It’s time for another Writer’s Digest poetic form challenge! This time around, we’re writing the pantoum, a poetic form filled with repeating lines and rhymes. The form originates in Malay.
Here are the basic rules for the form:
- Poem consists of quatrains (4-line stanzas). No limit, but there should be at least 2 stanzas.
- Each quatrain has an abab rhyme scheme. However, the poem can follow an abab/bcbc/cdcd/etc. rhyme scheme throughout.
- Lines 2 and 4 of each stanza become lines 1 and 3 of the next stanza. Ideally, lines 2 and 4 of the final stanza will become lines 1 and 3 of the opening stanza.
Okay, so that’s writing a pantoum.
Here are the rules for entering the WD Poetic Form Challenge:
- Write an original pantoum (or three)
- Post your pantoum in the comments below along with your name as you would like it to appear in the magazine (if selected as the winner)
- Deadline: March 8 @ 11:59 p.m. (Atlanta, Georgia, time)
It’s really a pretty simple challenge, and the winning poem receives publication in a future issue of Writer’s Digest magazine as the example of a pantoum. So you’ll be famous and known around the world as a master of this particular poetic form.
That’s worth a few minutes of poeming, isn’t it?
The winner is usually announced within a week or so of the deadline–along with a list of other great examples (typically takes the form of a Top 10 list). So start writing your pantoums already!
*****
In the Advanced Poetry Writing workshop, poets will write and receive feedback on 6 poems during the 6-week course. Instructor Cherri Randall will share revision techniques that will help leading into National Poetry Month. Click to continue.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
Check out some previous WD Poetic Form Challenge winners:
“Kunst”
What defines art
Is it the music we listen to
The drawings we see
Or is it something more.
Is it the music we listen to
The tunes we daydream too
Or perhaps the ideas we create
Or is it something more.
It can be very simplistic or complex
Art is what you make of it
Or is it something more
Can it define every individual.
Art is what you make of it
It is a way of life
Can it define every individual
That’s a question only you can answer.
When I insist I’m okay
and everything is going wrong
yes, I am pushing you away
but it won’t be for too long.
and everything is going wrong
the way I can cope
but it won’t be for too long
I’ll keep to myself and mope
The way I can cope
I’ll listen to a depressing tune
I’ll keep to myself and mope
perhaps even start to croon
I’ll listen to a depressing tune
bury myself in blankets, in bed
perhaps even start to croon
to get negative thoughts out of my head
bury myself in blankets, in bed
enjoy an author’s witty writing
to get negative thoughts out of my head
life is a little more delighting
enjoy an author’s witty writing
forget where I am for a while
life is a little more delighting
when it seems I’m about to smile
forget where I am for a while
just had to choose this book
when it seems I’m about to smile
the charming character turns out to be a crook
just had to choose this book
art mirrors reality
the charming character turns out to be a crook
beginning to believe this is a normality
art mirrors reality
so both of them suck
beginning to believe this is a normality
my emotions are running amok
so both of them suck
but continue to leave me alone
my emotions are running amok
give me time on my own
but continue to leave me alone
I’ll get through this phase
give me time on my own
you know, for a few more days.
Where have we gone?
By Deborah Burke
Where have we all gone,
Dear President and Congress?
All of us human, but what have we done?
Greedy for more, unhappy with less
Dear President and Congress,
you are human, like me,
greedy for more, more, never less
fighting and gunning and blaspheming, see?
You are human like me, thinking
What you do doesn’t matter that much
Fighting, gunning, blaming, blaspheming
Each other and we blaming you for such
A state we are in. What we do does matter
Matters so much, each thought, each word, each act
We blame you for the consequences that tatter
Our every hope, our every wish. This fact
Has us afraid you—we—are losing our humanity
Where have we all gone?
Power and greed consuming us, destroying kindness and sanity
All of us human, but what have we done?
Namesake
They called their place Nesting Goose Farm.
They built a pond and bought a goose.
Two geese might well have been the charm,
but one lone bird? What was the use?
They built a pond and bought a goose,
insisting that it nest and stay,
but one lone bird—what was the use?
It sadly honked and flew away.
Insisting that it nest and stay
ignored essential mating facts.
It sadly honked and flew away;
nesting is not a solo act.
Ignore essential mating facts:
soon you will be a laughing stock.
Nesting is not a solo act.
Why make your neighbors point and mock?
Soon you will be a laughing stock:
You’ve named your land for what it’s not.
Why make your neighbors point and mock
your ostentation’s empty lot?
You’ve named your land for what it’s not:
Where is the eye for sense of place?
Your ostentation’s empty lot,
drawn features on a wondrous face.
Where is the eye for sense of place?
Two geese might well have been the charm—
drawn features on a wondrous face.
They called their place Nesting Goose Farm.
Grass
What can grass do but sough in wind?
Low gusts comb it both left and right.
Does it fold into sky and blend
with stars of falling dew each night?
Low gusts comb it both left and right
as it whispers beneath the sun.
With stars of falling dew each night,
does it give thanks when day is done?
As it whispers beneath the sun,
its roots network and slowly spread.
Does it give thanks when day is done,
home for the living and the dead?
Its roots network and slowly spread
to cover mankind’s wrong and loss.
Home for the living and the dead,
nourished by our human dross.
To cover mankind’s wrong and loss,
does it fold into sky and blend,
nourished by our human dross?
What can grass do but sough in wind?
Food Chain
An ibis settles on the shoal—
white plumes in shallows, standing still
until the fish forget his goal
to make of them his morning meal.
White plumes in shallows, standing still,
he’s in the moment, focused, clear,
to make of them his morning meal;
he hardly sees me watching near.
He’s in the moment, focused, clear;
he looks beneath the liquid sky.
He hardly sees me watching near
reflected in the water’s eye.
He looks beneath the liquid sky
where languid fish seek smaller prey.
Reflected in the water’s eye,
he strikes and pulls a fish away.
Where languid fish seek smaller prey,
he joins a chain that holds us all;
he strikes and pulls a fish away,
his answer to a primal call.
He joins a chain that holds us all—
an ibis settled on the shoal—
his answer to a primal call
until the fish forget his goal.
Whenever I lose my balance and fall
is it because of them or me
that I feel so small
and I feel so unhappy
Is it because of them or me
that people laugh and sneer
and I feel so unhappy
the center of my life is fear
that people laugh and sneer
these people, whom I love
the center of my life is fear
but I look to the skies above
these people, whom I love
are not what they seem
but I look to the skies above
hoping it’s all just part of a heavenly scheme.
