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Marieta Maglas Jan 2015
While the bud butterflies melt their wings
Within the light red poppy chain,
The pink-gray clouded, sad sunset rings.
In this lost sky, the sun's light vein
Is almost thrown in a ****** rain.


The leaving sun abandons the sky
For the moon, and in the cricket crawl
The leaves of the oaks whisper 'good bye',
While the coming night has a dark shawl.
She looks at the stars with a black eye.


The sun and the stars find synergy,
In the regolith on the moon,
But with helium fusing energy,
This moon looks like a big balloon,
Or like a fragile, silky cocoon.


And like those thoughts enveloped in words,
Or like angels carrying their pure love,
Are the Feathers of the Holy Birds
In that rain dropping the divine globes
On the strong souls needing love rewards.


Any epistemological sphere
Is pouring up to the Holy Book,
Or is falling down to disappear.
The reverse arch gets a killer look.
Tries to provide fragrance of fear.

The fluid, wicked waves draining in sight
On Earth to meet at infinity
Are like the dark rays in the pure light.
Light rays are arches of Trinity,
While dressed in wind seems to be the night.

Stars are candles and night lights them all,
The colors withdraw in the last light.
In the black darkness, they look so small.
The dream seeds germinate for a fight,
Becoming real while breaking their wall.

© copyright Marieta Maglas
Trinity,God, butterflies, poppy, sun,sky, rain,night,light,eye,helium,regolith, word, love
David Williams Apr 2013
He enters looking bedraggled, tired and worn out, his skin like vellum, blank and pale.
Lifting his eyes to catch their gaze he gives a slight nod to acknowledge their presence.
He scans the room as he would a poem seeking an indent that leads to a quiet corner.
A half-lit light casts a shadow on the flock wallpaper, ink stained.
He sits hidden from view, away from plagiaristic eyes. Head In hand
Scribbling while listening for a new word, a muse sings, emanating an un-heard
Beat that guides his rhythm while searching for that elusive vowel. On the floor
Is a scattering of pencil shavings and broken lead, frustration at the loss of an adjective.
The half rhyme squeezes like a tourniquet on the brain…
Frustration runs high as enjambment slips off the page and gathers in reflective pools.

The Lay Pastoral reads an Elegy to the passing of Sir Rondeau Redouble, he lead a very lonely life ascending and then diminishing becoming less Didactic, the Footle holds a Lanterne for the loss, while the Limerick found it quite humorous.

At the bar a Stanza of poets gather, disciples of Villanelle, and regale of their latest triumphs in Women’s Quarterly. Then silence falls as Suzette Prime performs her latest Burlesque she is in good Shape. The Epulaeryu’s compare their Diamante while eating their babba ghanoosh. At the pool table the movers and shakers decant opinions on the latest ‘form’ something to do with A,E,I,O,U…Acrostic looks it up and down looking puzzled, Blank verse remains silent,

They dissect, analyse the entrails, the faint hearted feel a little Grook. The atmosphere is tense. Verbs drift like dust in the light, causing confusion, they mop their brows with a tired senryu. The haiku’s have little to say on the matter…

A Quintain of intellectuals quietly sit, the Sicilian sipping slim line Monoku’s (no ice) hoping for a Couplet before the end of the night. On a stool sit’s the barfly spilling his Bio over the counter top exposing an Ode-ious life, metaphorically speaking. On stage the hottest group in town… Chant Royal and the Syllables… singing their latest Sestina it reached 39 in the hit parade, the notes drift across the room resting on the floor congealing into a poet-tree fountain…they feel at home as the last act MC McWhirtle enthrals with his latest Ballad…the barman Ric Tameter calls time, the evening is a Rap. The club is Epic…


© 27/3/2013
CJ Sutherland Mar 19
Each and Every person is
Entitled
To have an
Opinion

It’s your
Prerogative to
Disagree
With Any Opinion.

However
It’s Absolutely  
NEVER
Acceptable

To Humiliate
In any way,  
Shape or Form
Because

They don’t
Subscribe
To the same
Ideologies as you


Instead Exemplify
Love in Kindness
Humility and Honor
Respect with Grace

We need More
People Endowed with
these attributes
and qualities

If you READ a Poem
You don’t agree with, Don’t embark upon
A ****** Tale of Skulduggery
It’s NOT an Acceptable Endeavor

If your Thoughts, and Comments
Do NOT add Value
To the Poet’s Poem , Refrain
Scroll On By

Remember, The Old Adage
If you don’t have
Anything, Nice To Say
Don’t say Anything At All

FYI

A Quintain  is poetry in a series of four lines that make up a stanza.
QUAGRE means Four
A Simple RHYME scheme would be ABCB used in each stanza throughout the poem
But not a requirement., no rhyme stanzas are perfectly acceptable.  
There are eight different types of quatrains I am going to present them in the next couple of poems, that’s my goal.
BLT word of the day challenge 3-18-24
****** means cheap in appearance, or used to describe something considered morally bad or distasteful
Bonus word : SKULDUGGERY
Underhanded or unscrupulous behavior also a devious device or trickery.
CJ Sutherland Mar 31
An epic narration poem
Which, by nature is an exception to the rule

Have you ever read a poem and thought wow! Holy cow!
What a really great story,
Imagery, Content, what a glory

But is it truly a poem?

For me, all these rules are confusing
Perhaps some might think I’m amusing
The length for which I search for clarity
I want to get it right for posterity

The importance is a matter of perspective
That would depend on your objective
posting  the first thing that pops into mind
Then this whole poem is a waste of time  
A book of poetry published one day
Then this process is not ******* per-say  

For inquiring minds that want to know
Condensed material I will precede slow
I’m only scratching the surface so
There is room to explore and grow

So, What’s the difference between
a story and a poem?

Websters dictionary states;
The essential difference
between a poem, and
a short story is
The difference of scope.

Typically Poems are short, and brief.
They tell you how the author is feeling
in a few words.

Short Stories are written by the author
Prose follows the natural form of speech ,
A Story highlight a moment; it contains A plot, themes, character development, and a descriptive time and setting.

A poem is written by a poet.
Lines act as sentence breaks
No formal prose are needed

A short story is written in sentences.
A poem has words or phrases that
sound good when read out loud.

Short stories fall into the The category of fiction or nonfiction.
Poetry is a category of itself.

Free verse poetry is void of rules
That’s were things get muddle
Leaving readers befuddled
Yet the freedom of poetry in motion
Is an.extraordinary elixir a magic potion
Creating something to behold
So elusive it’s hard to repeat the mold

poetry has no specific characteristics
it does not contain prose.
Poetry are formed in stanzas, which are a collection of poetic lines.

Some stanzas types are very specific quatrains set the standard of lines
Also a Rhyme scheme maybe required to identify a specific poetic structure, style.

A poem can contain more then one type of structure and name.there are always exceptions to the rules
These are the Identifying structures
for example

Couplets are sets of two lines stanzas
Triplet set of three line stanzas
Quintain four line Stanzas
Cinquain. Five line stanzas
Sestet six line stanzas
Septet seven line stanzas
Octaves eight line stanzas

this is not going to be an easy quest
My writing process will be put to the test
I write my poetry then figure out the rest
  I have not figured what process is best?

This review maybe new
For me it’s an agenda of what to do
My goal to complete a poem in each style  
I must admit It will take awhile
My never ending Quest

— The End —