Face Cord - bits and peices

[RubiDia]

First Frost

Venus shown bright in the morning sky
while the moon hung large
over a suddenly frozen land.
Above the blue of Easter eggs
or mosques, with an
orange tinge to the east,
still dark to the west.

Our old dog frisked
rolling in the frosty grass,
calves bounded along the fence
sheep sat contentedly
their chalked posteriors
signs of active rams.

Later we will curse the dying sun
but this morning
Venus shown bright in the morning sky
while the moon hung large
over a suddenly frozen land.

I'm having trouble with the imagery, but I like everything in it. I think you should rewrite some of this. Just to make it better.

 

[Piscator]

I'm having trouble with the imagery, but I like everything in it. I think you should rewrite some of this. Just to make it better.

Thanks, you may be right, I'm thinking of removing the mosque line.

 

[Piscator]

First warm day of spring and black was in the air

It started with the usual
crows, grackles, starlings,
even the chickadees
were appropriately capped.
Broken up a bit by
a red winged blackbird,
robin and a cardinal.
But in the woods,
early Mourning Cloaks flitted
while a turkey vulture
circled overhead.
Our black dog plunged
into the ice free pond
but the tawny only dabbled,
then both soaked
the bottom of my jeans.
On a nearby clothesline
a little black dress flapped,
as winter’s hair was shorn
from newly silky legs.

 

[Piscator]

The sweetest sign

Vital fluids drip
into the bucket
below.
Corn snow underfoot
a stark landscape
black and white
trees, snow and
shadow.
In the early dawn
our breath clouds
and the air
smells of
woodsmoke
and new maple syrup.
Surely the sweetest
sign of spring!

 

[Piscator]

Talk to me

Talk to me of vineyards
pungent with thyme and basil,
of fireflies, shooting stars,
and long hot summer nights.
For winter has gone on
far too long.

 

[Piscator]

Willow

Willows bend
but seldom break
and when they do
sprout again
renewing the cycle.

I have two twigs
rooted remnants
of spring’s evanescent
passage and
I’m asking you
to plant them.

 

[Piscator]

Sisyphus’ dream

i work hard, Sir
and well, Sir
but you said
'twas not enough.

i worked harder, Sir
still well, Sir
but you said i
'twas not enough.

i worked faster, Sir
and longer, Sir
but not so well, Sir
and my children
forgot my face.
To my distress, Sir
you said that the
quality had dropped
and still 'twas not enough.

i work harder, Sir
still faster, Sir
and wait for the day, Sir
with you behind me, Sir
i step aside, Sir and
let you feel my rock,
mayhaps 'twill be
enough.

 

[Piscator]

Chet

The horse is roaring through his veins
and his nerves are all 220 V DC
as he's caught in the rush.

His face impassive, careful
not to drop ash on perfection
his fingers idly diddle the twat
of the broad stretched across his lap
dark pubic hair belying blond curls.

Aroused by her growing moisture,
his semi-tumescent dick twitches
under her gyrations, leaking
pre or cum or piss; it doesn't matter.

He only hopes the stain won't show
on his white linen trousers
when the cigarette is finished
and he goes out to play the next set.

 

[HarryHill]

Lovely contents in this thread, the spell was broken when gm and mer posted and I rushed to the end to see the latest, For a cover I see an old timey card, elaborate or a weathered number card, red, maybe hearts.

bon chance

ETA: Ah! cord not card

 

[HarryHill]

Thanks, you may be right, I'm thinking of removing the mosque line.

..
excellent idea keeps the images flowing.

 

[Piscator]

A Sonnet Variation for Greta

A Sonnet Variation for Greta

This run of good days is going to end
bad times are coming just around the bend
cash in your chips, there ain’t no tomorrow
future holds only worry and sorrow.

Armageddon of our own creation
as we burn in pyres of self-cremation
caught in words of convenient denial
grasp not the flash of the truthteller’s smile.