A Lament for Breakfasts Past
Oh toast I miss
Your crunchy crust
And buttery bliss
A breakfast must
Your crunchy crust
I have to say
A breakfast must
To start the day
I have to say
Its not really lust
To start the day
You understand I trust
Its not really lust
Black coffee in my cup
You understand I trust
If I get up
Black coffee in my cup
My one true love
If I get up
You are the shove
My one true love
Oh toast I miss
You are the shove
And buttery bliss
Oh toast I miss
Your crunchy crust
And buttery bliss
A breakfast must
Eventually one day
My baby boy will say
‘Mummy I love you’
Eventually one day
He will move on too.
‘Mummy I love you’
The words melt my heart
He will move on too
And my tears will start.
The words melt my heart
For now he is so small
And my tears will start
As he learns to crawl.
For now he is so small
Cradled in my arm
As he learns to crawl
I keep him safe from harm.
Cradled in my arm
He’s growing up so fast
I keep him safe from harm
His neediness won’t last.
He’s growing up so fast
Not a baby anymore
His neediness won’t last
He loves to explore.
Not a baby anymore
An independent lad
He loves to explore
I worry like mad.
An independent lad
He starts to think
I worry like mad
My heart will sink.
He starts to think
‘I’m moving out’
My heart will sink
I will smile, no doubt.
‘I’m moving out’
My baby boy will say
I will smile, no doubt
Eventually one day.
Marianne Marshall
My Grandfather’s Ashes
The loons swam upriver
in perfect formation.
A shiver ran through
me. Their lonely song of divination echoing.
In perfect formation
his scattered ashes sank into the weeds, singing
me their lonely song of divination. Echoing
the memories that recede, like the banks of the river.
His scattered ashes sank into the weeds, singing
quietly, not to distract from
the memories that recede. Like the banks of the river
he returned. Ashes to ashes, mud to mud.
Quietly, not to distract from
the loons swimming upriver
he returned. Ashes to ashes, mud to mud,
a shiver.
Moment of Silence for a Song without Ears
I wrote a poem, but you were gone.
I swept my tears alone.
I begged my heart to carry on
but sorrow turned to stone.
I swept my tears alone
bidding my bones to build a bridge,
but sorrow turned to stone
as shadow cast its inky ridge.
Bidding my bones to build a bridge,
I wrote a poem, but you were gone.
As shadow cast its inky ridge,
I begged my heart to carry on.
De Jackson
SECRETS
Open doors that dare not close
Hold your secrets deep within,
They hold them tight, careful not to expose
Secrets of each and every friend.
Hold your secrets deep within
Sacred is each individual part,
Secrets of each and every friend
Treasure them with all your heart.
Sacred is each individual part
None can you ever betray,
Treasure them with all your heart
Like a diamond without decay.
None can you ever betray
Open doors that dare not close,
Like a diamond without decay
They hold them tight, careful not to expose.
LaSteph
MUSING ALONG THE OLD ERIE CANAL
I wondered, as I walked along the berm,
if travellers had pondered, as have I;
although displaced by centuries in term,
were all of us in search of reasons why?
If travellers had pondered, as have I,
although displaced by centuries in term,
were all of us in search of reasons why?
I wondered as I walked along the berm.
William Preston
In the dark
In the dark of my heart
I found you,
like a piece of art,
fresh and new.
I found you,
as a little light,
fresh and new
you made my night.
As a little light,
you enlightened my life,
you made my night
and I saw my knife.
You enlightened my life,
in the dark of my heart
and I saw my knife
like a piece of art.
Claudia Pirina
In the dark.
In the dark of my heart
I found you,
like a piece of art,
fresh and new.
I found you,
as a little light,
fresh and new
you made my night.
As a little light
you enlightened my life,
you made my night
and I saw my knife.
You enlightened my life
in the dark of my heart,
and I saw my knife,
like a piece of art.
Claudia Pirina
RAIN
By Corina Goicuria
Rain, rain, so many poems about rain.
So much so drives me insane.
Water so clear and so moist,
Mouth so dry, not by choice.
What is more free?
But water you see.
Rain drops carelessly,
but always happens to hit me.
Reminders of a youthfull time
When the clock stood still, not needing to be rewind.
Water gushing freely, unabide,
Oh what a time it was inside.
Doors were locked,
Keys were tossed.
A continuous pounding of rain dropped.
Reminding me of innocents lost.
Oh rain, sweet rain,
can not wait for our time again.
I may not want a poem about thee.
But the memories you illicit, fills me with glee.
Rain
by Corina Goicuria
Rain, rain, so many poems about rain.
So much so, it drives me insane.
Water so clear and so moist,
Mouth so dry, not by choice.
What is more free?
But water you see.
Rain drops carelessly,
But always happens to hit me.
Reminders of a youthful time,
when the clock stood still; not needing to be rewind.
Water gushing freely, unabide.
Oh what a time, it was inside.
Doors were locked.
Keys were tossed.
A continuous pounding of rain drop,
reminding me of innocents lost.
Oh rain, sweet rain
Cannot wait for our time again.
I may not want it in a poem about thee
but the memories it illicites are a welcomed glee.
Whenever something bad happens have you ever surprised yourself?
Have you ever been “happy” when you should be crying?
Have you ever changed the subject in your mind, with a big fake smile to yourself and a joke?
Well, I have
Have you ever been “happy” when you should be crying?
It is called denial, even though it doesn’t feel like you’re denying it at all
Well, I have
When you find out that what you really want is taken by someone else?
It is called denial, even though it doesn’t feel like you’re denying anything at all
Or, is it that I am blessed by bouncing back briskly?
When you find out that something you really want is taken by someone else?
You start to feel crazy, and gain a sour sense and that is when you realize that you have a problem that you’ve been hiding under a smile and a careless mask
By: Avery Jones
Washington’s Ragtag Crew
By: Avery Jones
Are we anything, but workers?
Working on new lands, for a king an ocean away?
We are not British anymore…We are American!
I am no Virginian anymore…I am an American!
Working on new lands, for a king an ocean away?
we rebel
I am no Virginian anymore… I am an American!
We rebel together
We rebel
when they force tax on us colonies, without our consent
We rebel together
But the king will not accept that
We’ve rounded up militia-ready on a minute’s notice
grab their weapons and take arm
sharpshooters creep through those woods, bountiful with trees!
slowly…this is strange ground for the King’s defenders
We’ve rounded up militia- ready on a minutes notice
Farmers, and blacksmiths versus the most intimidating army in the world
sharpshooters creep through those woods, bountiful with trees!
