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TomDoubty Jun 26
“You are treading on thin ice”
the impatient tones of my father
arrive at my ear as glistening
I liberate my treasure prized away
from the dark-cold pond,  the ice raised distorts my sight
to comprehend  an impatient God

“Look boys, this is the land of God”
you praise the valley carved from glacial ice
you are filled with the beauty of the sight
four sons in crescent around their Father
breaths misting the air, turn away
along the ridge above the fields, which are glistening

Are memories always like this? Glistening
where everything is theatre and God?
Now I feel the urge to look away
there is truth in the distorting ice Father
which held tightly fractures, to reveal you in plain sight

That day you praised the sight
with prayers not glistening
but all sour odour and “our Father”
If you conceived a greater God
you never told him to the boy who lifted the ice-
to those who raised their arms in prayer you looked away

We are left to find a way
in life, there is no seer and no foresight
only earth and dirt and ice
but in this barren tundra glistening
scraped out with our bare hands is God
God the Father

Now I stand at that same pond a father
my son treads its edge and turns away
I am no longer in his world, but looking over it his God
And what of my sight?
Is it glistening?
I feel an unease as he raises his own comprehending ice

To all Fathers with their fading sight-
Don’t turn away from all that’s glistening
An impatient God turns to ice
jrae Mar 7
Bleary-eyed, an old man asks for change,
coins rattling in his hand. A woman
hands him saltine crackers across the aisle.
“God bless you,” he mutters, takes a seat,
and unwraps the plastic with shaking hands.
He smiles at her before she leaves the train.

Tonight, the passengers on the train
are surprisingly quiet for a change.
We are all staring down at our hands.
And then the silence breaks - a woman
cackles aloud to herself in her seat.
Her laughter travels up and down the aisle.

I overhear a conversation across the aisle
between a couple who’ve just entered the train,
and are searching for a pair of empty seats.
They’re muttering “the country is changing”
and they say they are afraid. The woman
sighs, and reaches for her lover’s hand.

I look over at a child holding her mother’s hand.
I meet the little girl’s gaze from across the aisle.
I see myself as a child too, but to her I’m a woman.
I wonder how often the little girl rides the train.
Does she long to see something else for a change -
something other than the back of a seat?

I notice a lady who has started dancing in her seat,
snapping her fingers and waving her hands,
bobbing to a silent beat. I imagine her changing
into a sequined dress and waltzing down the aisle,
giving everyone a performance to watch on the train.
I imagine standing up and dancing with that woman

and then everyone begins to dance with the woman -
we all jump up onto our seats
and suddenly we are in a ballroom, not a train.
We are tapping our feet and clapping our hands
to the music - the little girl across the aisle
is dancing with the old man who asked for change.

The train stops. We’ve arrived at my station. The dancing woman leaves the train. The passengers change and now there are strangers in their seats. I wave my hand goodbye to the little girl as I walk past her down the aisle.
"A Sestina is a French verse form, usually unrhymed, consisting of six stanzas of six lines each and a three-line envoy. The end words of the first stanza are repeated in a different order as end words in each of the subsequent five stanzas; the closing envoy contains all six words, two per line, placed in the middle and at the end of the three lines. The patterns of word repetition are as follows, with each number representing the final word of a line, and each row of numbers representing a stanza:

          1 2 3 4 5 6
          6 1 5 2 4 3
          3 6 4 1 2 5
          5 3 2 6 1 4
          4 5 1 3 6 2
          2 4 6 5 3 1
          (6 2) (1 4) (5 3) "
Evie G Mar 1
Life is a system
and i am its product
producing mosaics
and i am its robot
life gives me a function
and have a-  
hand?

Here is my product
another mosaic
for i am a robot
and that is my function
but i have a hand?
That is not in the system...

Am i a mosaic?
A rainbow of robot
and then is my function
to lend you a hand?
Programmed in my system
to give you my products?

Am i a robot
devoid of a function?
An empty hand.
A useless, silent system.
No products.
No Mosaic

What is a function?
A powerful productive hand!
A hyper-intellectual system!
A booming blossom of products!
a busy
mosaic
a
straining
robot

I take from your hand
and inform my system
I create my own products
Perhaps, I am the mosaic
Perchance, I am the robot
and I function.

Bumps from the system created my hand
creating my products, I dictate my function.
For I am the robot that made the mosaic
and I think that's alright.
Hey there! this is my first attempt at a Sestina so feedback would be most appreciated ! its a really cool form and i recommend you all try it. I went into this will an expectation of what it would be and by the time i finished it it was something else, wild how this stuff works.
Eli Feb 20
No picket fences. No hunting license. He has no culture
To his name. No children nor partner to carry; he’ll love
The forest floor just the same. Chickadees chattered as he muttered his marriage
Vows to the land between his toes. Rich in all but money,
He aims to accomplish what his forefathers could not: Forgive
Himself for human’s toll on nature. Their roads of death.  

