The following poem is probably the most difficult I have written thus far, for two reasons. First and most importantly, it's about the death of a dear friend. The other reason is the form of this poem. It was created by Luke Prater, who's blog is called WordSalad, and can be found here: http://lukepraterswordsalad.com/
The sepcifications for this form are:
14 lines, 14 syllables per line – aBaBcDcDcDeFeF
where lowercase are iambic heptameter (7 units of two syllables each, unstressed-stressed, per line), and uppercase trochaic heptameter(7 units of two syllables each, stressed-unstressed, per line). This yields a perfect ‘checkerboard’ of stressed and unstressed syllables (14 x 14, equalling 196 syllables). Depending on where the Volta arrives (the ‘turn’ – resolution, or at least, change in tone) there are several different stanza layouts, which I will spare you.
So, finally, here is the poem itself:
I’m standing at the vestibule between the here and there;
lately I’ve been spending time among the dead and dying,
so many of the ones I love have stepped through to that lair.
Just last week another left me reminiscing, sighing.
My talk-a-mile-a-minute Angie left so much unsaid.
Cancer ate her breasts, then liver faster than we reckoned;
I never knew, although time flew, how soon she would be dead.
Skin as orange as Betadine, insistent death had beckoned,
But she found peace before she left, she whispered without dread.
Blinking, looking face to face I said, ‘Another second.’
Though I don’t get to choose the time that’s best to come or go
Fifty-four years doesn’t seem like long enough for living;
but which of us can know with certainty what’s apropos?
Kismet chooses for us without caring or forgiving.
This has been linked to One Stop Poetry's One Shot Wednesday. Click on the poem title to go there where you will find a group of talented poets that you can read and/or join.