Shoot those who want to suck the liberty out of America
Farmers, and blacksmiths versus the most intimidating army in the world
And America prevails! Freedom is ours
Shoot those who want to suck the liberty out of America
It started with Washington’s ragtag militia- giving it’s life for an independent America
Books
I found my friends on tall bookshelves
Not flesh and blood but paper, ink,
They came to life, my other selves
They gave me courage, made me think
Not flesh and blood but paper, ink,
I checked them out and took them home.
They gave me courage, made me think,
Inside four walls, they let me roam.
I checked them out and took them home,
And read them hiding in my bed
Inside four walls, they let me roam
Where my imagination led.
I read them hiding in my bed,
By moon and stars or candlelight.
Where my imagination led,
I journeyed every night.
By moon and stars or candlelight,
They came to life, my other selves
I journeyed farther every night.
I found my friends on tall bookshelves.
Nancy, this is simply brilliant.
Pantoum: Where have we gone?
By Deborah Burke
Where have we all gone,
Dear President and Congress?
All of us human, but what have we done?
Greedy for more, unhappy with less
Dear President and Congress,
you are human, like me,
greedy for more, more, never less
fighting and gunning and blaspheming, see?
You are human like me, thinking
What you do doesn’t matter that much
Fighting, gunning, blaming, blaspheming
Each other and we blaming you for such
A state we are in. What we do does matter
Matters so much, each thought, each word, each act
We blame you for the consequences that tatter
Our every hope, our every wish. This fact
Has us afraid you—we—are losing our humanity
Where have we all gone?
Power and greed consuming us, destroying kindness and sanity
All of us human, but what have we done?
She was gone now, but she didn’t ever leave
She stayed there, in that place, their house
The yards empty now, quieted by leaves
Bedrooms reliquaries for things – shoes, blouse
She stayed there, in that place, their house
Haunting him over breakfast, coffee and toast
He’d sometimes escape, go to their old boathouse
But she’d follow him, his beloved ghost
Haunting him over breakfast, coffee and toast
He’d talk to her, converse in hushed tones
Remind her of their times on their boat on the coast
Show her, on the sill, their collection of beach stones
He’d talk to her, converse in hushed tones
About how he loved her still, how she quelled his fears
How he still felt her, on his skin, his lips, in his bones
Even though she’d been dead for some eighteen years
REUNION
Longing could not make it so:
a dream of passion long deferred,
the vision owned my mind, although
I always knew it was absurd.
A dream of passion long deferred
fixed fast within my soul and heart.
I always knew it was absurd;
too long had we been far apart.
Fixed fast within my soul and heart,
the vision owned my mind, although
too long had we been far apart.
Longing could not make it so.
William Preston
Love this! So wistful…
Thank you. It was inspired by your three-stanza effort, and made me wonder if the form could work well in only two.
Kiss my poetry
Kiss my poetry, why don’t you?
Do not care for your critique.
My triolets and my haikus
are well liked in Mozambique.
Do not care for your critique.
Put away that bad review.
I’m well liked in Mozambique
and quite famous in Perú.
Put away that bad review.
My triolets and my haikus
are quite famous in Perú.
Kiss my poetry, why don’t you?
(c) Jacqueline Hallenbeck
JLMILL
ODE TO A LIFE
His love for life was just,
With his family by his side,
He lived his life far and wide.
He was able to fulfill his list,
Through love and strife,
For the wishes of his family,
And that of his loving wife.
As he left for work each day,
The Lord carried him through,
Guiding each step and way,
Over the ocean he flew.
Every dream was fulfilled,
As he finalized his life,
It was all coming true,
What he worked longed and
Dreamed for he finally knew.
His love for life was just that, and more,
He leaves his memories now, and all his love,
He is up in the heavens now soaring, as a dove.
His love for life was just this, there is a difference now.
He is better than he was, now is made new.
Living in the heavens as he wanted to.
Vernal Reel
Of lupine’s hues, violets, whites, and pinks reach
cradling the sky’s curve stretching sweet time,
steadfast as morning, the spring unfolding each
tender greenly growing line in perennial rhyme,
cradling the sky’s curve stretching sweet time
with tall true stems, nature’s backbone, one
tender greenly growing line in perennial rhyme,
tugging the fields and my heart undone
with tall true stems, nature’s backbone, one
of lupine’s hues, violets, whites, and pinks reach
tugging the fields and my heart undone
steadfast as morning, the spring unfolding each.
Sara Ramsdell
“Celebrities as deities”
When George Burns played God—do you remember?
The world turned to hijinks, wonder and sparks.
But maybe God is really John Denver
though my reverence bows to Harpo Marx.
The world turned to hijinks, wonder and sparks—
hail the intent, string-plucking demiurge!
Though my reverence bows to Harpo Marx,
As likely, God grins as Whoopi Goldberg.
Hail the intent, string-plucking demiurge:
scrawls in subways proselytize for Clapton.
As likely, God grins as Whoopi Goldberg,
merry all over captain of captains.
Scrawls in subways proselytize for Clapton,
for Bird, Monk, Fox, Holiday and U2.
Mary Oliver, captain of captains,
creation praising creation, I pray
for bird, monk, fox, holiday and you, too.
When George Burns played God—do you remember?
Creation praising creation! I pray—
but maybe God is really John Denver.
Very clever!
Wonderful, though personally I think God is really Buster Keaton.
A Change of Hometown Attitude
I couldn’t wait to get away
from my hometown, a bore,
nothing to do all day
but cruise at the shore.
From my hometown, a bore,
we headed for the beach
to cruise at the shore
car-to-car a beer-pass reach.
We headed for the beach
at sun’s first spring show,
car-to-car a beer-pass reach
sometimes fast, sometimes slow.
Now sun’s first spring show – -
a State Fair, the school year’s end.
Sometimes fast, sometimes slow,
I embrace my hometown friends.
Sometimes fast, sometimes slow
but something to do each day,
now I embrace my hometown friends;
I once couldn’t wait to get away.
Vigil
If only I could go to sleep,
now that my limbs begin to shake.
So weary now that I could weep,
I force myself to stay awake.
Now that my limbs begin to shake,
my heart, a caged beast in my chest,
I force myself to stay awake
and still press on, postponing rest.
