Until recently I hadn’t read any poetry for decades, but it can be very enjoyable and so easy to read when you only have a few minutes to spare. As it’s National Poetry Day today I thought it would be nice to spread the word on Day 4 of #Blogtober18 and give you a few examples of some very different types of poetry. It is my pleasure to share with you work from 3 poets – Colin Sinclair, Pamela Jessen and Capricious Lestrange. I hope you enjoy them.
Colin Sinclair is a published author of a fantasy series and just loves poetry. He has kindly allowed me to share some of his work with you today. He told me “I write it because I love to write it and I can” Here are some of his poems for you to enjoy.
At the hotel on Park Lane at 10:33
I held out my hand for the usual fee.
You called me a bastard, a cheat and a liar.
You spat out the words with venom and fire,
Your face told it all as you crashed through the door,
Your hat and the shoe fell to the floor.
You knew all the rules as we started the game.
We’d agreed them and talked, they were always the same.
I was shocked; I was stunned as you walked out on me.
It’s only a game of Monopoly!
All I am is you
It’s perhaps just an echo of the feelings from then
But I plunge into it with a passion unrestrained.
I reach back and capture the memory of your smile
Creating a feeling that causes my soul to soar.
My hand reaches out to take yours and my heart takes flight,
Skipping and dancing through emotions.
As it did on the very first day we touched
Increasing its intensity through time and sharing.
You have enriched my life beyond understanding
Enhancing my existence as only a true Love can do.
There are no bounds to the depth of my feelings for you
All I am is you.
The moon makes me wistful, it’s so far away yet it’s filled with the dreams and the hopes of the men
and the women who knew that one day, they would walk on its surface, they just didn’t know when
And all those years ago now from when it first happened, we haven’t been back and I worry about why
Does the moon feel left out? Does it ever feel lonely? I wonder if Moons even know how to cry?
It probably thought we were first of the many who would come to pay homage and visit and stay
But after the hoopla and the sciencing was over, we all said goodbye and we rocketed away
Now the Moon overlooks us, and I overlook it and I’m wistfully thinking I’d like to go there
What a joy it would be just to soar in the sky and perhaps see my home as I fly through the air
Imagine my new home where my body could be free of the earthly restrictions I currently feel
My pain would be less as I soar spaceless and free, now that sounds to me like one heck of a deal!
Alas, I don’t think that dream is likely to come true, but I can sure be inspired when I look at the Moon
And one never knows as our science evolves, perhaps someday I might get there, sooner than soon. 🙂
there is always hope
And finally, two from Capricious Lestrange who will also be featured in An Afternoon of Tea and Cake for the Soul very soon. She opts to write prose poems so I asked her to tell me a little bit more about them. “Written in paragraph form, prose poems leave behind the traditional forms of line and verse, while relying on such poetic devices as rhyme, imagery, and parataxis. Prose poems can be as short as a single paragraph to several pages long and have appeared in the Bible and beyond. They were popularized by French symbolists Baudelaire and Bertrand and spread throughout the world.”
Infinity by Eights -For David
Eight years. To some, eight years is a fast tick on a vast clock, blink of a giant’s eye, brushing aside of a crumb. If I could measure out each moment with you, I’d have a lifetime’s sum of love. You fill me with lives lived, possibilities for more. Eternities we’ve experienced and left me wanting more. How could a lifetime be so short, so complete, yet this hunger never slaked? Eight more years I think I’ll stay, and blink and blink again.
In the morning, before her students begin to arrive, you can sometimes hear the velvet tinkle gliding on the air in delicate waves. The notes hold hands like paper dolls; never ending before the next begins. They dance across the cul-de-sac in their ball gowns and tutus. Plié into my living room where I stand mesmerized, dreaming. She has an accent, Russian or Baltic. I sometimes hear as she calls out to the neighbors when she walks her little dog, tiptoes on fragile heels to check her mailbox. She likes primrose pink and black, feminine lines, elegant cuts around thin hips, ample bosom. I imagine her in her prime, concert pianist behind the iron curtain; her aural dancing lulling weary souls in blaring white nights; too mythical for her old Kentucky home.
You may also like to read a recent excerpt and poetry book review of Beware of the Trolls which takes a satirical look at modern life and comes highly recommended as part of my Recommended Reading feature.
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@authorcol @pamjessen @caplestrange