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Pinhole (Free verse) by Dovina A small hole in the Venetian blind
casts a shadow on the table
of my finger about to press
another lazy key.
Silhouette in minute detail,
fingerprint defined as washboard,
Tiny hairs rendered as spider legs.
No ordinary, fuzzy shadow here,
as if the sun had lost its size.
A dot it is, confined beside me.
Constrained to a thin bright stream,
A narrow sunbeam, casting edges
of a finger in its path.
If only I could reduce the light,
squeeze the largeness of the orb,
and cast an image so precise
upon this cluttered screen.
I donât need a mass of sunny light
to reveal the thing and make it clear,
just a well placed pinhole
in a Venetian blind.
Up the ladder:
?{â¦â¦..}?
Down the ladder:
Everything is Nothing
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 5.4
Posted: December 16, 2004 7:51 PM PST; Last modified: December 16, 2004 7:51 PM PSTWeighted score: 5.0476813 Overall Rank: 6891 Comments:
"Pardon me Methusula, but you couldn't write "Gawd" On the ass of Babylon with a floured wet spot."
That quote was from Captain Napkin, of the Clan McKnapkin year 16zerothe6.
I see where you're going with this poem. I think you could do better if you would rewrite the last two stanzas. You should let go of the uncertainty in the 4th stanza and wrap it up positively in the 5th. So, 'til then a -9- not a -10-.
I am happy that anybody sees where I am going with this poem. If I saw where I am going, I would remove uncertainty from the fourth stanza and conclude it decisively in the fifth.
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'Harried and hunted by orc-soldiers to the very brink of Bum's Hole, as it was called by the men of the land, King Bumblemeat turned at bay and gathered his Bumlings for one last wild stand. "Fly, Bumlings!" he cried, "Fly to the flag of Bumlingnor!" And lo! The emblem of the Bumlings, three sausages on a field of brown, waved valourously over the fray, and the men of his house took heart. And King Bumblemeat, head swinging even as an enormous meaty club, entered into the thickest part of the orc-horde. Fell were the blows he dealt them! Fey was the gaze of his squinty eyes, and orcs innumerable fell before it. "Surely," spoke Prince Bumrod, his son, "Yea, verily the King's doings today shall be known in song for as long as men wear meat!" But the Prince's foretelling (for fortelling it was; the Prince was wearing the Sausagy Helm of Insufficient Prognostication) was premature. The orcs girt the King in, hacking and hewing at his proud meaty hat, till the luncheon meats lay piled and sliced among the orc-corpses. For the hat was of Men's making, and only a shadow of the great elven meat-helms of ages long carelessly mislaid. And at last, the power of his hamhocky helmet spent, the King lay on the stain'd turf and began to sing a death-lay, while for some reason they couldn't adequately explain, the orcs waited for him to finish. Maybe it was his surprisingly worthy voice, coming from a head so large and clubby. Or maybe it was that the words of the song, in the Bumling tongue and unintelligible to them, yet stirred some far-off recollection of bygone meats. We just don't know.
Anyway, this was the lay of King Bumblemeat:
'Whither the meatly hats of yesterlunch?
Whither the sausage helmets, the hammy porkpies, the berets
Shimm'ring in sunlight, so meatly,
All smelling sweetly
Of honey and jelly-glaze?
Whither King Bumfirst's hamhock, that bunched
So gloriously on his ears as he rode that day
Swinging his wet truncheon:
To luncheon! To luncheon!
With a sound so embarassingly gay?
Alas! No more the meat! Alas! No more those hats!
The ham-fedoras flapping their silly brims among the leaves
Of Bumwood! Lost completely
Are those bright helms, so meatly,
Collapsed with somewhat sickly splats
Onto the tops of our Wellingtons (Beeves)!'
And so speaking, he died."