My heart, a caged beast in my chest,
against my hollow ribs it pounds.
I still press on, postponing rest;
My eardrums throb with silence sounds.
My eyelids weigh a thousand pounds,
So tired now that I could weep.
My eardrums throb with silence sounds.
If only I could go to sleep.
Knock on Wood
“Luck is believing you’re lucky.” ~Tennessee Williams
We rub lamps to conjure genies.
Some magic’s what we wish we had
while we sip our dry martinis,
while cursing out our luck turned bad.
Some magic’s what we wish we had.
We knock on cherry, maple, oak,
while cursing out our luck turned bad.
The gods of fortune, we invoke.
We knock on cherry, maple, oak.
We wish on four-leaf clovers, and
the gods of fortune, we invoke.
We pay our seers. Cash in hand.
We wish on four-leaf clovers, and
we rub lamps to conjure genies.
We pay our seers. Cash in hand,
while still sipping dry martinis.
###
The last to know
Don’t think that you can hide from me
inside that fancy metaphor.
Your heart is always plain to see,
your poet soul an open door.
Inside that fancy metaphor
you spell out more than you could know,
your poet soul an open door –
sometimes a writer is so slow!
You spell out more than you could know
no matter what you’re thinking of.
Sometimes a writer is so slow,
I’m waiting patiently, my love.
No matter what you’re thinking of
your heart is always plain to see.
I’m waiting patiently, my love;
don’t think that you can hide from me!
Andrew Kreider
A DREAM OF ROUNDUP
In the old bunkhouse, imagine this dance.
Cowdogs and ranch-hands, and here’s the old ram.
So choose your strange partner, let’s take a chance.
A heifer’s two-stepping just like a lamb,
cowdogs and ranch-hands, and here’s the old ram,
boots stamp and hooves click and paws all around,
a heifer’s two-stepping just like a lamb –
floorboards are like to end up on the ground.
Boots stamp and hooves click and paws all around,
cow-bell and spur-jingle, bark for the band,
floorboards are like to end up on the ground,
allemand left, what a right-and-left grand!
Cow-bell and spur-jingle, bark for the band –
in the old bunkhouse imagine this dance!
Allemand left, what a right-and-left grand!
So choose your strange partner, let’s take a chance.
Crossed Off
A list of the lost,
kindness, and a clipboard.
Names to cross off.
Dollars to account for.
Kindness and a clipboard.
Meth rot and a gun.
Dollars to account for.
Nowhere to place the son.
Meth rot and a gun.
A list of all the lost.
Nowhere to place the son.
Another name crossed off.
Kelli Simpson
Supersize Me
There’s nothing wrong with a bit of blubber –
skin and bones won’t keep you warm at night.
I’m quite happy to be termed a chubber,
skinny people look a dreadful fright.
Skin and bones won’t keep you warm at night,
my man likes having extra bits to squeeze.
Skinny people look a dreadful fright.
My spare tyres he likes to tickle and tease.
My man likes having extra bits to squeeze,
especially around my bum and thighs.
My spare tyres he likes to tickle and tease,
says he loves my sexy curvy size.
Especially around my bum and thighs
he likes to see flesh wobble like jelly,
says he loves my sexy curvy size
as he kisses my rather rounded belly.
He likes to see flesh wobble like jelly,
I’m quite happy to be termed a chubber.
As he kisses my rather rounded belly,
there’s nothing wrong with a bit of blubber.
Preparation
Poised at the mirror, much engrossed,
he practices his shiny smile.
His feigned humility is boast,
as he perfects a polished guile.
He practices his shiny smile
again with every face he meets.
As he perfects a polished guile,
he hides his heart, one of his feats.
Again with every face he meets,
a chance is wasted to be true.
He hides his heart, one of his feats—
Who knows what he may think or do?
A chance is wasted to be true:
he feels it in his sinking gut.
Who knows what he may think or do?
His life is in a savage rut.
He feels it in his sinking gut,
poised at the mirror, much engrossed.
His life is in a savage rut;
his feigned humility is boast.
Finding Peace at a Dance Convention
Hidden in the trees – -
a throne for birds, a nest
splashing color in the leaves,
scratchy branches tickle chests.
A throne for birds, a nest
treasures hidden – - HoNeYbEEs!
Scratchy branches tickle chests
refreshment in the breeze.
Treasures hidden – - HoNeYbEEs!
Knotty boles to climb and rest
refreshment in the breeze
enduring storms, steadfast.
Knotty boles to climb and rest
glowing crowns of evergreen
enduring storms, steadfast
love’s arboretum – - RefUgEEs(Zz)!
glowing crowns of evergreen
splashing color in the leaves
love’s arboretum – - RefUgEEs(Zz)!
hidden in the trees.
When The Time comes
Within my soulful well
several sides of me convene,
to push out on dawning’s swell
the porter of a scene.
Several sides of me convene,
until a fleeting wind rocks
the porter of a scene
to answer time’s knock.
Until a fleeting wind rocks
the maid of a firm trait
to answer time’s knock,
carries on with easy gait.
The maid of a firm trait
most moved by the call,
carries on with easy gait
and with extraordinary gall.
Most moved by the call:
the driver of a cart,
and with extraordinary gall
delivers me, in part.
The driver of a cart,
within my soulful well
delivers me, in part
to push out on dawning’s swell
Knock Wood
Fire, plague or for common good
or to prevent some calamity,
and amend our misfourtune, knocking wood
will help to preserve our sanity.
In the event of calamity
there’s only one thing we can do
that helps to preserve our sanity,
touch or knock wood (or bamboo).
It is true, the one thing we can do
if we do not want a catastrophe
touch or knock wood (or bamboo)
to stall pain or sorrow or bankruptcy.
We don’t want some kind of catastrophe
fire, plague or something not good.
So stop pain or sorrow or bankruptcy;
to amend all misfortune: knock wood.
Diana Terrill Clark
When You Need a Bit of Luck
Knock on wood
when you wish for luck,
be good,
don’t be a schmuck.
When you wish for luck
find a four leaf clover,
don’t be a schmuck,
don’t roll over.
Find a four leaf clover,
a lucky penny will do,
don’t roll over
wear something blue!
A lucky penny will do
when you are in a pinch
wear something blue
never give an inch.
When you are in a pinch
be good,
never give an inch
knock on wood.
