Mine Your Voice | Jacki Kellum

Learn to Write More Lyrically

How to Write a Limerick and How to Use Enjambment in Poems – Jacki Kellum Poetry

The Girl from Brazil is an example of a limerick with enjambment. In this post, I’ll tell you how to write a limerick, and I’ll begin to explain the concept of poetic enjambment.

The Girl from Brazil
by Jacki Kellum

There once was a girl from Brazil
Who played quite too much and had still
Bananas and flowers
And lovers for hours
And What’s More: She still has no bill!

©Jacki Kellum October 8, 2015

The following is said about the Limerick Poetic Form in Wikipedia Here:
“A limerick is a form of poetry in five-line, predominantly anapestic[1] meter with a strict rhyme scheme (AABBA), which is sometimes obscene with humorous intent.[2] The third and fourth lines are usually shorter than the other three. The following example is a limerick of unknown origin:

The limerick packs laughs anatomical
Into space that is quite economical.
But the good ones I’ve seen
So seldom are clean
And the clean ones so seldom are comical.[3]Leonard Feinberg

“The [limerick] form appeared in England in the early years of the 18th century.[4]  “It was popularized by Edward Lear in the 19th century,[5] although he did not use the term.” Wikipedia Here

[Note: Edward Lear’s Owl and the Pussy Cat is one of my all-time favorite poems, but that is not a limerick].

What is Poetic Enjambment?

Enjambment occurs when the poet leaves a word at the end of one line, although it technically is part of the next phrase. Because the word appears at the end of the preceding line, it is read with the preceding line, and a pause follows. The reading is sometimes a bit awkward, but part of the poet’s message is communicated by the lines on which the words are placed.

Following is another  of my limericks which also has enjambment:

A Limerick for My Contractor
by Jacki Kellum

I hired me a contractor who
Preferred the white the powder and flew
Clear out the door.
My money! You boar!
My house is still far from half-through.

©Jacki Kellum October 8, 2015

 

 

I wrote all of the limericks here on one day, and as you will see, most of them are simplified versions of part of my story. I really did have a contractor who cheated me, and one of my neighbors is actually a pain. When I decided to write some limericks, I simply though about what was going on in my life, and I converted those stories to verse.

A Limerick for My Neighbor
by Jacki Kellum

My neighbor is not like before
She complains til I need to go pour
Myself some white wine
Which helps make it fine,
And she is still only a bore. Snore!

©Jacki Kellum October 8, 2015

The following limerick does not have enjambment, but it has an extra word at the end. A Limerick for My Neighbor has that same kind of word ending. When I am writing playful poems, I often add that extra word as a kind of final punch. Enjambment is more of a word stuck between two lines than a punchy word at the very end of the poem.

A Limerick for Life on the East Coast
by Jacki Kellum

The East is too big for its pants.
The people are crawling like ants.
Just give me a home,
A place I can roam,
Some flowers and some trees and some plants. [Pants!]

©Jacki Kellum October 8, 2015

The following limerick has enjambment and the same type of punchy word ending:

Limerick for a Place in the West
by Jacki Kellum

Have you seen that place in the West that
Expanse that goes miles and is flat that
Like pancakes from hell,
Does that ring a bell?
It's just not a place to live at. That!
©Jacki Kellum October 8, 2015

The following poem does not have enjambment. While most limericks are vulgar, most of my limericks are not exactly vulgar, 
but they are naughty.The following is probably not even naughty, but it does exemplify my wit.

10409747_10204144772922650_8295910139967235536_n

A Limerick for My Lady
by Jacki Kellum

My Lady is totally great!
It's true, she's my absolute mate.
But scratching all night
Has become such a plight
I'm thinking of buying a crate.

©Jacki Kellum October 8, 2015

honda_element_reverse

A Limerick for My Old Honda Element
by Jacki Kellum

My Honda is tall, wide, and black.
We’ve traveled to heaven and back.
But now she is old,
I still have no gold.
I think I’ll ignore one more crack. Smack!

