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Saadia Reads 'Secret Garden'

Symbiosis

he craves
what I give
and gave
enabling his addiction
I deprave
waiting for a
waive
watching for his
wave
his hands liberate
my inner slave
he breathes
be brave
as we start
to misbehave
I may allow--
but he saves

Dropped Stitch Scarf

knit one purl on
ea scarf for a lover
kept quiet undercover
stitches come undone

around his neck
my alpaca leash
out of reach
yet call and beck

handcrafted protection
my work keeps him warm
inside our perfect storm
this chilly defection

*Notice the rhyme scheme in this poem (abba, cddc, etc). This is an example of envelope rhyme. I am currently knitting a 'dropped stitch scarf.' For all you knitters, click here for directions on how to make your own.

Bicoastal

his name feels
fresh on my tongue
my delusion, but real
ancient but young

left and right
loose and tight
black and white
day and night

darling, he sighs
an answered why
his truthful lie
certain and shy

the torrid balance
of well planned chance
this one-word sentence
his heavy glance

owning legions of lovers
between east and west
conceal and discover
my worst, his best

Obsidian, Version 1 and 3

About a week ago, I started writing an acrostic while I was grocery shopping using the words 'fight or flight.' I scribbled a bunch of lines on the back of my list and told myself that I would post the poem soon. When the time came to post, I couldn't find the yellow index card I had written the poem on. I looked everywhere! I finally decided that I must have inadvertently thrown the grocery list with the poem on the back away. I sat down to write another acrostic and when I clicked the 'save changes' button (on Xanga), I was informed that the site was down for maintenance. I clicked the back button on my browser repeatedly, but I could not recover my words. I then wrote a third version, which is posted below.

Version #3
For me--my reality
Is alive with constant friction
Glimmery sparks
Heated and hot
Tantrums of chaos

Obsidian, really; my fractures are
Real. Chasms of fire and belief

Fantasy, at least mine,
Lives where reality
Ignites, burns brave
Genuine, this flame
Helps me hold on
To my truth

About three days after I posted version #3, I found the first poem that I had written. It had been in my car the whole time!!! Anyway, below you'll find version #1. I was surprised at how different the poems were.

Version #1
Fantasy: magnetic, hypnotic
Insists on surrender
Giving in, giving up
Heated--the fantastic ignites
The composure of reality

Over, this thorough
Resolve. I am weak and

Filled with limitations
Life, lust, my appetites
Insatiable
Greedy and self absorbed
History, her story
To battle or break away

Paradelle*

The weight of his stare
The weight of his stare
Heavy enough to break bone
Heavy enough to break bone
Enough break, heavy weight
To the bone of his stare

I can feel his eyes
I can feel his eyes
Tapping at my spine
Tapping at my spine
Spine tapping his
Eyes I can feel at my

The way he looks at me
The way he looks at me
Presses hard, almost hurts
Presses hard, almost hurts
Hurts the way he presses
Looks at me hard

At the bone, I can almost
Break his spine
His weight: heavy, hurts, presses
He looks way hard
At the me of my
Enough to feel
Tapping eyes stare

*A paradelle is a modern poetic form which was invented by United States Poet Laureate Billy Collins as a parody of the villanelle. It is a poem of four six-line stanzas in which the first and second lines, as well as the third and fourth lines of the first three stanzas, must be identical. The fifth and sixth lines, which traditionally resolve these stanzas, must use all the words from the preceding lines and only those words. Similarly, the final stanza must use every word from all the preceding stanzas and only these words. Simply said, the last two lines of the first three stanzas use all the words in that stanza. The last stanza, however, incorporates every word that is used in the poem. As I stated earlier, the 'paradelle' is a parody. However, I think of it as a sort of word puzzle. I loved writing it.

Not all reviewers of Collins' book recognized that the paradelle was a parody of formal poetry and of amateur poets who adhered to formalism at the expense of sense. Some reviews criticized Collin's poem "Paradelle for Susan" as an amateurish attempt at a difficult form without ever understanding that this was, indeed, the point.

St. Louis!

Cougar*

young men--boys, really
extreme energy explodes
exponentially

these crossroads
between wrong and right
there are no high roads

so trite
consort crisis
weary of polite

immature bliss
physical perfection
hurts to dismiss

daydream defection
noiseless screams
phantasmal selection

sunbeams
bright and gullible
giving off steam
nothing but trouble

*The Urban Dictionary defines a cougar as "a 35+ year old female who is on the "hunt" for a much younger, energetic, willing to do anything male."

This poem started out as a terza rima, which is poetry written in three-line stanzas (or “tercets”) linked by end-rhymes patterned aba, bcb, cdc, ded, efe, etc. There is no specified number of stanzas in the form, but poems written in terza rima usually end with a single line or a couplet rhyming with the middle line of the last tercet. However, as you can see, my last stanza is definitely not a single line or couplet. So my poem is kind of a terza rima, but, technically....not really.

