#napowrimo2016
Challenge: write a poem using at least 10 dictionary terms
no wood carver
marks or remarks
here, no sinking
prose with nautical
terms, no rhymes
that use ropes to climb mountains higher,
these are all and only dreams to me
I will use as it
uses me, a
poetic dictionary.
Please starting read out loud, naked in front of a mirror, what follows after, now!
Oulipo, acronym,
there are no slim
chances at Norms,
Shall we play a game,
with words and no one
gets hurt.
And the peace of
Pastoral settings
Over shadowed
love, I mean Love,
by your chief complaint.
I am but a man, thick
and thin, who touches
only Sentence Sounds
with his tongue.
But you wait on your
Heroic Couplet,
And find me not the qualified culprit.
Pick your poets then, go back way back when,
some Poets are Fugitives, short lived in Nashville,
Harlem had a Renaissance,
inclusive, read South to North, and I read and I read sustained by the Sestina,
some red wine, oh did I spill, let me cleanup while you mouth the Prose and let me, tempt you, to Rhyme, as I **** your toes.
I am a Poet after all, and the Echo verse proves me perverse in the unseemly way I overtly finish seams, a long lines that follow curves of hips and softnes of inflection, still the distance between Poetry and bliss is obscene. Please let me Muse you...?
I wait.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
#napowrimo2016
Challenge: write a poem using at least 10 dictionary terms
no wood carver
marks or remarks
here, no sinking
prose with nautical
terms, no rhymes
that use ropes to climb mountains higher,
these are all and only dreams to me
I will use as it
uses me, a
poetic dictionary.
Please starting read out loud, naked in front of a mirror, what follows after, now!
Oulipo, acronym,
there are no slim
chances at Norms,
Shall we play a game,
with words and no one
gets hurt.
And the peace of
Pastoral settings
Over shadowed
love, I mean Love,
by your chief complaint.
I am but a man, thick
and thin, who touches
only Sentence Sounds
with his tongue.
But you wait on your
Heroic Couplet,
And find me not the qualified culprit.
Pick your poets then, go back way back when,
some Poets are Fugitives, short lived in Nashville,
Harlem had a Renaissance,
inclusive, read South to North, and I read and I read sustained by the Sestina,
some red wine, oh did I spill, let me cleanup while you mouth the Prose and let me, tempt you, to Rhyme, as I **** your toes.
I am a Poet after all, and the Echo verse proves me perverse in the unseemly way I overtly finish seams, a long lines that follow curves of hips and softnes of inflection, still the distance between Poetry and bliss is obscene. Please let me Muse you...?
I wait.
had a little media/ tech problem earlier, but it was solved.
Request permission to use this poem