©Jacki Kellum October 8, 2015

What Is A Cinquain?

A Cinquain is a poem that has 5 lines. A limerick is a type of cinquain.

Like acrostic poems, limericks are often playful and fun to write, and in my opinion, writing limericks is a good way to begin to write poetry–especially if you are a witty person.

©Jacki Kellum September 3, 2016

What Is An Acrostic Poem? – Jacki Kellum How to Write Poetry

Although there are variations to this formula, an  acrostic poem is essentially a configuration of letters that spell a word or a phrase, followed by other letters that provide additional information. The main letters that spell the  primary word or words are followed by letters that successively begin to supply meaning to the primary word or words. As you see in my poem “Toy,” an acrostic poem can simply be fun.

My acrostic poem “Autumn’s Here” is a bit more serious, and I have deviated from the usual format where each letter is followed by one word only. In Autumn’s Here, each letter that spills downward is often followed by a series of supporting words.

autumns-here-acrostic-poem-jacki-kellum-1900

Acrostic poems can become almost a word game. Enjoy writing several of these wild and playful types of poems.

Here’s another playful acrostic poem:

Witch Switch 
by Jacki Kellum

W - Watching through her egg-like eyes
I - In her cave-like room
T - Teeth like knives
C - Catch my sleeve,
H - Hang me on her broom
 
S - Sooooooooooooooooooooooo
W - Wondering how
I - I might escape--
T - To shift and save the day
C - Carefully, removed my mask--
H - How quick she ran away!

©Jacki Kellum October 6, 2015

Witch Switch is also an example of Simile.

Return often to this site. I’ll be posting several poetry lessons.

memoir-poster

Beginning October 1, 2016, I’ll begin a series of Free Writing Events. The segment titled Mine Your Voice will be primarily geared toward writing poetry

©Jacki Kellum September 2, 2016

It Is Enough – A Poem Found by Jacki Kellum

The dark blue-green water is high and running fast,
Scattering wisps of whitecaps,
From one river edge to the other.

I walk in the nearby green field, knowing that
This is the suchness of my life.
Suchness is touching the truth of things.

Each blade of grass becomes unique,
The cool breeze brushes gently against my cheeks,
The burst of children’s laughter rises and falls on my ears like a musical jingle.

It is just me, the grass, the cottonwoods, and the river.
It is peace.
It is enough.

©Jacki Kellum August 17, 2016

_______________________________________________________________________

cover I selected the above words for my poem It Is Enough from pages 18 – 20 of Donald Altman’s book The Mindfulness Code.

jacki_kellum_found_poem

18b

18c

Finding poems is an excellent way to help you become a better editor. It is much easier to edit someone else’s words out of existence than it is to edit our own. The words that we select for a Found poem also say much about who we are.

I am not a walker, but I do have an affinity with nature. I spent many summers at a camp, and our big campfire ceremonies were down by a lake. I would sit and stare into the flames and listen to the water lap against the rocks.

peace_river_jacki_kellum_700

One of my favorite campfire songs was Peace, I ask of Thee, Oh, River. Not long ago, I blogged about my camp days:

It’s July, and my emotional clock tells me that this is the time for campfires and gathering around flickering flames to sing songs beneath the stars. From the time that I was 8-years-old until I was well into college, I spent every summer at camp, and because of that, I have a well-developed affinity for nature. A few days ago, I wrote about how I either slept in screened cabins or tents at camp and how I would lie awake at night and listen to the owls and the whippoorwills or I would listen to the other night animals picking through the leaves and darting about. I wrote about how I loved to listen to the rain tap the cabin’s tin roof and pepper the leaves that were only a few feet from where I slept. I also loved cooking on open flames at camp, and I loved circling a campfire and singing. Because I grew up with camp, campfires are still magical to me.

