Billy Collins was the poet laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2003 and is a highly regarded poet who has won many awards for his work. He is also a man with a mischievous sense of humor. Back in the late 90's, Collins claimed to have discovered a French poetry form from the 11th century called the paradelle. It was, he said, "one of the more demanding French forms." The rules for the paradelle are as follows:

• The paradelle is a 4-stanza poem.
• Each stanza consists of 6 lines.
• For the first 3 stanzas, the 1st and 2nd lines should be the same; the 3rd and 4th lines should also be the same; and the 5th and 6th lines should be composed of all the words from the 1st and 3rd lines and only the words from the 1st and 3rd lines.
• The final stanza should be composed of all the words in the 5th and 6th lines of the first three stanzas and only the words from the 5th and 6th lines of the first three stanzas.

Collins' attempt at composing a paradelle was titled Paradelle for Susan. Due to the ridiculous constraints of the form, his last line was, "Darken the mountain, time and find was my into it was with to to."

Because he was such a highly regarded poet, the "discovery" of this ancient poetic form, and Paradelle for Susan, were both taken seriously by critics, the media, and other poets. Eventually, Collins admitted he'd made it all up as a joke. Even the word "paradelle" was a combination of "parody" and "villanelle." He was poking fun at restrictive forms and the poets who followed a form beyond the point of common sense.

Even after his admission that he'd just pulled off one of the greatest literary pranks ever, many poets decided to try their hand at a paradelle and eventually the form gained a life of its own. When I read the rules, I have to admit I was taken with the challenge and decided I, too, was one of those foolish people who just had to give it a try. Here, then, is my attempt at a paradelle, using the final prompt in the NPM Scavenger Hunt, #15: Refer to one season, seasoning, and one phase of the moon.

OCTOBER PARADELLE

Autumn comes in shades of gold.

Autumn comes in shades of gold.

Fiery leaves, a feast for the eye.

Fiery leaves, a feast for the eye.

In fiery gold shades of autumn leaves,

A feast comes for the eye.

 

In October the air smells like apple.

In October the air smells like apple.

A sweet scent of cinnamon lingers.

A sweet scent of cinnamon lingers.

A sweet apple scent lingers, like

Smells of cinnamon in the October air.

 

The harvest moon shines round and full.

The harvest moon shines round and full.

At night, grapes are picked under lights.

At night, grapes are picked under lights.

The full moon shines, and lights round grapes

Under harvest, picked at night.

 

Gold moon shines like a round eye,

Lights grapes at night for the harvest,

Picked in the sweet autumn air.

Under leaves in fiery cinnamon shades,

A feast comes full of smells;

The October apple scent lingers.

 

 

 

Two little piggies, each a twin,

One was fat and one was thin.

Thin one ate beef and blancmange;

Fat one starved, but neither changed.

 

In my family, we have this weird thing called the Brewer Twins. It's a dominant trait that comes through my maternal great-grandmother's side of the family, where the second and third toes are the same length. My third toe is slightly shorter than my second, but my mom always said I had the Brewer Twins just like all my brothers and sisters. Maybe she didn't want me to feel left out, but honestly, it wasn't that big a deal to me. What is a big deal is how the joint in my third toe has become inflamed. That's the fat piggie twin in the poem. That joint will never be normal again, thanks to erosive osteoarthritis. Getting old kind of sucks.

The poem is in the style of a nursery rhyme and is NPM Scavenger Hunt Prompt #14: Describe your toes without using the word toe/s. I know blancmange is not pronounced the way you have to say it to make the poem rhyme; I used poetic license. One more day in April, and one more poem to post. It's my most ambitious one yet, and I'll be posting it on Sunday, a.k.a. The Internet Is Dead day of the week. Oh well, c'est la vie.

The kitchen is such a mess when you’re done

Flour dust covering every surface

One bowl for fruit and one for dough

Wooden spoon, spices and cups

Worth the time and trouble

Better than chocolate

Round, delicious

Sweet and hot

Yummy

Pie

Yummy

Sweet and hot

Round, delicious

Better than chocolate

Worth the time and trouble

Wooden spoon, spices and cups

One bowl for fruit and one for dough

Flour dust covering every surface

The kitchen is such a mess when you’re done

 

I wrote this as a reverse etheree, but I realized that with just a couple of simple word changes, it also worked as an etheree. So, I wrote it both ways just for fun. This is for the NPM Scavenger Hunt Prompt#13: Your favorite dessert. I love almost every kind of pie; it's the only thing that beats chocolate. It's a good thing pies are so time consuming and messy to make... that means I don't do it very often, for which the bathroom scale thanks me. What is your favorite dessert?