Yet from the rubble, a New Deal is made
Fridays for Future, a children’s crusade
as those whose time has come, now realise
elder’s inaction has darkened their skies.

We who’ve failed in our prognostication
pass the torch to a new generationn.​

 

[Piscator]

Help Me Rondeau

The essence of Rondeau is rhyme
as space is circumcised by time,
yet rhyme alone is nor enough
for line and meter can’t be rough
to craft your poem line by line.

The second stanza helps refine
the heart of your poem sublime
and make your lover gasp “hot stuff!”
The essence of Rondeau.

At last to sestet, do we climb
verse which does your poem define
so let not fear your pen handcuff
press on, your scoffers to rebuff.
Now for your opus, bells will chime.
The essence of Rondeau.

 

[Piscator]

My Essential Existential Canoe Tripping List

Cherry paddle I carved a few years ago.
Short portages with good trail, except for
One boggy bit to breed mosquitoes.
Mosquito repellent for said boggy bit.
No motorboats after first portage.
Fair wind and clear sky, except for
One bad day to make the trip real.
One big fish that got away for next year.
Enough fish caught for one supper and one breakfast.
Wild blueberries for pancakes and bannock.
Whippoorwills calling in the evening, followed by.
Wolves howling and Barred Owl calling at night.
One clear night to marvel at stars overhead.
One night with Northern Lights flickering.
One misty morning with loons crying.
A wee dram of Scotch to appreciate the above.
Sufficient bladder capacity to avoid 1:00 a.m. pee.
One new gadget – this year a solar lantern.
Tent and air mattress that don`t leak.
Rain gear that doesn`t leak.
A long portage on return loop, just because.
Years of memories, just because.

 

[Piscator]

Playerless Piano

A poem to accompany "Requiem pour Pianos"

Piano with no one to play
is but a lonely wooden box
silent witness to sad cliché
lonely cousin to long lost socks.

Alone in a derelict room
piano with no one to play
soon will be cloaked by twilight's gloom
amidst chaos, rot and decay.

Yet in Köln, one midwinter day
did Jarret stroke one of your kin
piano with no one to play
revealing the wonder therein

O'er instrument failings arose
a masterpiece so critics say
a concert which everyone knows
piano with no one to play.
​

 

[Piscator]

Whose woods are these?

Whose woods these are I think I know.
They come not from the village though;
From ancient times abided here
Vouchsafed the land through fire and snow.

The other settlers think it queer
To stop a pipe where no town’s near
Between the mountains, sea and lake
In midst of climate crisis year.

They squawk their anger, heads do shake
Vow their livelihood’s at stake.
The only sound, the Mounties’ sweep
Of Indigenes and other flakes.

Though woods stand lovely, dark and deep
There’s much to do before I sleep,
And broken promises to keep,
And broken promises to keep.​

 

[Piscator]

Looking

Looking for a line that’s never been taken
Looking for a story that’s never been told
Looking for some coffee for my lover to awaken
Looking for a passion that will never grow old

Looking for that neverland where all is forgiven
Looking for a soulmate but will settle for a smile
Looking for that time before our ties were riven
Looking for forever but will settle for a while

Looking for some blue sky through clouds of grey
Looking for some potion to make me immune
Looking for an instrument on which I might play
Looking for some notes to make this rhyme a tune

Looking for that neverland where all is forgiven
Looking for a soulmate but will settle for a smile
Looking for that time before our ties were riven
Looking for forever but will settle for a while

Looking for a future where there ai’nt no killing
Looking for a people who know right from wrong
Looking for planet on the right side of chilling
Looking for the time when we come together strong

Looking for that neverland where all is forgiven
Looking for a soulmate but will settle for a smile
Looking for that time before our ties were riven
Looking for forever but will settle for a while

 

[todski28]

http://forum.literotica.com/showpost.php?p=92405757&postcount=41

Not my normal flavour but this sits just right for me, repeating beginning lines normally grate my nerves and I find myself skipping line and leaving the page, but this was written well enough for me to hear an overlay of music, it’s quite the write

