It’s been awhile since I published one of my Wordle attempts. MindLoveMiseryMenagerie regularly presents these Word-puzzles, in which a list of words is provided, to be crafted into a poem or other form of writing. This Wordle is #157. (*see word list below.)
The Art of Flirting
We have reached a stalemate…you and I
in our playhouse of make-believe,
avoiding muse-thieves in cahoots vis-à-vis
in competition for cleverness … a turn of a phrase.
I bite my tongue in affected semaphorism
… a flicker of eyelashes with a knowing smile,
a hint of a shared secret, imaginary interlude
“remember the willows…?” a tentative glance…
To know or not to know becomes the quest
we wonder: are we on the same page?
Do we deserve to solve the paradox
of saying nothing…while expressing it all?
*Word list: bite, smooth, open, deserve, paradox, semaphorism, stalemate, tension, playhouse, Neptune, thieves. (I was unable to work in two of the words: Neptune and tension, but did manage to incorporate the prerequisite ten words—including Semaphorism — a conversational hint of something personal to say; a half-told anecdote; one of those comments we slip into an otherwise unconnected conversation, such as an aside which has no apparent meaning other than between two specific people; a private joke.
A scent of Wisteria
if real or fake
borne by warm breezes
over rippling tidewaters.
A ship’s sharp whistle
from deep in the gut,
as sweet music echoes
through silent halls
… a faceless, mute bibliotaph,
who treasures… within his soul…
sounds he cannot experience
except in his penetralia.
© Sometimes, 2017
This WORDLE #129, has languished in my notebook for months. I do love these exercises offered frequently by MINDLOVEMISERY, and enjoy the challenge of making a poem or other form of writing, using at least ten specific words from a list of 12. This Wordle words are: Wisteria, faceless, penetralia*, sharp, tidewater, fake, breeze, occur, mute, bibliotaph*, step, and guts.
penetralia: held in interior, core, deep, innards, etc… as in deep sometimes private thoughts or memories
bibliotaph: someone who hoards books, a book collector
Here’s a scrap of rhyme from one of my notebooks, Wordle #124, from last October’s prompt in MindLoveMisery’s post. I would apologize for the delay, but here it is anyway….better late than never.
A grey Cygnet has lost its Mum
adrift on a branch of fennel.
A tad of soft nectar escaped from a bloom
inexplicably left by a passing Sparrow…
serves well as emergency forage
against hunger pangs, until Mama’s return
to bandage the Cygnet’s distress.
The sunlight reflects beams of light
which belie the clarity of vitrified matter
embodied in clear bubbles of resin.
© Sometimes, 2017
Sounds remain in memory banks to fill a silent void.
As the blind hear what they cannot see,
the Deafened have memories of sounds
in silence echo sonorous nocturnal interludes…
a rustle of taffeta nearby…
the gurgle of the newly uncorked vessel,
with its cheery “pop!” of releasing Chardonnay.
Somewhere a whistle escapes a kettle’s steam
with a strident “woosh!” a steam engine slows.
The crackle of a welcoming fire, a heat current conveys
with soft vibrations, the percussive beat of distant drums;
the buzz of a harmless insect seeking aimlessly,
bare tree branches scratching at a window pane…
a thready sigh escapes a whisper of Death.