March Line by Line Challenge – 7 line poems

[Piscator]

We are now into the fifth of a twelve-month series of challenges in which you are asked to pen poems of specified line length in each month, with line length. We started in November with 3-line poems, then moved to 4 lines in December, 5 lines in January and 6 lines in February.

It's now March and the line length increases to seven. There will also be bonus points awarded to those who post sinister 15-line poems on March 15. As before, any topic and number of poems and forms within the requisite number of lines are acceptable. For the form fixated, I second Angeline's recommendation of The Poet's Garret for some 7 line forms.

As before, feel free to add to the earlier challenges as the muse strikes you.

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Royal Seven

Some come second in line for sure
but that they're less than best, it's just a lie
for instance, think of Mister Roger Moore.
He's oh-oh-seventh heaven's most gentle spy.
Who says so, you wonder why.
Well, anyone saved from storms and flames,
hear them sigh out loud, "Oh, James!"

 

[HarryHill]

..
Seven days and a wake up I'll be crossing that finish line,
winner of an endurance race seventy decades long,
surprisingly fast in that there was no hurry to get here,
no stops along the way to consult a map of destinations,
no road safe from the pull of curiosity,
no path that led away from home.
I blame it all on gravity.

 

[Remec]

(First attempt)

I Miss You

It's something that seems to
invade my mind now and then,
insinuating itself,
inspiring me--a muse
I can never really
inter, nor lose sight of,
inside all of my life.

 

[EllenMore]

Seven and Seven

He knew it took only three
before he got me in bed,
still sober enough to turn
over when he wanted it
like that or willing enough
to open my mouth so he
could finish. He never left

the liquor, just the soda,
which I used then to swill out,
swish, and spit into the sink
the entire goddamn evening,
as if that made it okay--
that I wasn't left too drunk
to pass out without crying.

 

[Angeline]

It Might Not Be a Poem

Perhaps you paint your sins
from a palette of words, no
judgement but only the colors
of potential actions: red panties,
blue sheets in stained disarray,
a bit of amber in a smudged glass.
The reader supplies the fiction,

decides whether the sins have value,
entertain at a safe, salacious remove.
Maybe they're not sins at all, just stories
to carry. Someone else lived them.
But if they die? It may become yours,
even if you don't want them,
even if you never tell.

 

[Piscator]

Heptagon Pythagoron

We called ourselves the Heptcats
known on the ice as rink rats
Thomas, Don, Stephen, and me
and the Gardner bothers three,
Clark, Andrew, and Little Joe
to the arena, we’d all go
and shinny till supper’s call.

By high school, shinny was lame
us Heptcats sought music fame
Tom on guitar, Don on drum
Steve fiddle, Joe bass did strum
Andy cornet, Clark trombone
me on the accordion
Kings of the Plains Polka scene.

While some say seven brings luck
fame’s fortune never us struck
after school we moved away
Tom and Don in new bands play
Steve, Joe and Clark went to city
More school for Andy and me
Heptcats now forever gone.

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Meet me at 8 - Prologue

A year, doubled twice, and once, again
I crossed seven continents
but you, I couldn't map.
I followed every rainbow
only to find your hue missing.
I committed seven sins
and yet I'm innocent of you...

 

[Tzara]

7 and 7 Is

fourteen, when sex and music
first begin imprinting
the tender sulci of young brains.
A little Beatles here, a little Playboy there,
and pretty soon your hips are grooving
to those twin adolescent beats—
either of which are more properly called Love.




I was actually 13, not 14, when this song came out in 1966, but close enough.
Here's my other favorite Love track, written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David, of all people.

 

[EllenMore]

Sharing the Bathroom

Sometimes, when he turns
away from me, I look
at his slim hips, long thighs,
the strong muscles of his lower back,
and I remember the thrust
of his body into my body.
Then I might flex my pelvis

just a bit, unconsciously, trying
to join in the frantic unjoinable
union that is sex. Can I be blamed
for slinking up to him, sliding
my loose breasts over bare skin,
slipping fingertips down his belly,
even if we'll be late for work again?

