Musings of JR Simmang

I have passed these marbled, garbled hallways so my shoulders graze the pallid walkways all the while watching days and days dither to a soundless wail. The night upon me’s overcrowding; the moon above is light abounding, The wind’s blowing a resounding whisper straight from the bowels of Hell. I thought I might be quickly losing all manner of my mindful choosing and slinking back the acrid boozing shadows of the dell, when at once came a knocking, a swiftly rapping, grain-fed socking, scratching at the tender backing of my gently nodding skull. It was a subtle reminder of the end of it my dear, the indubitable end of the line I feared, it would be the last time that I neared the confusion in the water wells. My legacy was no longer wanted, the land my fathers bore was haunted with my bequested chivalry undaunted and I turned on my liquid heels. I turned to wave a goodbye goodnighted, the final prayer unrequited. With all the wanting, sifting slighted, ...

As most of you know, I am a contributing poet to Writers Digest. I say "contributing." I mean that I post a poem every so often on Robert Brewer's blog. It's fun. This week, we had a challenge. We were to write a rispetto. As I was informed (because I had never heard of this form before), it is a poem with two different forms. The first form is comprised of two quatrains, each with iambic tetrameter. The other form is a hendecasyllabic (eight syllables) 8-line stanza. Here's my attempt at the second form. Yardwork It's no longer winter, he says to me under the falling dead leaves of the oak in the back yard. It's becoming a time where the world wakes up from her slumber and shakes off death. It's certainly better than the alternative. What's that, I ask, impatiently, staring at his empty hands, while mine clutch tightly the old plastic rake that has been an eyesore in the eyesore of the plastic shed. It's that death itself walks among the...

That Saturday was a bright one. The sun seemed to shine on despite the oppressive silence that currently threatened to overwhelm the house. He stood on the landing, elbows on the rail, while his eyes travelled to the front door. This house was just another house; it had walls and doors and windows. It looked like the Summer's house, Buffy and Dawn walking through the kitchen while Angel peered in through the blinds. That's one of the reasons he loved it so. His room was located on the second floor, just to the right at the landing and into the dappled sunlight of prebubescence. His room, only accessible through the stairs (or the window via the oak tree, and trust him, he tried) smelled like him (he liked Givenchy, lavender, and vanilla. Sometimes, his girlfriends would wear Moonlight Path, a fragrance that was discontinued, but some idolatrous girls still clung to their bottles of lotion and bodywash), looked like him (the shutters pulled down but open, the walls a color...