 

[Piscator]

Thanks Tod we have different approaches as this avoid Australian bike mechanics image ilustrates but to quote St. Leonard "we try in our way to be true"

P'tor

 

[todski28]

Thanks Tod we have different approaches as this avoid Australian bike mechanics image ilustrates but to quote St. Leonard "we try in our way to be true"

P'tor

I was so proud when I put that bike together,

As to your poem and repeat and rhyme scheme writing, it’s a personal fault, not a fault within the writing, I consider it a defect in my reading repertoire, whenever I enjoy a write from a writer who’s poetry is really good, in a vein that is something I don’t normally like to read and I get to the end of the piece, it’s a good day for me

 

[Piscator]

Lot’s wife

Her name is not given in the Bible
which is perhaps fitting as she was chattel
and Lot named not his goats, sheep or cattle,
although it was rumored that he named his dog.
Besides, it was raining when she turned looking
back on Sodom and was turned to salt, which
all too soon, was one with the earth​

 

[Piscator]

It was Canada Day here yesterday but no official fireworks due to covid-19, although people were setting some off for their kids in backyards.
I'm not sure whats happening south of the border for Independence Day
__________________________________________________________

Tis not a year for fireworks

“And no bird weeping a lament
no bird crying the song of its honey voice
in the leaves of Spring’s many flowers
could outrun him
Pan, in song”

“Hymn to Pan,” The Homeric Hymns

Tis not a year for fireworks, when multitudes lie dying
While those in power obfuscate, fake news betrays their lying
Rue the day when counterfeit pence spouts logic false decrying
That at last the tide has turned with more and younger expiring
As Pontius Trump unmasked washes his hands denying
All blame and then returns to golfing.​

___________________________________________________________

late edit Donald likes fireworks

The Washington Post.

Rocket’s red glare and protests: Trump’s Mount Rushmore fireworks anger tribes

 

[Piscator]

Line of Days

Our calendar marks but a line of days
to set with weeks and months to fill
the passage of time in most tidy ways.

Many might favour the month of May
when blossoms sweet the nose will thrill
our calendar marks but a line of days

Then there’s October, with leaves all ablaze
harvest’s rich bounty and meat on the grill
signing time’s passage in succulent ways.

Some swoon for June and wedding bouquets
and midsummer’s night on a dark forest hill
with calendar midstream in year’s line of days

But I choose December though skies are grey
when Yuletide’s warmth cuts through winter’s chill
and scripts yearend’s passage in most tidy ways.

Once round the circle, ahead new days lay
as together we travel on time’s treadmill
our calendar tracks passage in most tidy ways
till our time is over and so end our days.

 

[Piscator]

Tank

My tank is almost empty
but the next fill in only a
few miles ahead and I
think I’m good for it,

My life is almost empty
though my tank is full
what am I good for it?

 

[Piscator]

Anishinaabewi-gichigami

Every breath might be your last
Look not forward, look not past
Seize the moment hold it fast.

Leave your calendar
for a week without time
on a land marked by eras.

Paddling into the West Wind
the Old Woman breaths deeply
despite our tobacco tokens
waves breaking over our bows
as the swell slowly builds
yet our sturdy kayaks flit
across the swirling water like
water striders on a mill pond.

Casting the Dog River’s mouth
a silver steelhead seizes my lure
to dance atop the water and
add to tomorrow’s breakfast.

Waking up to a sky full of stars
waves murmuring on the beach
dark waters reaching to infinity.

The wind drops to a zephyr
at our back as the Old Woman
sleeps softly and we glide
across sun speckled water
and reluctantly return to
time marked by hours



Memories of a week's kayaking on Lake Superior's North Shore.

 

[Piscator]

A tidbit from a long forgotten journal

The wonder

of waking​

beside you.​

More wonder

to know that​

you bear our child.​