Michelle Hed
Winter Ends
Whites, ghost grays and stark blacks
Pennsylvanian winter
Iced-over river cracks
Icicles drop, splinter
Pennsylvanian winter
Trees bold black silhouettes
Icicles drop, splinter
Ill-tempered gray-cloud threats
Trees bold black silhouettes
Snow crunches underfoot
Ill-tempered gray cloud threats
Coal fires scatter soot
Snow crunches underfoot
Wet cold chills to the bones
Coal fires scatter soot
Crows caw in raucous tones
Wet cold chills to the bones
Icy stream struggles free
Crows caw in raucous tones
Earth and sun disagree
Icy stream struggles free
Days begin to grow long
Earth and sun disagree
Spring sings its hopeful song
Days begin to grow long
Buds slyly form anew
Spring sings its hopeful song
Grass and tulips pokes through
Buds slyly form anew
Sky blues and greens replace
Grass and tulips pokes through
Waters quicken their pace
Sky blues and greens replace
Whites, ghost grays and stark blacks
Waters quicken their pace
Iced-over river cracks
“Return to me”
Return to me beside the rise
of our stormed woes,
We, now snowy owl wise,
etched within the delicate prose
of our stormed woes.
Come tame these tarnished tears
etched within the delicate prose.
Return to me, now our silver years.
Come tame these tarnished tears.
It’s love we chose.
Return to me, now our silver years
etched in delicate prose.
GATHERING
What secret did he bring back home?
As doctors close their files, Thanksgiving Eve,
oak leaves turn to golden; misty foam
over Rapids River, waters rush to leave
as doctors close their files. Thanksgiving Eve,
she stuffed the turkey, made a centerpiece.
Over rapids, river waters rush to leave,
leaping the falls that tumble without cease.
She stuffed the turkey, made a centerpiece.
He parked his car, walked past the door,
leaping the falls that tumble without cease,
out of his life, perhaps, its worn-out core.
He parked his car, walked past the door
that opens on tomorrow. Unknown day
out of his life. Perhaps its worn-out core
is water down the current, ocean’s way
that opens on tomorrow. Unknown day –
what secret did he bring back home
is water down the current, ocean’s way.
Oak leaves turn to golden, misty foam.
I’m spellbound. I aspire to reach your level of amazing. Truly, I just love your work.
Yearning Time
We used to be as one
My youth and I existed
My time here isn’t done
Though spine is stiff and twisted
My youth and I existed
Years later do I yearn
Though spine is stiff and twisted
My heart it beats and burns
Years later do I yearn
Her touch it brought me joy
My heart it beats and burns
Her smile playful and coy
Her touch it brought me joy
We used to be as one
Her smile playful and coy
My time here isn’t done.
Stuck
By Michelle Pond
The storm hits
with two fists
Traffic sits
Windows mist
With two fists,
hold the wheel
Windows mist
View concealed
Hold the wheel
the storm hits
View concealed
Traffic sits
WHERE YOU LIE
As twilight skitters from the sky
Constellations contrive their design
And I am drawn to where it is you lie
To breathe deep, rest, and realign
Constellations contrive their design
While I draw strength from you
To breathe deep, rest, and realign
Beside your grave I lie now too
While I draw strength from you
All worry falls away and peace arrives
Beside your grave I lie now too
With each breath, it’s as if you survive
All worry falls away and peace arrives
As twilight skitters from the sky
With each breath, it’s as if you survive
And I am drawn to where you lie
Sinkhole
Everything is sinking, about to collapse.
My eighteen-year-old dining room table
which my sister fixed with plastic tie wraps;
wish she could fix me, for I am now disabled.
My eighteen-year-old dining room table.
Boy! What a difference. You should see it now.
Wish she could fix me, for I am now disabled.
There must be a way we could fix me somehow…
Boy! What a difference. You should see it now.
The side of the mattress my husband sleeps on.
There must be a way we could fix me somehow…
Send in the fix-all, repair-all caravan.
The side of the mattress my husband sleeps on.
A man was swallowed into the earth while he slept.
Send in the fix-all, repair-all caravan.
There are things we can deal with and those we can’t accept.
A man was swallowed into the earth while he slept.
I miss walking the streets without a care.
There are things we can deal with and those we can’t accept.
We must get off our knees after each prayer.
I miss walking the streets without a care.
I cling to hope, that things will change… perhaps,
but I get off my knees after each prayer,
for everything is sinking, about to collapse.
(c) Jacqueline Hallenbeck
* Second entry of the same piece (change on the last stanza)
Sinkhole
Everything is sinking, about to collapse.
My eighteen-year-old dining room table
which my sister fixed with plastic tie wraps;
wish she could fix me, for I am now disabled.
My eighteen-year-old dining room table.
Boy! What a difference. You should see it now.
Wish she could fix me, for I am now disabled.
There must be a way we could fix me somehow…
Boy! What a difference. You should see it now.
The side of the mattress my husband sleeps on.
There must be a way we could fix me somehow…
Send in the fix-all, repair-all caravan.
The side of the mattress my husband sleeps on.
A man was swallowed into the earth while he slept.
Send in the fix-all, repair-all caravan.
There are things we can deal with and those we can’t accept.
A man was swallowed into the earth while he slept.
I miss walking the streets without a care.
There are things we can deal with and those we can’t accept.
We must get off our knees after each prayer.
I miss walking the streets without a care.
Wish my sis could fix me with plastic tie wraps.
We must get off our knees after each prayer
for everything is sinking, about to collapse.
(c) Jacqueline Hallenbeck
Wishing star
Through the branches, outstretched,
like glittering gold in a sifting pan;
their effervescence forever etched
upon the sky where light began.
Like glittering gold in a sifting pan,
our dreams we cast to unknown heights;
upon the sky where light began,
we watch for signs into the night.
Our dreams we cast to unknown heights,
their effervescence forever etched,
as we watch for signs into the night,
through the branches, outstretched.
Amy Glamos
Wow! Tight development in only three stanzas, and such beauty in the lines. I especially like “upon the sky where light began.”
Irises by Van Gogh
Even in madness, beauty can be found.
Van Gogh found it in asylum gardens.
From this, his masterpiece emerged, unbound:
an anodyne of blue-purple pardons.
Van Gogh found it in asylum gardens,
influenced by Japanese woodblock art:
an anodyne of blue-purple pardons
and vibrancy-filled brushes touched his heart.
Influenced by Japanese woodblock art,
black outlines made expressive this flower
and vibrancy-filled brushes touched his heart,
transporting him from his lonely tower.
Black outlines made expressive this flower.
