January 17, 2008


The antique clock
chimes past her breakfast
of pancakes, Canadian bacon
and lunch of Caesar salad

The page is still blank
blank as a poker player
as the still air cuts her
like a machete
deeply wounding her psyche

The silence washes over her
searing her senses
like drizzled olive oil
over wild salmon

As the chiming clock sings six
she savors spinach, asparagus
salad and sea bass

When the clock chimes seven
her fingers fly to heaven
Her computer is alive
with words, words, words
toppling over each other,
expanding and bursting
into lines, stanzas, pages
crafting into free verse,
sestinas, villanelles
as she writes into the night
sipping Red Zinger tea.

—Juanita Torrence-Thompson

Posted by dwaber at 05:12 PM

January 16, 2008

POETRY IS… (A Sestina)

Oh blue-green poetry
master of pithy words,
sometimes thy name is reality
gliding through war-torn streets of life
wandering through deserts, scaling mountain peaks
or luxuriating in a sphere of fantasy

But why create fantasy
with iridescent poetry
of angels, dragons and gnomes atop peaks
The essence of magical words
When the richness of life
Lies before you to pluck its reality

But what is reality
Yours may be his fantasy
sans all the rules of life
which can be culled in poetry
Choosing the right words
are paramount, so your verse can peak

Of course some peaks
rise higher than others. Reality
is king for a while, basking in truthful words
shoving all imaginative fantasies
aside, marching triumphantly through poetry
-- the manna of life.

But many things depict life.
Some do reach the highest peaks
through air-borne poetry,
while others seek truth in reality.
Still others debunk fantasy
reveling in ascerbic words.

But thoughts can be written words,
and can make or break a life,
steer one toward childlike fantasy
and soar eagle-like over peaks,
thumbing your nose at reality
through satiny elastic language of poetry.

Whatever your words, make them peak.
Scour through life. Find your truth, your reality.
Not the fantasy. Make it your poetry.

—Juanita Torrence-Thompson

Posted by dwaber at 05:33 PM