noun: micro; plural noun: micros
a combining form with the meanings “extremely small” ( microcosm; micro dining area), “very small in comparison with others of its kind” ( microcassette; microfilm), “too small to be seen by the unaided eye” ( microfossil; microorganism), “dealing with extremely minute organisms, organic structures, or quantities of a substance” ( microdissection; microscope), “localized, restricted in scope or area” ( microburst; microhabitat),
I have been responding enthusiastically to a writer friend’s recent challenge to me: to write micro-poetry every day for a week and post it.
1. Create a world in five lines or less.
2. Sparse or no punctuation.
3. Title not compulsory. (But I love titles so…)
Ever forward-thinking I now envision Section One of my Book Three (why not dream big?) with the working title:
Five Lines or Less: Poetry. Quickly.
How could I have missed this poetry form? They are so much fun to do, and great cortical exercise. Like jumping jacks from the neck up. The only kind I could ever do anyway.
I welcome your reactions. Post your comments, do.
Here are the first few entries.
the light becomes
Boats pulled out for the season
Children rushing to school
And like a switch was flipped overnight
The water in the bay now darker
The two nuns, arms linked
their billowing voluminous habits blowing them
up the steep hill toward the gates of the convent
like black forbidding
We’d meander slowly
past the convent at night,
hoping for the slightest gap in the curtains
a peek into their cloistered
hotel rooms up and down the coasts
identical save for the key card
quiet as tombs
we slip in and out touching nothing
we make our lives up as we go
How can the unstoppable
the brilliance diminish to nothing
the tributes already receding
Even the way his hair’s combed
See how he missed a button
on his little shirt?
And the sleep still in his eyes.
His book propped opened with
spectacles on the side table,
his reading light still shining
on the place he left
Orphaned and standing in the rain
but it’s not as bad as it sounds
I can hear Bonnie Raitt’s voice from a car in the parking lot
And a little boy in a shopping cart just smiled at me
No reason. Just smiled.
The school uniform, penance
the wool knee socks even in summer
the black serge tunics
shiny, slick, crisp, from too many