NaPoWriMo ~ Day 22 (Uh huh, late again!)

(What can I say?  I fell asleep?)

LIMERICK

There once was a girl in a city
who thought that her words were real pretty.
She essayed to compose
perfect rhymes just like those
of the Bard, in a once-daily ditty.

© 2013

NaPoWriMo ~ Day 21

HER MISSING HIM

Whisper-soft,
the feeling sidled
with silent tread
into her heart.

Clarion-loud,
it spoke its plan
to rest awhile
inside her heart.

Crystal-clear,
it marked its turf
in vivid hues
around her heart.


© 2013

NaPoWriMo ~ Day 20

COMPARISONS

Laughter is
like waterfalls
after rain.

Laughter is
like high tide
after low.

Laughter is
like sunburst
after storm.

© 2013

NaPoWriMo ~ Day 19 ( Yes, I know it's late!)

SPRING STORM

Shards of cutting light,
and thund’rous themes of drum rolls,
waken the darkness!


© 2013

NaPoWriMo ~ Day 18

GOODNIGHT POEM

I don’t know what to write about.
Perhaps the time of day
inhibits my inventive brain,
and keeps good thoughts at bay.

Whatever’s wrong, it’s too late now
to try to make it right.
I’m tired, and it’s very late,
I’ll just give up the fight!

© 2013

NaPoWriMo ~ Day 17

(A two-fer, because I couldn't decide which to choose.  These are, once again, found poems from two of my stories.)

CONTENTMENT

He felt the serenity
just like at Christmas --
all was right, then...
the boy belonged.
 
Now he'd met her,
the man was hooked.
Here she was,
still reeling him in.

FREE FALL

We fell.
A scream escaped
into the dark night air.
The stampede
and the thunder
returned
a split second
before we landed

© 2013

NaPoWriMo ~ Day 16

(In defense of my title, please note the third definition below:

"po·et·ics  (p - t ks)

n. (used with a sing. or pl. verb)

1. Literary criticism that deals with the nature, forms, and laws of poetry.

2. A treatise on or study of poetry or aesthetics.

3. The practice of writing poetry; poetic composition.")

POETICS

Some poems come in thunderclouds,
like grumbling, grouchy men
that roar and thud and thrash about
like lions in their den.

Some poems come on quiet feet,
like children sneaking in
to beg forgiveness for their play,
because they raised a din.

Some poems come on fairy wings,
like butterflies in flight
dance up and down the pretty blooms
that make the garden bright.

Some poems come on wisps of air,
like babies’ sleepy sighs
that puff out rosy lips and cheeks,
breaths of God in disguise.

© 2013