My poem: Acrid Smoke: Gen
Jun. 23rd, 2022 12:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stonepicnicking_okapiTitle: Acrid Smoke
Poetic form: my own! as far as I know [stanza is ababcdcde fgfghihie and two more like it]
Rating: Gen
Word Count: 359
No. of lines: 36
For: 2022 GYWO Yatzhee
Prompt: acrid
there is a looking glass, a mirror, a reflecting pane
a polished surface in which eyes and mind and heart may look
a source of inspiration as well as abysmal bane
with all sincerity, to be drawn in, a barb-end hook,
to lose track of the hours, to spin the thinnest filaments
into tapestries, nets, gift bows, and workaday attire
which lie somewhere between devil-may-care’s and heaven-sent’s
just looking, to gaze upon and to nothing more aspire,
until an acrid smoke begins to trip the tripwires set
a snap of neck, a look behind, but nothing foul lies there
once turning back, a dawning, the fumes are within the glass,
not without, the scene becomes distorted, viewer beware!
it fogs the frame, that stinging, smoldering, knitting-nettles gas
then what was known is known no longer, nothing ventured, gained,
the gutters full to weeping by the bitter, angry smoke
tears mere distraction from the upending wisdom obtained
by the new view, the hazy one, that makes the throat choke
on thorny realization; on sudden, sharp-toothed regret
a pungent lazy slow-burn screen so thick it tilts the scene
too many degrees counterclockwise, things begin to slide
off, tables, shelves, out of sight, who knows where, things leave, things lean
they lose their definitions in the clouds, the sweet turns snide
or much worse, pained and suffering in silence, wretchedly
the figures take on menacing geometry and math,
becoming warped and bent, caricature done sketchily,
the old reality steeped in a caustic vapor bath
the senses flooded, unmoored mind retreats into ‘forget’
throw open the windows, let all the doors swing wide and wedge
hard bits of reasonableness into the crevices and jambs
a swipe of a hand, a wipe of a cloth across the edge
and center of reflection, sacrificed like slaughtered lambs
vicarious guilt and shame, that smoke, those curls of dragon’s breath
go up like smoke, with will and time, the mirrors shrouded thick
with bunting, no looking glass in a hutch of sleeping death
revisiting the bruise to see if nerves still spike and lick
at probing touch while a sign on the frame now reads ‘to let.’
Poetic form: my own! as far as I know [stanza is ababcdcde fgfghihie and two more like it]
Rating: Gen
Word Count: 359
No. of lines: 36
For: 2022 GYWO Yatzhee
Prompt: acrid
there is a looking glass, a mirror, a reflecting pane
a polished surface in which eyes and mind and heart may look
a source of inspiration as well as abysmal bane
with all sincerity, to be drawn in, a barb-end hook,
to lose track of the hours, to spin the thinnest filaments
into tapestries, nets, gift bows, and workaday attire
which lie somewhere between devil-may-care’s and heaven-sent’s
just looking, to gaze upon and to nothing more aspire,
until an acrid smoke begins to trip the tripwires set
a snap of neck, a look behind, but nothing foul lies there
once turning back, a dawning, the fumes are within the glass,
not without, the scene becomes distorted, viewer beware!
it fogs the frame, that stinging, smoldering, knitting-nettles gas
then what was known is known no longer, nothing ventured, gained,
the gutters full to weeping by the bitter, angry smoke
tears mere distraction from the upending wisdom obtained
by the new view, the hazy one, that makes the throat choke
on thorny realization; on sudden, sharp-toothed regret
a pungent lazy slow-burn screen so thick it tilts the scene
too many degrees counterclockwise, things begin to slide
off, tables, shelves, out of sight, who knows where, things leave, things lean
they lose their definitions in the clouds, the sweet turns snide
or much worse, pained and suffering in silence, wretchedly
the figures take on menacing geometry and math,
becoming warped and bent, caricature done sketchily,
the old reality steeped in a caustic vapor bath
the senses flooded, unmoored mind retreats into ‘forget’
throw open the windows, let all the doors swing wide and wedge
hard bits of reasonableness into the crevices and jambs
a swipe of a hand, a wipe of a cloth across the edge
and center of reflection, sacrificed like slaughtered lambs
vicarious guilt and shame, that smoke, those curls of dragon’s breath
go up like smoke, with will and time, the mirrors shrouded thick
with bunting, no looking glass in a hutch of sleeping death
revisiting the bruise to see if nerves still spike and lick
at probing touch while a sign on the frame now reads ‘to let.’
no subject
Date: 2022-06-23 09:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-06-23 05:56 pm (UTC)