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  #101  
Unread 09-04-2021, 12:54 PM
Martin Elster Martin Elster is offline
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Thanks, Annie — for liking the pararhymes (also called frame rhyme). That's actually a specific type of slant rhyme in which the initial and final consonant sounds in the final syllable are repeated, but the vowel sound between them is different. The first time I encountered that technique was in Wilfred Owen's poem, "Strange Meeting."

Fliss - Thanks for liking my SF poem, and I'm glad you found it interesting. I didn't know you are a sci-fi fan. What's TXF? By the way, Ed Shacklee is also in that Goreyesque issue. (I'll be back later with the link to the issue.)

Oh, yeah, that flower ... I looked it up. It's a passionflower.

OK, I'm back. Here is the issue:

http://www.goreyesque.com/fall-2014

Last edited by Martin Elster; 09-04-2021 at 12:56 PM.
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  #102  
Unread 09-04-2021, 01:03 PM
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Ann Drysdale Ann Drysdale is offline
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Thanks, Martin. I hadn't appreciated the full subtlety of the rhymes; I just loved their gentleness.

I think TXF must be The X-factor, but I may be wrong.
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  #103  
Unread 09-08-2021, 04:12 AM
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F.F. Teague F.F. Teague is offline
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Ann, here's TXF (The X-Files)

I've been a fan since it was first aired on the BBC, I think. I remember watching some of the early episodes with Graham, my older brother.

Best wishes,
Fliss

Last edited by F.F. Teague; 11-05-2021 at 04:26 AM.
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  #104  
Unread 11-14-2021, 07:08 PM
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F.F. Teague F.F. Teague is offline
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🍎🍎🍎 <-- because we're well into Autumn now...


Eternity

In memory of Leo, 28th May 1975 to 15th June 2020

He loved the park that Autumn. "All the gold!"
he marvelled, gesturing to beech and oak,
his hands well gloved. By then, he felt the cold,
though in remission. But he liked to joke

about the cancer, chemo, all the drugs
that made him nauseated, tired, or high.
I listened, tried to keep him warm with hugs
while all the waterbirds went sailing by.

His favourites were the grebes. Their fiery crests
aroused a need to stroke my auburn hair,
remembering their dance, their necks and chests
entwining, rising, in the April air

and, later, how we sought to emulate
the dance and tumbled, laughing, into bed
and we were fire and we were pretty great.
"I'll love you for eternity," he said.



Ron Cooper, 'Courtship dance, great-crested grebes, Pittville'
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  #105  
Unread 11-15-2021, 12:10 PM
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RCL RCL is offline
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It’s

like plowshares spreading earth
and seeds sown in the furrows
promising new birth

like daylight priming passion
to sleep again with night
and wake a blushing sun

when we two make one
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Ralph
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  #106  
Unread 11-15-2021, 01:03 PM
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F.F. Teague F.F. Teague is offline
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Ralph!

🍎🍎🍎

There's a fantastic pocket poem. Excellent imagery; I'm particularly taken with 'blushing sun' 😊

This one's tamer, but it was fun to write. It needs trimming and I shall attend to the task when the schedule permits! I wrote it for Bonfire Night.

The moonlit skies were very clear
that Bonfire Night. And he was near,
the new professor, in the crowd
of students, teachers. Long and loud
the rockets soared above the Vale,
a shriek, a bang, a wanton wail,
the palms and pearls and peonies.
I felt his eyes on me. My knees
went weak. The music ebbed, then rose
with red and green and golden glows,
the Handel suite. I'll handle you,
he'd told me. Rhapsodies in blue
until the final firework died,
the 'Oohs!' and 'Aahs!' had all been cried,
but as he passed in grey and black
he stroked my arching lower back.

💥
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  #107  
Unread 11-17-2021, 02:43 PM
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F.F. Teague F.F. Teague is offline
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Keeping with Bonfire Night, the next one is a sort of part two to the previous poem. Together they are 'Ooh!' and 'Aah! or, My Guy'. I'm happy to mention that I won a contest today with the latter, submitted as 'My Guy'. Here it is:


My Guy

Until the 5th November '88,
my mother hadn't thought to make a guy;
we had our sparklers, bonfire on a grate,
a good display of rockets climbing high
enough to rouse a little "Aah!" and "Ooh!"
but not so much to vex the neighbour's dog.
That year, however, "Here's a treat for you!"
said Mother and we gathered, all agog.

A guy in striped pyjamas was revealed –
a pillowcase or three made up his skin.
His flesh was Mum's old tights, yet he appealed
because he had the softest, sweetest grin.
"So, do we burn him?" I enquired, dismayed.
"That's right!" confirmed my dad and stoked the fire.
I trembled as I drank my cherryade
to think my friend would soon be on the pyre.

Don't let them burn me, Miss! I heard him speak.
I shan't, I vowed, then yelled, "Look over there!"
They looked; I ran; I grabbed him with a shriek
and rushed upstairs. I heard my brothers swear
they'd get me, but too late! I locked the door
and fell with Mr. Fawkes upon my bed;
he slid and almost collapsed upon the floor.
I held him tighter, kissed his fraying head.

I heard a blur of voices from outside
but didn't care cos G. was looking cute
in blue and white. He took another slide;
I caught him, sat him up and smoothed his suit.
Then, side by side, we watched that year's display.
No movie star nor muscle man was he,
but there was nothing anyone could say
or do to take my guy away from me.

🥰
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  #108  
Unread Today, 12:48 PM
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F.F. Teague F.F. Teague is offline
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Here's a poem (published) based on a trip to see some alpacas back in mid-October:


Meet and greet

We smell them first. Ammonia – a rush,
assailing nostrils, clinging in the throat.
And then, the sounds of sweeping, brush brr-ush!
The east wind whips; I'm grateful for my coat.

We're ushered in. We're seven; they are eight
in white and beige and chestnut, grey and black.
They loiter, humming gently, by the gate,
or traipse towards us, turn, and sidle back.

I'm introduced to Otis, gelded male.
Just stroke his neck, says Jo, our barn hostess.
His hair's so soft, it's like a fairy tale,
and very dense. He blinks as I caress.

The humming's reassurance, Jo explains;
a constant checking everyone's alright –
no signs of fear, no nasty aches and pains.
Alpacas shriek, she adds, when they're in fright.

Geronimo, I think, and grit my teeth.
The black alpaca here, though, seems to smile:
her bottom-row incisors long beneath
her upper lip. Aunt Biddy. She has style.

I wonder if they think about Peru;
dismiss this, as, once more, they venture near,
their humming not unlike a wood kazoo
in chirpy tone and mood. They check and cheer.




Photo (also published): A.R. Teague, Cotswold Alpacas (Aunt Biddy shown near the back)

🥰
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