For hickory trees and zipping flies only understand death
As biological drivers of fear. He has seen the culture.
Slash and burn, Gnash and chop, mine and take, forgive
And forget the consequences. They manufacture love
On a rainy day to deceive people into funding destruction with the money
From the nature they claim to protect. A push-and-pull marriage.

He set aside his business coat as he set foot into the forest, divorcing the marriage
Of care and corporation. His only hope is that the rabbit cannot smell death
Still leaking from his pores like toxic radiation nor the stench of money
Recklessly thrown to culling the land mere miles away. More culture
Here than in thousands of skylines. More compassion among animals than any “love”
A vest-and-tie, bright-eyed smile grants in marketing. Corporate does not forgive.

He climbs atop the highest canopy and calms his quaking arms. If no one can forgive
His erratic exercise routine, the breeze can. All is still. The marriage
Has begun to provide. The priest above will join them in the morning; he’ll prove his love.
Tomorrow, the men with machines and sticks of death
Will come barreling through the sanctuary, claiming from destruction comes culture
And resources, but behind their faces of concern is always money, money, money.

From the first rabbit he slaughtered to the devastating loss of money
He incurred for not staying silent, the corruption he witnessed set a fire he would not forgive
His heart for feeding. The disillusionment he kept spread faster than a bacterial culture
Under perfect conditions. The merriment in progress was null, the marriage
Bands thrown into polluted rivers. He would slow the unnatural cycle of death,
One by one rooted tree. Though he does not believe it is enough, it is love.

His back aches. His eyes open with a start. His air tastes acrid. His love
Has died and fear wrests his heart. Trees around him scream for aid. All the money
In the world could not replace the thousands of years of peace they spoil with death.
He yells from his tower. A straggler rabbit screws its head to see him. Maybe it saw to forgive
Him after all this time. Rivers from his eyes and gold buried deep inside, the marriage
Between man and Mother Nature could exist. Human’s ruination isn’t nature. It is culture.

They ask him for the love of God, what is he doing up there. He smiles. I can forgive
The contractor for his need of money, but not those whose wants require a marriage
Between negligence and my planet’s death. He pleads. They stare. As is the culture.
This one was for AP English Comp class :)
Tyler Stoner Dec 2020
It’s lukewarm on this lazy Sunday,
And I don’t know where I put my glasses.
I don’t even want to tear myself
From the syzygy that makes me, my blanket
And my bed, to find them. Maybe I’ll crawl out
Of my coziness and try to seize the day.

There are fourteen-forty minutes in a day,
And I can waste them all on this lazy Sunday.
I could get breakfast, but I’d have to make it out
The door — and I can’t find my glasses.
I suppose I’ll just stay under the blanket,
Spending those minutes on myself.

I could possibly make breakfast for myself.
I do so just about every other day.
Bacon does sound good, but my blanket
Weighs a hundred pounds. And after all, Sunday
is my day off. Where are my glasses?
Right on the windowsill where I left them. Out-

Side, I see people who got out
Of bed already. People as lazy as myself —
Probably… Oh, fine! I put on my glasses
And trek to entropy. At least it’s warm today.
And for a while it’s a very nice Sunday,
But it isn’t as warm as my blanket,

And doesn’t feel as heavy. As pewter blankets
Stretch across the horizon, I look out
Over the cut and appreciate what Sunday
Has to offer. That’s what I tell myself,
But I know that today is just another day;
Seeing the world with rose tinted glasses

Yet again. I stop to wipe off my glasses
That are smudged with a blanket
Of dust from the Oakland air. The day
Is only part way done and I am looking for an out.
I continue the mission to make myself
Breakfast on a lukewarm, lazy Sunday:

A not so sunny day, in my glasses,
Making Sunday breakfast in a blanket
Of optimism. Out by myself.
Tom Salter Dec 2020
The noise of the cavalry was muffled by the rhythm of the crows
Cawing, they bellowed their demands, until silence
Betray the gathered armies, and the men began towing
The foreign rocks, heavy they were, scrapping the last of the lavender
From the earth. Those in protest formed a crust
That lined the crown of the castle walls, there will be no violence

Today, nor tomorrow or the next for the wives have had enough of violence
And the birdsongs have never sounded so bitter, these crows
That perch in the woven branches of the castle woods eat nothing but the crust
From shattered honeypots. Often they screech out in pain, but it is all silence
Lately for they have been soothed by the refugees of lavender
That squat in their nests. But it won’t last, for the men have started towing

Again; great metal ladders in hopes to infect their havens, men towing
Their aggression like a mere pebble in their pockets. They are cemented in violence
Like the calf to the ******, and the wife who lathers the scent of lavender
Into her hair. But not all things are so natural and sweet. The crows
Have had their heritage destroyed, they no longer follow the universe, silence
Has become permanence, just like how their rookeries have formed the crust

Upon their enemy’s world. So damp and hollow their homes have become like a crust
Of saliva upon the bathroom sink, alas there is no time to repair, for the men are towing
Again; rocks, ladders and now fallen oaks - dragging earth up as they trudge. There is silence
Before the breach, a moment of purgatory before the deafening violence
Ensues. There are no caws from the guarded rookeries, the crows
Have decided to sleep through revolution, huddled among their lavender

That will soon be found in the knotted hair of widows, the stench of lavender
Shall waft through the winds of grief, as the priest gives counsel to the fresh crust
Of tears found under the eyes of thousands. It is over now and the crows
Have come to pay their respects, they caw at the men who are towing
The tombstones of lives that never blossomed, each one reads: “there will be no more violence
Today, nor tomorrow or the next.”. And life shall proceed only with silence.

