Props To dVerse Poets
Mirror, mirror on the wall
who’s the fairest poet of all?
Every week we write our takes
shaping words with few mistakes
critiquing poetry with our friends
here’s to hopes it never ends.
At dVerse a prompt we share
makes me pick my words with care
busy finding vowels to play
cooking up a word buffet
tempting us to hone our muse
hungry poets on the loose.
© Rebecca Sanchez 2018
Cheers! So happy to write with such talented people on a daily basis. I’m not sure I understood this fully but I had fun with it.
Dissecting the art of poetry with my friends at dVerse~Poets Pub called Ars Poetica form.
Performed live for a hungry crowd || poetry spoken, read aloud
written words turned into sound || voices raised in prose astound
rhymes and stories rein sublime || my heart is beating overtime
I struggle to bring my muse alive || by spoken words that I provide.
© Rebecca Sanchez 2014
photograph/animation represents the spotlight on stage © Rebecca Sanchez, San Francisco Bay Trail
I wrote this about my experience reciting poems years ago at a short-lived medical marijuana club in San Francisco. It was a huge 3 story building on Market Street right downtown. The guy running the club was running for mayor at the time.
The bottom floor was for intake with a paraphernalia shop, the second edibles, and the top floor was for buying, lounging and smoking pot. Alcohol was not allowed or tolerated.
Anyone could perform on the stage. I was lucky to spend some time there soaking up the atmosphere with some friends and we all performed. Most-played music but I read a few of my poems. It was terrifying, I’m not fond of the sound of my voice.
Pot became legal here Jan, 1st and there’s talk of clubs opening in SF based on this historical pot club.
Written and shared in 2014 (hence, the prior comments) and reworked in 2018 to link with my friends at dVerse~Poets Pub while using caesuras (||) in poetry. Hope I understood this prompt.
The reading is new at Bjorn’s invitation although I’m still unconfortable and out of practice. It took 3 tries just to get here. ~nervous laughter~
My book it lies unfinished
that sentence dangling there
the words remain extinguished
it’s like my thoughts are bare.
My first book came so easy
the money made now gone
the blank page makes me queasy
my writing just looks wrong.
I meant to write a story
a word, a phrase, a quote
I wanted all the glory.
One word is all I wrote.
© Rebecca Sanchez 2013
A flash from the past shared with Poets United.
The Poet’s Dilemma
Days and nights spent crafting words to perfection
fueled by cheap whiskey and non-filtered cigarettes
cut off from the very world he writes about.
His prose clever and filled with profound images
the darling of society
everyone wanted his company
designers gave him the finest garments
he lived in a stone mansion with a beautiful wife;
but on the inside…
The poet’s soul is tinted with the blackest black
he has no words left
his muse left him with no note
empty with no more to give.
He sits in his library at his big ornate desk
the glow of the candles outlining his frown
considering the writer’s block that has silenced him
He inhales, his cigarette glowing red in the dark
he opens his desk drawer to get more whiskey
his handgun next to the bottle.
He pours himself a drink
as he has done so many times before
it burns as it travels down his throat
the loss of words was killing him
He put the handgun to his head and pulled the trigger.
© Rebecca Sanchez 2014
Shared with Poets United.