NaPoWriMo #2: Rhythm and Verse and All Things Worse

So we start a new poem,
a stream of verse,
and with a rhyme scheme we begin to converse.

But how about going with the flow,
less of a structure and more of a never-ending discourse?
'Yes,' said the Poet-in-Chief, 'That's a good idea.'
But how many lines, what sort of syllabic construct should we use?

'It doesn't matter really,'

said

the Poet

-in-

Chief.

'Oh look at that, you've got the tense mixed up again.
Pick one for the next stanza and stick with it.'

Here goes a present tense poem,
tricky, but I'll try and hold 'em.
All those phrases, hundreds of them,
waiting to be placed in line.
Not a place for feeble writing,
you can try or go down fighting,
without additional lighting,
you can write some Allan Poe,
write Edgar Allan Poe meters,
the type would-be poets know,
such wondrous verse with the flow.

What about the villanelle, my old friend?
When free verse leads your meter astray,
can this tremendous form make amends?

Dylan Thomas knew, this was his trend,
he knew the power the form could convey,
what about the villanelle, my old friend?

Perhaps the sonnet could clear this mess up?
The form of love, strife, effective verse.
Good old Shakespeare used them in his line-up,
he had over a hundred in his purse
to be used when love or grief would beckon
and all his inner thoughts came spilling out,
though there are many scholars who reckon
they're not sure who he was talking about.
Yet it's handy for writing poetry quick,
the sonnet's short, rhymes and has great rhythm.
It's concise, lyrical, short and succinct,
a wonderful, potent algorithm.
Yet I wonder if we're viewing this wrong?
Let's try another form to end this song.

When all's said and done, verse is the worst,
so many meters and forms to rehearse.
Still, you can use any form or none at all
when you ride down the poetry waterfall.

NaPoWriMo #29: Sheriff of the Savannah

Two days to go, and here we have the most unusual poem I've ever done for NaPoWriMo. Having read a bit of Edgar Allan Poe recently, I decided to write a poem set upon the African savannah in the same distinctive style (known as trochaic octameter) which he uses in 'The Raven'. So, here it goes.

Sheriff of the Savannah

Upon a hot savannah day the hyenas rest in the shade,
while a lone bull buffalo grazes in the long grass up to his knees.
His herd have moved on to safety, together they number eighty,
while the bull stands far from hasty in the grass up to his knees,
facing the danger approaching through the grass with greatest ease.
He will not run for the trees.

His opponents are no less bold, but he refutes their mighty hold
on the dried up river to the east and bush fires billowing west.
A pride of ten lions stalking while the buffalo starts walking
up to his fierce foes, un-balking, with sizable bovine heft,
not noticing a lack of friends to help in his lonesome quest
he stands firm against the test.

Three at a time they attack him, they try to bite or throttle him,
one lioness jabs from the front, her sisters lunge at his rear.
With fearsome horns he battles them, but his strength fails to scatter them
as they bite, claw and batter him, try to force him to his knees,
force the last great strength out of him and force him onto his knees
slaughter however they please

Yet the lions have not thought it, but the old bull will not forfeit.
He thrusts with his embattled horns and he holds back the onslaught.
At last the lions are tired, but the bull is still battle fired,
and the pride turn to retire to the shade beyond the trees,
leaving their opponent standing in the grass up to his knees,
watching as the lions leave.

The herd returns to greet the bull, the calves proving a small handful
as they jostle round him and stare at the deep wounds on his back.
His hide has withstood the battle, and the bull is hardly rattled
as the mightiest of cattle that roam the savannah track,
roaming across the endless grass along the savannah track
with new scars upon his back.

NaPoWriMo #8: Streets

And so we've reached day eight of NaPoWriMo, and today's poem is inspired by their daily prompt which suggested that participants write a poem featuring repetition of a single word, similar to Edgar Allan Poe's "The Bells" or Joy Harjo's "She Had Some Horses.

Streets

Streets of shops,
streets of houses,
streets of shops and houses,
the town is lined with streets.
The streets form the arteries,
the veins, generate the circulation
to the town's heart.
The streets are lined with cars,
either parked on the kerb
or clogging up the road,
they choke the streets
leading into town,
the labyrinth stretching out
to meet streets bordering the green
of the shrinking countryside.