#TSM 210 — American Sentence

I’m frayed and twisted but still strong — and ready for the next adventure. This short and sweet poem is called an American Sentence, invented by Allen Ginsberg. Carrie is the host of The Sunday Muse.

#TSM 209 — Limbo, or Black Days

Image source Akilter, lying down — even as you see me upright – a blank in kelp bed, fathoms below, asleep, await. My fate unknown as yet. Will it be angel’s lift that buoys to sunrise? Or fey stones, that weigh and sink beleaguered, deflated organs of light? My sight occluded, my guesses gone; laced,…

TSM 205 — Haunted Diner

“The Whitehouse Diner” Photo by Aaron Segreaves Haunted Diner I can still hear them, their laughter, the plates and glasses clinking. I can still hear them, when youth’s engine blushed our cheeks. Spied then I, two entwined through the glass, heart sinking. Flames grew tall; I torched them all without thinking. I can still hear…

TSM 204 — Sunglowed

Sentenced explosions, smoke, and wailing finds my spirit drifting away to the day we walked among sunflowers. He, ahead, turned and sat, smiling, sunglowed, amidst a world of balanced peace. Today’s offering is in the nonet form. top image:  Carrie found this inspiring image via our fellow Muser & friend Sherry. 🤩 Carrie is the…

TSM 203 — Now Shattered Glass

“Reflection” by G-Crew When the wind has gone, when the sun is bright I see your dear face, your smile in repose; brief, shining moment where love’s bond encodes. Today’s frame pauses, reflective abode. I’m still a child; you, a tender parent. You rock me, singing lullaby, voice true, forever imprint vessel I cling to,…

TSM 202 — When the sun shines bright, then sinks low

Carrying of the water, stoking of the stove, sweeping up the cinders, mending of the clothes. Cooking up the dinner, helping kids with sums; then telling bedtime stories, of faeries and Tom Thumbs, I tuck wee ones into dreams in trundle beds under wool. Undone it comes, one plait at a time, in warm gaslight….

TSM 201 — Return Forever

Existentials traversed to nethers’ wilds. Necessary lies, now I Return wise, a willing sacrifice to the excised, still rhythmed heart’s scene of invisible keening-rent-divine of the crime — your forever silent judgment: guilty. Today’s poem is in Waltmarie form, described as: 10 line poem, any subject, even numbered lines are 2 syllables and form their…