Little leaf blowing
Near the roses in my yard
A thing of wonder
Though most disregard
I love to watch you
Scamper and prance
Free from your branches
You’re finally able to dance
I often wonder why the world
Seems to forget who you are
I suppose most are more interested
In all the bright shiny stars
But to me you’re a thing of beauty
As you bring life to my dreary day
And I’m so very grateful
That you are never far away
© 2017 Michelle Cook
All the days began and ended with crimson,
whether flowing with an abundance of tangerine
or saturated with the soft hues of saffron,
depended mostly on the seasonal viridian.
The afternoon sky never changed though, always a pale azure.
Why couldn’t it ever be a shade of purple like amethyst?
She’d always delighted in things of amethyst,
and as all days began and ended with crimson,
she accepted the fact that she’d always face the effects of azure.
In the lull of the day, she’d close her eyes and see lazy shades of tangerine,
but opening them once more; she was snapped back to the views of viridian.
Sometimes the sweeping countryside was painted yellow like saffron;
harvest time was the beginning of the days of saffron.
She wondered why the meadows couldn’t ever be lilac like amethyst;
for now, they were a lovely shade of viridian.
And as the day moved along, there came creases of crimson
with its various placid shades of tangerine.
The blue from earlier didn’t seem so bad now; what was wrong with azure?
Yet deep in her heart, she knew the answer to azure,
and as her hair glowed in the last light of saffron,
and as the day passed over with a faint tinge of tangerine,
she laid back and dreamt of a world colored in amethyst.
The following day, she was awoken by streams of crimson,
and out in the far-off distance, shown waves of vivacious viridian.
But as the winds blew east to west, casting shadows on its viridian,
the sky began to blacken, turning a darker shade of azure.
Then the poppies swayed, brilliant in their beds of crimson,
each little face marked boldly with a fleck of saffron.
And against the foreboding sky, still absent of amethyst,
a bolt of lightning struck in trembling tangerine.
The whole landscape then unfurled, transforming to tangerine.
Black plumes of smoke choked out all the velvety viridian,
and in the wake of disaster came a sudden array of amethyst.
Fiery fields full of bloodthirsty life blotted out any hope for azure
and wilted away the soon-to-be season of saffron.
All was cursed now in the vilest of crimson.
She stood and prayed for the sky to regain conscious efforts of azure.
Sadly, the waves of fortitude would not yield its season of saffron.
Patchworks of hopefulness died that day in a different kind of crimson.
© 2023 Michelle Cook
Photo credit: https://pixabay.com/illustrations/trees-countryside-painting-6573250/
This poem is called a Sestina. If you’d like to learn how to write your own, this site gives some good examples. 😉 ~M
How to Write a Sestina (with Examples and Diagrams)
Damp and decaying like timeworn leather, the
wind stirs each fossilized apparition.
Holding fast against the sultry winds of
time; clinging, dependent, on limp limbs. These
creaky extremities reach for silhouetted faces,
haunting shadows with limited life. And in
withered strain feeble fists persevere, while the
sufferings of the season wilt within the crowd.
Littering the pavement like languorous petals,
inky remembrances of rosier days pass on.
In the bleakness of the night with a
shudder and a sigh, wasting away in the wet
rot of decomposing rainbows. Now black
and spoiled against the barren bough.
© 2023 Michelle Cook
*Golden Shovel Poetry Writing Exercise
The only rule for this type of poem is that each word of your source poem must appear as the last word of each line in your poem—and they should be in the order that they appear in the original. Your poem will contain as many lines as your source poem has words.
Here’s the poem I chose to use. (So if you read down my poem, the end of each line uses all these words in order.)
In the Station of the Metro
The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals on a wet, black bough.
by Ezra Pound
Photo credit: https://pixabay.com/photos/branches-tree-black-and-white-rain-4621320/
Wild horses leap
Along flourishing meadows
Carpeted in thyme
© 2021 Michelle Cook
Photo credit: https://pixabay.com/photos/wild-horse-horse-horses-wild-4350698/
Writing prompt: Windy slopes and flying horses
I love being wrapped in the
warmth of a summer sun-ray
or doused in the drizzle
of an unexpected storm.
I love waking up to the sound
of a lazy locomotive
or finding myself lost in a dream
holding hands with the one I love.
I love listening to the whimsical
notes of wind chimes
or falling under the spell of a
tranquil, babbling brook.
I love being silly while dancing
and singing my heart out
or laughing til my stomach aches,
tasting my own tears.
I love rolling out of bed early
to behold a sunrise in full bloom
or staying up late stargazing
on a blanket spread for two.
I love feeling the warmth of soft
sand squishing between my toes
or listening to boundless waves
as they break along the shore.
I love witnessing the colorful birth
of a brand new spring season
or gazing upon a baby bird
stretching its wings for first flight.
I love watching the pure
beauty of a fresh fallen snow
or hearing the rumble of thunder
dancing across an amethyst sky.
I love thinking about all these
things, the things I truly love.
The world is such a magical place
when we choose to see the magic.
© 2021 Michelle Cook
Photo credit: https://pixabay.com/photos/storm-thunderstorm-lightning-730472/
Her Writing Haven 