And the word is...

I'm so happy you are reviving this. It is a marvelous exercise and fun. This thread, cinquains, and Haikus have rescued me many times from the despair of wordlessness, or worse yet words all dressed up with nowhere to go.

This thread has been dark too long. So let's light it up using one of my favorite books, kinda old fashioned these days, but they are usually short and small and they always brighten up a room especially when coupled with the new word.

So put your fingers together, twist, flick your wrist and rub (maybe a couple rubs ;) ) and light up the new word CANDLE.

now I've got to get busy

I never give you my pillow,
I only send you my invitation,
and in the middle of the celebrations
I break down.

—Lennon/McCartney, Carry That Weight, Abby Road


You would not stay,
in this story between the light and the wall.
What is grotesque I know is only what I make
with my hands, and the sound is how I breathe here.

You are here nonetheless.
When I say, then your hair rose up like clouds,
I see you, the wind moving your beauty
from a cliff over the Pacific to this place,
where you wait outside the door, or wave
from a shore you’ve chosen cautiously.

Intimacy does not join us. Here you are alone.
There is always the space between us
and our shadows, even as we embrace in the light.
This is why I write you my dreams, or wake you,
waving tirelessly over the waters, shaking the bed.
What can we do otherwise, when the space narrows,
and the shadow envelops our perception?

Here, the face of a stranger is who turns in the crowd,
and I am crying because it is the place where I cry, or
someone, something shadowless awakens me as I sleep.

Ignore me, missed fire's posts above. Am now thinking (thinking...thinking...)

Thank you Fire and candle it is. Your poem is full of flickering light. Beautiful.

Candle

He handed her the tiny piece of cake,
one candle, twisty pink and white,
the birthday kind and he said,
"Make a wish."
In the dark she held it up,
trying to see his eyes, his lips
where his words came from and she said,
"I can't."

Once upon a time
There was a wax stick,
Stuck in paradigm
Of non-ignition
By a bare matchstick,
Normal condition.

Came afar, a day
When observation
Careful trumped dismay;
String theory appalls
By consummation
Heated as it falls.

For this thread of fate
Waxed throughout its length
Does soon explicate:
Without wickedness
Fuels in any strength
Will just make a mess.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by firefangled

I never give you my pillow,
I only send you my invitation,
and in the middle of the celebrations
I break down.

—Lennon/McCartney, Carry That Weight, Abby Road


You would not stay,
in this story between the light and the wall.
What is grotesque I know is only what I make
with my hands, and the sound is how I breathe here.

You are here nonetheless.
When I say, then your hair rose up like clouds,
I see you, the wind moving your beauty
from a cliff over the Pacific to this place,
where you wait outside the door, or wave
from a shore you’ve chosen cautiously.

Intimacy does not join us. Here you are alone.
There is always the space between us
and our shadows, even as we embrace in the light.
This is why I write you my dreams, or wake you,
waving tirelessly over the waters, shaking the bed.
What can we do otherwise, when the space narrows,
and the shadow envelops our perception?

Here, the face of a stranger is who turns in the crowd,
and I am crying because it is the place where I cry, or
someone, something shadowless awakens me as I sleep.

---

This is so incredibly beautiful. It should be 'out there', in the regular threads. I'm afraid people will miss it.

And autolycus, how cleverly done. Thank you for joining us. Maybe you will choose the next word for us??
Anyone else for the word, candle?

Thank you, ampoule (that's a beautiful word too)!

Hmm. The next word is... 'desk'. I'm into the poetry of practical things these days... *grin*

Time is in the unseen spaces,
and where the children are kept in rows
by the desk runners, the freckled girl turns
her head around quickly,
as the boy behind her retracts his hand
from her hair. The look in her eyes is frightening
to him for that second she is not there, the second
of the tree falling, the mill sounding
like a wind she once heard, the penknife that etched
a heart, the way the path was made from yesterday
to the desk, second row, her eyes focused on him now
the way lightning pauses before you hear it.

A Girl and Her Desk

She was young,
can you forgive her?
She was care less,
or at the very least,
unobservant, the office
closing down, going out
of business, signs posted,
everything must go.
She never wondered why,
never concerned herself
with the dreams of owners
or food for the employees
that would be let go, no,
she had lust in her eyes
for a bargain, the heavy,
solid wood, six-drawer desk,
complete with coffee rings
and scratches and history,
carried home atop a car.
So many hours, so many
changes, typewriters to
computers, rotary phones
to caller ID and blinking
phone messages, and this
desk, as big as a bed,
causes her to pause at last,
so many years gone by,
wondering who and where
the people are who set their
coffee cups down, who left
their marks, their time.

ampoule, May Second, TwoThousandEight

I love my desk. Can you tell?

It will be old, forgotten
Neglected for
Music stands and
The outdoors;
Places where
Not even the
Pristine cleanliness
Of the window
Glass bars the way
Between the poetess
And the great world--
The “real” world
Outside the ones she
Has created here
At this place they
Call her desk--
Someday…

Fire, Sarasvati, I love your desk poems. Okay, Autolycus.....

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by ampoule

so many years gone by,
wondering who and where
the people are who set their
coffee cups down, who left
their marks, their time.


I love my desk. Can you tell?

---

I can tell by this poem it is a fine desk. One of those big enough for life to feel at home on it. A very fine poem, Amp.

Firefangled: time, love, and the elements of life

Ampoule: personal narrative and human interest

Sarasvati: argh, poetry and metaphor


This is not an easy contest. But I am a victim of mythology and hence must bow to the superior symbolism of Firefangled despite the valour and beauty of all the submissions. There is something in there about the raw elements of the human heart, something primal. Lightning, just before it strikes...

Shudder.

Firefangled, it's all yours!

I remember the first desk I had,
a bar-mitzvah gift, I think it was
and the hope it represented
to my parents of a splendid professional career
ahead of me and I remember how,
when I married we moved that desk,
for some reason, to my wife’s family’s
country-house and how, when she and I broke up,
I had no more access to it and wondered
what secrets my kids might unearth from it.
The desk I have now - cherrywood veneer
–has a hutch on it on which sits my computer screen,
the elegant paper-covered in-box
we brought back from Japan, assorted articles
from my past.