn’t have to be a thing. You might do
a good time
OR friendship, OR misery, OR
the view from my front porch swing (though that might lead you into some long lines)
Have a go at a list-y definition poem!

Exuberant Elation

Joy, joy, happy
       happy, joy. Given
to expressive extremes. Life's prize,

eyes full of wonder
     for reasons unknown
          but striking like thunder

rolling on end-
less
loops of lightning
enhanced rumbles.

Elation t
        u
          m
             b
                l
                  e
                     s

and exuberance
                           c
         a    
d                                   e
                  n
                                                 s,

a dance that leaps and bounces
          lifting every ounce of your heart with joy!

***

From "POETS UNITED" - Jan. 6, 2016

Midweek Motif  ~  Joy

Wikipedia describes "joy" as "happiness" and says that: 

Happiness is a mental or emotional state of well-being defined by positive or pleasant emotions ranging from contentment to intense joy.^[1]

That definition works for me.  Then the description continues:

A variety of biological, psychological, religious and philosophical approaches have striven to define happiness and identify its sources. Various research groups, including positive psychology, are employing the scientific method to research questions about what "happiness" is, and how it might be attained.

How about that!?  

Your challenge in today's new poem is to give us an experience of joy.  Or you can "strive to define ... and identify its sources" poetically

Someone Down There Knows Me

Someone up there likes me,
someone down there knows me.

I'm just not sure how I feel
     having to choose -
          to be liked... to be known?

To be shown the difference
in deference to myself,
the reflection of a million mirrors.

It is on this plain that I am divided,
      someone down there knows me.

They're just not sure how they feel!


***

From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 5, 6, 7, 2016

For today, we’re going to re-run the title prompt.

Make up some titles. Spend a while—ten minutes minimum, but as long as feels good—writing nothing but titles. Play free association. Turn off your censor. Title, title, title. Don’t worry about the follow through. Of course, if you’re lucky you’ll find some titles you’d like to read the poems to. Doesn’t matter, really. Simple titles, long titles, titles that are stupid, or beautiful or tiny poems in themselves—have fun.

Post your ten favorites.

Just titles.

If you get inspired, and write a poem—hold on to it. Delay that gratification.  

Feeling Tentitled

1. Bastard Sons of the Bastille
2. Racer's Edge
3. Someone Down There Knows Me
4. I Have One, Only Bigger
5. Caustic and Witty
6. Show Your Hand
7. Gentle Tears Leave Harsh Trails
8. A Child's Smile
9. Weather or Not
10. Reflections of a Million Mirrors

***

From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums": - Jan. 5, 2016

An almost free day. A seam-easement, too. A couple of days of wiggle room. Catch up on the prompts you haven’t had time for, revisit one that didn’t work for you and look at it from a different angle or in a different mood. Combine a couple. Or just kick back.

For today, we’re going to re-run the title prompt.

Make up some titles. Spend a while—ten minutes minimum, but as long as feels good—writing nothing but titles. Play free association. Turn off your censor. Title, title, title. Don’t worry about the follow through. Of course, if you’re lucky you’ll find some titles you’d like to read the poems to. Doesn’t matter, really. Simple titles, long titles, titles that are stupid, or beautiful or tiny poems in themselves—have fun.

Post your ten favorites.

Just titles.

If you get inspired, and write a poem—hold on to it. Delay that gratification.

Eyes Averted

Fully exposed.
Beauty to behold
if eyes stay focused.

     Round.
          Firm.
               Lust
rous.

Iridescent caress.

                    Pearls surely do stand out

despite their surroundings.


***

From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 4, 2016:

Responding to Art

Ekphrasis: “Description” in Greek.     An ekphrastic poem is a vivid description of a scene or, more commonly, a work of art. Through the imaginative act of narrating and reflecting on the “action” of a painting or sculpture, the poet may amplify and expand its meaning.

