Whatever could be a poetry error? I know, bad grammar, meaningless drivel (redundancy), incorrect spelling and any number of syntax or rhyming flaws.
Nope. That was not my error. (Well, maybe one of the above) Apparently my error lies in the fine print and being a newbie to the Postcard Poetry Festival. I only read the emails I received and there were no restrictions suggested there. (Besides there is more going on in my life than this minor mishap.)
I did not know there was a Facebook page for Postcard Poetry Festival. Someone suggested I was a trouble maker. Don’t think I’ve been called that before. So, I followed her link, scanned the posts and found this:
The list is final and went out last night. There are 302 poets on the list this year, a near doubling of last year’s 160. Please no online posting of poems you send for a month after sending domestically, longer if being sent out of the country. I’d check with the sender to see if they are cool with you posting the poems they sent you before posting online.
SO, I won’t be posting any more of my daily poems here until … later.
Thanks always for visiting my wordpress blog.
Photo by C.J. Prince
May you ride the wind
above this place,
above the sand and waves
and seaweed in a buttermilk sky,
ride the wind above words,
free with Egyptian goddess Sothis
who guides you to Sirius, the brightest star.
What entices your Muse?
I think of her constantly, sometimes with irritation, sometimes, pleading, most often accepting her wily ways and sense of timelessness. She will wake me in the middle of the night with a string of words that will never be available again. She lurks in writing groups, surprises when I’m driving. She is ubiquitous, as fragrant as a stargazer lily and illusive as stars on a cloudy night.
I take every advantage to be alert to her omniscience. It is I who am forgetful, ignore that little tug of an image, get monkey mind when all I should be is mindful. So, the invitation to participate in Postcard Poetry Month in August reeled me in.
For the seventh year poets have written a poem a day and sent it out to a list of 31 other Muse chasers. As I pondered the delight of a postcard in my mailbox, I also realized that my quirky little off the cuff poem would have only one reader.
SO, I decided to share with you, that which flashes through on a poem that cannot be studied, revised, re-re-written and critiqued. Write it. Mail it. So, here goes.
At the Post Office
Blonde pony tail flips back and forth—
a tidy coif to suit her summer chic tan,
a skimpy tank top and yellow skort.
Rhinestone ear studs dot her small lobes.
With both hands she jerks open the battered car door,
that matches the rumpled front end
after mailing off the final divorce papers.
A raven squawks a celebration
from the flag pole.
©2013 C.J. Prince