Friday, May 23, 2014

VERBAL TRIAGE RETURNS

The feature known as "Verbal Triage" makes its triumphant return to micropoetry.

Here's the deal:

I'll give you ten words. You decide which six require your attention the most and write them into a poem. 14 lines is the max, but don't minimize your effort.

And if you send your poem to "Intensive Care", you've utilized all ten words. Great job!

The words:

unvoiced, solid, helpless, pretty, common, dark, mean, surprise, day, grief

8 comments:

  1. PROMISES

    You ask that I not give in to grief,
    to face that day with new-found courage,
    sorrow unvoiced, a heart bursting
    with undying love.
    I said I’d try.
    Bring on the dark! Love, be the light!
    I will not be helpless or lose faith.
    One day we’ll meet again
    on common ground.

    #

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. We'll meet again on common ground.... that works very nicely, Sal.

      Delete
  2. unvoiced, solid, pretty, dark, mean, surprise

    Longing

    Her face is pretty, sparkly,
    by sun and moon.
    I stand on the edge
    my heels dry, my toes wet
    solid footing till the sand
    begins to shift beneath me.
    No surprise. I don’t think it mean
    of the sea to slip away
    back to the unvoiced deep
    where dark and silence reign,
    but I do wonder at the power
    of sound and light that draws
    her here again and again.

    ReplyDelete
  3. You did a great job of personifying the sea!

    ReplyDelete
  4. THE ART OF THE MATTER
    (a shadorma)

    Day’s dark sky,
    a pretty common
    reflection
    of unvoiced
    grief; surprise is in helpless
    flowers’ solid stance.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Hello. Mine is here: http://miskmask.wordpress.com/2014/05/31/the-dark-vein-of-us/

    ReplyDelete

  6. the widow's lover

    she opens the envelope carefully
    with an opener slicing the edges
    perfectly holding the surprise for
    another moment in the dark falling
    about her like pretty clothes dropped
    to the carpet, heart beats fast, hope
    unvoiced, holds the pretty parchment
    sliced open between painted nails
    in the almost dark - helpless as visions
    of him gain dominion over grief of one
    obligated to be mourned - the good man
    who lies atop satin in the parlor while she
    slides the letter, kisses the familiar loops
    of pen and ink and words of illicit love and
    grants grief a mean holiday - filling with the
    bubbles of passion for just this moment of
    this dark, dim, ever-present day


    ReplyDelete
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    ReplyDelete