Thunderstorms

The inspiration for my very first ottava rima (and my last?) is occurring right now and I probably should be powering down rather than typing on, and I can hear people I know say: she just doesn’t show good sense.

While I consider myself a writer, I don’t totally consider myself a poet. I love words and I love the possibility of the musicality of words when rhythm and wordplay exist. However, when words like iambs and feet and meter come up, I, for some reason, hear white noise. I’m still hoping to grow out of it.

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amaranthine #amwriting #dVerse

Visit the underground at dVerse to join in.

amaranthine

manmade stairs
to subterranean cave

damp shroud
of chilled darkness

farther
into the lava tube

murmurs molder

extinguishing light
I present alone

echoes consumed by
volcanic sarcophagi

 

end 5/23/2017

Sascha Darlington

Based on a visit to Lava Beds National Monument located in northeastern California.

Music Lives #amwriting

My first quadrille thanks to the good folks at dVerse. If you want to join in, click on the link and read the instructions.

 


Music Lives

A chord cascades

in quiet

the sound of song

pulses

molding emotions

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Can’t Write Scared

dVerse~ Poets Pub OpenLinkNight #196

 

Can’t Write Scared

At university

the stoned poet said

“you can’t write scared”–

I continued

each word precisely penned

attuned to imaginary readers

whose lips curled derisively

on occasional lapses

of censorship.

I was an egg

concealed in a flimsy shell

like another half-dozen

cosseted caricatures

playing writer

spinning trite phrases

of sweet sounding words

imaginings of pink packaged

saccharine sentiment

but then I succumbed

to non-consumption.

∼∼∼∼∼

On rebirth I cried

“you can’t write scared”

and I didn’t, for a while

developed succinct style

of hewn craft on drafts

pinched words like pennies

wanted bennies, not

in my twenties anymore.

Fear pervades the core

bores into the brain

insane unremarkable drivel

pours through pores

I wrote scared

but scarred surfaces

surge upward

like polished wood

trampled on daily

til frailty exists no more.

 

5/18/2017

Sascha Darlington

(oops. I had farce in there, but deleted it.)

 

Joyful Fugue #amwriting

clematis2

© Sascha Darlington

 

This is my first time writing to a dVerse–Poets Pub Prompt. If you wish to take part, you’ll find the information HERE.

 

Joyful Fugue

Chiles, eggplant, tomatoes

crave soil, capricious temperatures

stay my impulse to plant.

Soon, I think, soon.

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But It’s Friday Night!

I’m lacquered

but he’s knackered

long week, he’s talking backward.

It’s a hazard

of married bad word

I’m cringing over fractured

phrasing, he’s snoring

I’m exploring

ways of touring

tropical beaches

eating peaches

thinking Eliot

he’s more likely to Shelly it

But he’s asleep

counting sheep

I could weep

But damn there’s Netflix

put my hair in clips

watch a show about paramedics

sigh, fall asleep listening to Hendrix.

 

end 4/28/2017

S. Darlington

Quilt #amwriting

Quilt

My mother has a quilt

made by hands

gnarled yet able

for a lost brother

I barely knew.

On sick days

she’d wrap me in the quilt

tell me the blanket

was love

to keep me warm

and safe

each square of fabric

something of his

sewn together

bound by thread

like family threads

even death

can’t break.

end 4/27/2017

S. Darlington