Category: My Poetry & Fiction

(Poem #236 on new numbering scheme)

"My ego trumps my neighbor's needs,"
the patriot believes,
sincere, perhaps (in fact, malign)
but to those ends, deceives.

– a quatrain in ballad meter.

(Poem #235 on new numbering scheme)

Korea has these feral chairs:
they rest beside the roads;
they wait, unloved, unsat upon;
they bear no human loads.

– a quatrain in ballad meter.

(Poem #234 on new numbering scheme)

The ocean's arms can grasp the mind;
recursively ingrain
small chunks of memory and dreams
into the seething brain.

– a quatrain in ballad meter.

(Poem #232 on new numbering scheme)

You know that spring has now arrived:
the air, it makes you cry;
Korean spring's a lousy time;
the grayish, yellow sky.

– a quatrain in ballad meter.

(Poem #231 on new numbering scheme)

The clouds patrol the sky, adrift
Then aliens arrive
who scoop the clouds up like some bugs,
because they want them live.

– a quatrain in ballad meter.
[daily log: walking, 1km]

(Poem #230 on new numbering scheme)

He lies awake, and counting sheep...
those sheep are saying stuff:
They're telling him about the fact
that anger's not enough.

– a quatrain in ballad meter.

(Poem #229 on new numbering scheme)

Ponder the foolishness of faith
in light of so much pain,
and yet decide to still believe...
inspired by the rain.

– a quatrain in ballad meter.

(Poem #227 on new numbering scheme)

Each Wednesday is speaking class
but how is this a thing?
The students sit and sometimes smile.
They don't say anything.

– a quatrain in ballad meter.

(Poem #225 on new numbering scheme)

In time, some questions coalesce,
with answers no one knows.
The pallid moon is marching high.
The night's cold darkness glows.

– a quatrain in ballad meter.

(Poem #224 on new numbering scheme)

The thing about most Sundays is
that nothing gets begun.
I barely ever finish things,
cause 'nothing' can be fun.

– a quatrain in ballad meter.

(Poem #223 on new numbering scheme)

The open sky consumed the air,
and ancient leaves spun round.
The ghosts attempted passing through,
their feet became the ground.

– a quatrain in ballad meter.

(Poem #221 on new numbering scheme)

The alligator on the hill
was shot by arrows cruel.
The man was happy then to see
that hungry, bleeding fool.
The moon it glowed up in the sky
the ant he crawled below
the man's friends came to take the beast:
they took it to a show.

– two quatrains in ballad meter. The picture came first – a doodle drawn during a slow moment at work, to entertain a child sitting next to me. Then I made the poem to go with the picture.

(Poem #219 on new numbering scheme)

The cat was lurking in the path.
A blueness dreamed the sky.
Some leaves arranged the wind and sun.
The moon can't tell me why.

– a quatrain in ballad meter.

(Poem #217 on new numbering scheme)

"If you don't want to know the truth,"
he said, his grin unkind,
"You must imagine everything
is only in your mind."

– a quatrain in ballad meter.

(Poem #216 on new numbering scheme)

A place where you can see the sea
among the grassy dunes:
the wind is strong and claws the sand,
the waves just hum their tunes.

– a quatrain in ballad meter.

(Poem #215 on new numbering scheme)

One foggy night I walked and met
The Land Surveyor, K.
He shared with me his boring hopes,
his bureaucratic day.

– a quatrain in ballad meter. A nod to Kafka, presumably, although the Ardisphere had a land surveyor, K, too.

(Poem #214 on new numbering scheme)

I walk the streets to work each day
and there's a restaurant.
It uses wood to cook its food:
the smell - it tends to haunt.
Aromas paint the air with thoughts
and memories of youth;
the burning wood recalls to me
those camping trips: Duluth.
October in the northern woods
along Superior;
We drove and sang Bob Dylan songs
Or stopped there on the shore.
Eventually we'd find a camp,
where we could raise a tent.
We'd light a fire, or take a hike,
I guess it's time well spent.
So nowadays I miss my friends,
our lives each have their track,
but when I pass that eating place
the smells, they draw me back.

– five quatrains in ballad meter.

(Poem #212 on new numbering scheme)

We know that tigers have their stripes,
which gives them perfect souls,
and that their fur is beautiful,
a glow like burning coals.

– a quatrain in ballad meter.

(Poem #209 on new numbering scheme)

"Its time now, look, that starship waits,"
the alligator said.
"Okay, let's travel to the stars."
The monkey bent his head.
The friends began their arduous trip;
the parsecs zoomed right by.
Their boredom grew unbearable,
and one began to cry.
"Oh, how can we survive so long?
I wish this trip would end."
The two of them, disconsolate...
The reptile ate his friend.

– An absurdist space opera in three quatrains using ballad meter.
[daily log: walking, 7km]

(Poem #208 on new numbering scheme)

The ice, it dwells with arrogance
in shadows, never more
unknowable than when it melts,
to form a tiny shore.

– a quatrain in ballad meter.

(Poem #207 on new numbering scheme)

The other day they forecast snow,
but then instead it rained.
I don't dislike a rainy day,
but snowless, I was drained.

– a quatrain in ballad meter.
I have decided to continue to challenge myself, and therefore the next poetic form I will undertake is a more native (i.e. traditional) English poetic style, called the “Ballad meter.” These are alternations of 4 and 3 (mostly) iambic feet grouped in quatrains, with a rhyming scheme a b c b. Much famous poetry in English follows this pattern, such as Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” Many well known songs and hymns also follow this meter (or, also, the very similar so-called “common meter” which differs only in having a “tighter” rhyming scheme a b a b), such as the songs “Amazing Grace” and “America the Beautiful,” as well as the theme song to “Gilligan’s Island.” I guess there is no specific name for a single quatrain of ballad meter verse, so I’ll just call them daily quatrains – or maybe sometimes I’ll try to make more.
I have never successfully done much poemifying in traditional English stress-timed meters – despite being a native speaker, the stress-timed patterns have always felt unintuitive to me, while I have been making more rewarding efforts at syllable-count-based poetry since middle school. I am much more comfortable with syllable-timed patterns such as predominate in e.g. Italian, Spanish, Japanese or Welsh. Hence my previous efforts at this “poem-a-day” blog have been on such forms as the nonnet (originally Italian) and englyn (originally Welsh), with occasional haiku back there, too.