It is once again Poetry Friday.  This month the theme was "In the style of”. The Poetry Seven chose e e cummings.  I must admit that while I knew of cummings, I had not read much of his poetry until now.  Once I started reading, I couldn't stop.  It is mesmerizing. 

My sister Sara Lewis Holmes wrote “First of all, I had a hard time naming what I was attempting to do. What did "in the style of" mean?

imitating?
mimicking?
shadowing?
following?
tracing?

Then one of the Poetry Seven used a word I liked: echoing. Perhaps I could do that.” 

And so I read and read to try to get the feel of cummings "poet voice", allowing it to bounce off me and wrote what came out as three  “echos” no matter how faint they may be.
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[i see the girl with the slicing grin]
(By John C. Lewis; 7/10/2015; all rights reserved)

i see the girl with the slicing grin 
      above
the gold-rimmed dunes (running)

a
   kite
         of
             hope
                      with
                              rainbow
                                             tails
                                                    (tugs)
                                                   a
                                        white
                               string
                  holding
   straining

a snap away from a wild ballet
of luff and swerve, (perhaps) chaotic dancing
before the final specious arc
and nasty splintering crash

yet cotton holds
my piqued heart rises
to be with her
to be her string
so she can fly above the sand
is all this young heart fancies
_________________________________________

[thy maudlin moon weeps]
(By John C. Lewis; 7/10/2015; all rights reserved)

thy maudlin moon weeps
upon her fire-specked pitch of endless night

she (with every green eye fixed) takes in
the constant changing blueness of her stunning sister orb

at times she plays (she dreams) of looking glasses (hung just so)
to see her redone image (with all the ahhs and ohhs)
_________________________________________

[o, precious flower of lazy dawn]
(By John C. Lewis; 7/10/2015; all rights reserved)

o, precious flower of lazy dawn
dost thou grow to praise the light
or light the shining love held bound
within my helpless heart

to guess, to hope that with this cut
of sharpened knife on tendril stem
would give to me a moment’s peace (from aching separation)
a gliding finger on the pulse of beauty (pure but left unseen)

i carry on, with prize in hand
with quickened step as she draws nigh
her face aglow (as if the world were beaming)

her music flows about me now
oh, sight of dreams within my reach
i lose myself beneath the wave
of love so true (so fleeting)

i sense the call of just-plucked bloom
So light (and fairy fair)
(a jewel of time-bound preciousness)
i adorn my lover’s hair