The assignment is: Free verse which has a logic that governs the structure. I tried my best to format it how it's supposed to be, but formatting on this stupid blog sucks... The format came out mas o menos (so, so) - not too bad.
Christmas
I decorated the Christmas tree.
Not sure why really. I just did.
I clean my plate and set it to dry
In the dishwasher. I never turn it on.
I put some logs on the fire.
It's not really cold, but I light it anyway.
I sit at my baby grand, my fingers on the keys.
I can't really play much.
But, I like their feel under my fingers
I like to slowly press the high notes.
I worry that my glass will stain the finish
But, I like the ambiance.
Sitting there, I watch the snow fall outside the window
The river is frozen.
Families skate along.
There are lots of them.
Past the houses the river disappears into the distance.
No one follows, but I, through my window.
Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft
All Rights Reserved
I sit staring at the tickets,
My phone beside them.
The TV flashing.
The tape ticks over
(Elvis sings on)
The chairs in the parlor.
I slouch into the sofa
and loosen my tie.
Also: There's a prize for figuring out (explaining) the title.
Hint: There's a clue in the poem.
Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft
All Rights Reserved
A tick, it's just the clock
I need to think, but I'm waiting,
Waiting for her knock. The candle,
The wick is almost gone. I start
to walk, up and down. I lick
My lips. The room begins to rock.
I feel sick. Is the door locked?
I kick my toe. A rock? No a brick.
From the dock. A trick. Dumb jock.
My sock feels slick. I talk in
Epic shock, quickly, the clicking
blocks the thick mocking. Tick-tocking, tick-tocking.
The intent of my poem is to make it sound like a clock ticking as the person waits for someone to arrive. He israther anxious about the arrival and as the anxiety increases the ticking gets closer together and louder, invading his thoughts. I’m also reading Ulysses in my modernism class, so there’s some stream of conscious influenced stuff in there, I think.
Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft
All Rights Reserved
A delicate ting in the empty room
I run my finger slowly down the key
Idly, lightly my left hand brushes
The black, the white
softly
Quivering light from the candelabra
Flickers in the half filled flute glass
A cork lies near the edge of a water ring
In the dark wood finish, the stain retreats
Beneath a slender green bottle
I shift my slanted posture
Following a peeling panel my eyes
Find the dots and slashes on the page
The flurry of pen strokes jostle, they breathe
In and out
My stare falls to my fingers on the yellow ivory
I absently, deliberately arrange them
Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft
All Rights Reserved
He steadies once again his tired arms
And thinks back to that day's dark succoring
When first he was betrayed by horrid charms.
In ten years' war with virile did contend
Impious rule against which to prevail
The works of gods he mightily must rend
That delicately thus, he locks to fail.
Yet stumbling, allured by dainty worth:
How fallen art! Where naught can thus assuage
Without support to stand midst sky and earth:
Supplanter of the sun, a man of Rage.
Tho' staggering, he groans under the weight
But burden bears and shrugs not his due fate.
Copyright © 2008 by Layne Cockcroft
All Rights Reserved
