Eight lines, eight syllables each. . Practice Here

[Tinker]

Today's prompt   twinkle or corode   Use one or both words within the poem.  

In Gratitude

Both eyes don't twinkle anymore,
It seems with age the glimmer fades,
slowly coroding to dim sight
but, corrective lenses fixed that
until a clot blew in one eye.
A grey cloud now obscures vision.
A stroke of sorts, who ever knew?
Gatefully the other still sparks.
                    ~~Judi Van Gorder

[Tinker]

      I Remember When

A time before the dry winds blew,
the cool quenching rains stopped falling,
and the baren earth split open,
we walked bare foot on a soft green
carpet dampened by morning mist
with disregard for waste we dumped
on shores and seas and the toxins
we spewed to the hallowed heavens.
                    ~~Judi Van Gorder

photo found at Writing.com

[Tinker]

Divided We Fall

Once the Tan Oak stood together
with the stronger, thirsty Redwoods.
Now depleted by ruthless drought
and bitten by greedy beatles,
riddled, brittle, and suffering,
denied life's healing elixsors
its sturdy limbs wither and crack,
crashing to the grieved forest floor.
                    ~~Judi Van Gorder

Prompt: United we stand, divided we fall.

[Tinker]

Nirvana

The afternoon sun stings my nose
while a cooling clear pond splashes
around me in my rubber sphere.
I bob dreamily in a pool
surrounded by the Sierras.
The slick surface of the black tube
moans against my skin when I move.
Laughter echoes off the water.
                   ~~Judi Van Gorder

Prompt:  Joyful scene from your childhood.

[Tinker]

Single and Free

I was 21 and single
in 62, thriving and free.
I lived my life only for me.
No bills, just adventure and thrills.
Having no care, settling nowhere.
Lots of folderol, fun, and friends.
Then this cute cowboy came my way.
Married in 1963,
haven't understood a thing since.
                   ~~Judi Van Gorder

Notes: ▼

8 lines
8 syllables each
Prompt: Book Title: Haven't Understood Anything Since 1962 by Lewis Grizzard

[Tinker]

Fall's Flaw

Every Fall I face this fact
and dread "the whiskey stink of rot",
the end of homegrown tomatoes.
There simply is no substitute,
certainly not those tasteless orbs
found on most grocery store shelves.
They may look like a tomato
and smell like a tomato but,
they don't taste like a tomato.
                   ~~Judi Van Gorder



Notes: ▼

8 lines
8 syllables each
Inspiration: Use 4 Words from:  A Much better poem than mine.  

September Tomatoes
                    by Karina Borowicz

The whiskey stink of rot has settled
in the garden, and a burst of fruit flies rises
when I touch the dying tomato plants.

Still, the claws of tiny yellow blossoms
flail in the air as I pull the vines up by the roots
and toss them in the compost.

It feels cruel. Something in me isn’t ready
to let go of summer so easily. To destroy
what I’ve carefully cultivated all these months.
Those pale flowers might still have time to fruit.

My great-grandmother sang with the girls of her village
as they pulled the flax. Songs so old
and so tied to the season that the very sound
seemed to turn the weather.