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Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

CSI-ku

A writing prompt which I saw today said “write a haiku that solves a crime.”

I’d be interested to see what you all could come up with for that in the comments here… my own offering:

Drugged alphabet soup!
Testing lab found traces of
GHB and E.

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100% Saturday?

Giving this its own post rather than letting it languish in a Facebook comment thread, a Seussish response to ‘is tomorrow 100% Saturday?’:

It’s hard to be totally sure of the day,
When time zones are stretching out every which way.
When you fly westward, whose hours do you borrow?
And when you fly east, do you get there tomorrow?

Sometimes it’s safer to go south or north
If you do need to gallivant backwards and forth
But everyone’s place has its own kind of time
(Which makes this an awfully challenging rhyme.)

It’s nine in the morning in Honolulu,
But ten hours later around Timbuktu,
At least that’s what I think – it might be eleven,
Or possibly eight and three quarters point seven.

But wherever you are and whoever you be
In Ottawa, Canberra or Tripoli,
It only can ever be one day at once
Midnight can’t change in these temporal stunts.

In another three hours and one little bit,
Friday gets up so Saturday can sit,
In Eastern Time, anyway, others may vary,
But Saturday’s Saturday, never contrary.

That hundred percentness is perfectly right
For one entire day and two parts of a night….

(But if you have lingered to read all these ravings,
Don’t get me started about Daylight Savings!)

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Free Verse Friday: America

I’m borrowing the tradition of Free Verse Friday from francoBeans at the Change I Wish to See. I may or may not manage it every Friday, but we’ll see. As far as some of the other traditions out there, I haven’t yet come up with anything for TMI Thursday, and I would do Wordless Wednesday except I. Just . Can’t.

So yeah. A few lines inspired by this week’s happenings.

America

America sounds
like echoes in the Grand Canyon
like the roar of rocket launches
like a lingering idea of liberty

America smells
like Georgia peaches and Oregon roses
like city cars and country farms
like unpacking something new

America looks
like a welcoming New York statue
like red Arizona rocks and white Colorado snows
and blue notes ringing from New Orleans guitars

America tastes
like the salt air of the Keys
like slow cooked Texas chili
like the thrill of victory and the pain of war

America feels
like the smack! of ball in glove
like the warmth of new-baked apple pie
like a new home – where I already live.

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At the wake the mourners gathered,
kings and philosophers, poets and artists
and the greatest of them raised his glass to the dear departed.

He called for a jester to play a song,
but no music but sour could sound.
He called for a meal and wine and ale
but all tasted of nothing.

He turned then to a wise man for sage advice
and the wise man looked upon the deceased.
“The heavens themselves must have needed a merry tale
for they have gathered unto themselves the greatest of storytellers.”

He would say nothing more.

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