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Turn up the volume
How many will tell, from sunrise
till sunset, before, after, in between there's no rest
Listen to what four billion voices want to say
Thanks for the flowers, but equal rights would be the best surprise
Wishing all the best
on International Women's Day

 

[Lyricalli]

It's hard to write I'm proud of you
that phrase looks so condescending
especially from a distance

It pleases me to see you praised
your efforts appreciated
and I feel so much...
but it's not my place to say

 

[Levitating_Bed]

I woke up with only one sock on again
after dreaming I'd met God,
who had seemed very busy.
"He's not taking questions today."
his secretary had warned me.
Then I found my other sock
and remembered I was a materialist.

 

[Piscator]

1 of 7x7

Driver’s License

This learner’s permit does not permit much
although my instructor is kind of cute
but it’s hands-on wheel, eyes on road, no touch
still beats Mom’s nagging with radio mute
or Dad yelling if I take the wrong route.
Yet once I finally the test do pass
I’ve hook up plans with a willing lass

 

[Piscator]

2 of 7x7

1969

Neath Armstrong’s moon
I’m riding shotgun in her car
Neil Armstrong’s moon
radio plays Animals’ tune
but San Francisco is so far
away from Oklahoma bar
Neath Armstrong’s moon

 

[Piscator]

3 of 7x7

McKenzie King Island

This far North it never grew dark
in May, just a couple hours dusk.
On trackless land we made our mark
flag paths for seismic to follow
to map the earth below for oil.
A promise I hope rang hollow
and never crude this land will soil.

 

[Piscator]

4 of 7X7

Ifquisition

If the pain is physical could I stay strong?
If strike psychological, can I stay sane?
If offered pork and clams, would I choose wrong?
If all my friends desert me, what shall remain?
If all lies in ruins, what use is my claim?
If I take Pascal's bet, just how should I pray?
If I swipe right, will she blow me away??

 

[Piscator]

5 of 7X7

Time stretches ahead of me offering naught
but a succession of empty days to fill
my vain ambition to parse passion distraught
into septet form, if possible, with rhyme
as graceful as that ode to meadowlark’s trill
through melliferous verse to call back lost time
and formless notions of present time distill.

 

[Piscator]

6 of 7X7

Give me a break,
fourteen words
does not make
a poem.

Except
the
Septolet​

 

[Piscator]

7 of 7x7

Nothing

Nothing is sweeter than lover's first kiss
Nothing so sad as love unrequited
Nothing as cutting as false love's sharp edge
Nothing from nothing, no bets for to hedge.
Nothing from something matter ignited
Something from nothing, to end this stasis
Double or nothing, let's do it again.

 

[Lyricalli]

Songs

Stories like ours have always been
set to music. Love and heartbreak endlessly
serenade from radio stations and grocery
store speakers, so there's no escape from
songs we shared. Or songs we didn't, that still
sing you into existence just in time to
surprise me that you weren't on my mind for a minute.





Playing with the Pleiades form for this one.

 

[Lyricalli]

Inaudible

I miss your voice
That timbre so distinctly yours
I miss your voice
Sexy; soothing; my vice of choice
Even through the lonely detours
Your echo in my heart endures
I miss your voice






Tinkering with a Rondelet

 

[Angeline]

Seven times seven is 49
and seven words are in this line.
Sevens allegedly bring luck:
for me it's more like what the fuck?
All those lottery tickets I've bought
over years have won me naught,
but here's the seven lines I sought.

 

[Fflow]

Wonderful!

Sharing the Bathroom

Sometimes, when he turns
away from me, I look
at his slim hips, long thighs,
the strong muscles of his lower back,
and I remember the thrust
of his body into my body.
Then I might flex my pelvis

just a bit, unconsciously, trying
to join in the frantic unjoinable
union that is sex. Can I be blamed
for slinking up to him, sliding
my loose breasts over bare skin,
slipping fingertips down his belly,
even if we'll be late for work again?

I love this. Thank you.

 

[Fflow]

Le piège épicé

Le piège épicé
by Fflow

Vous tournez et vous tordez
Vous tirez loin
Tes yeux écarquillés d'émerveillement
Alors que ma langue s'enfonce dans ton piège caché
L'air jaillit de tes poumons
Vous haletez et criez
Et l'effondrement, à bout de souffle et rincée