Van Gogh’s madness created such splendor,
transporting him from his lonely tower.
A thread of hope, no matter how slender.
Van Gogh’s madness created such splendor.
Even in madness, beauty can be found.
A thread of hope, no matter how slender.
From this, his masterpiece emerged, unbound.
###
Wordy
So, I consider myself scribacious.
That’s a fancy word meaning, ‘likes to write.’
And when I write, I’m often loquacious,
which means wordy, effusive and …well…trite.
So… a fancy word meaning, ‘likes to write.’
How ‘bout raconteur? (A storyteller,
but one who’s wordy, effusive and trite.)
Well, I’m ALL those things. And a good speller.
Yep, a raconteur, a storyteller
and maybe throw in a poetaster.
Well, I’m ALL those things. And a good speller.
Heck, I am such a scribacious master.
But certainly, I’m a poetaster,
a rhymester and a versifier. True.
Heck, I am such a scribacious master.
Although, perhaps…it’s just my point of view.
A rhymester and a versifier? True.
So, I consider myself scribacious
although, perhaps…it’s just my point of view.
See? When I write, I’m often loquacious.
###
‘You’re an Idiot’ is NOT an Idiom
Somehow, they have to make the grade,
but their bored adolescent faces
and wandering minds have strayed,
SO not caring if their modifier displaces.
And so another pencil ends erases.
Torturing all elements of creative writing,
they’re not seeing where a comma misplaces
while leaving giggling oxymorons fighting.
First one rhyme, then another,
using metaphors to persuade,
I now sound like MY mother.
Well played cliché. Well played.
YIKES! Too fast on the draw, I copied the wrong one. (Ironic.)
Here is the version I intended to submit:
‘You’re an Idiot’ is NOT an Idiom
Somehow, they have to make the grade,
but their bored adolescent faces
and wandering minds have strayed,
SO not caring if their modifier displaces.
And so another pencil ends erases.
Torturing all elements of creative writing,
they’re not seeing where a comma misplaces
while leaving giggling oxymorons fighting.
First one rhyme, then reciting,
using metaphors to persuade,
Like MY mother, I’m inciting.
Well played cliché, well played.
Double YIKES, YIKES! Upon deeper inspection, it appears that I should have repeated entire LINES – not just the rhyme pattern. Hmmm…. another version begins to fester.
SHE DREAMS
Beyond the window frame she dreams;
rolling hills and colors rainbow-like,
a rabbit hole to slide down magically
escaping middle age within her life.
Rolling hills and colors rainbow-like
a filly galloping in verdant fields
escaping middle age within her life:
relive those younger days more recklessly.
A filly galloping in verdant fields
forever like a child energized, able to
relive those younger days more recklessly;
enlightened cosmos, everlasting warmth.
Forever like a child energized, able to
laugh and play and love the whole day through.
Enlightened cosmos, everlasting warmth,
oblivious to golden years so insecure.
Laugh and play and love the whole day through,
a rabbit hole to slide down magically.
Oblivious to golden years so insecure,
beyond the window frame she dreams.
Very uplifting. Than k you.
The First Minutes
She starts a pot of fresh coffee
The first arrivals of the day
She’s not ready for their money
The quiet morning slips away
The first arrivals of the day
He sits silently in his chair
The quiet morning slips away
Reciting his lonely prayer
He sits silently in his chair
She starts a pot of fresh coffee
Reciting his lonely prayer
She’s not ready for their money
She Said
She said, “Pick up your goddamned pen and write.
Let those little black words march along.
Be they little ants creeping, or birdies in flight.
Give them legs, give them wings—oh, come on!
“Let those little black words march along.
Let ink bleed black, let it cover the page.
Give them legs, give them wings—oh, come on!
Fear not, little one. Leave your cage.
“Let ink bleed black, let it cover the page,
Leech that poison from your hollowed bones.
Fear not, little one. Leave your cage,
And fly far from the shackles of prose.
“Leech that poison from your hollowed bones,
Let the freedom of structure be wind under wing,
And fly far from the shackles of prose.
Let those little words overtake every thing.
“Let the freedom of structure be wind under wing.”
She said, “Pick up your goddamned pen and write.
Let those little words overtake every thing,
Be they little ants creeping, or birdies in flight.”
STEPPING IN
Today’s the day he will step in
No matter what the cost might be
When they gang up and she can’t win
He’ll stand with her and then they’ll see
No matter what the cost might be
When kicks and punches start to fly
He’ll stand with her and then they’ll see
Forget the bruises or black eyes
When kicks and punches start to fly
They’ll stand as one and not back down
Forget the bruises or black eyes
Together they’ll fight off every clown
No matter what the cost might be
When they gang up and she can’t win
He’ll stand with her and then they’ll see
Today’s the day he will step in
Lament to the Shadows
She waits under cover of darkness,
undeserving of the sun’s luster.
Her form that of a withering carcass;
no will remains to muster.
Undeserving of the sun’s luster,
she contemplates her moral blunder.
No will remains to muster
these idyllic boundaries, torn asunder.
She contemplates her moral blunder,
regret tainting all that has transpired.
These idyllic boundaries, torn asunder
for the sake of one admired.
Regret tainting all that has transpired,
a letter of scarlet she now will bear;
for the sake of one admired,
all hope of love she will forswear.
A letter of scarlet she now will bear
as she waits under cover of darkness.
All hope of love she will forswear,
her form that of a withering carcass.
Amy Glamos
HIGH LARK
A lark in the sky
with a song in the air
finds his peace by and by;
he is home up there
with a song in the air.
He flies far and free:
he is home up there.
Just happy to be,
he flies far and free
in his quest for his mate;
just happy to be
neither early nor late.
In his quest for his mate
he explores with a song
neither early nor late;
so sweet yet so strong.
He explores with a song;
finds his peace, by and by.
So sweet, yet so strong:
a lark in the sky.
William Preston
So light and free… very nice.
Many thanks
My Poetic Secrets (Now Everyone Knows)
I just can’t write a villanelle,
Sestinas make me queasy.
Sonnets send me to metered hell.
Who said that writing was easy?
Sestinas make me queasy
With their strictly fashioned style.
Who said that writing was easy?
My mood is growing more hostile.
With their strictly fashioned style
Poetic forms just make me curse.
My mood is growing more hostile.
I miss the freedom of free verse.
Poetic forms just make me curse.
Sonnets send me to metered hell.
I miss the freedom of free verse.
I just can’t write a villanelle.
