SINGLE LIFE
by: Oluwafemi Abraham
I just want to write,
On this paper really white
I just need a hug from solitude,
Without a romantic altitude
I'm in no mood
For a jealous food
A prayer parade my soul
Like darkness in a deep hole
Heart full of worries,
No need of saying sorry
Am just a gentle dove,
All I need is just love
A heart that needs a healing,
I keep staring at my ceiling
Just in search for a good friend,
A friendship that won't end
I wish sorrow has no place to stay
And not accommodated by the day
I wish my tears was destitute,
Helpless like a poor prostitute....
@PensivePost
by: Oluwafemi Abraham
I just want to write,
On this paper really white
I just need a hug from solitude,
Without a romantic altitude
I'm in no mood
For a jealous food
A prayer parade my soul
Like darkness in a deep hole
Heart full of worries,
No need of saying sorry
Am just a gentle dove,
All I need is just love
A heart that needs a healing,
I keep staring at my ceiling
Just in search for a good friend,
A friendship that won't end
I wish sorrow has no place to stay
And not accommodated by the day
I wish my tears was destitute,
Helpless like a poor prostitute....
@PensivePost
Poetry Definition of Limerick
A limerick is a five-line, often humorous and ribald poem with a strict meter. Lines 1, 2, and 5 of have seven to ten syllables (three metrical feet) and rhyme with one another. Lines 3 and 4 have five to seven (two metrical feet) syllables and also rhyme with each other. The rhyme scheme is usually "A-A-B-B-A".
Limerick Rhythm
Limericks have a distinct rhythm. The rhythm is as follows:
da DUM da da DUM da da DUM 7-10 syllables A
da DUM da da DUM da da DUM 7-10 syllables A
da DUM da da DUM 5-7 syllables B
da DUM da da DUM 5-7 syllables B
da DUM da da DUM da da DUM 7-10 syllables A
Example:
There once was a man from Nantucket
Who kept all his cash in a bucket.
But his daughter, named Nan,
Ran away with a man
And as for the bucket, Nantucket.
@PensivePost
A limerick is a five-line, often humorous and ribald poem with a strict meter. Lines 1, 2, and 5 of have seven to ten syllables (three metrical feet) and rhyme with one another. Lines 3 and 4 have five to seven (two metrical feet) syllables and also rhyme with each other. The rhyme scheme is usually "A-A-B-B-A".
Limerick Rhythm
Limericks have a distinct rhythm. The rhythm is as follows:
da DUM da da DUM da da DUM 7-10 syllables A
da DUM da da DUM da da DUM 7-10 syllables A
da DUM da da DUM 5-7 syllables B
da DUM da da DUM 5-7 syllables B
da DUM da da DUM da da DUM 7-10 syllables A
Example:
There once was a man from Nantucket
Who kept all his cash in a bucket.
But his daughter, named Nan,
Ran away with a man
And as for the bucket, Nantucket.
@PensivePost
WHEN I STOP AND PRAY
A lyrical poem by William Robinson
When the storm clouds boil around me,
And the lightning splits the sky--.
When the howling wind assails me,
And life's sea is rolling high--
When my heart is filled with terror,
And my fears, I can't allay--
Then I find sweet peace and comfort,
When I simply stop and pray.
When the things of life confound me,
And my faith is ebbing low--
When my trusted friends betray me,
And my heart is aching so--
When the night seems black and endless,
And I long for light of day--
Then I find a silver dawning,
When I simply stop and pray.
There are things beyond the heavens
I can't begin to understand,
But I know that God is living,
And I know He holds my hand.
Yes, I know He watches o'er me
All the night and all the day--
And He's always there to hear me
When I simply stop and pray.
@PensivePost
A lyrical poem by William Robinson
When the storm clouds boil around me,
And the lightning splits the sky--.
When the howling wind assails me,
And life's sea is rolling high--
When my heart is filled with terror,
And my fears, I can't allay--
Then I find sweet peace and comfort,
When I simply stop and pray.
When the things of life confound me,
And my faith is ebbing low--
When my trusted friends betray me,
And my heart is aching so--
When the night seems black and endless,
And I long for light of day--
Then I find a silver dawning,
When I simply stop and pray.
