My poem: Sunrise: Gen

Of course, life happens when you're making other plans even in the tiny fishbowl of this journal. As far as posting, I'm moving on to food poems in a food collection, but I am trying to do some of the prompts at spring_renewal. There are clumps of prompts for each day of 10 April - 30 April and you have to post on that day. Mostly fandoms I don't know but enough any/any to keep me interested. Anyway, one of the poems for today 13 April was sunrise. I try to read and/or watch a video of my guru for 15 minutes every day and today the one I picked happened to include a metaphor that nearing the end of the spiritual journey is like awaiting the forehead of the morning sky. So it's another spiritual poem.


Title: Sunrise
Poetic form: rondeau
Length: 100
Rating: gen

the hour arrives, neither early nor late,
the long awaited will no longer wait,
appointed and anointed, the dawn wise,
appointing and anointing, the sunrise
greets eyes wide open, holy profligate

the lotus flower unfurls, the breeze starts its prate
the boughs erupt in birdsong, low and great,
in full chorus, the airs, the colors rise,
the hour arrives

the forehead of the morning sky ornate
with wedding mark is nearing, dissipate
all doubt, all fear, nature sings unsung cries
of hearts, appearing, there, in sky of skies,
day breaks, flowers bloom, and joy will not abate
the hour arrives

Photos: Milkshakes!

Minisculus' school had a fundraiser at a milkshake shop yesterday. Look at these! I think you can tell which one is mine (called But First Coffee) and which ones are the boys'.

Poet's Corner: Oscar Wilde

It wouldn't be a poetry month without a little Wilde. I had this sticker in my sticker book and I'm not certain if it is Keats (it's a nightingale, I think) or Wilde (it looks more like Wilde to me). Anyway, here's a sonnet from Wilde about Keats and let's kill two birds (har, har) with one stone.

On the Sale By Auction of Keats' Love Letters by Oscare Wilde


These are the letters which Endymion wrote
To one he loved in secret, and apart.
And now the brawlers of the auction mart
Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,
Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote
The merchant’s price. I think they love not art
Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart
That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.

Is it not said that many years ago,
In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran
With torches through the midnight, and began
To wrangel for mean raiment, and to throw
Dice for the garments of a wretched man,
Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?