Written for dVerse’s Quadrille #43, hosted by Grace. I figured I’d give a shout-out to one of my first loves. Also, here’s another cool video on the evolution of hip-hop verses:
Go here to read other poet’s contributions to this prompt.
Greetings! And what has brought you to see me, Mr. Dawson?
You see, I’ve found a small lump that has amassed mass distress
And would you say from day to day that you feel mad depressed?
A curveball, but yes, I confess feeling less than awesome.
Do you drink too much? Feel out-of-touch? And if so, how often?
Maybe… Yes… I guess the process has me viewing my own coffin.
Do you feel like a let-down to all who love you in life?
Is your med-degree in poetry? Why yeah, I bear that strife.
And how often would you say that you indulge in marijuana?
What? I’m here for my lump. Kindly address that instead.
Evading the question? But why on earth would you wanna?
No answer? Let’s refocus. My prognosis is something you’ll dread.
How much time do I have left? I know that I am a goner.
There is no lump, Mr. Dawson. It is all inside your head.
** *
Inspired by dVerse MTB – Neruda and the free verse sonnet, hosted by Bjorn, but not shared there, as this is not quite what he was looking for in a Petrarchan sonnet. The subject matter is inspired by actual events. When I saw Bjorn’s post, it gave me the idea to create a conversation in sonnet form. [EDITED: Bjorn suggested that I share it on his prompt anyway, so I did! I also tightened a few lines in my poem. The flow was bugging me.]
Did I just invent a new form? Surely someone has already done this. Meh. It was a good de-stressing exercise anyways.
If you’re curious about Petrarchan sonnets, head over to dVerse. Also check out some examples here.
In her spare time (haha! Yeah right!) Tre contributes nearly every month to Visual Verse Anthology You can find her work here.
Sadly, Tre shut down her WordPress blog, as she needed to streamline her online presence, making room for her personal site, https://www.simplesoulsister.org/.
If I wasn’t such a fan of hers, I might be envious of Tre’s prolific work ethic!
Written for dVerse’s MTB–The Minute Poem, hosted by Frank Hubeny. Go read about it because this form is freaking bonkers! The moment I read about it, I knew I had to give it a go.
While you’re there, check out other poets’ take on this tight, tight form!
Dad looked cool as hell throwing his first strike, shocking absolutely no one. I expected no different as I tried emulating his movements during my turn. I got a split and left a pin on the spare.
Then it was Lil Phil’s turn.
The lightest ball they had seemed to weigh more than his tiny ass. We watched him struggle, wind up, throw the bowling ball like a shot put, and fall flat on his ass. The ball sounded like it would go through the floor when it landed about a foot from Phil’s Pocket-Herculean toss, before creeping towards the pins at an obscenely leisurely pace.
spring becomes summer
sunlight stretched to horizon
I shall keep this day
Dad and I fell over each other laughing hysterically in spite of ourselves. After a moment, Phil started laughing too. The ball was almost halfway to the pins as we helped the little guy to his feet. Phil was grinning; always with that grin that seemed to know where mom hid the last of the cookies. Dad reassured Phil that one day he would be bigger and strong enough to handle a bowling ball instead of it handling him. The ball was nearing the end of its journey as I playfully ruffled his hair.
Then we all turned our attention to Phil’s ball as it slowly, painstakingly nudged each and every pin out of its way; an uncanny microcosm of Phil’s unhurried, determined, free-spirited personal philosophy.
My brother had thrown a strike. The heavy ball made a mockery of him, but per usual, Phil got the last laugh.
starlight blinks awake
they salute the setting sun
gently, fades the dusk
We laughed even harder at the absurd luck as we all high-fived.
I’m certain we had other moments, but I will cherish that instant forever as my favorite mental snapshot; the three Dawson men just kickin’ it in the bowling alley, smiling, laughing, and politely debating whether rap music was actually music (Phil and I were absolutely hooked, but Dad held back, thinking it was just another fad, like disco.) We genuinely enjoyed ourselves and each other in a transcendent night at the bowling alley.
A little over one and a half score later finds Lil Phil a grown man, a devoted husband, amazing father, and wise far beyond his 38 years. But in many ways, he’s still that determined little guy throwing strikes with a grin while laughing at the idiocy of fate.
fireflies dance with stars
I cup them with my mind’s hands
captured memories
***
Big Phil with his son, my nephew, “Thundercat”
Happy birthday, Big Phil, my plucky little brother.
Hephaestus’ Waste & Cosmic Rubble 