Poetry, sestina


i sat with a nomad who had a deep voice
he was a bit tired not feeling all that great
today started the annual horse racing season
here was a holiday, a tradition, with a horse race
the nomad talked calmly with little fanfare or play
the role he read was perfect, i think he was a convict

not much chatter from the clamed up convict
he sorta lost interest once my interest started to play
time slowed and hunger growled i hoped fruit was in season
sitting in the coolness made the morning great
the horses in a cloudy canter headed towards the race
i wish there was more time with the nomad and his voice

when he speaks he opens a door with his voice
especially when he starts towards his horse to play
his horse responds knowing how close the season
the nomad and his horse will soon line up for the race
he was interesting this nomad who was also a convict
wouldn’t have noticed except those scars were great

once he stood his nomad height was great
was he taller than his horse that was to run the race
would it matter or come into play
wanted to ask the nomad, is this the season
as a person he would answer, as a convict
and a nomad not sure, would i hear his voice

sometimes he talks as if he has no voice
and when i see the nomad near his horse and they play
as if there was nothing else and there was no race
the smallness of the space the horse and the convict
within this arena the nomad his horse how great
once a year it comes by way of the season

looking around one could tell it was the season
flying multi-colored banners announcing the race
a few instruments soon came into play
the musicians arrived in one be quiet of a voice
from afar i could see his horse and the convict
the nomad will soon be racing towards a win so great

i watched him leave, the nomad and horse, who was a convict
it didn’t feel so great, already i missed his mysterious voice
the season passed and the race finished, it was a great play

day 12 napowrimo
2021 April PAD challenge write a poem using at least three of the following six words: convict, great, play, race, season, and voice. Extra credit for using all six words. Extra extra credit for writing a sestina….

poet’s note: wanted to attempt a sestina. it has been awhile. i enjoyed it and will attempt to use it again soon.

Napowrimo, PoefusionMondayMural, Poetry


Meme from PoefusionMondayMural w/additional challenge sestina; photo: watercolor, Leontine May, flickr


here he comes the chattering crow
moored moments on the rim of my umbrella
stretching the fugacious aerial shade
perfectly sheer blue forever dress
anchors sweetly to the incarnate soft post
eyes open i am the scarecrow

wingless invisible stories chance upon the scarecrow
aphonic patterns floating free nestled to the feathered crow
expressions written handless notes waiting to post
arriving stampless coming for comfort find forever umbrella
attired with distinction to my every day blue dress
voiceless visions live easy under the simple surrendering shade

brilliant bright notes whisper out in the open shade
thousands of thoughts tell all to the forever scarecrow
not much known keenly aware softly spoken in the folds of dress
here he perches and stays awhile unloading the black caring crow
daily drifts hushed breezes caressing care puissant umbrella
strength in numbers standing strong alone the approachable post

determined desire resist not the tone lean upon the forever post
sweet scent sailing unseen unheard serene shade
picking places restful dwellings right here umbrella
patiently peaceful noting the days precious scarecrow
speaking specifically to only one the courier clawed crow
tattered tongues sealed in sorrow lie quiet in dress

kaleidoscope comments color the gauzy blue dress
lightly lifted sentiment inscribed threads linger harkens the post
often he comes heavy hearted hearing all the quiet crow
lacking less taking more listening forever shade
spotless humble beginnings enduring scarecrow
dawns the day holding court beneath the hushed umbrella

mindful of untold tasks waiting to behold beneath the umbrella
faithful few numbered unending who would have guessed the dress
arms extended beyond the horizon unhurried sustaining scarecrow
fields afar full of trees lives one lone post
spreading tomorrow’s light the subtle shade
careful and kind beyond recognition forever the crow

two tongues talking the crow and umbrella
provide the secure shade behold the dress
placed perfect the post hears the speaking scarecrow

day 21 NaPoWriMo