Friday, April 3, 2015

Trio of Raccontinos

This month's form is Raccontino. A poem of any length, containing couplets where the even-numbered lines rhyme and the poem's title and last word of each odd-numbered line form a sentence.
The first one is in the spirit of Easter, the second one is for my dear sister Sara and fulfills my obligations under Section 6a of the Rules and Obligations of a Younger Brother Contract, and the third is about what poetry is to me.

you don’t know how much
by John C. Lewis (all rights reserved, 3.23.15)

when feeling depleted and gray, I
reach for treats, most deliciously sweet;
for morsels so easy to love.
temptations I just can’t defeat.
I spoil my mouth with the best tasting jelly,
no, not the jam ‘tween the toes of my feet!
The kind from a rainbow of beans!

by John C. Lewis (all rights reserved, 3.23.15)

have you heard of brother-penned limericks,
that begin, “I have a dear sister named Sara”?
you know…the ones that are
followed by… “Whose breath is like the Sahara”?
writing them is dangerous fun,
but “It all goes South” ‘ere a
time “When she opens her mouth”, to
…well, I better stop there, uh…
or it may be that last thing I write!

poetry is
by John C. Lewis (all rights reserved, 4.2.15)

warp weft web weaving
dogwood shuttle kissing
fell filler finish…Frigg’s fabric words
reed pushing, sley of lay swaying
dressing the loom playfully
heddle eyeing, beams tensing

breathless, urgent weaving
of primal, unmet needs
desperate, needy touching and red-hot lusty words
inflame Desire’s latent smoldering seeds
love as art played out, so raw and sensually
carnal wanton craving, so shamelessly it feeds

Beatrice the seamstress loved weaving
she’d rather do that then hem
daydreaming of looms, she heard the tailor’s wry words
“Bea, when you focus on needle and thread, you’re a gem”
then he smiled quite humorously
“but I can’t sell those pants with your sleeve sewn to them!”

lovers emerge, exchanging harsh words,
after drinking too much at the bar
dangerously weaving
down Bacchanal Street, trusting Fate to steer the car
they stumble out drunkenly,
somehow they’re home, blessed to have gotten so far

if woven words are poetry
regardless of form applied
the mystery then is
this; where does the source reside?
poets are born to weaving
but, does poet or muse decide,
which permutated strand of words
come forth from deep inside?
truth be told, it is because
after all the things we’ve tried
to find a way to best describe our
fleeting earthly ride
it is within our flesh-bound spirit
where truth and words collide
a human urge, a need, a must
to bridge the mute divide
weaving allows the muse to speak
and be the poet’s guide