By Linda Watson Owen
Adverbity
Apparently, adverbity is very much assuredly
a matter of vulgarity in writing quite acceptably.
I prune them out, and truthfully, I do so quite efficiently,
but with a regularity they creep right back so stealthily!
I’ve used ink that was guaranteed to rid the pests quite naturally,
but, in a wink, consistently, the page grows in adverbity!
Gladly and aggressively, I shun the critters openly
despite their perpetuity and penchant for returnity.
An adverb, very ruthlessly, roots in and always cleverly
finds nooks where surreptitiously it sets up immortality.
No writer’s tools can easily confront the creature’s stubborncy,
and, without fail, consistently uproot its elasticity.
Except! When Editor, with glee, steps in and, oh! so zealously
drowns pests in pools of pen-red seas, then I can be quite adverb free.
So, even if adverbity becomes a liability (a stylish blight) eventually,
still, one can write, undoubtedly, in absence of adverbity.
…Thankfully.
So What Does a Poet Do?
I catch words in my basket.
They come falling from the sky,
or I glimpse one peeking from
behind a rock,
and I snatch it up while it
giggle-wiggles and
winks at me.
I catch words like raindrops
and listen to them pitter-patter in my basket
while other words come running
to catch up to me,
to run along-side before hopping in.
Sometimes a word falls out,
and I go back looking for it in doorways
or under bushes.
I catch words in my basket.
I can feel them bumping around,
making one side or the other tilt with
their shifting, maybe with their shape-shifting.
I carry them home, line them up (if they let me) on
white paper and invite them to romp and
to sing from the page beside my waiting basket.
If any are not happy,
I set them free.
I catch words in my basket.
Alchemy of Ink
Blank Verse Sonnet
“Putting pen to paper lights more fire
than matches ever will.”
Malcolm S. Forbes
Life is flint and fodder for the pen,
striking, lighting paper into flame,
flame enough to burn despair to ash
or wake a dream to dance in curls of smoke.
Life is flint and fodder for the pen,
lingering for the alchemy of ink
in dark and lustrous flow upon the page,
rising into every mortal shape.
Human song bursts forth as flesh and sweat,
laughter’s heartbeats, groanings deep, or sighs.
Ink art weaves the rising of a verse,
swirling, twirling rhyme or prosody.
A wand-like pen on paper spins, enchants
life’s flint and straw-filled fodder into gold.