Syllabic Poetry

I wanted to explore the syllabic form for this post. Here are two poems, perhaps somewhat more narrative than poetic, although i was trying to concentrate more on the form than the content this time around. Hope you enjoy them.

I knew then

What I know

Now. Somehow,

However,

I made a

Grave mistake.

Perhaps what

Wisdom is,

Is not just

Knowing or,

say, acting

On knowing.

Perhaps ex-

Perience

Is just the

beginning.

Perhaps the

Wise possess

An innate

Force in their

Existence.

Gyroscopes

attached to

their thinking

which keep them

Steadily

Centered and

Level in their

Decisions and

Advice.

They Tell Me I Should Fear...

The sun shook me

Awake. And warned me

That today was

Not going to

Treat me kindly.

"The streetcars have

All conspired to

Run you over!

And the trees will

Drop their morning

Dew on your head,

Laughing at you.

Best to avoid

Outside today."

I slipped on shades

And scowled at his

Face, directly.

"Surely," said I.

"Surely you of

All things that are,

Should know better

Than to waste heeds.

Would Vivaldi

Have been afraid

Of the dew drops?

Could he compose

The Seasons if

He had feared the

Patter of spring

Dew? I think not.

Proverbial

Chicken, who once

Crossed the road, would

his joke exist

At all if he

Were afraid to

Take his first steps

Across that road?

Fears accomplish

Nothing. Therefore,

I fear nothing.

"Nothing to fear

Leaves much to

Accomplish."

The List Exercise

I thought I'd take a stab at the poetry exercise about making a list based on a situation or character. I decided to look around my room and use parts of it's current state as the basis for my list. Unfortunately, it's not in very good shape following winter break. While this is merely a list, I have written it using stanzas to try and mimic some of the language and form of a poem.

Clutter Gone Too Far

Lots of dust, for one thing

Several pairs of shoes strewn heal to toe

Looking like a mangled train wreck

Chords, cables, wires to this and that

A system of highways for electricity

A load's worth of laundry,

Both in and around the basket

Injured clothes racks that would sing of their toils

And their recent nemesis, the broken drier

A lonely arm chair

Made insignificant by a large shoebox perched atop

The boots from which have already begun to wear

The hardwood floor with Auburn hue

Blemished by specks of pale dirt and inhabited by dust bunnies