Fifty Word Fiction, Part II

Because I said "Tune in next week" I kind of felt like I should do another one. Besides, it's fun. So here's the next installment of the tale. I wonder where it's going.

Thinking is just too hard sometimes. Keep running. One day, maybe you can face thinking about it again.
She kept going until she couldn’t see them anymore. Finally, she found a quiet place to stop. She lay down to wait out the pain in her heart. When will she wake?

Perceptions

When
twilight falls
on the darkened stage -
whispering shadows flit by,
their beauty hidden
by the slow
dance.

Ode on a Grecian Urn

by John Keats

Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
Thou foster child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone.
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal---yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unweari-ed,
Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
Forever panting, and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty": I love that!

Justice?

This is an oldie - from February 2001. Almost four whole years old. I haven't had time to write much poetry recently. This was written as a song; it sounds much better with the music, but alas . . .

There's a prisoner who sits in a faraway cell
Ignored by the warden and inmates, as well.
He knows he's not guilty of the alleged crime;
He sits there, just biding his time, biding his time.

The judge and the jury stand out in the hall,
Calmly ignoring the prisoner's sad call.
His plaintive cry echoes, but they just don't hear.
Can it be justice they fear? Justice they fear.

The prisoner, he sighs, for he knows how they work.
They all hate their task, and their duty they shirk.
They must soon determine the poor prisoner's fate.
They quibble; the hour grows late, the hour grows late.

The prisoner despairs of returning to home.
His mind is with people; his body's alone.
He waits to hear just what the verdict will be
Knowing he's already free, already free.

The jurors hate justice; the judge is corrupt.
The prisoner's not guilty, but that's not enough.
The verdict's for prison, though based just on lies.
He smiles and closes his eyes, not really surprised.

Themes in Poetry

Supposedly the vast majority of classic poetry can be categorized as revolving around one of the following themes: death, loneliness, or immortality.
Since so many poems are odes to love and beauty, I would have to classify them as being about immortality. Rejection, obviously, is both death (of hope) and loneliness.
What are other major subjects for poetry?

Fifty Word Fiction

Not technically poetic, but this is my site ;-) Whenever I see something I like, I tend to try it out. Here's my fifty-word fiction. Check out the website from which the idea came.

She ran away as everyone watched. It was too hard to think; she could only do. Maybe one day she could come back. If they ever stopped laughing.
Her legs were moving on their own; she had no control. When would they stop? Tune in next week to find out.

The Grand Circle

The Grand Circle is the collective name of a group of National Parks in Colorado/Utah/Arizona. They include Zion Nat'l Park, Bryce Canyon Nat'l Park, the Grand Canyon, and Mesa Verde. These places are among the most beautiful spots in the country.

Ebenezer Bryce said about Bryce Canyon: "It's a hell of a place to lose a cow."

Some Haiku that I composed while watching the sun set over the North Rim of the Grand Canyon (June 25, 2001):

Red and gray faces
Peer out at me as I watch
Clouds settle on rock

The winds chill my hands
As I sit high on the cliff
Beauty absorbs me

(Inspired by Emily Dickinson)
I heard a fly buzz
Breaking the pristine silence
In canyon's own land

"Some people say that the water of the Colorado would be wasted if it went straight to the Pacific, but it returns."
It returns in our memories of our experiences of the water.

Daffodils

by William Wordworth

I wander'd lonely as a cloud,
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the bay, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle in the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

The Play's the Thing

by Jayne Jaudon Ferrer
in Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul (p.214)

Forgive me, Lord
for all the tasks
that went undone today.
But this morning when my child
toddled in and said "Mommy play?"
I simply had to say yes.
And between the puzzles and trucks
and blocks and dolls and old hats and
books and giggles,
we shared a thousand special thoughts,
a hundred hopes and dreams and hugs.
And tonight, when prayer time came
and he folded his hands and softly whispered,
"Thank you, God, for Mommy and Daddy and
toys and French fries, but 'specially
for Mommy playing,"
I knew it was a day well wasted.
And I knew You'd understand.