Qryos Posted August 5, 2007 Report Share Posted August 5, 2007 Gallop is the meter chased unfounda trot a walk now stopped.In dark woods full of tripsy vines and low thick branches face facing duckedWe crouch. Whispers too loudfingers point and trace a scent or stepthe secret stalking commences.~ An attempt at a different form. What d'ya think?I know, it's odd... Odd's not always bad, just wonder if this is? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Call me Flower Posted August 5, 2007 Report Share Posted August 5, 2007 I like the line "fingers point and trace a scent or step" That's cool. Neat poem.Flower Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
SilverRose Posted August 5, 2007 Report Share Posted August 5, 2007 yes, very nice!!! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Whirling Dervish Posted August 5, 2007 Report Share Posted August 5, 2007 I want more of it... Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Qryos Posted August 6, 2007 Author Report Share Posted August 6, 2007 ~ More???OK. Hiding little creatures burst!Away with leaf coverFlurry skitter tripping lost.Sunlight streaking dusty paths to home again. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Whirling Dervish Posted August 6, 2007 Report Share Posted August 6, 2007 Cool! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
idealdabbler Posted August 26, 2007 Report Share Posted August 26, 2007 It all just seems to bubble out of you, Q.I'm fascinated with how easy you make it seem. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Bel Posted August 26, 2007 Report Share Posted August 26, 2007 She's just awesome that way. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Qryos Posted August 27, 2007 Author Report Share Posted August 27, 2007 ~ Oh good grief... I bubble? {Maybe burp sometimes! }Y'know? I work well with challenge, so now another Afternoon ? {Just 'cause!} ~ Just An Afternoon...Lemonade catches moths on Gramma's table dressed with tarnished silver speckled like a cousin's face.Far-off shouts blend with the clatter of melting icebut the tree stands so cool...High above like a hawk Aunty frowns with dark eyes,a hand clasped to run in the orchard replaces all...Branches catch at, never caught, the run plays on.~ That's a memory of mine. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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