I seem to be running away backwards, Toward both my future and my past; Running away from where I feel safe, To find a warmth that will last.
I am running away from my home, Yet home I am also running to. I’m longing to start a new life, Where I am both old and new.
This poem is a Vietnamese form called Thơ bảy chữ, or Seven Word Poetry. It’s written in quatrains with each line containing seven words. There are two possible rhyme schemes to choose from; I chose a/a/x/a, b/b/x/b, etc. This form is prompt #24 of the Around the World poetry challenge issued by murisopsis, who has suggested a theme of running away while longing for home. This is my final entry in the scavenger hunt. I didn’t get to all the prompts, but didn’t do too bad considering I started halfway through the month.
I’ve decided it’s time to shake up my life. I am planning some radical changes that will involve both sadness and joy. In short, I’m planning to run away and have an adventure. I’ll tell you about it as I go, or when I have internet, or maybe after I’ve recovered from the spontaneity. I’m not sure exactly when it will happen, some other things have to occur before I can indulge in spontaneity. I’ve spent too much time in anger and grief; it’s time to forgive and live again.
Do not grow old if you are faint of heart, If you don’t want to pee when you sneeze, or bend over and fart.
Growing old is not for cry-babies, Joints creak if they work at all, no ifs, ands, or maybes.
Hair turns white and grows in weird places. Hair you want – like eyebrows – falls out at quick paces.
Your get up and go gets up and leaves. You need a nap just to sit down and watch the TV.
If you grow old and you are a wuss, Then buckle up, buttercup, and get ready to cuss.
This isn’t so funny anymore.
This poem is written in the style of a form from Afghanistan called a Landay. It’s composed of couplets (which should rhyme in English) with a syllable count of nine in the first line and thirteen in the second line. This is prompt #17 in the Around the World poetry challenge by murisopsis, who suggested a theme of body functions. My take is more along the lines of dysfunctional bodies, but I threw in a couple of body functions to keep Val happy.
I’m still really irritated that nobody told me my eyebrows would start falling out when I got old. I appreciate that Brooke Shields became popular just as I was getting to the age of wearing makeup. Her eyebrows killed the plucking to a thin arch phase of eyebrow maintenance and ushered in a natural look. Thus, I never plucked mine into oblivion and still have some hair up there, but there are thin spots that have to be filled in with an eyebrow pencil. I always wondered why old women draw their eyebrows onto their face. Now I have joined their ranks. It’s so sweet when your spouse says, “Oh, you have an eyelash on your cheek,” and gently brushes it off. Except it’s probably an eyebrow hair, not an eyelash. Somehow, shedding your eyebrows isn’t as romantic as your eyelashes falling out.
While I’m drawing hair above my eyes, I’m plucking like mad below them. Why can’t facial, leg, and armpit hair fall out instead of eyebrow and head hair? Don’t women have enough to deal with in life without having to pluck and shave in the most ridiculous places?
Most women think that once they get through menopause, they’re done with putting paper in their panties. Nope. You only have a few short years before you begin keeping the pantyliner suppliers in business. You don’t just pee when you sneeze, but when you cough, laugh, stand up, sit down, and raise what’s left of your eyebrows.
Joints begin to stiffen in your golden years. If you keep your legs bent for too long, your knees will get stiff. If you keep your legs straight for too long, your knees will get stiff. I haven’t taken a survey, but I suspect this is a universal problem, affecting both men and women. There’s no real solution for this other than to sit for a while, then stand for a while, like some kind of demented jack-in-a-box.
And then there’s our feet. Women, be prepared for your feet to hurt All. The. Time. I blame shoe designers for this. Those pointy-toed, sky-high stilts they foist on young women in the name of fashionable dress shoes will ruin your feet.
Look at the lower foot. That’s not healthy!
If you like that kind of torture, by all means wear them now, while you’re young. In a few years, you’ll be spending the same kind of money on sneakers with good arch support, a wide toe box, and cushioned insole. It’s inevitable.
Women have to be nothing short of fierce warriors to endure the pain and indignities of old age. And then we die. My dad used to say that getting old is better than the alternative. Sometimes, I’m not entirely sure he was right about that.
Son of an itinerant man Taking life the best that he can Each hit causes pain Vacating all gain End the reign Now he can
This poetry form is from Wales and is called a Clogyrnach. Please don’t ask me to pronounce that. It has a syllable count of 8/8/5/5/3/3 and a rhyme scheme of a/a/b/b/b/a. After reading what I wrote, I realized this is basically a limerick with the last line split. This is Prompt #6 of the Around the World poetry challenge by murisopsis.
