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Ode to Snow
The season of "ode to snow" poems is here.
Write about the witness to pure whiteness dear.
Crystals streaming slowly down to the ground;
if only our ears could hear those subtle sounds.
Birds are gone, have flown someplace safe;
no shrill chirping songs but the breathe of days
intoxicating ether with the wonder of winter.
A breakfast with butter and coffee that's bitter.
I like it. I don't mind
I like it. I don't mind bitter coffee.
My Secret River
I'm so grateful for these
I'm so grateful for these comments. They are especially bright and dear to me. Each of you is a great poet, and to recieve praise from you smart people males me giddy. It's funny though, I rarely write rhyming verse -- I rather scatter rhymes in lines.
bananas are the perfect food
for prostitutes
You are the first Poet here,
You are the first Poet here, at least in my reading, to mentioned scatter rhymes. I first encountered this concept when reading, back in the nineties, about Estlin Cumming's poems. When applied according to John Milton's theory on enjambment (which he expressed in a preface to Paradise Lost) it liberated me---like a lightening bolt, so it felt---to write my very first sonnet, on the Saturday following Thanksgiving of 1994. To use Umberto Eco's words, from his preface to The Name Of The Rose, "I was now free of every fear." Cummings, Milton, and J.V. Cunningham, all deceased by the time I encountered their work, taught me more than any poetry course or workshop could every convey. I applaud your use of scatter rhyme, and I eagerly await more of the excellence of your posted poems. You are what we used to call, in my corporate employment, "a mover and a shaker." And that is a mighty good thing to be.
Starward