Summer’s Flame–a Huitain

Photo Credit: blindimage.com

Summer’s sun, inflammatory
passions flare. Searing, scorching rays
spawn such words defamatory.
Tempers simmer, kindle a blaze,
destroy our now and yesterdays.
All through the night a cricket’s call
sparks passion in another way
so that our morning love heals all.

On Thursday, for dVerse Form for All, Gemma Wiseman guest-hosted with Gay Cannon and challenged us to write a huitain, a form comprised of eight lines, eight syllables per line with the rhyme scheme: a,b,a,b,b,c,b,c. I didn’t have time to write something new, so I’m posting a huitain in response to today’s Poetics challenge to write to the theme of SUMMER, offered by Karin Gustafson. I hope you’ll stop by and read some poetry and maybe dip back into the archives to learn about this interesting form.

Potters

The day wind felled a weary oak,
we donned work aprons, boots,
took pails and spades in hand
and ventured out into the brumey cold
to scoop red clay, harvesting Earth.

That night we sat around a fire.
Flickering flames of warmth dispelled
the cold that seeped through dense
gray stone—walls caching sacred
secrets of a century and more.

We worked the clay that night, extracting
grit and stones, Gaia’s grainy
cells that would, ignored, destroy
our own creative efforts. Each night
thereafter, tediously, we toiled for perfection.

And when the day arrived to mold
and fashion terra-cotta worlds,
figures formed of toil and imagination,
clods of mud clung to our hands
that we discarded as extraneous.

Yet now and then we’d find a pebble.
Another proof that life eludes
the quest for flawless execution.

In the early 70′s I lived in a monastic setting at the Motherhouse of Les Petites Soeurs des Pauvres in St. Pern, Brittany, France. The above story is true. I am submitting this poem to Gay Cannon’s prompt at dVerse Poet’s Pub, as a metaphorical twist on life. I’m also linking it to my own prompt for this week’s Write2Day. The muse actually crawled out from under the covers this morning!

Motherhouse of the Little Sisters of the Poor

Funereal Reflections

Image via Wikipedia

The world moves on in timeless reverie
while doves o’er head turn westward to their home;
yon raven waits upon a gnarly tree.
Two empty spaces rest beside your tomb
and night, tonight, descends on you alone.
We gather then, disperse and go our way
sure we shall live to tend another day.

Your life, a whisper in the ear of earth,
too soon forgotten by the race of men;
can we embrace the promise of rebirth?
The blackbird swoops and preys upon a wren
and we bear witness: cruel death again
invades a waking moment, ruptures ease,
forsakes our very search for timeless peace.

Linked to http://dVersepoets.com poetic form prompt presented by Gay Cannon. Check it out and give it a try!