4 New Iambic Poems

Iambic Dimeter:

“I Know the Lake”

I know the lake.
There’s nothing more.
What is at stake
Is behind the door.

Up in the sky
Your hair flew wild.
Your sunglassed eyes
They hid the child.

I thought you said
To meet down there.
We’d find the bed
Without a care.

It’s over now.
It died somehow.

©2010 Stephen Pickering
_________________________

Iambic Trimeter:

“The Girls of Boston’s Bay”

The girls of Boston’s Bay
With circled stars for crowns,
They have some tea to save
Before a nation drowns.

They chew on Franklin’s ear:
French whores, they’ll have to cease.
Theses secrets Paul must steer
With snakes’ coiled fangs to sea.

The peoples’ fists clenched
Poetic visions choke.
Only shelters smell the stench
As purple mountains’ glow.

They pull the dream to shore
Jerusalem had bore.

©2010 Stephen Pickering
_____________________________

Iambic Tetrameter:

“Comets”

It’s interesting to say the least
To sit here now among the stars
Above the desert’s slouching beast
Watching warriors collide on Mars.

It be temper and it be stew
The magic bogeymen were brought.
They drank from stones the witches brew
And guarded temples where Zen was taught.

The egg that cracked the Russian woods
Blasted our chimps through Sputnicks cage.
Forever laying where they stood
Each past dropped in a falling stage.

If we sit back enough and stare,
Our dogs we launched be finally there.

©2010 Stephen Pickering
______________________________

Iambic Pentameter:

Sonnet #6

I smell the burnt red color of the fall.
Back from the hunt curled up in evening sleep.
The girls have climbed the mountain spirit’s wall.
The fireplace burns a pathway to our dreams.

A Norwegian pine absorbs the grieving day.
The children leave their Latin books alone
With the decisions Caesar has to make,
And cherubim who speak in tongues through stone.

Through Italy the German troops will drive.
We pass the ball hoping for winning years.
They pass the scotch just hoping to survive.
If either drops, the Tiber drowns in tears.

The ‘Mercan girl was born in a French Bar.
But leaves this world through a bent steel guitar.

©2010 Stephen Pickering

 

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