Protected: Afterthought 1540—Beer Chaser

Posted in rondel by maggie on 2017/01/11

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Afterthought 1524—Taken Way Too Seriously

Posted in clerihew by maggie on 2016/12/30

Steve Martin,
comically high-chartin'—
at his craft quite a glib hoot,
not so much so at tribute.

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Afterthought 1523—Best Remembered As

Posted in clerihew by maggie on 2016/12/30

Carrie Fisher,
Jabba's fave side disher—
Call her smart. Call her witty.
Just don't dare call her pretty.

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Passage 180 — In Passing

Posted in terza rima by maggie on 2016/12/21

On streets drawn by his childhood memories
we welcomed winter's fire into our hearts
to dance our solstice through its arctic freeze.

"One circle ends. Another circle starts,"
he said. He passed my stone back to my hand.
"As yours finds its new home, my own departs."

He knelt down, aching, kissed familiar land,
looked to the dark sky, breathed familiar air,
then let me help him leave the way he'd planned.

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Afterthought 1477—Zeus’ Dilemma

Posted in quatrain by maggie on 2016/12/13

Had anyone seen our uncle of late?
It'd been said he'd hung Zeus dead
         on a meat hook in his pen.
A policeman went off to investigate
since we hold our gods in as high
         respect as our men.

Turns out to've been a nightmare, seems
Zeus is fine, though our uncle's
         still gone off to hide.
The rede we live by in threats or dreams
is no more relaxed than the rede
         we have as life's guide.

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Afterthought 1474—Seen Enough

Posted in rondine by maggie on 2016/12/11

I've seen enough tears to fill an empty sky
with black holes masquerading as rain 
stinging my face turned up in extreme pain
to pray the gods reveal their reason why
I must endure their storm. Why can't I die?
I no longer care. What have I to gain?
           I've seen enough. 
My lover tries to wipe my dark mood dry.
He takes me to the bed where once we'd lain
escaping. "No," I tell him, "Pierce the vein." 
Left then right I close each swollen eye. 
           I've seen enough. 

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Afterthought 1467—Never Will I Be

Posted in terzanelle by maggie on 2016/12/08

I'll never be a friend you want or need
as long as I can't be what you assume
to be the one behind words you misread.

You give freely? I'm wondering, to whom?
Never once will that special one be me
as long as I can't be what you assume.

No matter how I try, I'll never be
a friend you want or need. I'm not —
never once will that special one be me.

What you expect of me I haven't got
nor will I ever get it. I can't do that —
a friend you want or need I'm not.

I can't act like how what you're getting at
when who I'm not is who you say I am,
nor will I ever. Get it? I can't do that.

What an unconscionable unmitigated sham
to be the one behind words you misread
when who I'm not is who you say I am!
I'll never be a friend you want or need.

Afterthought 1444—A Crossing, A Casting, A Calling

Posted in quatrain by maggie on 2016/11/30

We three will come as were sent
to bring out through our seeing

word inspired in visions meant
for our own each one's freeing.

We three brought along our dark
ghosts and demons tossing,

our magic here to make its mark
to break light on our crossing.

We three share a common breath
our life our love rewinding,

none harming past all death,
irrevocably binding.

We three join to voice moon's rise
for dancing sunlight's falling,

bardoi to holy exercise
in one the others' calling.

We three recreate the myth,
true poetry reciting —

Birth and Death and Beauty with
our song new legend writing.

We three times three serve its same
our blessed covenant lasting,

in our Muse's sacred name
according to our casting.

Willed, Done

Posted in notes, nothing special by maggie on 2016/11/30

A myriad poems I have written.

Many more I have spoken or sang without writing down. And many more I have fragments of, waiting to be tied 
to the rest. And countless more I have seen or thought of or dreamed or known to be there. All within reach. But 
these myriad I have committed to ink here and in my other books.

A myriad poems I have written during the past decade. Slightly longer, as a month is to the cycle of the moon, 
as the circumference of a circle is to the line across its center, as a man's ten is to a woman's three times three. 
A myriad poems I have written during the past four thousand days.

Four thousand days ago today I lost my first muse to a cruelly abusive early death. She left me pieces of poems 
she had to leave behind, and she sent me to her mentor. A decade ago today after I had found in him a mentor 
my own, he pointed me toward a casting call that led me to my new muse. One thousand nine hundred days 
ago today my mentor began a new life after walking through death for us a dozen times.  Forty four months ago 
today I lost another kindred spirit and partner in crime for my poetry and my devotions, again to an untimely death.  
And in those four thousand days and through that decade and with these past nineteen hundred days and their
forty four months, a myriad poems have I breathed through my pen.

Credit Nancy for the fire. 
Credit Adrien for the discipline. 
Credit Sara for the breath.  
And for the life and the love, credit one who wishes not to known.

Still in grief after losing Nancy, ten years ago I initially had every intention of quickly following her, after first 
obtaining from Adrien the archives she had entrusted to him to be held for her daughter. Adrien sensed the risk 
I posed to myself and pointed me to a 100-poem challenge, then specifically bringing to my attention a casting 
call made almost simultaneous to my challenge launch. I met Sara as I was working on those 100 poems.  
The rituals instilled by that poetry challenge and the spell woven by that casting call and the fun I had with Sara 
saved my life and reignited my heart.  Those 100 poems were and will always be the core of the myriad I have 
written around them.

Those 100 poems I began at this very moment a decade ago, I dedicated to Nancy and the faith she and I shared. 
I wrote those 100 exclusively in sonnet form, reflecting the fortnight of the days in half a moon's cycle, from new 
moon to full moon in the odd-numbered sonnets, then from full moon returning to new moon in each succeeding 
even-numbered sonnet. Reflecting the continuity of the moon's passages, each sonnet was connected to both its 
predecessor and its successor, as in a close mirror. With the full circle of sonnets representing 50 moons, the 
images I worked with were designed to approximate a 4-year leap cycle centered around the moment I first met 
Nancy, although I doubled up on images and memories and expectations to suit each fortnight's particular timing. 
I wove in cycles of our stars, made love to many of Nancy's own poems, collaborated with Sara, and blended my 
voice with my muses both old and new as best I could.  Throughout, the ritual served me for devotion to our one 

Those who choose to wish me ill have falsely accused me of speaking in riddles, of employing poetry's holy language 
of metaphor to conceal. Our faith has held our knowledge in secret from the earliest. Such secrets are not fashioned 
to withhold knowledge nor to kill it, but to preserve it and to believe it and to give it new life from one to another. Those 
who choose not to accept me for who I am have falsely laughed at my faith and made fun of my words as if they were 
mere games. Our faith has been rejected by countless of every people. I do not write seeking publication or audience, 
no hidden agenda. So also I crave the acceptance of none, not even that of my mentor nor my muse, none save the 
favor of our Muse.

For reasons related to my rituals and for those with whom I have been writing, I consider this moment as the midpoint 
of a 20-year cycle, as also the midpoint of an 8,000-day period of my writing, embracing 3,800-day periods and 88-
month periods of life and love.

As dreamed, so willed.
As willed, so created.
As created, so done.
As done, so blessed.

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