There are things beyond the heavens
I can't begin to understand,
But I know that God is living,
And I know He holds my hand.
Yes, I know He watches o'er me
All the night and all the day--
And He's always there to hear me
When I simply stop and pray.
@PensivePost
sleepproductivitywriters_1500_1.jpg
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@PensivePost Famous Writer's Sleep Habits and their literary productivity.
Clothespins on the Line
SAWNIE MORRIS
look like birds. Scrawny
winter birds balanced by two sarong
tail feathers. Some look west,
others north-
east toward the
mountain. Stiff in the cold &
remote. They haven’t been loved
enough. They grow
thinner and thinner in their woody
streaked feathers, held together only by
the exposed spiral of internal
organs. After a while , the sun comes
out and all o f the birds, clutching wire, turn
an electric silver.
This is hopeful,, but doesn’t last. Clouds
take a break from one another , ,
re-
convene. A half-inch of
snow is rolled out with perfect evenness
across the picnic table, as though
someone made a blank
for what was
coming. The nice thing
about clothespin birds is they don’t
“excrete.”
Jays & grosbeaks & finches
& mourning doves + ravens leave
their paintings
everywhere , on benches & limbs ,, , on fallen
pine needle fascicles \|/ feldspar & quartz _ __
though all has now become
gesso beneath snow. After a certain amount of
feeling
hopelessly under-
accomplished, you look at your nails
and want to
paint them. Is this how birds
feel? No. Birds fly
and don’t look
down. Or, they sit `’’ amid branches
and peck at the brittle waffled bark
& tiny bugs buried
in the marrow. .< sszt sszt sszt .< You, too,
peck. Familiar letters on t he keys have lost
their definition and resemble finger-
tip-size daubs of bird paint on back-
lit platforms. You recall the s e & m
only via entrenched neural pathways ,
while the l and c continue to
morph into tiny archaic
symbols. As though, the unconscious
is forming a message. ( Always “it” has something
unearthly to say. ) Except
the unconscious is
the earth , it’s just we
don’t know how she does it.
St. Thomas of Aquinas got a delirium
hit of t hat at the end
and decided to marry it. Each day
your thumbs grow paler, nails coarser, evolving
toward the ptero-
dactyl: part reptile, part bird.
As a child
pterodactyls scared you, which meant
they had your attention. Refusing to stay
in the lineage, they became
their own form.
They had an iguana for a father
and a pelican for a mom,
crispy and dipped in molasses.
If you were big enough
you could eat them
the way some people eat grass-
hoppers. Compulsive hole-
punchers, if less manic
could be sculptors,
th
SAWNIE MORRIS
look like birds. Scrawny
winter birds balanced by two sarong
tail feathers. Some look west,
others north-
east toward the
mountain. Stiff in the cold &
remote. They haven’t been loved
enough. They grow
thinner and thinner in their woody
streaked feathers, held together only by
the exposed spiral of internal
organs. After a while , the sun comes
out and all o f the birds, clutching wire, turn
an electric silver.
This is hopeful,, but doesn’t last. Clouds
take a break from one another , ,
re-
convene. A half-inch of
snow is rolled out with perfect evenness
across the picnic table, as though
someone made a blank
for what was
coming. The nice thing
about clothespin birds is they don’t
“excrete.”
Jays & grosbeaks & finches
& mourning doves + ravens leave
their paintings
everywhere , on benches & limbs ,, , on fallen
pine needle fascicles \|/ feldspar & quartz _ __
though all has now become
gesso beneath snow. After a certain amount of
feeling
hopelessly under-
accomplished, you look at your nails
and want to
paint them. Is this how birds
feel? No. Birds fly
and don’t look
down. Or, they sit `’’ amid branches
and peck at the brittle waffled bark
& tiny bugs buried
in the marrow. .< sszt sszt sszt .< You, too,
peck. Familiar letters on t he keys have lost
their definition and resemble finger-
tip-size daubs of bird paint on back-
lit platforms. You recall the s e & m
only via entrenched neural pathways ,
while the l and c continue to
morph into tiny archaic
symbols. As though, the unconscious
is forming a message. ( Always “it” has something
unearthly to say. ) Except
the unconscious is
the earth , it’s just we
don’t know how she does it.
