Acid Reflux is no disease

just freeze
drink gallons of water
and inhale fresh breeze
never keep a stomach empty,
keep munching…
the stomach keeps producing acids
where and how will poor tummy use it
lest you arrange some feed

but never gorge
as all acid will
through ones throat forge

That much said in poetic form
my regrets
no clichés
no norms
nor metaphors
what for….
Poetry is just an expression
of the inner mind,
you may call it soul

Since everyone is moving onto Anapest here is my example. Remember we strive for strict form for the purpose of the workshop. Seldom will you write a poem entirely Anapestic. Help yourself by using polysyllabic words (words of many syllables). They, more than single or double syllable words, tend to mold to a meter surrounding them.

In a poem unaware lurks a line Anapestically true.

It is not very often that poems of this type are complete.

So then try as we might we are likely to fail at this form.

The dirge of damp dreams scream
plumes of puce
streams
that carry the seed of Satan's spawn
to the charnel house

The rising tide miasma might meander
if not for the corner charnel room
where evil form
evil does what evil will
forever

I wanted to pen an eternal song
its kernel word a stream of honey
and make its abode the heaven
where happiness is bestowed.
The angels' wings hurry
to carry the thought,
flawless and free
and only
echoes
"you"

rain limmerick
sharp as crystal
falling through
summers vents

passing
in gloss jewel
fragments

burgundy
gathered
on the iron
lip

falling
down
the dark
drain well

a thrown wish
coiled
bred
emerged

struck
smooth
tactile
the boney
verbs

rivers of nouns
and a hall
of stained nerves

Far off, in the eastern sky
there flies a ranging vulture;
as a shadow in the rising sun.

It is called across the desert
and its song is wind and woe.

As its somber feathers flutter
lifted on the lofty airs,
tortured currents sweep it higher,
bear it on its carrion's call.

In the east, the dying, calling,
sing the song of all the damned.
On the west the rain is falling,
falling for the words we lost.

I will not follow you into the heart path of hate
to be torn by the claws of the beast within.
I'd rather be beheaded
than commit this inner sin.

Though you stab me with multi layered raw emotions,
plunging down into my chest and twisting in.
better that my soul be flayed
than I rouse the beast within.

I will not let your demon take away the brightness
that quells the shadow scratching inside my skin.
Peering from my deep insides
through flesh that's paper thin.

to err, tis human..
.how doth thou sayest
thou in absence
and
Thy, where dostith cometh from
another poeter’s version
Thou sleeepest
like in tempest...

As I return from a worldly sojourn
was absent for a week
none notestist dis
not even thou
none will misseth us at all
that I doth vow!

fault a star
heaven ridden
heart with its wear
scar turns
the burning
fire
glittering
the shadow waver
brilliant as magik

I think of you
transcribed
atop the plan
of emotion

a treasure
over lay

Strike two Trochaic pentameter

Workshop critique: The Bottom Line
SI-lence | SCRATCH-ing | SNOW-y | BRANCH-less | FOR-est
WIT-ness | GLOW-ing | SCREECH-ing | EYES are | GROW-ing
GUN-shot | ROARS in | DIS-tant | BAN-shee | CHOR-us
SOUNDS as | LOUD as | REAP-ers | COM-ing | GO-ing

RON
Blue Demon77

What I want to be is what I was before the knife, before the bed,
before the brooch pin and the salve fixed me in this parenthesis:
Horses fluent in the wind. A place, a time gone out of mind.

The Eye-Mote Sylvia Plath