Victoria Slotto, via The Bardo Group has us writing about texture today; my first time for her prompt via Poet by Day. Had written a poem about repetition earlier this week, but had no time to finish or post or leave comments, so thought I'd enhance, adapt as much as I could, and use it here.
Pretty pinwheels spin
summer's days,
small arms stretch grabbing big beach balls;
clean damp laundry hangs
heavily from the line,
pulled from a round
woven basket in tall grass
heavily from the line,
pulled from a round
woven basket in tall grass
Wind blows at 10 mph..
ravens alert first slits of sun
Lacy bird nests brim
with young life
Circles, common tools
in design
I'm speaking to the yin and yang
of things,
the nonstop calliope
merry go round;
Labyrinth, if you will,
of our histories -
measured by
the circumference
of our existence,
the cold planets,
their many moons,
diameters of mud puddles,
pools of blood,
or a slice of your favorite
pie in the sky
Round bales of harvest's
fresh barley wait in the fields,
checkered crops of plowed soil,
organic farms
Vendors on baked sidewalks
sell pickles, homemade lemonade
fresh rhubarb pies
From the shape of eyes
to the plates we eat from,
I'm fonder of "round"
than square, triangle or diamond;
though I like ovals and sickles -
(toenails)
Sutures in her chest mark the spot
where the cancer was, a circle,
ravens alert first slits of sun
Lacy bird nests brim
with young life
Circles, common tools
in design
I'm speaking to the yin and yang
of things,
the nonstop calliope
merry go round;
Labyrinth, if you will,
of our histories -
measured by
the circumference
of our existence,
the cold planets,
their many moons,
diameters of mud puddles,
pools of blood,
or a slice of your favorite
pie in the sky
Round bales of harvest's
fresh barley wait in the fields,
checkered crops of plowed soil,
organic farms
Vendors on baked sidewalks
sell pickles, homemade lemonade
fresh rhubarb pies
From the shape of eyes
to the plates we eat from,
I'm fonder of "round"
than square, triangle or diamond;
though I like ovals and sickles -
(toenails)
Sutures in her chest mark the spot
where the cancer was, a circle,
not to mention the radius
of her forbearing feeble womb
of her forbearing feeble womb
At night she walked deep blue
pile carpet of stars,
and by the day
wove crowns of
tangled columbine
'round goes the bee in a bonnet,
or lies the pearl in a smooth,
sandy clam shell;
roundness of clocks
moves me to know life is full
of sublime, complex mystique,
mathematical equations
we have not learned
Oft I've wondered the why or how
of the brown mole
on my left cheek -
something I acquired in Nepal
to go with my widow's peak?
Books covers lure us
to go within - so whose theology
rings most true..
is it "Looking for Godot", Jung?
or Theroaux?
Perhaps theSeinfeld show -
full of and about nothing at all
Arrays of hoops, universal orbs,
human wreaths of love,
bracelets of the Zodiac,
revolutions of the globe
To say the least, physical earth
is comprised of a myriad
of textures, colors,
and shapes,
Don't get me started on it's
philosophical origin or state
Are we flushed from
another place,
a multi-dimensional hole we travel,
with unimaginable sights?
And when we eventually
turn around to look back,
will we see God's face?
pile carpet of stars,
and by the day
wove crowns of
tangled columbine
'round goes the bee in a bonnet,
or lies the pearl in a smooth,
sandy clam shell;
roundness of clocks
moves me to know life is full
of sublime, complex mystique,
mathematical equations
we have not learned
Oft I've wondered the why or how
of the brown mole
on my left cheek -
something I acquired in Nepal
to go with my widow's peak?
Books covers lure us
to go within - so whose theology
rings most true..
is it "Looking for Godot", Jung?
or Theroaux?
Perhaps theSeinfeld show -
full of and about nothing at all
Arrays of hoops, universal orbs,
human wreaths of love,
bracelets of the Zodiac,
revolutions of the globe
To say the least, physical earth
is comprised of a myriad
of textures, colors,
and shapes,
Don't get me started on it's
philosophical origin or state
Are we flushed from
another place,
a multi-dimensional hole we travel,
with unimaginable sights?
And when we eventually
turn around to look back,
will we see God's face?
