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.
------------------------------------
[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

This month's form was pantoum.  A fun form which I would have liked to have spent additional time exploring.  The words we agreed to incorporate were "flight" and "certainties".

steppes

By John C Lewis

(all rights reserved, 4/9/15)

ascend this flight of barren steppes

attain the rough-hewn certainties

afforded by these endless plains

astride a charger fierce and fast

attain the rough-hewn certainties

amid the sage and sha da wang

astride a charger fierce and fast

alongside falcon, lynx and fox

amid the sage and sha da wang

afforded by these endless plains

alongside falcon, lynx and fox

ascend this flight of barren steppes

rejected phrases

4/20/2015

(By John C. Lewis; all rights reserved)

rejected phrases take to flight

wistfully circling the newborn poem

convinced their time will never come

forlornly they seek a different home

wistfully circling the newborn poem

bruised by the certainties of slight

they move off to seek a different home

to find a form that’s their birthright

bruised by the certainties of slight

convinced their time will never come

to find a form that’s their birthright

rejected phrases take to flight

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!
____________________

dangerous
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