Unlucky thirteen? September – 13-line Poem Challenge

[Piscator]

It’s now September, the days grow shorter (at least in the northern hemisphere) yet we are adding a line to the line-by-line challenge with the count increasing to thirteen.

So button-up your Boutonniere, round-up your rondel and madly pen your English Madrigal or relax and go free verse For the form fixated, the Poets Collective has an extensive listing of 13-line forms.

 

[Angeline]

And Garp and Helen and Duncan held their breath; they realized that all these years Walt had been dreading a giant toad, lurking offshore, waiting to suck him under and drag him out to sea. The terrible Under Toad.
~The World According to Garp, John Irving

Under Toad

Oh how I want this time to end
these past few years of loss
on loss, friend or idol, my own
serenity turning to captivity.

Rising tides and driving rain,
tornados from a hurricane,
relentless voices in a babble,
conspiracy and this dark age

of disbelief where science
becomes fairy tale. Another day,
another friend, once so lithe, alive--
her eyes sparkle no more.

Beware the Under Toad.

 

[Angeline]

Words of Love

They're just symbols.
Marks flashing in a quicksilver medium
like messages hurled into space
from another galaxy.

The real world has skin, sugar.
Blood and bone dance, make magic.
Still we read these distant signals that say Yes.
I am like you. I hear the same music. Yes.
I need poetry. Yes I'm gentle and thoughtful,
capable of great passion. Sometimes

too much Yes is dangerous so we correct,
not end, the course of conversation.
Love abides and is always enough.

 

[Piscator]

September

September and days grow short
students new for me to sort
labour of love some may say
mostly though I toil for pay.
Witness to sweet autumn’s prize
Fall Fairs, joy in children’s eyes
from their vision new dreams rise
each finds purpose their own way.
Some may stumble, trip the wire
others grasp their heart’s desire
as their allotted days transpire.
September and days grow short
students new for me to sort.

 

[Angeline]

Down in the soul of this rock,
where the roll is loose
as a goose when you twist, stride
and stroll in the sweaty dance power
of the midnight hour, beatnik
angel wings beat down beatific
on desolation row, accept this son
our Charley into the band. Here flies
Brian, Jimi, Janis too and Laura,
Levon, Otis, George and Johnny
Moondog play timeless be bop
a lula. Dig: truth is art and music
is immortal.​

 

[HarryHill]

..Gimmie Some

Someone turn on the radio;
make some noise.
It could be anything,
rock or jazz. Some
indie grungers or concert spaz,
Get off your ass, make a dash for some
music. I'll pay you back;
coffee klatch?
Fresh baked snacks?
Salza! I've got a batch; lets munch.
So gimme some,
please gimmie some
MUSIC.

 

[butters]

AWOL

loss:
raw as an amputated stump
a phantom arm that still recalls
warm weight of crying babies
rocked to catch-breath sleep

when dreams bring visions
capture them as best one can
with loose-cup't fingers, placid mind,
for the muse is awol
even as the keyboard nags in wait

accept with grace gifts given—
be it from some spectral lass
or more primate, nocturne musings

 

[Tzara]

The Ordinary Advice

The way we met
doomed any real
connection. How

could a porn site
lead to anything
but, at best, literary

sex? Love of words

is something on which one
can only build
a relationship

more real, more physical,
only if one uses
active verbs.

 

[PBAnnie]

Once In a While

Once In a While

The wind and the wolves howl in the cold glow
A storm beckons hunger; bitter pale snow
New sap feeds the worm and some sugar for crow
The hare and the egg painted pink for the show

Tilling and planting bring flowers and milk
Rose mead and strawberries smoother than silk
Spry bucks in the hay, thunder bane to their ilk
A sturgeon gnaws barley like fruit served in milk

'Tis now time to harvest the gold in the corn
Hunters let blood flow from hoof and from horn
New frost falls on beaver, lost summer to mourn
A final cold glimpse from our Yule has been torn

The wheel spins more slowly our moon has turned blue

 

[29wordsforsnow]

Have you seen my...?

Where is that line
I've wanted to write?
Somehow it's gone.
Maybe under a boot
that crossed over,
or full of pins
tense from today's laundry,
or used for a flirt
who laughed and left.
Does it divide the world
in dark and light?
From my start, the end I see
but how to connect without thee?

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Triskaidekaphobia

Who knew someone
could come up with a name for
“fear-of-the-number-thirteen.”
I am not a superstitious person,
strolling freely under ladders
and opening my brolly indoors,
not knocking on wood or
crossing fingers on seeing
a single magpie.
Yet here I am unable to find
a single line of thirteen
to fill the poetic void.
Oh, wait…..never mind.
​

 

[HarryHill]

9/11

..
Misty daylight
coffee
computer
homepage shot of rusted steel
American flag
Jersey 'cross the river
soul torn in an instant
spent the day numb
almost
as bad
as the day
the world
fell
...

 

[Piscator]

A Short Trucker's Madrigal

Highways and motels, yet still miles to go
such is the life of a truck driving man
forever moving with no future plan.

