Formal & Rhyming Poetry

   with Vera Ignatowitsch

Excuses

 

Man wasn’t meant to be monogamous.
The terrorists we tortured lied to us.
I would have dropped my gun if he’d dropped his.
It all depends on what you mean by “is.”
I’m on the wagon now. I stick to beer.
We thought they’d have an A-bomb in a year.
She could have passed for eighteen any day.
The media twist everything we say.
More handouts lead to more dependency.
Another set of books? That’s SOP.
No law offends a loyal citizen.
They’re better off as slaves to Christian men.
When everybody cheats, you have to cheat.
The woman that you gave me bade me eat.

first published in Light

Richard Wakefield has taught college literature for thirty-eight years and since 1985 has been Professor of Humanities at Tacoma Community College in Tacoma, Washington.  For twenty-nine years he was a literary critic for the Seattle Times.  His first poetry collection "East of Early Winters" (University of Evansville Press), won the Richard Wilbur Award.  His second collection, "A Vertical Mile" (Able Muse Press), was short-listed for the Poets Prize.

Caught in the spotlight

Behold her furious on the stage.
Assaulting mic with wings outstretched
and looking round, she tries to gauge
the gathering crowd promoter fetched
from lassitude to hear the verse
she'd scribble down, need not rehearse.
And rattling out her doctrine view,
this sylvan moth outcries, Phuq you!

She revels, glories, makes her tales
of mundane things that she's observed
seem more profound or just what ails
the social group that she's unnerved.
By verse, astute, acerbic thrust
of rapier tongue, she's got 'em sussed.
And battling on, there's no respite
as words, outpouring, fill the night.

She gestures, mouths provoking quips
through sharpened teeth, while mocking blokes
with gender conscious barbed wire lips.
The gathering knows she prods and pokes,
well versed, displaying vocal might
that's honed to whet its appetite.
And no-one's safe from words' affray,
exposed to raw-edged repartee.

I saw her once, performing there.
When heard, her voiced, incisive words
invaded heads with rhymes that were
inerrant, cast like perfect chords.
A strumpet's thrum, upbraiding fools
like we who sat upon our stools
and sought to show we understood.
We cheered, but still she thought us rude.


Ian Colville talks to himself in the third person as if a wonderful poet, however, in his more lucid moments, he is brought to a realisation that he is merely competent. Nevertheless, he has had nigh on 60 poems published in curated magazines and anthologies. His writing tends towards irreverence, and his fondness for ballads and the 'standard habbie' enables him to versify satirically from time to time. When he's not writing, he's reading, and sometimes he goes cycling ...for hours.

Regret Villanelle

 

In the heat of a summer night I let

my thoughts meditate on an old saying:

Time slips by like smoke from a cigarette.

 

Something about it made me upset,

maybe it was true and I was living

on the wrong end of time, and the heat let

 

these thoughts settle like a net

which covered me — I found myself staying

there to smoke just one more cigarette.

 

I felt as though I’d come to regret

the distance I’d unknowingly ingrained.

The distance had grown, and I had let

 

faces that I thought I’d never forget

fade in and out like fireflies swaying,

or like the smoke trailing off a cigarette.

 

And now I found myself facing the threat

that arrives when one has been ignoring

the truth: that in those summer nights you let

time escape like smoke from a cigarette.

Duke Trott is a writer whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in American Athenaeum and Artful Comics. He is currently a graduate student in Emerson College’s MFA program.

The Winds of Celebration

In the swelter of the evening
hangs the air in desperation,
left behind while seeking meaning
by the winds of aggravation.

Dropped within the stubborn valley
swirling among defiant oaks,
it wallows waiting now to sally,
simmering heat within invokes.

 

Energy’s anger will transform
the air to rise and meet the sky,
in blackened anvil of the storm,
the hammered air begins to cry.

It’s terrible torrential rains
now wash away the desperate fear,
they clear the air of all its pains
and free it to the atmosphere.

In the cool surge of the evening
gone the hanging desperation,
having purpose, having meaning,
blow the winds of celebration.

DE Navarro lives in Greater Los Angeles where he writes and publishes. He is the Founder of NavWorks Press. He is an author, poet, editor, publisher, speaker, and life coach. He is the originator and owner of the We Write Poetry forums and the Pride in Poetry Prize and Publication. His work has been published in various journals and magazines. His most recent book is Dropping Ants into Poems. Visit DE's beautiful Website at http://www.de-navarro.com for a peaceful experience and to learn more about his work.

The Hyper Texts

"some of the best poetry on the web" Vera Ignatowitsch

Lighthearted Verse & Limericks...

 

Kansas City Limericks

 

It’s too bad, in KC there’s no Mountain,

Got no gold, yet have coins in our Fountain.

     Snorkeling granny dives deep,

     Piles all cash on a heap,

In her birthday suit sits there— a countin’.

There are churches and bars in K. City,

For our youngsters, no place, what a pity.

     A new law, I heard rumors,

     That all statues need bloomers;

Satin knickers will hide all graffiti.

 

Annemarie Timmons