::::

There’s more on the subject here:     “Notes on Ekphrasis” Poets.org

::::

I use the term a lot more loosely.  As in–any artistic response to a work of art. If the Grecian Urn reminds you–suddenly–of Aunt Marie’s knick knack shelf, and you write about your six-year-old self looking up at all the magic:  that works for me.

Poem Starting With a Line by Rod McKuen

thank you
for kissing me in the elevator last night.

two strangers passing as ships
      different floors...
               different mores...

over your shoulder
reaching to press

         your scent: fragrant

lips vagrantly brushing
        eyes searching
                cheeks flushing/blushing

lips meeting fully
      no greeting exchanged.

i didn't even catch your name!



- Line taken from Rod McKuen's poem, "Another Thank You"


***

From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 3,  2016:

“Poem Starting with a Line by _______” is your title.

POEM STARTING WITH A LINE BY ______

Look around. Read some New-to-You poetry. I usually begin with the Poets.org poem-a-day and follow the links for further reading, or the Poetry Foundation site. It doesn’t matter how you browse, though. Just look for a line that captures your imagination (and holds its own as a unit of syntax)

That is your first line*. 

It sets the tone for your poem. You may want to go farther–if you want a little more challenge–and let the length of the line, and possibly its meter, be your template. 

Just have fun. Let it take you somewhere you wouldn’t go on your own.

(*be sure to cite the source at some point)

The Pipes Are Calling

This old house is a battle.
The plumbing
              rattles & hammers,
stammers & bangs.
                             Water flow is diminished
to a trickle. The finger of fate
          is in your face & wagging.
Ceiling sagging & stained.
A leak is apparent; the pipes
are drained!
Decrepit pipes are stalling.
           Call the plumber before they
f
      a
            l
                  l.


***

From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 2 2016

Write a poem about plumbing.

Pickled In the Middle

Drinking to excess
is not considered a success
if you can still stand,
or still stand still.
The difference between
falling and staying erect,
is just failing at being erect.
In the middle you're suspended
until you're upended.
Then the drink's on you!

**

From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - Jan. 1, 2016

It’s New Years Day.  The rabbit is disoriented from all the holiday-ing, and needs to peek at the calendar, not for the date but for the day of the week.  It’s Friday.

dum ti dum, dum, dum

We watched three “Thin Man” movies last night, to see the new year in with someone else’s drinking.

Write a poem about drinking.

A Toast For the Times

Here’s to you and your troubles.
Here’s to you and your joy.
My glass is raised in salute, a tribute.
Here’s to you and yours!



**




From "Quickly's Winter Doldrums" - January 1, 2016

It’s New Years Day.  The rabbit is disoriented from all the holiday-ing, and needs to peek at the calendar, not for the date but for the day of the week.  It’s Friday.

dum ti dum, dum, dum

We watched three “Thin Man” movies last night, to see the new year in with someone else’s drinking.

Write a toast.

Looking for a place to land.

And so, I'm looking to break out of my safe place and spread my wings. Icarus with a penchant for verse. I'm sure taking off won't be a problem. Soaring seems easy enough. But, where to land? In my search for such a place, one of my criteria is that it has to be somewhat different and like myself, a touch odd.

I've come across a quirky joint named "Quickly's Winter Doldrums". An intimate and unassuming little poetry hovel run by a Miz Quickly (?) Not sure what kind of title/label that is, but it has its appeal. I think I will steal away there for a stretch and see what comes of it. Hopefully, it will ignite something inside me. Now to set off on this chase.

I like to write.

I have this fascination with words. I find passion in their expression, so I like to write.

I haven't pursued it seriously until recently, so it will take me a bit of time to find where my words fit in. But I will surely try to make them worth reading.

I am Charles Ephraim. My friends call me Chas E, or Chase to be more succinct. So, this is my word chase of sorts, and why I call my blog exactly that. Here I will post my thoughts, poems, stories, ramblings and anything else of interest that lives and breathes in my words. I hope you undertake this chase with me.

Let the chase commence!