Showing posts with label Sunday Scribblings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sunday Scribblings. Show all posts

22.10.11

In my backyard

In my backyard
I found a tart.

Says Jay, “Pray tell,
you might as well,

what will you do with it?”
“Whip cream, you nit,

put it on top
and eat the slop.”

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2011)

Written for Sunday Scribblings and My Backyard, this should easily compete with the silliest of Mother Goose.

28.2.10

Momentous event

Another big dream
gone up
into thin air.

– Iself (© 2010)

Written and posted for Sunday Scribblings and Big Dreams.

I hate to admit it, folks, but that’s the way it went with a lot of my dreams – big and small.

21.2.10

Love disenchanted

When pigs cease to fly
it’s time to say good-bye.

I’ve had enough of you
and all the times I’d woo

you with four leaves of clover.
See you when hell freezes over.

– Felix Morgenstern (© 2010)

Written specifically for Sunday Scribblings and When Pigs Fly / When Hell Freezes Over.

All the Morgenstern poetry (Felix and Christian) posted in this blog

7.2.10

First Poem

Between the greatest galaxy
and the smallest sigh
the most important sound is
the voice of you or I.

– Deirdre LaPenna (© 2010)

Posted for Sunday Scribblings #201 / Message.

This poetic message is published here by kind permission of the author.

Older poems by Deirdre LaPenna

27.5.08

24.2.08

Some kind of passion

Passion to last from here to eternity

Momentarily lacking the necessary inspiration to write something myself for Sunday Scribblings' PASSION prompt # 99, I decided to resort to the services of the Love Poetry Generator as my best shot at a poem full of singeing torridity. What you do is enter a number of words in boxes. Here is the result:

M y L o v e

Your skin glows like the orange, blossoms grave as the rose in the purest hope of spring.
My heart follows your oud voice and leaps like a lizard at the whisper of your name.
The evening floats in on a great titmouse wing.
I am comforted by your slip that I carry into the twilight of zipperbeams and hold next to my lips.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of dew.
In the quiet, I listen for the last thud of the day.
My heated mouth leaps to your bosom.
I wait in the moonlight for your secret strap so that we may undress as one, mouth to mouth, in search of the magnificient black and mystical delight of love.

20.2.08

Free from compositional rhetoric


Triadic Memories by Morton Feldman, played by Roger Woodward to abstract expressionist art and French and English spoken gibberish.

Ouw-oo!

"Let me down, let me down!"

"Yahoo! Dumped you in the croop you dirty breek!"

– Iself

Note
Reading about the composer Morton Feldman that he "began graphic works, with open pitch and rhythm, and music 'free from a compositional rhetoric' in early '50s," I decided to write poetry following the same principles. This is the first example of a poem that is free from compositional rhetoric. It is also quite obvious that its pitch and rhythm are open.

Retroactively attributed to Sunday Scribblings #107 – Compose.