sitting
with needle tight
twixt fingers so hungry
to hold a child, she makes the lace
a lattice to cradle a baby's head
but woe to the queen, her maid gives her drink,
the brew of crushed seed taints her lips
now barren, her fingers
drip blood and bloom
nothing
with needle tight
twixt fingers so hungry
to hold a child, she makes the lace
a lattice to cradle a baby's head
but woe to the queen, her maid gives her drink,
the brew of crushed seed taints her lips
now barren, her fingers
drip blood and bloom
nothing
Kay, I wonder if the poem might work better in the form of a butterfly cinquain, a nine-line syllabic form with the pattern two, four, six, eight, two, eight, six, four, two.
ReplyDeleteJust a thought.
Chen-ou
Kay, You are so good at spinning a yarn. The final "nothing" stops the reader dead in his/her tracks, a combined effect of rhythmic music, internal rhyme and alliteration. Superbly crafted. One of your best.
ReplyDeleteHi Chen-ou, thank you for your suggestion. Somehow, I think the rhythm and build of the poem would be changed by a butterfly cinquain. Actually, I've never written a butterfly cinquain. That will be my next adventure. Stay tuned! It may even be about a butterfly. LOL.
ReplyDeleteBrian, your comment makes me smile. I enjoy spinning yarns. I had a friend on Facebook say that I had: "A lesson in history and natural pharmaceuticals all in one poem!" I told her it was historic fiction. LOL.
Always, Kay