Iron Poet, Round XIII.

[cadhla]

Welcome to the latest round of Iron Poet, the game where you give me three words and I give you a poem. This is an adaptation of a standard writer's workshop activity, and I do not claim the original concept. I just claim to enjoy doing it

Comments

[sheistheweather]

Pumpkin, leaves, moon, in a sonnet if that's cool.

[cadhla]

So hang your pumpkin heart upon the moon,
And tie your pumpkin soul into a bow.
The harvest tide is coming far too soon
For jack-o-lantern lovers to let go.
And I have loved you darling, loved you well,
Have loved you from the stalk down to the root,
But as the autumn apples start to swell,
The leaves fall down, and all the world bears fruit.
For scarecrow lovers never see the frost;
We are the ghosts of seasons left behind.
So kiss me once before our time is lost.
I'll blow your candle out, and leave you blind.

The seeds we scatter now will someday sprout.
I know this well. My darling, have no doubt.

[sheistheweather]

Oh my gourd, I love this so much. Thank you!

[apocalypticbob]

So much love!

[kyleri]

Travel, escape, center.

Thank you!

[cadhla]

February came and February went,
A wily beast, draped in gray,
Wrapped in the tattered shrouds of
New Year's Resolutions left unfulfilled,
Phone calls unreturned, promises unkept.
It scuttled, scurried, disappeared into
The weeds of March, which swore it would be better.
March always lies.

Now April stands before us, pretty April,
Petaled April, rain-drenched April,
Gowned in gold and gowned in green,
Maiden among months, and I find that I
Have no more faith in me; I cannot trust
That anything she says will be made true.
April rarely lies.
April just...forgets.

So here I am, standing at the travel center,
Suitcase in my hand, calendar scars upon my heart.
My escape will be some other hemisphere,
Some other set of seasons,
Where the months may lie,
And the rains may fall,
But at least I won't
Have heard it all
Before.

[kyleri]

Oh wow, yes. Yes.

Thank you.

[rinioth]

British, American, Australian

Format up to you and use the three concepts rather than the actual words if it helps

Thanks

[cadhla]

These are the things that are precious to me:
American coffee, Australian liquorice, and sweet, hot, British tea.
You asked what I wanted, my answers are three:
American coffee, Australian liquorice, and sweet, hot, British tea.

It isn't as strange as you think it will be:
American coffee, Australian liquorice, and sweet, hot, British tea.
Come down if you like. Lunch is served presently:
American coffee, Australian liquorice, and sweet, hot, British tea.

[rinioth]

Strangely, I think of Liquorice as a Finnish thing because I got to like their salt liquorice (and the drink made from it "Salmiakki" ) while out there for work.

[autographedcat]

loss, past, confusion

Style of your choice.

[cadhla]

Confusion is the soundtrack of the past.
We wear the corners off our memories,
Rivers of the mind, trying to smooth away
All the sore feet, the aching eyes,
The delays, the wrong decisions, the lies,
The liars, the loss, and what remains
Is mental driftglass, polished pale,
Lacking causative links.
How did we get there, if the car didn't
Break down, leave us stranded, force us
To walk, you in your sandals, me in my
Uncomfortable shoes, until the blisters burst,
Until we stumbled into the butterfly cove,
And a thousand wings spread wide
To greet us?
How did we face the dawn if we didn't lie
Awake all night, talking, crying, fighting
To find our way back to one another,
And then the sun rose, and I loved you so,
And you loved me so, and the sky was
A burning flower, and everything was
So perfect, and so still?

Confusion shapes the narrative, fills in the gaps,
Leaves us standing shaky on driftglass beaches,
Saying, "I do not know the way, I do not know
The way, I do not know the way at all,
At all,
At all."

[autographedcat]

*sigh* Lovely. Thank you.

[mneme]

Oh, my.

Yes.

[arianhwyvar]

Reliquary, lamplight, winged.

[cadhla]

The reliquary stands; the towers fall.
No kings will walk these parapets tonight.
And Camelot, forgotten after all,
Will be a tale that only poets write.

But we were lovers, love, and we were grand;
We danced the Dance of Hours like we could win,
And when the winged future came to pass,
When we learned we were losing at long last,
I let you slide your soul beneath my skin,
And left the lamplight burning on the sand.

For we were never wrong, and never right:
You tried to climb. The tower was too tall.
Forever I will love you, and your light.
The reliquary stands; the towers fall.

[arianhwyvar]

Oh, wonderful!