Another challenge on our message board. If you would like to participate, come to the board. I post a challenge every weekend and you'll find the link
HERE. When you get there, click 'General Board' and the topics will appear.
I put a list of things, or items, that must appear in the poem. Each item must have its own stanza and the poem must have a theme. Participants must use at least 5 of the 6 words, or use all 6.
They don't see a picture until the page is published.
This is the list for this weekend (9-22-07)
river runs through it
The poems are very imaginative and quite different from each other. I thought the results were very good and if you like what you read, let the poet know. They love feedback.
A River Runs Through It
A saxophone without its reed would be useless indeed.
It needs it to blow out those wonderful deep mellow notes and succeed.
The music's meter is most important in interpretation and jazz.
It gives us the melody with all its pizazz.
The neon lights of the clubs on Beale Street beckon the blues and jazz lovers to come in and catch some tunes.
The amps on stage are powerful, and bring the sound to our ears as the songstress to the music croons.
The night lends itself to the soft periwinkle blue lights on stage.
No wee one in the audience only a bleached blond of legal age.
My thoughts ramble to a scene of pastoral land where a river runs through it.
I hear the blues, and my mind I allow to submit.
© By Phyllis Ann (Starbird55@msn.com)
Not The Marryin' Kind
There's a meter-reader
Stumblin' around the yard,
Looks a bit hung over,
Didn't wanna work so hard.
Neon lights flashed around him,
Last night at the strip,
She was just so very pretty,
Didn't mean his heart to flip.
Persuaded her to walk the park
By the river running through it,
How her hair glistened in the moonlight,
Reflections of neons lit.
She mentioned she'd like a wee one,
His heart stood still and bleak,
"Oh, not another marryin' type!"
And through river reeds he freaked.
Today his face is periwinkle,
"Was it worth it?", he opined.
Moonlit nights on a moonlit river?
Yes, he'd become the marryin' kind.
Would he ever find her?
Would those wee ones be?
Now the ending of this tale of chance,
Is what you make it to be.
© By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)
Reed walked along the roadway
watching children at play
He had to check electric meters
First stop was the house of Peters
He drank too much coffee that morn
Now he was so forlorn
He needed to go wee wee for one
No privacy under the sun
Into Mrs. Smith's perwinkles he peed
She saw and she tee tee teed
He didn't worry a teensy bit
Into her garden he sent a river through it
He laughed and smiled right at her
Until the police came to deter
© By Sharon (Sunyskys1943@aol.com)
Swampetta went walking through the reeds.
Trying to fulfill her swampy needs.
Cattails and ferns were all around.
And loads of mud, did abound.
A lot of junk was discarded there.
Tossed by folks who didn't care.
Old gas meter, washing machine agitator.
Didn't see a single alligator.
Swampetta wore her best pink tights
That were the color of neon lights.
The brightest ones you'll ever see.
Kept off mosquitoes and the wayward flea.
All sorts of things washed up in the swamp.
And several rodents there did romp.
A river runs through it, doncha know.
Actually trickles, it's kind of slow.
Found a crocodile, although a wee one.
In that swamp she thought she'd never see one!
She brought it home, made it a bed.
Kept it cozy, on tuna fish it fed.
Took it for walks, named it 'Periwinkle'.
Sweet little croc, she loved every wrinkle.
Then the cats taught it to purr.
As they waited for it to grow fur.
© By Swampetta (SWAMPETTA@aol.com)
I stood in the reeds, knee deep in water
A red winged black bird I wanted to photograph.
The bottom mud sucked my shoes in as
I tried for a certain shot.
The light meter said not enough light
As I shook with cold fright.
Quickly I adjusted the ISO,
And aimed at that elusive bird.
I snapped, snapped and snapped again
As a dog barked and the bird flew.
Neon light in the back ground
A bar on the other bank.
I slogged ashore and took off my shoes,
Cussing and fussing at the dang back ground.
So dejected as I was,
I walked up the bank looking again.
I stopped for the marsh ahead,
No oh my, a river runs through it.
And in the middle on an ait,
Seven red winged black birds on reeds did sit.
I waded in as my camera I aimed
And felt something brush my leg.
I staggered and slipped,
But I held my camera over my head.
I snapped ten pics as fast as I could,
But I saw a wee one on the shore.
Never seen a small red wing black bird,
My how cute it was.
I plodded ashore and the bird flew,
Then I sat down in disgust.
Then as my shoes I again emptied,
I saw a periwinkle close by.
I snapped one, two, three shots I did,
And went home my seats all wet.
And do you know to my surprise,
The next Sunday my periwinkle picture was in the paper.
My wife had the picture sent in,
As me I had a base case of the flu.
But now I smile for you know what?
A bar paid me a hundred bucks for that neon light photograph.
He hee and har de har,
Now I must pay my doctor bill.
© By Tom (tomWYO@aol.com)
Inky sky and moonlight silver,
The quiet flow of a lazy river,
In the distance, neon lights glow,
Lighting Cooperstown, Baseball's Hall of Fame row.
Yes, a river runs through this town in New York,
And several miles south, it divides in a fork.
Tonight, a lone black crow flies over the treetops,
Searching for food around the souvenir shops.
Tall reeds and clusters of cattails line the river's banks,
Down a side street, one sign says, "To Our Visitors, Thanks!".
Century-old houses, made of stone and slate,
On one building, an 1834 cornerstone date.
Parking meters all along Maine Street,
But parking is free on some of the side-streets.
In autumn, the mountains wear colors of red and yellow,
In winter, everything is snow-covered, mellow.
A wee-one goes by, riding in a baby carriage,
Pushed by a young male, looking too young for marriage.
The mother, even younger, smiles with a glow,
That tells everyone the happiness she knows.
Light globes on lamp posts, a soft yellow show,
The sidewalks start to empty, as visitors to motels go,
Sunflowers nod, periwinkles close,
I stop, bend over, and inhale the sweetness of a rose.
© By Marilyn (LaraOct7@aol.com)
Neath The Sheets
Farewell To Summer ( 11 Authors )
Kewpie Doll ( 6 Authors )
Ode To My Favorite Cat
Where Are The Hummingbirds?
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