Hi, Mary…. thanks for the giggles.
Marvelously funny!
Thanks! I have to admit, I always loved the irony of complaining about writing in form by writing in form
This is a variation that employs no rhyme scheme, as featured at Poetic Bloomings. I’ll have to write a new rhyming one for the contest. Thanks for the opportunity, Robert!
Knitting Pantoums
It sounds like something I should knit.
I don’t know how
to knit a pair of pantoums.
It has me in stitches.
I don’t know how
my pantoums slipped off.
It has me in stitches.
Should I pick up and purl?
My pantoums slipped off
Don’t needle me.
Should I pick up and purl?
Just cast off?
Don’t needle me,
or I’ll unravel.
Just cast off.
Yarn over.
Rules or no, this has me in stitches too. Thanks very much.
Yep…I’m in stitches too!
DEATH WAITS
As the darkling death crouches patiently on your bed
In the twilit dimness, he seems well prepared to wait
One wonders what thoughts flit through your head
Night wears on, your life wears out – does it feel too late
In the twilit dimness, death seems well-prepared to wait
A perfect example of the reputed ‘time for all things’
Night wears on, your life wears out – does it feel too late
Or as if at any moment you might sprout wings
A perfect example of the reputed ‘time for all things’
Your breath grows shallower as dawn nears
Do you feel as if at any moment you might sprout wings
Death moves in closer, surprisingly bringing few fears
Your breath grows shallower as dawn nears
Do you feel as if at any moment you might sprout wings
Death moves in closer, surprisingly bringing few fears
A perfect example of the reputed ‘time for all things’.
Winter Nights
Winter nights are the quietest.
Empty of the sound of cicada hum
and birds not out til morning.
I have missed the circle of you.
Empty of the sound of cicada hum,
the white snow still falling,
I have missed the circle of you
filling these empty arms.
The white snow still falling
over the tall birch limbs, snow
filling these empty arms,
like ice blossoms, pale as stars.
Over the tall birch limbs, snow.
I am empty, a half-gleam that exists
like ice blossoms, pale as stars,
in the garden in which you vanish.
I am empty. A half-gleam exists
and birds not out til morning.
In the garden in which you vanish,
winter nights are the quietest.
Sara Dailey
SILENT SPRING, SIXTY YEARS LATER
Will warblers come again to play in trees
as years go rolling on, from spring to spring?
These days, the winter’s slowly seizing freeze
segues to summer’s scorching rendering
as years go rolling on. From spring to spring,
it seems the mild of Maytime fails to linger;
segues to summer’s scorching rendering;
and autumn barely deigns to lift a finger,
it seems. The mild of Maytime fails to linger
as summer hurries past the equinox;
and autumn barely deigns to lift a finger,
rebuts the need for cold, as if a pox.
As summer hurries past the equinox
these days, the winter’s slowly seizing freeze
rebuts the need for cold, as if a pox.
Will warblers come again, to play in trees?
William Preston
‽Obscure Punctuation‽
Obscure punctuation is really cool.
It’s too bad it’s fallen into disuse.
Can’t remember it being taught in school,
but maybe the concept’s just too abstruse.
It’s too bad it’s fallen into disuse.
Speech shouldn’t be all asepticism
but maybe the concept’s just too abstruse,
like the Doubt Point (healthy skepticism.)
Speech shouldn’t be all asepticism,
like I said. So here’s a small list of marks
like the Doubt Point (healthy skepticism)
which could seriously aid story arcs.
So, like I said, here’s a small list of marks:
the ElRey Point, Exclamation Comma,
(which could seriously aid story arcs)
and Interrobang, for lots of drama.
The ElRey Point, Exclamation Comma,
the SarcMark, starred Asterism, Love Joint
and Interrobang (for lots of drama)
make written words come alive. That’s my point.
So, SarcMark, starred Asterism, Love Joint?
Obscure punctuation is really cool,
make written words come alive. That’s my point.
Can’t remember it being taught in school.
###
I love this, RJ!
Twelve to fifteen hours a day
searching for signs of life.
She’s fiercely loyal and she won’t stray
amongst rubble, chaos and strife.
Searching for signs of life,
as part of a rescue team;
amongst rubble, chaos and strife,
she stays patient, happy and keen.
As part of a rescue team,
many have called her a hero.
She stays patient, happy and keen
as she works here at Ground Zero.
Many have called her a hero;
she’s fiercely loyal and she won’t stray
as she works here at Ground Zero,
twelve to fifteen hours a day.
Ruth Gibson
AT THE SPRING HAWK WATCH
As homing hawks parade across the sky,
ascending high on rivers in the air,
they kiss with life the land they overfly
and follow north the streams to everywhere.
Ascending high on rivers in the air,
they gaze ahead, beyond the curving earth
and follow north the streams to everywhere;
to breeding grounds, and feasts of cycling birth.
They gaze ahead, beyond the curving earth;
with trusting wings they ride a thermal road
to breeding grounds, and feasts of cycling birth.
My heavy heart feels lightened of its load.
With trusting wings they ride a thermal road;
they kiss with life the land they overfly;
my heavy heart feels lightened of its load
as homing hawks parade across the sky.
William Preston
SPRINGTIME ON THE HILLSIDES
As green erupts across the hills,
the airs assume a different blue
and dance, now freed from winter’s chills;
they too desire a verdant hue.
The airs assume a different blue
as warblers come and migrate by;
they, too, desire a verdant hue,
the better to greet a waking sky.
As warblers come, and migrate by,
they bring with them the southern breeze,
the better to greet a waking sky,
and feed among the reborn trees.
They bring with them the southern breeze
and dance, now freed from winter’s chills,
and feed among the reborn trees
as green erupts across the hills.
William Preston
THE WALK
As bursting buds hasten to free the trees,
I walk a path that I have walked before.
I cherish springtime’s possibilities,
breathing perfumes that she had kept in store.
I walk a path that I have walked before;
I think of when I walked with one I knew,
breathing perfumes that she had kept in store
for times alone, when love is ripe and true.
I think of when I walked with one I knew;
I dream of times of promise yet to come;
for times alone, when love is ripe and true,
are times of joy permitted but to some.
I dream of times of promise yet to come;
I cherish springtime’s possibilities.
Are times of joy permitted but to some
as bursting buds hasten to free the trees?
William Preston
Helping Hands
She was excited to be here
practically dancing where she stood
afraid if she blinked, it would disappear
this chance to do some good.