'N' Words

In a nutshell--
I am neurotic
Navigating
neural pathways
networking with
negative notions
How can I stay
neutral?
Where is my
nirvana?
Naked, naive,
dressed in this
napkin thin
negligee
my necklace is a
noose
Come closer--
n e a r e r--
I'm ready to
negotiate

Related Posts:
'A' Game
The 'F' Bomb

Blogger's Delight

Join with me in congratulating
Saadia Ali Aschemann (Girly_Girl--THAT'S MEEEE)
Diane Dorce' (Mizrepresent)
R. Fitzgerald (Mega Rich)
April C. Hayes (Literary Felonies)
D.R. Johnson (Dave @ Wandering Ether)
Cordenia Paige (CAPcity)
Torrance Stephens (All-Mi-T @ Raw Dawg Buffalo)
Cedric Harris - Editor (Ced it Meant it)
Denea Marcel - Cover Artist (Denea)
B-Side Artist:
Mr. Ash (BygPowis)
Mr. Jones (iamrj)
Ms. McCrary (Xcentric Pryncess)
Ms. Tery (MysTery)
Mr. Smith (Don)
This project has been in the works since early this year
and is finally coming to fruition. To check out excerpts of four of
the six stories or to purchase an advanced copy
go to the Bloggers Delight Book site.

Inspiration*

In between midnight and morning
my words wake me
traveling through
slumber to sight

I taste thoughts as my eyes open
spying the clock
next to my bed
angry numbers

In my mind's many rooms, words weave
into poems
I say only
where is my pen

*This is an example of a "minute poem." Minute poems are 12-lines, consisting of 60 syllables, with a syllabic line count of 8,4,4,4,8,4,4,4,8,4,4,4. Technically, the form should have rhyming couplets--but I just couldn't do it. I've also heard some people insist on this form being written in a strict iambic meter...again, this was just impossible for me. Sticking to the right number of syllables was hard enough. I was trying to describe one intense moment--an actual minute--when words wake me up and I am compelled to start writing poetry.

Fine Line

conscious--subliminal
love--hate
cop--criminal
sinner--saint
trite--seminal
brilliant--great
rude--cynical
learned--innate
intimate--clinical
crooked--straight

Argument

her lips
garnet colored, glossy
laugh at sobriety

exhilarated
she can blow
questions away
with a smooth exhale

her mouth
tells her mind
that there are
different kinds
of wrong

Blog Interview

Hey, Everyone!!!

I was interviewed by www.BlogInterviewer.com.

Please check out this link and vote for my blog!

Thank you.

Untitled

pretty she is
ugly she does
maybe she's his
maybe she was

holy and haunted
madonna, whore
dismissed and wanted
a fascinating bore

sugar, spice
does anyone know?
fire, ice
yes and no

So...what do you think the title of this poem should be?

Shahrazad

his day off
is my day on
like Shahrazad
sensuous solutions
dark haired diversion

each day is
his birthday
filled with surprises
adult amusement

orchestrating
utopian fantasies
while maintaining
this week's manicure

my very survival
depends on the
ability to
enchant and
enthrall

spellbound, he marvels
at my mastery
wishing for infinite
days of leisure

as he travels
toward his dreams
I wish for a
distraction of my own


Scheherazade, more correctly known as Shahrazad and sometimes Scheherazadea or Shahrzād (Persian: شهرزاد ); is a legendary Persian queen and the storyteller of The Book of One Thousand and One Nights, also, though erroneously, known as the Arabian Nights.Her story is as follows: every day Shahryar (Persian: شهريار or "king") would marry a new virgin, and every day he would send yesterday's wife to be beheaded. This was done in anger, having found out that his first wife was betraying him. He had killed three thousand such women by the time he was introduced to Scheherazade, the vizier's daughter.Against her father's protestations, Scheherazade volunteered to spend one night with the King. Once in the King's chambers, Scheherazade asked if she might bid one last farewell to her beloved sister, Dunyazad, who had secretly been prepared to ask Scheherazade to tell a story during the long night. The King lay awake and listened with awe to Scheherazade's first story and asked for another, but Scheherazade said there was not time as dawn was breaking, and regretfully so, as the next story was even more exciting.And so the King kept Scheherazade alive as he eagerly anticipated each new story, until, one thousand and one adventurous nights, and three sons later, the King had not only been entertained but wisely educated in morality and kindness by Scheherazade who became his Queen.

Sequence

his dependable
presence
makes his
absence
difficult andintense
(miss him, I do)
furtive messages
make me tense
these sensations
make no sense
simplicity tangles
into something dense
(dismiss him, says you)
we could
dispense
with this
obvious pretense
intimateprepense
(dis him, I will not)
in his
defense
his charm
immense
together
let us commence
(I'll kiss him, so what?)

Pawn

"...but who in your measly little world are you trying to prove thatyou're made out of gold and -a can't be sold..." ~Jimi Hendrix, Are You Experienced

he tells me
that he wants to
buy me out
I cringe and clap
exhilarated, alarmed
like a small child
watching fireworks

his cold truth
sears--dry ice
rough,
severe
even a girl like me
can be bought
and sold

My oldest son, Noah, and I love words. Though he is only 9 years old, I am constantly amazed by his vocabulary and wordplay. As you can imagine, Noah and I have a lot of fun with magnetic poetry. Below is Noah's first 'magnetic poem.' Of course, I thought it was brilliant--but I'm extremely biased.

Below is my attempt. When I showed it to Noah, he said, "I think mine is much better. Yours doesn't make any sense!" As I read my words now--I realize that he's right!

Hugs to everyone--Here is my previous magnetic poetry post.