The Poet’s Complaint

Once it is written, the magic is gone.
Galaxied dreams become rocks after all;
sky-blazing-brilliant star turns into stone
once it is written. (The magic is gone,
memory sunk. These words, cold and alone,
conjuring mere disillusionment, pall.)
Once it is written, the magic is gone—
galaxied dreams become rocks after all.

 

Playing around with the triolet for Yeah Write’s September poetry slam.

Misguided

She will chain the moon, pull it out
of season. Ice-shadows splinter
with green-breath promise to end drought.
She will chain the moon, pull it out,
strip autumn’s flaming throne to flout
nature’s sleep, hushed healing winter.
She will chain the moon, pull it. Out
of season, ice-shadows splinter…

A painting-inspired triolet for Jane’s weekly challenge.

Unzipped Triolet

If I could just unzip the gray
to find blue seas behind that wall
and perch there, wondering, not afraid—
If I could just unzip the gray,
dive clean in sunlit blue-salt waves,
no fear of drowning heart-hard, small—
If I could just unzip the gray
to find blue seas behind that wall.

Inspired by Margo Roby’s picture prompt, with thanks to Jane for bringing the triolet to my attention.