St. Thomas of Aquinas got a delirium
hit of t hat at the end
and decided to marry it. Each day
your thumbs grow paler, nails coarser, evolving
toward the ptero-
dactyl: part reptile, part bird.
As a child
pterodactyls scared you, which meant
they had your attention. Refusing to stay
in the lineage, they became
their own form.
They had an iguana for a father
and a pelican for a mom,
crispy and dipped in molasses.
If you were big enough
you could eat them
the way some people eat grass-
hoppers. Compulsive hole-
punchers, if less manic
could be sculptors,
th
ough it requires d-e-t-a-c-h-m-e-n-t
to see it that way , , if you are
a lilac leaf sketching outside
the library window. What are those books
doing in there together ?! Nothing !
When a new one arrives, they fall in
love,, one by one. Inside their covers,
a million leaves, each
w/ black growth. A pattern of fungus ,
the shed skin of snakes & dna
traces. Like bird poop,
but more orderly and the message is see-
through. Don’t you
wish you could lift the letters
and release them halfway
back to
the liquid state ,, , before they got connected to
the circuitry? It might be kind of
relaxing. You might be
as good of a
painter
as a cuckoo bird. A few nights ago
you dreamt you were very pregnant &
in need of a place to give birth. Your boyfriend
had left you and 2 therapists
let you live w/ them
because you resembled their daughter —
though they were suspicious. Who can blame them?
As for your nails,
find a mani-
curist, someone who knows what they are
doing. Druids never lived here,
that was Europe, but you
and the sage-
brush
are distantly related via microbial
ancestors; in spite of yourself, you are
surrounded
by family. \\|/
Sawnie Morris won the New Issues Poetry Prize for Her, Infinite, released by New Issues Press in 2016. She lives in Ranchos de Taos, New Mexico. This is her first appearance in Poetry.
to see it that way , , if you are
a lilac leaf sketching outside
the library window. What are those books
doing in there together ?! Nothing !
When a new one arrives, they fall in
love,, one by one. Inside their covers,
a million leaves, each
w/ black growth. A pattern of fungus ,
the shed skin of snakes & dna
traces. Like bird poop,
but more orderly and the message is see-
through. Don’t you
wish you could lift the letters
and release them halfway
back to
the liquid state ,, , before they got connected to
the circuitry? It might be kind of
relaxing. You might be
as good of a
painter
as a cuckoo bird. A few nights ago
you dreamt you were very pregnant &
in need of a place to give birth. Your boyfriend
had left you and 2 therapists
let you live w/ them
because you resembled their daughter —
though they were suspicious. Who can blame them?
As for your nails,
find a mani-
curist, someone who knows what they are
doing. Druids never lived here,
that was Europe, but you
and the sage-
brush
are distantly related via microbial
ancestors; in spite of yourself, you are
surrounded
by family. \\|/
Sawnie Morris won the New Issues Poetry Prize for Her, Infinite, released by New Issues Press in 2016. She lives in Ranchos de Taos, New Mexico. This is her first appearance in Poetry.
Borrowed Bio
ANGE MLINKO
Where we’d recently lain,
exchanging a kiss,
stork consorted with crane,
limpkin with ibis.
Was this as much wedding
as there would ever be,
the fowls’ foot-webbing,
the identificatory
ring around a throat?
Exchange of earth and air:
not a vow but a vote
of confidence a feather
might tip by a single scale ...
That one’s a raconteur,
so much salt in his tale;
this one’s a countertenor,
lilting above the feast.
The archon of his hectare
— spotted — spotted least.
Here’s a little heckler ...
penciled seagull in the margin.
Following line by line
the path you took, I imagine
no print so fine.
Ange Mlinko’s newest collection of poetry, Distant Mandate, is forthcoming from Farrar, Straus and Giroux this year. She teaches at the University of Florida.
@PensivePost
ANGE MLINKO
Where we’d recently lain,
exchanging a kiss,
stork consorted with crane,
limpkin with ibis.