“None are so old as those who have outlived enthusiasm.” – Henry David Thoreau

When I was at camp, my favorite campfires had a reverence about them. We might sing a few hooping and hollering songs at campfires, but we routinely sang the fun songs after mealtime, as we washed and dried our dishes and cleaned up the eating area. For the most part, our campfire songs were wistful or peaceful.

Peace, I ask of thee, Oh River–
Peace, Peace, Peace.
When I learn to live serenely,
Cares will cease.

From the hills, I gather courage.
Vision of the day to be.
Strength to lead and faith to follow,
All are given unto me.

I have no doubt that it was at camp that I jumped on the Peace Train, and I never quit riding that. I learned to be an idealist and a naturalist, and I learned to associate nature with peace. One of my all-time favorite camp songs was Dona Nobis Pacem. It is still my mantra.

Dona Nobis Pacem – Grant Us Peace – Amen!

It was at camp that I learned to ask more from life than mere existence and I learned to dream.

“Dreams are the touchstones of our character.”- Henry David Thoreau

It was also at camp that I began to speak lyrically and to weave thoughts into verse.

“You cannot hear music and noise at the same time.”
Henry David Thoreau — Journal, 27 April 1854

For many years, the noise in my life drowned out the Peace that I experienced in nature and especially at camp. Yes, again, I’ll beseech everyone to dare to visit their pasts. That is where they will find Peace.

©Jacki Kellum August 17, 2016

The Aberdeen Witches – A Poem Found by Jacki Kellum

The Aberdeen Witches
by Jacki Kellum

 

They sleep with the Devil,
In groups of 13,
And bow to His Lady,
Their Mentor, the Queen.
They slink through the hillsides,
In Covens unseen,
The Witches of Aberdeen.

_______________________________________________________

I selected some of these words from pages 14 and 15 of Volume 1 of the Encyclopedia Man, Myth, and Magic

 

 

The Fires of Lerwick – A Poem Found by Jacki Kellum

The Fires of Lerwick
by Jacki Kellum

 

About seven in the evening,
In cold and pitch dark,


Dancers Light torches and
March.

They carry a Viking Galley–
A Dragon Head at its prow.

And signal sounds,
Blazing torches, like rain of shooting stars,

Leap
Into the night sky,

And the dragon’s head bows 
To the ground.

©Jacki Kellum August 16, 2016

_______________________________________________________________

To “Find” a poem, the poet should pick up any piece of prose. [It must be prose] And he should pick through the words and select some that are particularly striking to him. Then, he should proceed to rearrange the words in a system of lines and stanzas that make sense to him.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

About a month ago, I brought home a stack of old books that my library was throwing away. Before I began the process of creating a “Found” poem, I literally picked up the first book on the stack and I picked most of talmost EVERY word from 2 paragraphs on page 9 of Volume 1 of an Encyclopedia – Man, Myth, & Magic, a book that was published in 1970.  I have said this before. The writer of this encyclpedia has a poetic or lyrical voice, and I am almost embarrassed to say that the above poem “The Fires of Lerwick” are almost exactly as the author wrote them.  At this point, I do not see that this point is terribly relevant to my life, but this is an excellet passage to us to teach editing , lines and stanzas.

Following is exactly the way that the author wrote the passage:

“About seven in the evening, in cold and pitch dark, five or six hundred guisers – dancers in grotesque and eerie costumes – light torches and parade through the town, singing and pulling along a replica of a Viking war-galley, with tthe head of a dragon at its high prow.

“The long-ship is hauled in procession to an open space and the marchers surround it, several ranks deep. At a signal they hurl their blazing torches like a rain of shooting-stars into the air and down onto the galley, which catches fire and burns fiercely until the dragon’s head bows to the ground and the timbers spinter and char away. Through the rest of the night the guisers go from place to place dancing, and a sizeable percentage of the town’s populations gets itsel genially drunk.

