Playful finger smears
chalky smiles across gray slates
lifting somber face
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chalky smiles across gray slates
lifting somber face
Affichage des articles dont le libellé est Poetry. Afficher tous les articles
Affichage des articles dont le libellé est Poetry. Afficher tous les articles
Distance
In the heat-tricked mirror, he sees
crafty miles creep up with vital intent,
toeing waved lines.
A pair of vultures glide in lean routes,
marking bold exes across the grain
of age-stained charts.
Their sudden runs on scented organs
made with strong swoops to fleshy thresholds
of life's tipping.
He discovers in this scaled calculus
that distance, moist but listing, travels
in taut cycles.
It can't defeat the curse of lifting
unbalanced loads with back pushed against
jaundiced fingers.
Ten peckish tips, waiting for victuals
they smell buried in gusty legends
of cornered maps.
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #97 at Read Write Poem. The challenge was to use the "cut-up technique" of picking words at random. I used words from five recent haiku and short poems, so its a cut-up plus a mash-up. The result is pretty abstract.
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crafty miles creep up with vital intent,
toeing waved lines.
A pair of vultures glide in lean routes,
marking bold exes across the grain
of age-stained charts.
Their sudden runs on scented organs
made with strong swoops to fleshy thresholds
of life's tipping.
He discovers in this scaled calculus
that distance, moist but listing, travels
in taut cycles.
It can't defeat the curse of lifting
unbalanced loads with back pushed against
jaundiced fingers.
Ten peckish tips, waiting for victuals
they smell buried in gusty legends
of cornered maps.
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #97 at Read Write Poem. The challenge was to use the "cut-up technique" of picking words at random. I used words from five recent haiku and short poems, so its a cut-up plus a mash-up. The result is pretty abstract.
The world may refuse
The world may refuse
words I toss out, more refuse
atop littered piles
but this trash, offered humbly
is my only true treasure
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words I toss out, more refuse
atop littered piles
but this trash, offered humbly
is my only true treasure
Turntable: Regret
This is part two (you can read Part I: Love is here).
Turntable
By Francis Scudellari
II. Regret
slips through, skipping over hairline scratches
etched by fitful nudges. The crooned once-so
simple and soulful, become fragile when
poised on wound-up platter. Needling him back,
that night their conversation broke to-be,
and was followed with a pause, he stretches
on each wobbly replaying. Then picked up,
he'll tuck it back in a wax-paper sleeve
corner-chopped to stash among discounted
bins of ballads rhyming her without him.
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Turntable
By Francis Scudellari
II. Regret
slips through, skipping over hairline scratches
etched by fitful nudges. The crooned once-so
simple and soulful, become fragile when
poised on wound-up platter. Needling him back,
that night their conversation broke to-be,
and was followed with a pause, he stretches
on each wobbly replaying. Then picked up,
he'll tuck it back in a wax-paper sleeve
corner-chopped to stash among discounted
bins of ballads rhyming her without him.
Crickets
I hear now my
youth's crickets call
in the chirped hitch
of an overhead fan
or the high-pitch spin
of an idling engine.
The everyday reminds
I may have strayed
nearing too far.
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youth's crickets call
in the chirped hitch
of an overhead fan
or the high-pitch spin
of an idling engine.
The everyday reminds
I may have strayed
nearing too far.
No mere pin-prick
No mere pin-prick
on indigo veil, she hovers.
A wink each night in southern sky
burning through this big city haze
to re-assure me, I'm not
utterly alone.
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on indigo veil, she hovers.
A wink each night in southern sky
burning through this big city haze
to re-assure me, I'm not
utterly alone.
Nostalgia's fluffed sponge
Nostalgia's fluffed sponge
dabs a cracked past's weepy spills
staining as it sops
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dabs a cracked past's weepy spills
staining as it sops
Back-door alley's soundtrack
Back-door alley's soundtrack:
the one-note songs
of trucks shifting
into reverse
above, an arrhythmic beat
as pigeons take to wing
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the one-note songs
of trucks shifting
into reverse
above, an arrhythmic beat
as pigeons take to wing
After School
Backed against an unclean slate,
this teacher, much more preacher,
vowelizes her vague threats
with a dry-throated croak: "I'll learn
you both to behave, or else!"
A one-eyed stare sawed in two
shows that she means vehemence,
tying down small-town thrashers
in the straight-jacketed comport
of a well-raised progeny.
Their permafrosted pause firms
the footing for lessoned spells
that had giggled on the brink
of insolent "Chelations"
and its indecent relations.
