Poetry Stretch Results - Pantoum

The challenge this week was to write a pantoum. Here are the results.

Lost Scents
by Doraine Bennett of Dori Reads

The smell of butter rum
Will not take her back, though it should,
To a high-ceilinged room
On Ponce de Leon Avenue.

It should take her back. It should
Let her re-live summertime
On Ponce de Leon Avenue
When sirens were but a sound in the night,

Let her re-live the summertime
Of strawberry pie and apple peels
When sirens were but a sound in the night
And she was safe under handmade quilts.

Strawberry pie and apple peels,
Glass doorknobs, cedar trunks, jasmine vines
And she, safe under handmade quilts,
Watching lights play through Venetian blinds.

But, glass doorknobs, cedar trunks, jasmine vines
Lie tangled in a web of silk threads,
And no one watches lights play through Venetian blinds.
She stares instead at faded walls and regrets

The tangled web. Silk threads
She stitched in time unravel in her hands.
She stares. Instead of faded walls and regrets,
She dreams an old romance. Memories,

Stitched in time, unraveled in her hands,
Linger in a high-ceilinged room.
She dreams an old romance, straining to remember
The smell of butter rum.


Tiel Aisha Ansari of Knocking From Inside shares a poem entitled Caribou Shadows.


Another Spring: A Pantoume
by Jane Yolen

If I never see another spring--
the green thrusts of daffodils,
the violin curl of ferns--
I will still remember them.

The green thrusts of daffodils,
the scatter of crocuses.
I will still remember them
when I am under earth.

The scatter of crocuses,
like children in a playground,
when I am under earth
will still look the same:

like children in a playground.
The violin curl of ferns
will still look the same
(even if I never see another spring).

©2010 Jane Yolen all rights reserved


The Treasure of Old Captain Bones
A Pantoum by Nicole Marie Schreiber

Old Captain Bones, in a cave off the coast,
Sits waiting with his treasure for you.
Cursed by the hand of a siren so fair,
Beware, to all those who go seeking.

Sits waiting with his treasure for you,
For anyone who dare to try.
Beware, to all those who go seeking,
For all who have tried have died.

For anyone who dare to try,
One piece of advice I do give.
For all who have tried have died,
Choosing one jewel out of many to live.

One piece of advice I do give--
Find which of the hoard that she seeks.
Choosing one jewel out of many to live,
It’s not as easy as one might think.

Find which of the hoard that she seeks.
With a ruby or strand of pearls,
It’s not as easy as one might think,
To appease a siren of the sea.

With a ruby or strand of pearls,
You shall never soothe her jealous soul.
To appease a siren of the sea,
Remember what the siren seeks most.

You shall never soothe her jealous soul,
Cursed by the hand of a siren so fair,
Remember what the siren seeks most--
Old Captain Bones, in a cave off the coast.


Rain Again
by Kate Coombs of Book Aunt

Rain comes graying back again,
dropping over sky like a stage curtain.
Blue fades, coolness creeps in,
and we all lift our umbrellas.

Dropping over sky like a stage curtain,
rain silvers everything in sight,
and we all lift our umbrellas,
dry hearts hopeful as houseplants.

Rain silvers everything in sight.
Our footsteps splash on sidewalks,
dry hearts hopeful as houseplants.
The sun goes back to bed, sulking.

Our footsteps splash on sidewalks.
Blue fades, coolness creeps in.
The sun goes back to bed, sulking.
Rain comes graying back again.


M.F. Atkins of World of Words shares a poem entitled A Plead for Spring.


Pants of Doom
by Heidi Mordhorst of My Juicy Little Universe

I fill the tiny dressing room
with pairs of pants for this pantoum:
pinstriped trousers, denim jeans—
they all are bursting at the seams

Pairs of pants for this pantoum
fill the stall with signs of doom:
they all are bursting at the seams—
I’ve gained a pound or two, it seems

They fill the stall, these signs of doom.
My mood is dark: I scowl and fume:
I’ve gained a pound or two, it seems—
Pants of nightmare, not of dreams

My mood is dark, I scowl and fume;
Pinstriped trousers, denim jeans:
Pants of nightmare, not of dreams—
Fill the tiny dressing room

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.