To learn from the sun
To shine, it’s just begun,
Let’s not forget fun
Sunless skies, endless
grey clouded over grey crusted
snow, creating havoc for crocus shoots
struggling to make their stand.
Winter, a slow
death by its thousand windy cuts
and imperceptable emotional fade, now
so few words shared between them.
All purple and
orange in full bloom swathed across
front yard lawns stirring expectations, and
memories of their languid summer days.
days that start warm ending warmer,
their uninterrupted steady sun and their
sleeveless shirts and moist sweaty skin.
Sun, her kiss
once assured his unsteady heart. So many
purple and orange reasons to be hopeful but
March, always the cruel reminder.
written March 2013
revised FOR April 2013 :- /
Hello everyone, here’s my huitain :
Because this life is not enough,
I’ll try to wake up from the cold,
Even if it is sometimes rough,
Even if I have to grow old.
I know that I need to be bold
To go South , and under the sun,
To set myself free from the mold,
To rise above – it’s just begun !
I just discovered the huitain. It is a Spanish form that has eight lines, and each line has eight syllables. The rhyme scheme is ababbcbc.
It snowed eight inches, snowed some more,
until our land was turned to white.
We couldn’t open up our door
because of winter’s active night.
Now sun shines on this lovely sight
and melts the snow to rivulets.
Has winter taken its last bite?
What do you think? Let’s make our bets!
OK, OK, so it’s not the best poem in the world, but at least it gives you an idea of how a huitain should go.
Let’s submit some more. I’d love to see what you can come up with.
Snow melted down on Théoule,
But the sea seems cool – no swell -.
After another defeated night,
I regret the sweetest feast.
Was damaged by the shade of Time ;
You all, inanimate objects,
What has become of my soul ?
On that bad galley, I row !
And I need the sea breeze,
Otherwise, I foam and boil with rage
Like a sailor lost in town,
Prisoner of a servile life.
Give me now the sun warmin’
My skin, and like a dragonfly,
I will fly near the water sources
And wish I never bow again !
February, the 24th
So, no I haven’t been here for awhile, other than to contribute some 14-word poems for the Valentine project. I will attempt to have more of a presence, and write regularly. After all, isn’t that the point of 20 Lines? I’ve reinstated my Facebook account and have been updating it, and have also been concentrating on weight loss. That keeps me busy shopping and cooking well, eating healthfully and tracking what I eat, and making sure I get in my daily exercise. Whew. That’s all time-taking.
But…my first love is writing, so I will return with a poem:
Connecting once again on Facebook, loss
of weight…important, yes, but not the boss.
I come to write, and writing fills me up,
brims, spills and overflows my little cup.
Words come to me in silences of night
or when the sun melts snow, the sun so bright
that I can barely look outside. Could spring
be far behind? Words wonder, question, sing.
reach arms to sky,
hoping for sun cover.
Today, gray clouds threaten with snow.
lift, play music,
polishing the dusty
haze upon a saddened mood. I
stones along the
shore speak stories to me,
share an ancient tradition. I
we rose into the heavens
A Silly December Poem
It’s 60 today and the sun’s shining bright.
I guess that the seasons just can’t get it right.
A couple of flakes fell on Thanksgiving Day,
but autumn is lingering. Skies are not gray.
I wonder why Earth has its story mixed up.
The weather’s been weird, like cake in a cup.
So what of December? Where’s snow and the cold?
It might come like a lamb, not blatant or bold.
moon for it
the sun’s glory
so it finds
it’s own patch
of sky to
for it is drowned
out in the shrilly
shouts of other
fowls so it
finds its own
strive for the
sun yet I
can’t reach it,
so I aim for
over the rainbow
the colour black
but then she
of the night.
A sweet rippling sound echoing through the confined walls of the room, a girl wakes up due to the resulting disturbance from the sleep she was subjected to, the sleep- an escape from her pain, an escape to the realm of the dreams but now she is forcefully brought back to the realities of life. She is being forcefully woken up by the disturbance as a result of the rippling sound, though sweet, but a lot more agonising for the girl- whose name is unknown- no one knows who she is. She was just found in the corner of a street, her hair ruffled, her dried tears glistening under the bright sun. She is the girl no one knows anything about and thereby seen as a threat, she was confined to further tortures of life even when her earlier tortures are not known- she is facing the ordeal of getting confined, becoming a prisoner where she is given ample food and water but no freedom. This is her staying place where she lives but dies every moment; the air being lacking in the joys and pleasures she would have otherwise wanted. The little girl is now woken up by the disturbance- she is now again prone to the tortures, subjected to the pain- she now considers the way of her life. The little girl is woken up, the echo- the disturbance of the rippling sound, is now gone- disappeared in the air. The little girl is now woken up.