fridge magnet poetry is strangely attractive

I do like this week’s clutch of magnet poems. The oracle is in thoughtful mood. The rain is red today, with sun spray blown in the wind. Light flickers, shot through with shadows, a drunken symphony screamed at the moon. Come dance with me and be my love hold my hand and keep […]

via Drunken symphonies before dawn — Jane Dougherty Writes

These are lovely, wistful, melancholy.  The restrictions of fridge magnet poetry produce healthier blooms than unfettered access to language, much like pruning a rose bush.

…star corsage

 

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a bouquet of roses,

of diamonds and baby’s breath

a few stars thrown in

to confuse over scale

and Satan peering from a black black hole

deep, deep, deep in the vase

a bouquet of roses

roses, foxes and diamonds

diamonds and baby’s breath

breath, and a few stars

the scale is confused

and Satan’s in there too

peeping out a black hole

gravity in the vase

down deep, deep

© Copyright Alex Ankarr 2017

Image – Vaughan’s Seed Company; Henry G. Gilbert Nursery and Seed Trade Catalog Collection, no known copyright restrictions.

…matrimony and the man II

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Doves shot upwards

Snowfall in reverse

Confetti burst

the groom, and his groom

fine handsome catch

every bit his match

waiting on a promise,

all dolled up and fine

forever be mine

Vows are made

Doves are flown

Fizz all downed

Rings exchanged

Dance in dreams

flowergirl screams

(Too much cake. Allowed a sip of fizz
Parents, parents, why d’you do this?)

hand in hand and

husbands now

one last vow

wedding day done

cake’s crumbs,

Listen, grooms:

It begins now.

© Copyright Alex Ankarr 2017

Image – Ludovic Bertron via Creative Commons Licence

Oiseau supérieure?

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I’ve begun another poem – about weddings, and matrimony, and men – and that’s all right.  Except I just got a little way in, three lines or so.  Then I thought, “Ooh, I haven’t watched this week’s ep of iZombie, yet.  Hmmm…”

So pursuing the poem was put on hold.  Of course, halfway through the episode, I had a stray thought about the poem.  Followed by another, and another, then a complete epiphany about the direction it should take, then a whole slew of verses alighting full-formed in the old addle-pated cranium.

But I held on, strong-minded, determined.  It was a jolly fine episode, you see.  And anyway, if I just mentally repeated these lines that had come to mind – gold, pure gold – then it wouldn’t be a problem.  Would it?

My eye, it wouldn’t.  Can I remember any of it now?  Can I cobblers.  Gosh darn.

I’ve posted up the beginning on Wattpad, anyhow, here.  Perhaps if I put my skull in a bag and give it a good old shake, perhaps…

 

P.S. That isn’t moi up above.  I don’t normally write in a state of undress.  ( Well, maybe on Christmas Day, drinking before lunch.)

Also I’m not a nineteenth-century French top bird.  Oiseau supérieure?

 

Image – Wilbouchewitch, Nageotte, no known copyright restrictions.