“The interesting thing about this ceremony is that its dramatic central feature is not a survival of an ancient pagan rite but a modern invention. The wearing of sinister costumes, the dancing and drinking, are geuinely old customs but the burning of the galley goes back only to the late 1880s. Down to 1889, the guiser carried blazing tar barrels round the town, a survival of a papgan fire-festival which celebrated the freeing of the sun from the chains of winter. Men made light and heat on earth to revive the sun and to make it give out increasing light and heat in the sky. In 1889 the tar barrels left the Shetlands stage and the Viking galley made its first entry. ” Cavendish, Richard. Man, Myth, and Magic, p. 9.

©Jacki Kellum August 16, 2016

 

 

The Snakes – A Poem Found by Jacki Kellum & Analyzing It

The Snakes
by Jacki Kellum
Christen them. Name them.
Torture them, Stick pins through their hearts,
Or wring their necks, at
The Black Masses.

Rooster Blood.

The Devil, Wagner, Voodoo, and Holy Rollers,
They all dance around the ring.
Serpents, Ghosts, Witches, Trees
And dolls made of wax, clay, or rags.

3, 12, and 13.

There is music and drumming.
Witches, demons, night, sensuality, and evil,
Horrifying and magnificent, the secrets .
The shadows of our minds.

The snakes.

©Jacki Kellum August 15, 2016

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

To “Find” a poem, the poet should pick up any piece of prose. [It must be prose] And he should pick through the words and select some that are particularly striking to him. Then, he should proceed to rearrange the words in a system of lines and stanzas that make sense to him.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

About a month ago, I brought home a stack of old books that my library was throwing away. A moment ago, I literally picked up the first book on the stack and I pcked these words from a 2-page spread  of probably 300 or400 words. Granted, the book itself has a poetic quality about it [but it is still prose]. It is Volume 1 of an Encyclopedia- Man, Myth, & Magic, a book that was published in 1970.  I selected most of these words from pages 4 and 5. At the time of writing the poem, I had only read 18 pages of the book. Every word in the above poem is somewhere within those first 18 pages.

©Jacki Kellum August 15, 2016

How is Finding A Poem Related to Writing from the Intition?

I often write about the importance of a writer’s intuition. Check out: Allow Your Writing to Carry You Deep Within Yourself Here.

The words that I recorded above in the poem “The Snake” are the words that stood out to me, after I read the first several pages of the book: Man, Myth, & Magic,and I based my choice on things that have happened in my past or on things that I find interesting. Another person would look at the same pages and select a different set of words. In selecting the words for a “Found” poem, our intuitions guide us. In placing the words in a way that is meaningful to us, the Intuition guides us again. Our intutions are fundamental writing tools and they are linked to our pasts.

I wrote the above poem about 24 hours ago. It is important to not that while I was writing the poem, I wasn’t quite sure why I chose the words that I did. I can assure you, however, that I am not a Satanist or a witch. Yet, I must have had a vague interest in those subjects. Otherwise, I would have never brought that book home from the library. In that initial choice–in the choice to bring that book home, my intuition was weighing in.  Now, that the ink is dry on the above poem, I’ll tell you what I think that it means.

I am originally from the South, and I lived near New Orleans for many years. All of my adult life, I have been fascinated by Voodoo and Santeria. I have long wanted to get inside a true Voodoo head. I am eager to learn what makes them tick. For many years, I aslo studied African religions and African art, and during the 1960s, when people were joining the Peace Corps and going to Africa, I wanted to go, too. The Poisonwood Bible is one of my favorite books. Like the protagonist of Poisonwood, I grew up as a Southern Baptist, and I even considered becoming a missionary. That is how much that I wanted to go and live among the people in Africa. With all of this in mind, allow me to take you back a bit farther.

1

When I was a very young child, I would walk to my grandparents’ house from my house at least once a day. My grandparents owned an entire line of houses next to theirs.  The houses in my small, rural hometown had enormous lots.  At least that was the case with my grandparents’ land. The people living in the rentals next to my grandparents were allowed nice-sized yards–still bigger than those of most of the houses in the town where I live now. My grandmother turned all of the areas behind the renters’ immediate yards into a large garden.  I didn’t live at my grandmother’s house, but my house was behind her garden–on the next street and a couple of houses down.

