Step Through Into Fantasy: An Etheree

Steppoetry-header

And Walk

Stop and Talk

Kneel at the Door

On the Floor Before

And After Phantasies

With All to Lose to Regain

Some Very Changed Reality

Far Beyond Any Simplistic Plea

And Far Past the Life of Banality

So Forever Standing Tall as You Fall

As You Crawl into What is Bizarre

Within Phantasy Land not Far

Under the Bright Nightly Star

Wherein You Hear the Name

Of Your Childhood Fame

So Stake Your Claim

In Other Realms

With No Talk

But Walk

Stride


Note From Colleen’s Blog: The Etheree poem consists of ten lines of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 syllables. Etheree can also be reversed and written 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. The trick is to create a memorable message within the required format. Poets can get creative and write an Etheree with more than one verse, but the idea is to follow suit with an inverted syllable count. Reversed Etheree Syllable Count: 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 Double Etheree Syllable Count: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 10, 9, 8, 7, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

https://colleenchesebro.com/2018/12/04/colleens-weekly-tanka-tuesday-poetry-challenge-no-113-happy-december-poets-choice-of-words/#comment-60610

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Rush of Exhilaration from Excitation

Rush of exhilaration from excitation of numinous origin
Welling up inside ready to explode the full payload
From heart ready to burst in thirst of unrestrained joy
And no toy will do for this boy in this rolling moment
There is no looking for atonement already bestowed
As center component of this breathless ecstasy relished
And embellished with lovely goods and exquisite foods
Volcano rumbling inside cannot abide without eruption
Without corruption and there can be no interruption
In spewing forth unadulterated pleasure like a treasure
By pressure forcing out what is presently held inside
Personal pride can no longer hide the mystical landslide
Of mind and soul that has occurred without one word
. . .
Rush of exhilaration from excitation of numinous origin!

In the Unfolding Day Along the Way

What is this that I wake up crying
Trying to lie to myself that it was just a dream
When I can’t even remember the theme
Or even if I did dream, though it seems I did,
But I crawl out of bed ready to scrawl
On the walls but I fall to the floor without words,
Hearing birds chirping outside beside my window,
Which is only a show of other life happy,
And I wonder why I can’t be more snappy
And sing, too . . . If only the birds would bring
Inside my soul their song
But they throng outside all to themselves,
Or have they brought me a song already,
So I have what I’ve sought all my life
Never knowing it was blowing so near and dear?
But will I go through the day this way?
I know I may stay somber in this same location
With my same vocation,
But at least I find some relief in the belief
That I’m doing something good and productive,
Something even seductive to my artisan soul!
I may bite my pen for awhile in tears
But eventually I will write
In sight of the whole world . . .
If anyone cares to read, and maybe my words
Will then have planted some seed worth growing
In the hole of someone’s soul . . .
I may not be able to save myself
But I can behave as if I’m saving another,
Though all I may be doing is raving like a lunatic!



Note: This is the third (or fourth) of my stream-of-consciousness poem