Pirate’s Tear

Tags

freedom, life journey, pirates, Poem, Poetry, relationships, sadness

(a “Piece of Eight” poem)

The moment I cry down this path,
where the wind whips ships, fore and aft,
my soul repours the sand within
as blacked sea and starlight fail
to understand the wind-torn sail.
Darkness planned may not evil be;
my hand still trembles at the helm
while steering for the better realm.

Piece of Eight spoiler

Tags

Anarchy, form, Jolly Roger, piracy, pirate, Poem, Poetry

I’ve recently been writing a number of poems with a form of my creation that I call a,”Piece of Eight”.  I emailed this spoiler to some of my readers and have decided to share it with all.

Outwardly, it contains eight lines of (ideally iambic) eight syllables, the ends of the lines can be rhymed however one desires, if at all.  I have kept to a pirate theme with them as well.

The real trick is in the internal rhyming structure.  If one were to line the syllables up in a grid pattern and connect the syllables adjacent to one another that do rhyme (including diagonally), with the exception of the long “I” rhymes adjacent (and I may extend this to the “O” sound for more variation), which are dotted..one ends up with

—oo—
-\-__-/-
–\–/–
—\/—
—/\—
–/–\–
-/—-\-
——–

which is a graphical depiction of the pirate flag hidden within the poem itself..

As an example, I wrote one today with rhymes that should make it clear..

Coin the example :

You dot the eye, aye, doubled there,
then cross the mouth south for bone-face,
and in crossing the bones in rhyme
you make the crossbones fly in time.
For when the bones cross, pirates’ pride
sails their bones free across the tide.
Ebony gales, favored crosswinds
well berth where freedom now begins.

If one wishes to relook at the others, just follow the “Piece of Eight” category..

Hope you enjoyed these as much I have while writing them.

Of Bread and Circus

Tags

alcohol, Anarchy, bread, circus, drinking, empire, Government, handouts, hanging, Jolly Roger, mob, Poem, Poetry, revolution, Rome, stupor

(a ” Piece of Eight ”  poem)

The bottle dry? Cry! Wail to wind
to see what might light souls again.
Your banshee shriek with a death call,
commanding me? – a man’s dead fall.
Your dilemma sees  loathsome hope
to waste away, decree taut rope,
and about your throat harshly blows
the wind to emptied bone gallows.