In dawn's eastern blush, bright headlights still glow
shadows creep in, memories of Maryanne.
Highways and motels, yet still miles to go
such is the life of a truck driving man

Lights flashing ahead, traffic getting slow
poor bastard T-boned, trapped in his sedan
but Jaws of Life ain't enough for this man.
Highways and motels, yet still miles to go
such is the life of a truck driving man
forever moving with no future plan.

 

[AlinaX]

A story published, I count each vote
Each one- and two-star gets my goat
How dare they fail to praise my words
Those philistines in untended herds
My well heeled feet those fools should kiss
Instead they sneer and mock and hiss
But never mind! I’ll laugh, I’ll howl
And close my ears to each uncultured growl
For I was raised on Latin and Greek
While those barbarians can hardly speak
More I’ll pen with sophisticated ink
Ignoring their uneducated stink
Farewell for now, for I must think...

 

[butters]

It started with the worms...

hammer-headed, carnivorous beasts,
snake-striped, long as your foot–
slick predators with earthworms in their sights.

So.. much.. rain. Creation
of perfect hunting grounds
and an unseen war of attrition.

"Don't handle without gloves
their secreted toxins irritate human skin
though good old salt or vinegar will seal their fate." Too late.

Below the grass-line, red soil starves;
rotted, shriveled, crops fail to thrive;
herds sicken; suicide-farmers at all-time highs.

It started small. It started with the worms.









https://whnt.com/news/huntsville/ca...can grow to,one of the worms don’t pick it up.

The Hammerhead Predatory Worm (Bipalium sp) is an invasive predatory worm species that came to the US from Southeast Asia. It is believed to have arrived in other countries, including the US, in the soil of nursery plants. It gets its name because the head of the worm looks similar to the head of the hammerhead shark. The ones in the US usually have a dark horizontal stripe down its side.

Due to the heat and humidity of their natural habitat, most Hammerhead worms are found in southern states. Although they are well established in Louisiana, Texas and Florida, they were not believed to be in the central United States. However, one as long at 1 ft. was recently found as far north as Springfield, MO.

 

[Remec]

Late Season Rain

dark clouds
gathering themselves;
growing full

awaiting their cue,
just biding time,
growing themselves in strength,
slow-building strength,
showing as a change from grey to black

sitting in place,
winds having pretty much stopped,
not circling, just sitting right in place,
just like he wanted,
Murphy's such a bastard

 

[Tzara]

Wanting to Ask You Out

I can still move
independently, though
for how long, I don't know.

I would like to walk with you,
though it might mean
pushing your wheelchair

or matching whatever pace

you can manage. I'd offer my arm,
if I didn't need help myself.
But the thing is

I still want to remove your clothes,
because your body remains perfect
even at our age.

 

[Angeline]

When interest fell to dust,
dry and crumbling to the floor,
weak tea was left behind,
not love or lust. I didn't want you
anymore. I've hit the wall, I said,
our vows be damned: you killed
the love in me. If I tried I couldn't
magick a facsimile. I'm not sorry.
I was hollow. I was weary.

Oh Terry! You put Sun back
in the sky, song back in birds.
Even now my gratitude echos
like wild pounding in a canyon.

 

[butters]

unspoken words pile up–
dead bodies in a throat's narrow cave–
block the endless stream of more
needing to break free

n
i
n
e

m
o
r
e

lines

 

[butters]

situational insomnia

thoughts zoom on stiff feathers
branch to feeder to newly hacked stem

hover, dart
buzz the aether with their territoriality

confrontational
restless
agitated

no nourishment to be found
in the red glare of a sugar high

no peace discovered
in an endless
fruitless
pursuit

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

What If

Where would we go,
I wonder?

If I was the traveler
you could show me your haunts,
your choice of eatery or drinks.

Once here I’d lead you through
hilly hikes and woodland walks
where bears could lurk (not really,
well, not often.) The sea is a possibility,
always there, always changing.

I think there would be laughter,
a connection, a bond. So that parting
would be a wrench, better not risk
inevitable pain.​

 

[Tzara]

Formal Poem that Does Not Express
the Real Feelings of Its Author

I'd like to read to you:
Auden, Yeats, even my poems
or yours.

You choose.
Because, I confess
that I want all these words

to get you to understand

how I long to gather you in
like a harvest, reap
your fragile emotions

like ripe fruit I wouldn't
dare to eat, but rather burnish,
as if your love was actually meant for sale.

 

[Lyricalli]

This time, I haven't found a way
to cry, though I want to sometimes
standing in a rain of shattered glass
with all its glitter and satisfying sound
just me in the middle looking for beautiful
in a torrent of broken

You're there; you're always there
beyond the fractured light
though I know the risk of not walking the other way
(I always have, and still...)
I'd take your hand if you reach back through
because I do, and you do
hating it gets me through the days

 

[Angeline]

Acrostic

I think of you most days,
Mainly our long conversations
Into my night, your morning, making
Silly jokes, analyzing, editing. Yes we
Sisters of the heart understand how
Years have cemented our caring~
Oh the days you called me cack-handed,
Upbraided my freewheeling way with words,
And cried with me, oceans of pain and grief.
Now I have to imagine what you might say.
Now you've joined my pantheon of ghosts.
I can meet you anytime because now you are
Everywhere and always in your poems.

 

[Lyricalli]

Acrostic