Once I heard someone say that like onions, our lives evolve in layers.

0a We begin life as a dot

0b We look around ourselves.

0c In looking around ourselves, we expand our awareness

.0d

Again, we look all around our now enlarged selves, and our world view is exponentially larger than it was before.

0e

Like onions, we grow our lives and our world views in layers–outward from an inner nucleus.

Similarly, we begin our physical lives largely inside our first homes. Gradually, we move outward from our homes, in increments. We begin our excursions by staying inside our yards. A bit later, we leave our yards and slowly venture farther away from the dots that we once were on our initial maps.

Because my house [white with red star] was almost immediately behind my grandmother’s house [red with white star] and because I loved my grandmother and everything about her house and yard, I made the trek there several times a day. Walking to my grandmother’s house became my initial ventures away from my home.

When I was older and walking to school, I stuck to the sidewalks, but when I was a young child,  I would travel as a crow flies, through other people’s yards, through my grandmother’s garden, and directly to her back door.

I drew a map of my early childhood neighborhood, and as I labeled the houses, I began to recall bits about most of the people and the spots that lay between my house and my grandmother’s house.

One day, when I was very young, I was watching the lady in 2b cutting weeds from her property with a double-edged blade that was attached to a long, wooden handle. With all of her strength, she was drawing the blade back and forth. On one swath, the lady missed her target and caught her leg instead. Blood gushed, and almost immediately, an ambulance came to pick her up.

In most towns, the appearance of an ambulance is not very shocking, but in my little hometown, where the nearest hospital was miles away, ambulances were hardly ever called. At a later time, I heard that they had come and taken the lady away to Farmington. I was not very old at all, but I already knew that Farmington was the place where crazy people went–the place where people who were scary and crazy went.

Virtually no one from my hometown went to Farmington, and in the way that children can mix sensational snippets of information, I merged the two accounts–the lady with a leg that was gushing with blood and the lady who had been carted off to Farmington. Needless to say, the thought of mental illness became one of the scariest prospects that I could imagine. As I etched a path from my house to my grandmother’s house, I was always careful to avoid the house at 2b.

The lady who lived in 2c had a massive sycamore tree in her front yard. There was too much shade for the grass to grow there; therefore, on a daily basis, that lady would sweep the dirt beneath the tree; and the spot was almost like a concrete patio. A girl who was only a couple of years older than I lived in that house. It was a time before air conditioning, and during the summers, we would toss a quilt upon the swept dirt and read.

The favorite meal in that house was chili with Fritos and cheese. The grandmother there frequently baked a yellow cake in a sheet pan, and while the cake was hot, she pierced holes in it and poured over it melted chocolate icing that she had cooked from cocoa, butter, and granulatled powdered sugar. The icing would seep down into the holes, and chocolate candy would form around every slice or two of cake.

Once, while walking to my grandmother’s house, I saw the lady in 2d snap the head off of a live chicken and throw it into water that was boiling on a big iron kettle in her back yard. A roaring fire was lit beneath the pot. Not long afterward, I began to hear about Halloween witches and their fiery cauldrons, and I was quite sure that a witch lived on my block. Yet, this lady’s son was my friend. One day, when he and I were five-years-old, we married beneath the morning glory-covered arbor at the back of my grandmother’s yard.

I definitely would not cross from my house to my grandmother’s yard at 2b, and at the back of 2c, there was a fence. By default, 2d became the shortcut route that I would take when passing from my house to my grandmother’s house. I felt almost safe crossing at the house at 2d, but before I crossed, I always looked very carefully and ran from my street to the band of hollyhocks that edged my grandmother’s yard.

At first glance, this account is nothing more than a series of partial and insignificant stories. Many years later, however, that is precisely how we remember much of our childhoods. In examining these little flashes from my childhood, I realize that there must be some reason that some bits of my past stand out and recur to me, time and again.

