Who are you?
Why are you leaving?
Where are you going?

I uttered these words during a seizure.
Imagining you puts my mind under pressure.
I quest for your identity like a hunt for treasure.
Am I haunted by a demon disguised as a seizure?

Seizure or not, I certainly spoke to you.
Begging you not to leave as if I knew you.
Still I ask: who are you?
Seized and captured by epilepsy, I couldn’t overtake you.

Overtake to see your face.
I woke up, you vanished without a trace.
In your next visit be bold and show your face.
A mysterious character within my seizures.

The next visit is unpredictable.
Seizures are inevitable.
Epileptic seizures, an obscure disability.
Like Epilepsy: will this mysterious image remain obscure?

A seizure lured me to a pond of muddles.
like a friend I pled against your departure.
Now I'm awake hence I plead for your departure.
Still I ask: who are you?.

https://www.facebook.com/EpilepsyandCpfriends/

The many anonymous writs
For this aeolian scanner to sample
Tease my truancy to reminisce
And forget the gamble.
Will the dream ember detonate
Or just perforate
If I found the one
I’ve been looking for since I left,
Or would my fear again overcome
The death of trust? Or it’s longueurs theft?

6/2/2020 A. Paige White


BLT put up a Meriam Webster Word of the day word challenge. I’m thoroughly enjoying it so far. (I even threw in an extra- longueurs: a long and boring passage in a literary work, drama, musical composition, or the like)

Launch a caustic haiku turned flailed terzanelle
Three lines of blather from a piqued poet’s feather
Skillful syllables omit nature; gone straight to hell

Obsession sketching rhythms rhyme then measure
An ink blot parking lot commencing to swell
Three lines of blather from a piqued poet’s feather

Jot, “Not the verse that got away!” I yell
Prosodic and onomatopoeic
An ink blot parking lot commencing to swell

Fingertips that linger quips mythopoeic
Bring monochroic wars of subtle allure
Prosodic and onomatopoeic

My iambic pentameter’s amateur
I’m done with these words, ink, terms altogether
Bring monochroic wars of subtle allure

To ponded frog on a bough’s frond, any weather
Launch a caustic haiku turned flailed terzanelle
I’m done with these words, ink, terms altogether
Skillful syllables omit nature; gone straight to hell.

A. Paige White 6/1/20

I should write a villanelle right now,
without delay—no more ado will do—
I would, except I can’t remember how.

Indeed, my meter mastery would wow,
And always rhyming perfectly would woo—
I should write a villanelle right now.

I bet that I could even court a cow
With deft command of each and every moo—
I would, except I can’t remember how.

Soon, I’ll lose my grasp on “thee” and “thou,”
And I’ll be barely left with “me” and “you”—
I should write a villanelle right now.

But first, maybe I’ll try to find some chow.
I could make a hearty soup or stew—
I would, except I can’t remember how.

Before I storm the stage to take a bow,
Uncertain if I’ll get a cheer or boo,
I should write a villanelle right now—
I would, except I can’t remember how

Cling to your rhyme through high water and hell
The theme is set up in the opening line
That's what it takes to write a villanelle

Let your intentions ring out like a bell
Just fit the structure and all else is fine
Cling to your rhyme through high water and hell

Three lines a verse, make sure you use them well
So sense and structure gently intertwine
That's what it takes to write a villanelle

Impatience at this point can start to tell
But do make sure you stick to your design
Cling to your rhyme through high water and hell

Don't let the rhythm rush you on pell-mell
Just let your words emerge in measured time
That's what it takes to write a villanelle

And make sure that the message you refine
Simple is good, excess the biggest crime
Cling to your rhyme through high water and hell
That's what it takes to write a villanelle

I'm oh so far away from
where you are.

I have climbed your mountain
and found only scree and granite
at the top.

Others have been here and left
a stone.  I have nothing to leave
you but an empty dish. A cold
meal once eaten is like a frozen
embrace.  Empty is empty.

I am walking away from your
promise like a cat leaves a
deserted dish.

No! Do not touch me.  
Touch only the breeze as
I leave.  Do not speak to me

I lie
in the air,
crying with the
gulls.


I mourne
Kaddish.



Caroline Shank