Practically dancing where she stood
she peaked into the room
this chance to do some good
to save them from the gloom.
She peaked into the room
where she would pack the food
to save them from the gloom,
to feed a hungry brood.
Where she would pack the food
she was ready to lend a hand
to feed a hungry brood,
to wipe hunger from their land.
We went when she was six
afraid if she blinked, it would disappear
helping others who were in a fix
she was excited to be here.
Eclectic Serenity (A Pantoum)
Quite depends upon the occasion
what thing will do the fix,
a mathematical equation
to work out all the ticks.
What thing will do the fix
when you need a bit of peace
to work out all the ticks
you might take a repairing lease.
When you need a bit of peace
I quite enjoy a cup of tea,
you might take a repairing lease
by lounging by the sea.
I quite enjoy a cup of tea,
the quite whispers of the breeze
by lounging by the sea,
though sometimes I tickle the ivories.
The quite whispers of the breeze
sooths my frantic soul,
though sometime I tickle the ivories
or take a little stroll.
Sooths my frantic soul
just to hold your hand in mine
or take a little stroll
also works just fine.
Just to hold your hand in mine,
close my eyes to thoughts –
also works just fine
to loosen all the knots.
Close my eyes to thoughts
a mathematical equation
to loosen all the knots
quite depends upon the occasion.
Michelle Hed
I learned the pantoum form without end-rhymes, which is how most modern pantoums are written. Thus, my pantoums may not qualify, but I’m pretty happy with them anyway:
The Forest of Her
“I see people, but they look like trees walking”
~the healed blind man to Jesus, book of Mark
“I crave an intimacy too private to speak of,
truly one must close one’s eyes to see.”
~Marvin Bell
Perhaps, after all, we should embrace our darkness
for that Bible story may have had things wrong.
Like knowledge, a little sight can be dangerous,
for he once was blind, but even now he can’t see.
That Bible story may have had things wrong:
the poor man cannot now recognize his own wife.
He once was blind, but even now he can’t see
the length of her hair and her particular gait.
That poor man cannot now recognize his own wife
by sight. He knows her only by her scent,
the length of her hair, and her particular gait:
the faithful whisper of air moving
slightly, lifting from her to him her scent
as if a secret spoken in darkness.
The faithful whisper of air moving
reveals her in the half-light of half-sight.
As if a secret spoken in darkness,
her body grows mysterious roots.
Revealed, in the half-light of half-sight,
the leaves of hair, her branching arms—
her body grown mysterious. Roots
and limbs tangle, quaking the shadowy
leaves of hair. Her branching arms
catch him like a weary bird at day’s end.
His limbs tangle, quaking in the shadowy
places of her body. The familiar forest of her
catches him like a weary bird. At day’s end
he closes his eyes and finds his way
around her body—the familiar forest of her
like knowledge. A little sight can be dangerous,
so he closes his eyes and finds his way
for perhaps, after all, we should embrace our darkness.
________________
On the Road from Jerusalem
I would recognize any one of them anywhere now,
that band of thieves who surrounded and attacked me.
I memorized every one of their faces
and knew it was more than my money they wanted.
That band of thieves who surrounded and attacked me
on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho
knew it was more than my money they wanted:
they are his clothes that give a man away.
On the road from Jerusalem to Jericho
I lay wounded and naked in a roadside ditch.
They are his clothes that give a man away:
it’s easy to recognize a priest by his robes—
I lay wounded and naked in a roadside ditch
and that man passed to the other side of the road.
It’s easy to recognize a priest by his robes:
for yet another man was traveling that day, as well,
and that man passed to the other side of the road,
but not before I could fully see his face.
Yet another man was traveling that day, as well:
he looked down at me and gave me his hand
before I could fully see his face.
Me, naked and shivering in a ditch and
he looked down at me and gave me his hand,
lifted me up and covered me with his own blanket.
Me, naked and shivering in a ditch, and
there were three men who passed that way: the third
lifted me up and covered me with his own blanket,
the second was a Levite, the first, a priest— religious men.
There were three men who passed that way. The third
was a Samaritan—my supposed enemy. And the other two?
The second was a Levite; the first, a priest—religious men.
Then there was the band of thieves.
A Samaritan—my supposed enemy, and the other two
(I memorized each of their faces),
and then there was the band of thieves.
I would recognize any one of them anywhere now.
Almost As Nearly
If I am dead, then you must be
almost as nearly dead as I;
and I in turn, with dread, can’t flee
from the certain grasp of the sky.
Almost as nearly dead as I,
we both doomed to mortality
from the certain grasp of the sky
for death shows no form of pity.
We both doomed to mortality,
the horseman casting his cold eye,
for death shows no form of pity
in strange aeons, where one must die.
The horseman casting his cold eye,
and I in turn, with dread, can’t flee;
in strange aeons, where one must die,
if I am dead, then you must be.
Death is Close by Colin Dardis
Our deaths are close, the end is near
so the world turns, unstoppable.
The horses loose, buck up and rear
and won’t return to their stable;
so the world turns, unstoppable,
where day and night forever jeer
and won’t return to their stable
with skyline fogged, the stars unclear.
Where day and night forever jeer
as mists of time become fable,
with skyline fogged, the stars unclear,
each soul fading, quite unable.
As mists of times become fable,
the horses loose, buck up and rear;
each soul fading, quite unable,
our deaths are close, the end is near.
Winter Nights
by Sara Dailey
Winter nights are the quietest.
Empty of the sound of cicada hum
and birds not out til morning.
I have missed the circle of you.
Empty of the sound of cicada hum,
the white snow still falling,
I have missed the circle of you
filling these empty arms.
The white snow still falling
over the tall birch limbs, snow
filling these empty arms,
like ice blossoms, pale as stars.
Over the tall birch limbs, snow.
I am empty, a half-gleam that exists
like ice blossoms, pale as stars,
in the garden in which you vanish.
I am empty. A half-gleam exists
and birds not out til morning.
In the garden in which you vanish,
winter nights are the quietest.
Together we soar amongst the stars
His arms are wrapped tightly around me
He covers me slowly with kisses
Caressing my soul with his own.
His arms are wrapped tightly around me
He whispers my name in my ear
Caressing my soul with his own
His touch sets the spark within me aflame.
He whispers my name in my ear
Drawing me closer to him
His touch sets the spark within me aflame
Bringing our love to new heights.
Drawing me closer to him
He covers me slowly with kisses
Bringing our love to new heights
Together we soar amongst the stars.