Poetry making

All posts in the Poetry making category

TO RHYME OR NOT TO RHYME

Published June 22, 2024 by Nan Mykel

Image Pinterest by Gabriella Trimble

 

TO RHYME OR NOT TO RHYME?

Aye, that is the potent query.

The problem is that deep felt thoughts

have little patience with theory.

To hold  a thought in obeyance

’til a rhyme offers conveyance

feels sophomoric and needless,

and carves my own rep as heedless.

I confess to a transgression

of our  upright profession

of rigid rules to guide us all

on the straight road of protocol.

________________

PRACTICING

Practicing to rhyme so that I fit in;

prose poems I guess are nearly a sin.

Far be it for me to rock the boat,

so I need to keep mundane verses afloat.

The rude and the crude,

they rhyme every time.

So why did I leave the rhyme

so sublime?

 

 

 

YOU SEE, I CAN NO LONGER KEEP UP…

Published July 25, 2022 by Nan Mykel

…with the young’un bloggers.  I can’t even keep up with mature Diane Ravitch, who’s only a tad younger, it seems.

I’ve stumbled  recently on an exchange of ideas when viewing Diane and Jill Dennison and Keith Wilson that really gets to the nuts and bolts of things, and from many bloggers on the subject.  Maybe Ned Hanson offers such an offering, too.  Or maybe Word Press thought I just needed a change?  Whatever, I’m convinced that all I can offer at this point is an emotional touchstone.  Feelings I have, although rushed by a November election and the question of my own longevity (smile).  (I smile when I know I’m being a little grimmer than called for).

Maybe over a year ago I asked readers to think of jingles–maybe to old tunes–portraying issues of the political heart (though I was less flowery).  Today, after reading again The Moral Ground by Elie Mystal in The Nation, I put a couple of things together: I would try, myself, to do it tho it  receive rejection and avoidance, even ridicule.  Here I go willingly into that space, having already failed at an  I Am a Woman attempt, which you will never see.:

HOW DARE YOU…

….Tell me what to do.

I wear masks for others.

Do you?

 

I don’t invade your heart of hearts

nor presume to know your pain.

Look into my eyes and see

another human same as thee.

 

Those who swallow others’ lies

and betray the Golden Rule

do not attend to their still voice

when push comes around to shove.

 

Painful decisions require clear-eyed guts

not your state’s grotesque intrusions.

Does your God favor laws that plot

to  make me suffer their invasion?

 

Out out, damned spot I say–

Let the freedom of our people

rule the day.

 

 

 

I WENT TO SLEEP LAST NIGHT…

Published July 12, 2022 by Nan Mykel

With Boko Haram on my mind,

in search of a metaphor

for all the craziness in the world

today, and could not find one.

 

I got hung up on “Why do men

hate women,” and “Why care what

someone else believes?”  It

must be genetic.

 

Overpopulation? Whatever happened

to the milk of human kindness?

It soured.

 

I don’t give a snap if

your god is better than mine.

Good for you!

 

nan 2015

FISHING FOR A POEM – Part One

Published February 15, 2021 by Nan Mykel

FISHING FOR A POEM – Part One

 

Drifting, searching shallow and deep

frolicking fish around me leap.

If I’m to find the one that’s right

it must appear sometime tonight.

 

Although there’s a tug on my line,

reeling it up I only find

a plastic milk carton missing

poetry’s sure  thing with a zing.

 

I refuse to bump

Into Donald J. Trump,

the damn demic’s boredom

or Epstein’s whoredom.

 

The waves slap quietly as I row,

while moonlight shines on me below.

But where’s the rhyme for which I search

as in my boat I try to perch?

 

I need to jump in to embrace,

arms open wide so as to taste

the meaty, throbbing of the node

that’ll help my poem to implode.

 

Now in the depths I can see slugs,

worms, loud weeping and coffee mugs.

Tears and water mix together

To make a poem’s sudden weather.

 

Near now!  I can feel it lurking

A little tug, then it perking.

The mind’s eye finds within the pits

the hidden object of my wits.

 

This fine night it appears to be

calling out for me to see.

And there it is, a wooden box

On the bottom, without locks!

 

TO BE CONTINUED

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