I sat on the rock just down from the bridge,
Its steel looming there, a confirmation
That, though I had crested the hill, the ridge,
I could not escape civilization.
It is not that I had turned my back
On humanity, but that I had put
Before me what I had sought to unpack,
Why I had come to the river barefoot:
To think, yet to slip into unthought,
To listen to and watch the river flow,
And to regard fully what I had brought:
Feeling ungrateful and a little low.
And as I climbed again back to the road,
I found my shameful thoughts dimmed and slowed.
/ / /
This poem was written to the day twenty-eight prompt at Poetic Asides to write a remix poem. I’ve remixed “River” – a free verse poem from day two over at NaPoWriMo – into a sonnet.
Georges-Pierre Seurat, the youngest child
Of Antoine and Ernestine, delicate and mild
In his sensibility, but with a precision of mind,
Logically and mathematically inclined.
He played with color and light,
Colors muted and colors circus bright.
There were islands and bathers,
A mix of humanity and nature.
A concealed love, Madeleine,
And Pierre-Georges, a young son,
Seurat himself dead at thirty-one.
Leaving the world of men
Two weeks later, dead too the son,
Leaving the familial legacy undone.
/ / /
This poem was written in response to the painter poem prompt at Poetic Asides and the sad poem prompt at NaPoWriMo.
He used the axe to chisel off the bark,
then he split the logs for firewood.
The coals were giving off that orange-red glow,
but he wanted yellow flames to pierce the night.
He crouched down, then reached over the edge
of the firepit to place the logs on the coals.
In his mind, he remembered how he burst
in on his wife – and her lover. He wanted to beat
them both, to bruise them, to crash them
into the pain he felt. He resisted the urge
to crumple, to let them see his pain. He drew
himself up and walked out, his heart pierced.
And now, in his loneliness, he watches the light
reflect off the sharp edge of the axe blade.
/ / /
This poem was written in response to Wordle 59 at The Sunday Whirl.
Molecules are small, and atoms are smaller,
yet they are made of even smaller particles.
As we ponder these objects, there is great uncertainty.
We can know the position of an electron,
but we can’t know it’s speed at the same time.
We can know the speed of an electron,
but we can’t know it’s position at the same time.
Electrons jump from position to position,
and they give off photons, which we can see.
It is because of photons that we can see.
But are those photons particles or waves?
And why can’t we see both at the same time?
This is the problem when we get small,
that nothing is completely definite, only probable.
/ / /
This poem was written in response to the prompt to write about something small at Poetic Asides.
He sat in the gallery for so long, quiet,
I had barely registered him in my sight.
Other matters held my attention.
In truth, I noticed first the dark suits.
But then he rose to give his testimony
And all eyes in the courtroom were on him.
Well, almost. His open gaze was only on me,
While the prosecutor eyed me warily.
There was no guile in this man’s face,
And I caught myself leaning forward.
There was trust in his eyes, and hope
That his brother would be found innocent.
I listened carefully to his simple words,
And, in them, evidence of a truth.
/ / /
This poem was written in response to the Norman Rockwell painting above. Thanks to Margo Roby at Wordgathering for her Tuesday Tryout.