Ronovan Décima Poetry Challenge #13
“True” In C rhyme line
In bright sun, the blue summer pool
A vinyl cooler, filled with a hose.
Hidden respite to shed some clothes
Dream of cold water I’m no fool.
This oasis is my jewel
A hidden scheme some say it’s true
Though it’s plastic we still make do.
Now jealous neighbors come around
It’s bought at Wal-Mart so they frown
So we wade and bid them adieu
©2020 cj holm
“Décima” (also known as Espinel) is a Spanish style or form of musical poetry that contains 10 lines of eight syllables.
The style has a rhyming pattern of abbaaccddc. Sometimes you break the stanza up in abba/accddc.
In the river valley below the dam, I spent days watching the lazy river’s current, while my thoughts went out to play…
Sun-bleached signs along the trail
Timbered shadows surround me
Songbirds call to find their mate
Forest chorus rejoices.
Tufts of grass provide my chair.
Far river rock my target.
Toss out my silver lure,
A bamboo pole restrains it.
Deepwater in this creek,
A hidden world below.
Minnow play around my bait,
Small memories from that time ago.
©2018 cj holm
I drive extra slow while on cemetery lanes
Pausing every so often with thoughts I maintain.
Just names and two dates summing up someone’s life,
Beginning and ending; a father and his wife.
Too much to say with chisel and rock,
Thousands of moments, more than just one talk
Action and words often would cause a tangle
Necessity and words strike at hard obtuse angle.
A string of life’s moments, all decisions made,
Held tight in memory to serve as my aide
A push and a pull will help steer my way,
A head full of memories to help me this day.
– Clarence Holm
Will I create a difference?
Can I alter anyone’s experience?
When I leave today will it matter?
I hope at least I’ll be a factor.
Questions of a life’s existence,
Of whether to provide assistance.
Or should I rather be judged
On if heaven’s scales were even budged.
Corporate schemes all contend,
A person’s a person, most easy to bend.
The worth of one is nothing more,
Then the space one takes within the corps.
Devalued beings fill those ranks,
Of mindless stiffs who act as planks.
Detach yourself from that role
Open your heart and save your soul.
– Clarence Holm
– Clarence Holm
Suzanne was my friend
And once in a while we’d pretend
That it was more than it could ever be
Her eyes were denim blue
And her hair seemed a bit askew
But it fit her features very well
We played records and hummed along
Our days revolved around the songs
And dreams wandered days without end.
We held hands through the night
Soft touches were sweet delight
So many thought of us a pair.
Life was easy and we flew
Many moments – no review
Pleasant flashes of a life.
But secrets held from our sights
Complicated thoughts, imagined slights
Heartaches crashed into our affection.
Thoughts and songs of life’s extremes
Are only pieces of wishful schemes
In the end it was more than it could be.
And I left her standing there
Her denim eyes and curly hair
And softly dreams come to end.
Mary’s Garden Fairyland
– Clarence Holm
Mary tends a fairyland,
It’s her duty to defend.
She digs and plants to make it grand,
Cause a pixie is her friend.
She hasn’t ever seen the girl
But she knows when she’s been there.
She thought she glimpsed a golden curl
While breathing night time air.
Now if you don’t care to believe in sprites,
I’m sure they won’t be annoyed.
It’s just one part of a summer’s delights
Pleasant dreams to be enjoyed.
I want to return to my old neighborhood, the place where I felt welcome no matter which friend’s house I was in. I want to go back to the place where dark mysteries involved misplaced bats and balls and were normally solved long before nightfall.
I want to hear the children’s songs of “Double Dutch” accompanied by the sound of leather soled saddle shoes landing on the sidewalk in time to the rhythm. I listen to hear “Ante I Over” and “Pum Pum Pull Away” in the night-time air just before the curfew whistle.
I hunger to taste hearty homemade doughnuts cooked in an iron kettle full of lard, heated on an old cook stove. I want to hear the voices of women gossiping in country kitchens about neighbors and friends and who were and weren’t at church last week.
I want to turn the scratchy tuner of a wooden AM Radio to KOVC to catch the broadcast of the noontime market report, followed by an hour of Polka Party, hosted by Dale Olson, hawking bedroom suites from the local furniture store. I long to hear the “Rest of the story” from Paul Harvey and smell the sulfur of a match lighting a Chesterfield my father would smoke before heading back out in the field.
I wish to feel of the power of the old John Deere rumbling through the field, tugging a four bottom plow and listen to the flutter of the pheasants flushed from the slough as my old dog followed along in the field. I hope to catch the morning sun burning the dew off the pasture where our Holsteins spent the night.
I crave warm hugs from people who are now long gone that still serve up memories that encourage me to do my best at everything I do, that remind me that the best part of life is still coming and I have family and friends that love and need me with them.
Memories must serve as placeholders of dreams locked in my heart till I come home again in time.