For awhile it may all persist, silence
Is king and the woods that hug the castle walls are growing lavender
Again. The treaty is kept and the cloak of violence
Is hung up neatly next to the crown, waiting for the crust
Of peace to be vanquished. It is the wives now who spend their days towing
The labour of the land; weaving seeds and chatting to the crows.

Alas, it does not take long for violence to mature, and for the silence
To pitter off. The crows have buried themselves, taking all the lavender
With them. The men are towing again and all that is left is a broken crust.
Ash Nov 2020
Dearest Mother,
My long lost queen.
Since you passed, the palace
Has been painfully silent.
Horribly cold.
Even without the king.

Father-- our king...
Mother,
when you died he became evermore cold.
He forced me to find a queen.
To stay silent,
Trapped in the palace.

Even in this new palace,
Even with my uncle as king,
Somehow-- it's still silent.
After all these years, I now remember you, Mother,
our queen.
And how your skin has gone cold.

Since that day so many years ago... cold.
I hate this new palace
Without a queen
And a new king.
I miss your voice, Mother
But now-- your hall stays silent.

Everything is silent
And cold.
Mother--
This palace,
This king,
We all need a queen

We need you-- My Queen
You will no longer be silent.
You will restore order and crown me as king.
You will heat the everlasting cold.
You will give life to the palace.
If only you'd return, Mother.

But-- No matter how I wish, our queen lies cold
This silent blanket stays over the palace
And my uncle has taken my rightful title of king. And I am powerless against it, Mother.
yet another sestina from the prince
Ash Oct 2020
As blue
As the blood
That taints the perfect crown
I frown, watching the kingdom
I love
Fight a tireless war.

A war
Against those with scales of blue,
Where we lose far too many of those we love,
And spill far too much blood.
We say we fight in the name of our almighty kingdom.
They say they fight in the name of the crown.

A crown
Which has only seemed out hatred and war
And is willing to **** any who speak against its kingdom,
Allowing the royal blue
Blood
Shed— even from those we love.

But love
Is not felt by those who bear the crown.
We never learn the true meaning of spilled blood,
Or the pain caused by an everlasting war.
A war we fuel until every petal has fallen, mixing with the blue,
Leaving in its wake, a broken and hollow kingdom.

A kingdom
Lead by one who just never love,
Who must only mind the blue
Gem embedded in the crown,
Starting war after war,
Only protecting our title and our blood.

The blood
Which only flows through the veins belonging to the royals of this kingdom,
Who only know war
And believe the greatest weakness one could have is love.
We’re born and raised for the crown
As the world idolizes our shade of blue.

Yet— I spill my blood for those I love,
And serve my kingdom, even though I hold no crown,
I’ll fight this war, your hand in mine, stained in shades of royal blue.
A sestina written from the perspective of one of my original characters.
Ash Oct 2020
The fox
runs alongside the astronaut,
who looks at a picture frame.
Around the fox’s neck, a white bandana.
There, on the spooky
moon, his only company is the fox colored aluminum.

The aluminum
fur of the fox
blends into the moonscape. The ship is empty aside from them and the spooky
remanence of the rest of the crew. As the lone astronaut
works to return home, his only comfort being the bandana
and the picture frame.

The frame
that holds a photo of a woman, standing before the ship of aluminum.
Tied around her hair, the bandana
which has since been given to the fox.
The memories it brings ever haunting the astronaut
making the moon ever more spooky.

The spooky
feeling is not eased by the frame
as the remains of passed astronauts
are trapped in this aluminum
ship, the lone survivors being the man and the fox.
He keeps his thoughts on the bandana.

Her bandana,
given to him on a dark and spooky
day, which he then gave to the fox
so he may pretend the woman in the frame
isn’t millions of miles away from them. A fox of aluminum
and a lonely astronaut.

The astronaut
chooses to focus on returning to the woman without her bandana.
He works tirelessly to get the aluminum
rocket ship off the spooky
and desolate moon, and back to earth, to see the woman in the frame.
By his side on this barren rock, looking up at him, stands the fox.

The astronaut refuses to let the spooky
atmosphere deter him from his goal of returning the bandana to the woman in the frame,
ever thankful for the company of the aluminum fox.
A sestina made with words randomly given to me by a friend.
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