of a son
A more than slightly crazy dabbler, Hair mussed, bedabbled clothes: “I am suffering from andabatism! So I must call someone who knows!” He hastily phoned the dabster: “I've heard you’re one of the pros! Of the dabb; dabchick; daboia- Which has the strongest nose?”
The above poem is my take on d’Verse’s Quadrille challenge #119.
The quadrille is simply a poem of 44 words (excluding the title), and it can take any form. This week’s challenge was to use any form of the word “dab” in a quadrille.
Shackles
Cold Restraining
Chilling Locking Binding
Inescapably bound in place
Cable
Round Connected
Coiling Twisting Looping
Securely wrapping all around
Bracelet
Pretty Shiny
Sparkling Glinting Twinkling
An attractive wrist ornament
Trinket
Tiny Worthless
Hanging Dangling Swinging
Only for sentimental folks
Trifle
Paltry Little
Piddling Trifling Niggling
Utterly worthless minor thing
Fragment
Shattered Pointed
Piercing Cutting Stinging
Greater picture remains hidden
Portion
Lot Separate
Parting Taking Giving
Different for every person
Fortune
Wealthy Elite
Boasting Owning Spending
Far beyond mere security
Plenty
Nice Comforting
Soothing Saving Freeing
Enough for all emergencies
Torrent
Wet Powerful
Gushing Bursting Flooding
Tremendous deluge overcomes all
Outflow
Swift Measured
Streaming Rolling Pounding
Water and language similar
Poem
I’ve been experimenting with various forms of poetry of late, and I came upon the ‘cinquain’. At its core, the ‘cinquain’ is a five line poem. There are, of course, variations; and I settled upon the following rules, as a challenge to myself:
I was immediately struck by the fact that the 5th line of a cinquain (according to the above rules) takes the very same form as the 1st line (i.e. one word, two syllables), which led me to wonder… how many cinquains could I reasonably manage to string together?
My goal, I decided, would be to start with the word ‘shackles’ and somehow get myself to the word ‘poem’.
The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter—’tis the difference between the lightning-bug and the lightning.
–Mark Twain, in a letter to George Bainton (1888)
I'm well aware- I do not have a special way with words. Rather, it seems, words often tend to have their way with me. For instance, I've been crushed by a very large verb herd! Ridiculous? I wonder too! Who on earth set them free? Perhaps it was those rascally lowlife nouns once again. They're always mocking, bullying me with such vicious glee! Though cunning adjectives will wait until I lift my pen, Their accomplice adverbs don't maintain similar patience, Barely restraining themselves even to the count of ten! I've cried when prepositions say I make no godly sense, And directly, sometimes indirectly, articles are crass. Clearly, they aim to wound me with their very worst offense. Alas, these many parts of speech gang up on me en masse. I still shudder to share the very worst of it with you- Never will I forget the day that numeral grabbed my ass! Interjections and determiners oft push their points of view; In short, I have no say at all. They've got me quite subdued.
d’Verse is taking a break for the holidays so there won’t be any prompts for a while…
So I’ll be trying out a few new forms with prompts born of my mind instead!
I considered the idea of responding to prompts from other groups, but d’Verse satisfies my creative curiosity more than well enough – and I don’t want to spend all of my time responding to poetry prompts.
Why? I So cry... Oh, to fly, Oh, to soar sky high! Need I, need I write what comes nigh?
Nigh... Why Get high? Human, I. Nigh, shall my soul fly; Skies pouring forth tears that souls cry.
Cry! Nigh, I'll fly To my Why. Just sweet Why and I, Eulogizing ourselves from high.
High. Cry Shall I When the nigh Night shall arrive. Why Were men given no wings to fly?
Fly High, Dear Why! Will you Cry When the night is nigh? Need you cry for a one like I?
I Fly, Night nigh. Rise up high, Wondering: why cry? Wingless, merely a soul, to Why.
I weep from on high, Fly, raining tears men shall cry, Nigh to join the Why
d’Verse is taking a break for the holidays so there won’t be any prompts for a while…
So I’ll be trying out a few new forms with prompts born of my mind instead!
I considered the idea of responding to prompts from other groups, but d’Verse satisfies my creative curiosity more than well enough – and I don’t want to spend all of my time responding to poetry prompts.
Letters; syllables;
words; verses contain meaning;
seek your own within
Mine inglenook not of this earth Found not in book, nor by the hearth Mine kooginnel it changes form Chooses, refuses to conform Mine negloonki of verses spun Of metaphor and playful pun Mine nielognok for me by me Put simply, it's my poetry
The above poem is my take on d’Verse’s Quadrille challenge #118.
The quadrille is simply a poem of 44 words (excluding the title), and it can take any form. This week’s challenge was to use the word “inglenook” in a quadrille.