When we witness and hear things as young children, our fears and opinions begin to form. Probably other things are going on simultaneously. Perhaps abuse is taking place. All of our experiences at any point in time are thrown into a bag and melded into some type of awareness. As in the above example, we began as dots on the maps of our lives

Rooster Blood

In the above account, you can surmise the reasons that I injected the words “Rooster Blood” into my poem “The Snakes.”

The Trinity – The Number 3

As I said before, I grew up as a Southern Baptist, and all of my life, I have heard of the Trinity . I was baptized in a pool of water, and when I was a little girl, I would baptize my dolls likewise. I would hold the dolls carefully and as I dunked them, I would pronounce: “In the name of the Father and of the Son of the Holy Ghost.” That ritual is as much a part of me as brushing my teeth. I grew up with it. I lived it. It is part of me, and it is deeply embedded into my intuition.

The Number 12

Again, because I am a Southern Baptist, I studied the 12 disciples all of my life. But I also sang The Twelve Days of Christmas, and of course, my calendar evolves around the Number 12.

The Number 13

I say that I am not superstitious, but sometime long ago, someone told me that 13 was an unlucky number. I was born on the 13th of March, and as I look bck at some of the lamentable the events of my past, I have always wondered about that Number 13. When my youngest child was born on the 13th, I shuddered.

I HATE Snakes

If a snake crawled into my room every morning, bringing me breakfast in bed, I would still hate snakes. I hate the way that they appear, and I hate their wicked eyes–the way they look at me. Every Southern Baptist knows that the Devil is a Snake, and there you have it.

S – S – S – Alliteration shows you just how much that I hate snakes

Stick pins through their hearts – Secrets, Shadows, Serpents, Snakes

Alliteration can also be internal, as in Back Masses.

It can also come at the end of the word. Look at the above poem and identify all of the Snaky SSes. They sliter through the piece.

Holy Rollers, 

Serpents, Ghosts, Witches, Trees
And dolls made of wax, clay, or rags

There is music and drumming.
Witches, demons, night, sensuality, and evil,
Horrifying and magnificent, the secrets .
The shadows of our minds.

The snakes.

I also used many C word, where the C sounds like an S.

magnificent

Snake Handlers

I grew up in a very fundamental church, but I have always been appalled by Snake Handlers–I am both appalled and fascinated by them.

In a snakey way, they creep me out. Once we were traveling in the mountains of North Carolina and we got on the wrong road. There was a crude sign in someone’s yard that said, “We Sell Snakes.” My entire body quaked.

 

At least, that is what I see now as the reasons for my word choices and for the way that I wrote my poem. But again, I was not aware of all of that when I selected the words. I simply randomly picked out the words that interested me.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I cannot refrain from saying again and again, that our most penetrating and our most exquisite writing lies within our own memories. In examining our pasts, we reclaim our authentic voices. Too often painters go to Italy and paint the orange homes that hang from the cliffs there or they go to the Alps or to Paris to paint. When we paint best, however, we paint what we live daily; and the same thing is true in writing. We need to write what we know. But the first part of that equation is to know the person who writes. Your intuition is the ship that will carry you to the place that you actually and authentically know, and your memory fuels that ship.
©Jacki Kellum August 16, 2016

The Abominable Snowman & the Monkey King – A Found Poem by Jacki Kellum

The Abominable Snowman
by Jacki Kellum

Half-human, half-animal, the size of a teen,
He descends from the Great Monkey King, And
The Ogress,
His Mother, the Queen.

The children she carried were covered in hair,
And have tails like their father, the King.
They walk on two legs, and they swing both their arms
And they live in the mountains, unseen.

©jacki Kellum August 16, 2016

______________________________________________________

About a month ago, I brought home a stack of old books that my library was throwing away. A moment ago, I literally picked up the first book on the stack and I picked these words from 4  paragraphs of page 16 of the book. Granted, the book itself has a poetic quality about it [but it is still prose]. It is Volume 1 of an Encyclopedia titled Man, Myth, & Magic. It was published in 1970. This poem seemed that it needed to rhyme, and I added words for that. But the meaning of the original text was not altered.