I have a friend who has been taking a lot of hits in life lately. Like all of us, parts of his life have been rich, fulfilling and happy. At the moment, however, he is in a rough patch that’s lasted several years. I can empathize. It’s so hard to keep getting up on your feet when life just knocks you back down over and over again. I’m proud of my friend for continuing to get back on his feet and fight to find happiness and fulfillment once more. He’s on the cusp of ending the reign of bad luck, and I will be cheering him on.
I do not dread my own death. The passage from life to what’s after Is a mystery each person will solve In their own appointed time.
This poetry form comes from Korea and is called Hyangga. It’s written in a quatrain with a syllable count of 7/9/9/7. Repetition and alliteration are supposed to be used. I got in a little bit of alliteration in the first line, and no repetition at all. This is prompt #25 of the Around the World poetry challenge set by murisopsis. She suggested a theme of death.
I’ve always enjoyed puzzles and mystery novels; I like trying to solve things. Life’s greates mystery is death, and when my time comes, I think my emotions will be all over the place. Sadness at leaving my loved ones, relief at the end of pain and sorrow, and excitement that it’s finally my turn to solve the mystery. Or maybe it will happen in an instant and I won’t have time to experience any of those emotions.
However it occurs, I do not dread death. Having said that, I hope it holds off for a bit because I’ve just recently committed to living life to the fullest. It’s time to get out of my rut!
I decided the other day, I’m tired of being cold. Even my anger is gray, Like clouds that are filled with snow.
I’m tired of being cold; I yearn for a warmer clime. Like clouds that are filled with snow, I feel heavy and tinged with rime.
I yearn for a warmer clime, I decided the other day. I feel heavy and tinged with rime; Even my anger is gray.
This poetry form is from Malaysia and is called a Pantoum. It consists of at least three interlocking quatrains, where the second and fourth lines of each stanza become the first and third lines of the following stanza. The final stanza links back to the first stanza. This is prompt #29 of the Around the World poetry challenge given to us by murisopsis, who has suggested a theme of anger.
Cold anger is relatively new to me. I never had a quick anger like my mom, nor was I easy going until I wasn’t like my dad. My older sister and I could recognize when Dad had finally had enough and was about to blow, and we made ourselves scarce as soon as we saw the tic in his temple and his clenched teeth. For me, anger was slow to occur, and suffered in silence for the most part. The one time I did what Mom always told us kids to do, “If somebody starts something with you, you finish it!” Dad got so mad he punched a hole in the wall. It wasn’t my fault the person who started something with me was my younger sister – the baby of the family and spoiled rotten.
After that, I tended to swallow my anger in front of the family and retreat to the walk-in closet in my bedroom to wallow in how misunderstood I was, and how unfair it was to be the invisible middle child and the ugly duckling of the family. Ah! Adolescent angst!
Only in the past few years has my anger grown cold. I blame living in the north for that. Cold anger is probably the most dangerous type of anger. Luckily, it still takes a lot to make me angry because I discovered a few years ago that I am capable of an icy cold berserker rage. Angry enough to grab the nearest thing to attack with, calculating enough to realize a snow shovel would be too heavy on one end and have too much drag, replace it, and grab a broomstick instead. Nobody messes with my dog, not even another dog!
I love to walk beneath trees, Feel the gentle, cooling breeze, Hear the lazy drone of bees, All anxiety release.
This poetry form is from the Philippines and is called Tanaga. It has four lines with seven syllables each and is a monorhyme. This is Prompt #30 of the Around the World poetry challenge given to us by murisopsis.
I love trees. Woods, forests, jungles… anyplace with trees makes me happy. I especially love to walk in old growth forests. I find a sense of perfect peace in the woods. For just a little while, the cares of the world fall away and I’m in tune with the creatures of the forest and the whispering trees.
My love, answer me: Why does the mighty oak tree Put forth leaves of vibrant green?
Leaves are green because To see through your green eyes, love, Makes all of creation sing.
This poem is written in a Japanese style called Sedoka, which is comprised of two, three-line stanzas with a syllable count of 5/7/7. Traditionally, the Sedoka is a question and answer between lovers. I pondered what sort of question I could ask within the syllabic limitations. Since I couldn’t come up with a good question, I took my dogs for a walk, and all the new spring growth and the blue sky inspired me to make it a rather silly question that someone might ask to test their lover.
Originally, the question was going to be why the ocean is blue (because I couldn’t get the wording within the syllables to ask why the sky is blue). I managed to ask the question, but couldn’t fit the answer in. So, I switched to green and voila! I had me a poem! And the answer should pass the lover’s test.
I find my joy in simple things, In baby laughs and birds that sing; I have no burning need for fancy jewels.
If someday, though, a loving man Places a fine jewel on my hand, My joy will be the love that placed it there.
And if we live in crumbling shack, I would not wish my old life back, For love can make a shack a happy home.
This poem is taken from Prompt #21 of the Around the World poetry challenge given to us by murisopsis. The form is from Bangladesh and is called Tripadi. It’s written in tercets, with a syllable count of 8/8/10 and rhyme scheme of a/a/x with /x/ being unrhymed. Murisopsis has suggested a theme of the joy of living.
I talk a good game, but in reality, I’d like my shack to have a functional kitchen design, a dishwasher, lots of big closets, and a large walk-in shower with multiple water jets. I don’t need those things to be happy, it’s just that I haven’t had any of them for over 30 years now, and sometimes NOT having them does bring some brief unhappiness. Maybe annoyance is a better word than unhappiness. And really, I’m only talking about the kitchen design and lack of dishwasher. Ah, the realities of living in a hundred-year-old house.
Special treats, friendship sweet, Important to a child Who doesn’t practice guile. Fully present.
Sex and independence, These things a teen will seek At end of each school week. Live day to day.
Money, cars and houses, On these folks spend their time When they are in their prime. Only look ahead.
Love, treats, friendship sweet, A yearning of the old. They wait, lonely and cold. Too late they learned.
This poetry form is from India and is called Abhanga. It has a syllable count of 6/6/6/4 and rhyme scheme of x/a/a/x where /x/ is unrhymed. This form is used for devotional, cynical, and reflective poems. This is Prompt #20 in the Around the World poetry challenge issued by murisopsis.
I was married to a man who spent his entire life looking forward, so future-focused that he missed a lot of important things in the present. I know people who are so much in the present that they live from minute to minute and make some very serious mistakes by not thinking ahead far enough to see the consequences of their actions. Some people are stuck in the past and can’t move on with their life. Most of us probably lean pretty hard one way or another. I tend to live in the present. It’s hard for me to think too far into the future, although I do try. The future lookers are generally good with money, or at least better than I am. I’m trying to learn, though; I do manage to pay all my bills and usually have a little bit leftover at the end of each month.
All of the things mentioned in the poem are important, the problem lies in prioritizing them. Friendship, companionship, compassion, love… all should be at the top of everyone’s priority list. Each of them outweighs the transient happiness of fancy cars, huge houses, and the latest gadgets. Just don’t try to talk to me about how many closets I’ve filled with clothes. Mea culpa.
I was upstairs when she cried out. She ran with fear and gave a shout, "There’s an intruder in the house! Hide – don't go down the stairs!" she cried.
Down the darkened stairs I crept, Inside my chest, heart quailed and leapt, When out in front of me he stepped, All wild black hair and round red eyes.
So stealthily I reached downward, Took off my shoe and threw it hard. My aim was true, and my reward - The scary spider swiftly died.
Eight legs curled up; green guts gushed out. My shoe retrieved, I turned about; Eight-legged intruders in a rout. A legendary thrower, I.
This poem depicts a true event. The form is from Kenya and is called Utenzi. The rules are, each line has eight syllables, the rhyme scheme is a/a/a/b c/c/c/b d/d/d/b e/e/e/b and so forth. The theme should be epic battles, heroism, or feats of valor. I’m pretty sure I hit all three of those.
Twice now, I have thrown a shoe from a distance and hit and killed my target. In the poem above, my daughter and I were staying in a really cool Air BnB in Arkansas when a huge spider wandered into the downstairs area. I’m honestly not sure if it was a tarantula or a wolf spider, just that it was big and hairy and our luggage was down there. It tried to run from me, but I stood on the stairs and threw my shoe halfway across the room, hitting it next to the pool table.
The other time, it was a large wasp and I was seated on the toilet, quite vulnerable. If it had left me alone, I wouldn’t have thrown my sandal at it, but it kept dive bombing me. It finally landed on the floor a few feet away and I nailed it with my sandal. I really don’t like killing things, but if nature refuses to stay outside where it belongs, it’s taking its chances entering my domain.
Nobody else witnessed the wasp incident, but my daughter was duly impressed with my shoe throwing prowess in the spider incident. If only shoe throwing was an Olympic Sport!
saintvi 