It is a 50-line poem of short phrases and images. The "Blitz" poem is well-named, as the fifty short lines are read in rapid-fire fashion. [...]
Here are the rules:
- Line 1 should be one short phrase or image (like “build a boat”)
- Line 2 should be another short phrase or image using the same first word as the first word in Line 1 (something like “build a house”)
- Lines 3 and 4 should be short phrases or images using the last word of Line 2 as their first words (so Line 3 might be “house for sale” and Line 4 might be “house for rent”)
- Lines 5 and 6 should be short phrases or images using the last word of Line 4 as their first words, and so on until you’ve made it through 48 lines
- Line 49 should be the last word of Line 48
- Line 50 should be the last word of Line 47
- The title of the poem should be three words long and follow this format: (first word of Line 3) (preposition or conjunction) (first word of line 47)
- There should be no punctuation, except for an ellipse after the final two words in lines 49 & 50.
Gray So Commands
Light the hearth
Light the gray
Gray clouds gather
Gray storms build
Build your home
Build your defenses
Fail to protect
Fail to prevent
Prevent the slaughter
Prevent the death
Death of your people
Death of your home
Home burns to ash
Home is far lost
Lost in the world now
Lost and alone
Alone in unfamiliar land
Alone and home is gone
Gone to the monster
Gone to his armies
Armies trampling your hearth
Armies spreading far
Far and wide they march
Far and wide they burn
Burn your kin
Burn your land
Land you had tamed
Land you still love
Love is gone from this world
Love does not touch the monster
Monster who wears the burn
Monster with the black eyes
Eyes that see wherever you run
Eyes filled with evil greed
Greed is what took your home
Greed is what killed your land
Land where you lit your hearth
Land where you made your home
Home has burned to ash
Home is far lost
Lost behind you somewhere
Lost as you still flee
Flee the monster and his horde
Flee the fire he commands
Commands the world to kneel
Commands the world to bow
Prompt: Today's form will be pantoum.
"The modern pantoum is a poem of any length, composed of four-line stanzas in which the second and fourth lines of each stanza serve as the first and third lines of the next stanza. The last line of a pantoum is often the same as the first."'
When chasing happiness,
one ought exercise some care.
There are conditions on bliss.
True contentedness is rare.
One ought exercise some care
when eating, relaxing, enjoying at all.
True contendedness is rare.
Joy comes before the fall.
When eating, relaxing, enjoying at all,
the things offered by this life,
joy comes before the fall,
happiness balances on the edge of a knife.
The things offered by this life,
they are but a ruse, a lie, a farse.
Happiness balances on the edge of a knife.
You will fail and cry and die, of course.
They are but a ruse, a lie, a farse,
but do not let that steal your bliss.
You will fail and cry and die, of course,
when chasing happiness.
This entry is a make up for 2.3
Prompt: 2.3's form will be ballade.
From what I understand, the ballade has three stanzas of eight lines with the rhyme scheme ababbcbc, followed by a four-line envoy with bcbc. The last line of the first stanza is repeated as the last line of the other three as well.
Riches, wealth, that's what he wanted,
that cat who wore a cream top hat.
His rings, his chains - these he flaunted,
that grubby, tubby capitalism cat.
He wiped his paws on a golden mat
and ate his kibbles from silver dishes
He did not care when he grew fat.
Money granted all his wishes.
The rich cat lounged in his plush bed.
He had servants trained to pat
his luscious fur, fiery red,
and about his neck, a green cravat.
With all this luxury, that greedy cat
piled high his golden fishes,
growing bulbous on meals of rat.
Money granted all his wishes.
his belly as big as his money vat.
He feared that soon he would be dead,
so he pointed his sudden ire at
the unfortunate food-bringing servant.
"You poisoned one of my dishes!"
He lay down then, that ungenerous cat.
Money granted all his wishes.
Even as he gasped and spat,
clinging to his golden fishes,
that greedy, grubby, fat old cat,
thought money granted all his wishes.
The clouds did part for but a day
and while none seemed to wish them gone
(so often did I hear them say
how much they loved unending gray),
they soon became the sunlight's pawn.
Prompt: Today's format is tanka. Partly, I'm choosing it because it's simple and short (and therefore a good place to start). Partly, I'm choosing it because it was apparently used for "The Tale of Genji," considered the first "novel" ever written. Which bolsters my argument that getting better at poetry can only help my other writing.
It is generally 5/7/5/7/7 (syllables - 31 syllables total).
A glowing bright square
of warmth splashes the carpet.
He occupies space,
takes his place on that warm throne.
We see who is master now.
Prompt: Only dialogue. Starting with a random line from the Random Dialogue Generator.
"Are you taking his side against me?"
"He does make some good points."
"Good points? The man is practically Hitler."
"Let's not jump to Nazis right away, alright?"
"Why shouldn't I?"
"It's a tired arguement. Everyone goes right to Nazis."
"Well, sometimes it's necessary. Like now. Because he's god damn Hitler."
"Look, let's just let it go, alright? I just want to watch the Super All-Star World Cup Bowl."
"Sports. Sure, retreat to sports. That's what you always do. Meanwhile, this maniac is out there convincing the whole world he should be in change of the Unity Government."
"I really don't give a damn who's in charge of what as long as North scores this basket. You're standing in front of the holo-vision."
"How can you care about sports when Rump is poised to actually win this thing? Do you really think there will even be a North v. South anymore? He wants to build a damn fence."
"I swear to Harn, if you keep blocking the holo-vision..."
Used to be a very different job, sitting at the border. Used to be a thing only rednecks and xenophobes really cared much about.
Gray sipped bitter coffee and wondered what it was like to have the luxury of hating other humans. He rocked rythmically in his chair on the border of insanity, staring into the red abyss beyond. His boots, pockmarked with holes, rested on the last few inches of dirt that remained to men. Beyond Gray's toes, that familiar, normal, barren dirt dropped off, replaced by an oozing darkness cut through with swirls of red.
Gray didn't know what any of it was. Some said a portal. Some said space and time had just torn apart like a piece of paper and left this gaping, evil wound. Others said it was a god's judgment. Still others blamed it on aliens.
Gray set down his coffee and picked up his rifle. Whatever it was, it wasn't immune to bullets. As long as Gray sat at the border, nothing from the chasm beyond it would feed on another human.
He looked down at the bucket of bullets by his ankle. How much longer until he ran out? The day would soon come when he fought the abyss with fists and teeth and got swallowed whole.
In a village by a lake (itself by a forest near a castle), Mother Green prepared a bath. Tall and lean as a willow tree, Mother Green swayed back and forth between the lake and the village, carrying buckets of cool, fresh water. These she added one-by-one to a pool she had dug in the ground and lined with oiled blankets.
Some of the water escaped back into the dirt, but most of it remained and soon Mother Green knelt before a shallow green pool. Leaning close, she breathed over the water and it was as though the distant forest by the faraway castle had stirred and whispered forth to wash over the village and the pool.
Mother Green stood, pleased. Even before she lumbered back to her forest, she saw the ducklings approaching all in a row to bathe and play in the pool.