Was this as much wedding
as there would ever be,
the fowls’ foot-webbing,
the identificatory
ring around a throat?
Exchange of earth and air:
not a vow but a vote
of confidence a feather
might tip by a single scale ...
That one’s a raconteur,
so much salt in his tale;
this one’s a countertenor,
lilting above the feast.
The archon of his hectare
— spotted — spotted least.
Here’s a little heckler ...
penciled seagull in the margin.
Following line by line
the path you took, I imagine
no print so fine.
Ange Mlinko’s newest collection of poetry, Distant Mandate, is forthcoming from Farrar, Straus and Giroux this year. She teaches at the University of Florida.
@PensivePost
What to Read This Summer
ANGE MLINKO
Terrible are the rose names ...
Stakeholders in a tradition of
“Grande Amore” and “True Love”
(one carmine, the other blush ... ), their aims
are, for the most part, scattershot.
“Mothersday” and “Playboy,”
“Senior Prom” and “Let’s Enjoy”
vie with a lyrical “Lady of Shalott,”
while a flyweight “Pink Knockout”
comes “Outta the Blue” to mock
“Honey Perfume,” “Pillow Talk”
— jock Cupid wielding clout.
Then maybe a puckish curator
pairs “Las Vegas” with “Nearly Wild,”
“Buttercream” with “Julia Child,”
“Aloha” with “Hello, Neighbor ... ”
•
Misenus, son of Aeolus, god of the wind,
don’t you think it’s bad form
to practice trumpet on this platform,
what with the dentistry squeal
at construction site decibel levels
of braking blade shaving molar steel,
dropped-in blare of delays and arrivals
squelched against granite, at close intervals,
while you riff on “Over the Rainbow” — ?
You received some negative attention
from Triton, after blowing his conch so loud
you inadvertently entered yourself
in an unwinnable contest; now,
stuck in a twenty-first-century translation
of hell, you press the stops, and for an obol
prepare our burial in an infinite axial scroll
with a tinier and tinier turning radius,
as if we were those hordes, the unsanctified,
who shoved one another along the Cocytus,
none led on to the golden bough
by Venus’s semaphore, the unloved rock doves,
whom Virgil treats so gently in the Aeneid.
Ange Mlinko’s newest collection of poetry, Distant Mandate, is forthcoming from Farrar, Straus and Giroux this year. She teaches at the University of Florida.
@PensivePost
ANGE MLINKO
Terrible are the rose names ...
Stakeholders in a tradition of
“Grande Amore” and “True Love”
(one carmine, the other blush ... ), their aims
are, for the most part, scattershot.
“Mothersday” and “Playboy,”
“Senior Prom” and “Let’s Enjoy”
vie with a lyrical “Lady of Shalott,”
while a flyweight “Pink Knockout”
comes “Outta the Blue” to mock
“Honey Perfume,” “Pillow Talk”
— jock Cupid wielding clout.
Then maybe a puckish curator
pairs “Las Vegas” with “Nearly Wild,”
“Buttercream” with “Julia Child,”
“Aloha” with “Hello, Neighbor ... ”
•
Misenus, son of Aeolus, god of the wind,
don’t you think it’s bad form
to practice trumpet on this platform,
what with the dentistry squeal
at construction site decibel levels
of braking blade shaving molar steel,
dropped-in blare of delays and arrivals
squelched against granite, at close intervals,
while you riff on “Over the Rainbow” — ?
You received some negative attention
from Triton, after blowing his conch so loud
you inadvertently entered yourself
in an unwinnable contest; now,
stuck in a twenty-first-century translation
of hell, you press the stops, and for an obol
prepare our burial in an infinite axial scroll
with a tinier and tinier turning radius,
as if we were those hordes, the unsanctified,
who shoved one another along the Cocytus,
none led on to the golden bough
by Venus’s semaphore, the unloved rock doves,
whom Virgil treats so gently in the Aeneid.
Ange Mlinko’s newest collection of poetry, Distant Mandate, is forthcoming from Farrar, Straus and Giroux this year. She teaches at the University of Florida.
@PensivePost