But this light-bubbling silence
irresistibly explodes
in a "Cosmoramic" spray
of sophomoric rhymes – soapy
language tickling her upturned no's.
"One more outburst ..." and she'll make
twin reprobates rinse away
too-capricious grunts and groans,
exulting in the power
of a well-placed investment:
her overtime, their effort.
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #96: spam, spam, spam at Read Write Poem. The fifteen "Wordle" prompts, taken from spam e-mails, are italicized. I used the motif of a spelling lesson to avoid having to write lines that made sense of the words Chelations and Cosmoramic (whose definitions bred more confusion than clarity).
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this teacher, much more preacher,
vowelizes her vague threats
with a dry-throated croak: "I'll learn
you both to behave, or else!"
A one-eyed stare sawed in two
shows that she means vehemence,
tying down small-town thrashers
in the straight-jacketed comport
of a well-raised progeny.
Their permafrosted pause firms
the footing for lessoned spells
that had giggled on the brink
of insolent "Chelations"
and its indecent relations.
But this light-bubbling silence
irresistibly explodes
in a "Cosmoramic" spray
of sophomoric rhymes – soapy
language tickling her upturned no's.
"One more outburst ..." and she'll make
twin reprobates rinse away
too-capricious grunts and groans,
exulting in the power
of a well-placed investment:
her overtime, their effort.
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #96: spam, spam, spam at Read Write Poem. The fifteen "Wordle" prompts, taken from spam e-mails, are italicized. I used the motif of a spelling lesson to avoid having to write lines that made sense of the words Chelations and Cosmoramic (whose definitions bred more confusion than clarity).
A frustrated sun
A frustrated sun
wishes for hands, to rend clouds
stealing his kisses
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wishes for hands, to rend clouds
stealing his kisses
A dark, bloated cloud
A dark, bloated cloud
caught in lake's bounded mirror
pushes drifting thoughts
to float sinister tiding
shaped as his own swelling corpse
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caught in lake's bounded mirror
pushes drifting thoughts
to float sinister tiding
shaped as his own swelling corpse
Wooden mask
Wooden mask slipped off
face carved wicked revealing
god's crueler knife
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face carved wicked revealing
god's crueler knife
Turntable: Love Is
This is the first piece of what I plan to be a four-part poem. Unfortunately the next three are still just vaguely shaped at this point. I'll post the remaining pieces here as I finish them, and then the fully assembled work at my main site (FrancisScudellar.Com).
Turntable
By Francis Scudellari
I. Love is
a two-headed hook, that bobs as she toes
this cunning line. It cuts through the muddy
reverb of a wax-spun groove, swirling round
tar-black to reach the Day-Glo hypnosis
at its center. A trembling voice tucks in
among the hiss and crackling pops. Echoes
found as her left arm floats, extending
a turntable's journey to spiral back
on that jumble of a first rainy day
they met, dripping in the coffee shop's queue.
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Turntable
By Francis Scudellari
I. Love is
a two-headed hook, that bobs as she toes
this cunning line. It cuts through the muddy
reverb of a wax-spun groove, swirling round
tar-black to reach the Day-Glo hypnosis
at its center. A trembling voice tucks in
among the hiss and crackling pops. Echoes
found as her left arm floats, extending
a turntable's journey to spiral back
on that jumble of a first rainy day
they met, dripping in the coffee shop's queue.
Halfway up the hill
Halfway up the hill
after many trips, he asks
"why the fuss, Sissy?"
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after many trips, he asks
"why the fuss, Sissy?"
With tender kisses
With tender kisses
her lips blot away, his doubts
spilling from cracked brow
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her lips blot away, his doubts
spilling from cracked brow
Waking on clear white sands
Waking on clear white sands
teeming with black dots a-scurry
to surround his giant's frame,
it dawns on him Swiftly,
he's read this tale before...
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teeming with black dots a-scurry
to surround his giant's frame,
it dawns on him Swiftly,
he's read this tale before...
Forgotten glimpses
Fogotten glimpses
bubble up from decay's dream
airy traps catching
roll-back words in filmy shells
lines warped by a fish-eye lens
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bubble up from decay's dream
airy traps catching
roll-back words in filmy shells
lines warped by a fish-eye lens
East of the Sun
I often try to sing of penciled landscapes
where we two might meet.