©Jacki Kellum August 16, 2016

The Snakes – A Poem Found by Jacki Kellum

The Snakes
by Jacki Kellum
Christen them. Name them.
Torture them, Stick pins through their hearts,
Or wring their necks
At the Black Masses.

Rooster Blood.

The Devil, Wagner, Voodoo, and Holy Rollers,
They all dance around the ring.
Serpents, Ghosts, Witches, Trees
And dolls made of wax, clay, or rags.

3, 12, and 13.

There is music and drumming.
Witches, demons, night, sensuality, and evil,
Horrifying and magnificent, the secrets .
The shadows of our minds.

The snakes.

©Jacki Kellum August 15, 2016

 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

To “Find” a poem, the poet should pick up any piece of prose. [It must be prose] And he should pick through the words and select some that are particularly striking to him. Then, he should proceed to rearrange the words in a system of lines and stanzas that make sense to him.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

About a month ago, I brought home a stack of old books that my library was throwing away. A moment ago, I literally picked up the first book on the stack and I pcked these words from a 2-page spread  of probably 300 or400 words. Granted, the book itself has a poetic quality about it [but it is still prose]. It is Volume 1 of an Encyclopedia- Man, Myth, & Magic, a book that was published in 1970.  I selected most of these words from pages 4 and 5. At the time of writing the poem, I had only read 18 pages of the book. Every word in the above poem is somewhere within those first 18 pages.

©Jacki Kellum August 15, 2016

Darkness and Light – A Poem Found by Jacki Kellum

Darkness and Light
by Jacki Kellum

The night sky,
The shadow side,
Mystery, enchantment, and horror,
Reluctant terrors amidst truths.

Children’s games,
Nursery rhymes, Witchcraft,
Black arts, and faith healing,
Reluctant terrors amidst truths.

The lights in the darkness,
The evidence of things unseen,
Miracles, lightning, and levitation,
Reluctant terrors amidst truths.

ESP, telepathy,
And mental mummification,
No one escapes death,

And yet, men hope.

©Jacki Kellum August 15, 2016

_____________________________________________________________________________________

To “Find” a poem, the poet should pick up any piece of prose. [It must be prose] And they should pick through the words and select some that are particularly striking to him. Then, he should proceed to rearrange the words in a system of lines and stanzas that make sense to him.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

About a month ago, I brought home a stack of old books that my library was throwing away. A moment ago, I literally picked up the first book on the stack and I pcked these words from a 2-page spread  of probably 300 or400 words. Granted, the book itself has a poetic quality about it [but it is still prose]. The book is Volume 1 of an Encyclopedia- Man, Myth, & Magic , and it was published in 1970.  I selected these words from pages 2 and 3.

©Jacki Kellum August 15, 2016

The Number 3 – A Poem Found by Jacki Kellum

The Number 3
by Jacki Kellum

 
A werewolf stabbed 3 times,
The Christian trinity,
The perfect number,

A beginning,
a middle,
and an end.

Any number greater than 2.
Eroticism. The Siren’s Song. Alchemy.
The killing of the king.

©Jacki Kellum August 15, 2016

_____________________________________________________________________________________

To “Find” a poem, the poet should pick up any piece of prose. [It must be prose] And they should pick through the words and select some that are particularly striking to him. Then, he should proceed to rearrange the words in a system of lines and stanzas that make sense to him.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

About a month ago, I brought home a stack of old books that my library was throwing away. A moment ago, I literally picked up the first book on the stack and I pcked these words from a 2-page spread  of probably 300 or400 words. Granted, the book itself has a poetic quality about it [but it is still prose]. It is the Volume 1 of an Encyclopedia- Man, Myth, & Magic that was published in 1970.  I selected these words from pages 10 and 11.

©Jacki Kellum August 15, 2016

« Older posts
%d bloggers like this: