12 Monday Jun 2017
Posted in Poetry
If I had words
I’d write a poem by the lake
on a yellow chair
while a dog
in coat of black
and white ran circles
round me, wet and shook—
if only past tense of the verb
were shaked.
It’s not.
Rhyming can be faked
though like intelligence
and smiles, only for a while
until it stinks.
Pretending has its place.
I do a lot of it,
but for the moment
I shall neither feign nor think.
I am content to sit here
and be laked.
© Elaine Stirling, 2017
05 Monday Jun 2017
Posted in Poetry
~~a sequence of form poems~~
1 – Triolet
To the last articulate man standing
I have put out a call.
I am dumbstruck, appalled by what people are handing
to the last articulate man standing.
Can he not see we have slowed to a crawl?
We cower in shadows, don’t say a damn thing
to the last articulate man standing.
I have put out a call.
2 – Pantoum
What do you want?
To die of old age in your sleep,
or to live in slow-motion despair
wearing grief like a bone in your throat?
To die of old age in your sleep
is a wish you’ve no right to impose on the rest.
Wearing grief like a bone in your throat,
you’re a cock in the wind on a roof
is a wish you’ve no right to impose. On the rest,
there’s really not much you can do
but spin & complain that the view stays the same.
If only you’d learn to declare
there’s really not much you can do
or to live in slow-motion. Despair…
If only you’d learn to declare,
WHAT DO YOU WANT?
3 – Rondeau (Ringelreim)
Baloney. It’s something you ate
as a kid on white bread. It was great
until you grew older
and facts made you bolder.
You started to choose what you put on your plate.
But the flavours, of late,
make you sick. So much hate
rolling over us all like a boulder. Baloney.
Everyone feels. That’s not up for debate,
unless you fall for the poisonous bait,
the allure of the outraged, the scolder
outwitting the scolded. You both feel colder
and blame it on fate. Baloney!
4 – Triolet
Gently now, there is no rush,
no race to find the answer.
Settle in, surrender to the blush,
gently. Now, there is no rush.
Your every step and fall’s a brush
with love. Eternal, flawless dancer,
gently now, there is no rush,
no race to find the answer.
~~~
© Elaine Stirling, 2017