My clumsy words hatching crumpled rocks
to top a barren line,
and in between their gaps, thick trunks I sketch,
to sprout bouquets
of vibrant green. But I give these trees too much
life, too much choice,
missing you, they pull up their roots and escape
the page to run
East of the sun,
And west of the moon,
We'll build a dream house
Of love, dear;
down mirrored corridors.
The future and familiar trade steely gaze,
as wooden crowds lead
in fruitful chase, pointing my not-belonging
eyes toward stainless pods;
squat glowing bellies lined with leather laps
where I could slip, nestle
and pillowed watch digits whirl backward,
dialing a piped-in lilt,
my lullaby to a past that trips its way
Near to the sun in the day,
Near to the moon at night;
We'll live in a lovely way dear,
Living on love and pale moonlight.
across black-and-white tiles. Instead I dodge
as I skip-dance through
dozens of mechanical players, lounging
above carved pieces,
hand-painted with perplexing stares. These
salt-and-pepper pawns
I grab and toss shoulder-ward, unsettling
over-recked games not fit
for the fancied fix I place on distant cracked
pedestal. Then, a stray
Just you and I, forever and a day;
Love will not die, we'll keep it that way.
among banqueted queues
of chattering guests, who ivory arrayed
wait beneath vaulted glass,
I see your finery's smile beyond them,
with pen poised atop
my hard-bound tale of tender leaves. The ink
on cream, once-written
you tear, so that together we can fold
papyrus sail boats
homeward pushed by a shared breath's slow unwind
Up among the stars we'll find
A harmony of life, too lovely, too.
East of the sun and west of the moon, dear,
East of the sun and west of the moon.
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #95: The poetics of the mash-up, by celebrity poet Matthew Hittinger at Read Write Poem. Of the suggested mash-up techniques, I chose to mix a poem I was working on with the lyrics from a song.
The poem takes as its inspiration an actual dream sequence I had, which was a bit of a mash-up in itself. There was some very sudden scene-shifting, and it included a piped-in recording of "East of the Sun" as sung by Billie Holiday (and those are the lyrics interjected here). I tried my best to make the dreamy bits a lot more coherent, while preserving the metaphorical quality of the experience.
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where we two might meet.
My clumsy words hatching crumpled rocks
to top a barren line,
and in between their gaps, thick trunks I sketch,
to sprout bouquets
of vibrant green. But I give these trees too much
life, too much choice,
missing you, they pull up their roots and escape
the page to run
East of the sun,
And west of the moon,
We'll build a dream house
Of love, dear;
down mirrored corridors.
The future and familiar trade steely gaze,
as wooden crowds lead
in fruitful chase, pointing my not-belonging
eyes toward stainless pods;
squat glowing bellies lined with leather laps
where I could slip, nestle
and pillowed watch digits whirl backward,
dialing a piped-in lilt,
my lullaby to a past that trips its way
Near to the sun in the day,
Near to the moon at night;
We'll live in a lovely way dear,
Living on love and pale moonlight.
across black-and-white tiles. Instead I dodge
as I skip-dance through
dozens of mechanical players, lounging
above carved pieces,
hand-painted with perplexing stares. These
salt-and-pepper pawns
I grab and toss shoulder-ward, unsettling
over-recked games not fit
for the fancied fix I place on distant cracked
pedestal. Then, a stray
Just you and I, forever and a day;
Love will not die, we'll keep it that way.
among banqueted queues
of chattering guests, who ivory arrayed
wait beneath vaulted glass,
I see your finery's smile beyond them,
with pen poised atop
my hard-bound tale of tender leaves. The ink
on cream, once-written
you tear, so that together we can fold
papyrus sail boats
homeward pushed by a shared breath's slow unwind
Up among the stars we'll find
A harmony of life, too lovely, too.
East of the sun and west of the moon, dear,
East of the sun and west of the moon.
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #95: The poetics of the mash-up, by celebrity poet Matthew Hittinger at Read Write Poem. Of the suggested mash-up techniques, I chose to mix a poem I was working on with the lyrics from a song.
The poem takes as its inspiration an actual dream sequence I had, which was a bit of a mash-up in itself. There was some very sudden scene-shifting, and it included a piped-in recording of "East of the Sun" as sung by Billie Holiday (and those are the lyrics interjected here). I tried my best to make the dreamy bits a lot more coherent, while preserving the metaphorical quality of the experience.
His close-covered eyes
His close-covered eyes
dodge appointed jabs and thrusts
dawn's glad-jousting sun
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dodge appointed jabs and thrusts
dawn's glad-jousting sun
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