Cough discreetly

Look at me, please

You see me here

Like a deer caught

In clear headlight

Freeze in flight mode

No fight left, this

Plan was his, I’m

Invisible

Life was full once

No dull moments

Now a fence that

Opens not stands

Like steel bands, ‘round

The sand remains

Of heart painful

Met bane and broke

This bad joke makes

Me choke and cough

 

This poem is brought to you by the NPM Scavenger Hunt Prompt #12: Cough. The form is a Than Bauk. The rules are a bit confusing, but they make sense once you see the poem laid out.

There are 3 lines per stanza, and four syllables per line. The last syllable of line 1 rhymes with the 3rd syllable of line 2 and the 2nd syllable of line 3. The 3rd line of one stanza is also the first line of the next stanza, so in stanza 2, the last syllable of line 3 rhymes with the 3rd syllable of line 4 and the 2nd syllable of line 5. For stanza 3, the last syllable of line 5, rhymes with the 3rd syllable of line 6, and the 2nd syllable of line 7. And so forth.

A sudden premonition, something does not feel quite right.

Explosive sound makes her stagger, head rocks backward and forward.

“Terrorism?” she wonders. “God bless you,” chant total strangers.

 

I was scrolling through different forms of poetry and came across a very interesting one that I wanted to try, but I did this Sijo instead. The sijo form is from Korea and consists of three lines containing 14-16 syllables each, with the entire poem containing a total of 44-46 syllables. Also, there is traditionally a break or pause near the middle of each line, and the third line is supposed to contain a "twist" and a conclusion. It seemed like a good form to  use for Prompt #11: Sneeze in the NPM Scavenger Hunt. The title taught me a new word, so I am feeling quite educated today. Four more prompts to go, and five days left in April. I might just make it to the end of the list in time!

Describing a sneeze made me think of this funny moment in 3rd Rock from the Sun, a very funny sitcom from the late 90s about aliens who take on human bodies in order to study life on earth. Click this link to see the clip - it's less than a minute long. Did you recognize young Joseph Gordon Levitt?

 

 

What if life only exists

In God’s imagination?

All eternity at once,

And every generation?

I like the thought of mighty God

Lost in a wondrous dream

Of everyone who ever lived;

Time flowing like a stream.

Since He is a busy God,

He’d oft be pulled away

To deal with situations

That only He could sway.

 

When God sees to his duties

And from dreams is distracted,

All would stop in our world,

Our time would be impacted.

Is this why I fall asleep

Whenever I sit down?

Or why I cannot fall asleep

When bedtime rolls around?

Do I sense renewed attention

In the watches of the night?

When God is dreaming, does it mean

I won’t sleep until light?

 

I wonder what would happen,

If this is how it works,

If in the midst of dreaming

God hiccups and time jerks.

Would there be a collision

Of the future and the past?

God with hiccups could explain

A list of questions vast.

Like how do prophets prophesy?

And are ghosts really true?

And why do we experience

That thing called déjà vu?

 

The biggest question that I have

Is one like God himself;

Or maybe like a dragon

That is swallowing itself.

It’s actually two questions

That circle ‘round and ‘round,

And if there is an answer,

It’s one I haven’t found.

Did I sit here and dream of

God, hiccups, eternity…

Or did God hiccup in heaven,

While daydreaming of me?

 

The idea of time as a panorama is one I've thought about for most of my life. I've used it to explain the unexplainable, like the heavy footsteps clomping around upstairs when I was alone in the house (not my current house), and why I have no memory of driving the past twenty miles, and how I sometimes know things before they happen. But the idea of God hiccuping is purely the fault of the NPM Scavenger Hunt and its 10th prompt - Hiccup. Or maybe it's God's fault for dreaming of me dreaming of him with the hiccups. Either way, I hope you enjoyed my silly little poem.

The following poem is brought to you by the National Poetry Month Scavenger Hunt prompt #9: Tip Toe. After much thought, I've decided to post it on Sunday morning and not link it to Facebook. I have enough stress in my life at the moment without friends and family members with opinions that differ from mine giving me flak. My handful of Xanga readers, as well as the aforementioned friends and family members, are welcome to your differing opinions and need feel no obligation to comment. This poem was not intended as a goad, it's just what popped into my head after thinking about the people we tip and writing the first line. It's not really what I thought would come out at all, but it is what it is... my opinion.

 

Tip the man who makes the drinks,

For an intro to the minx.

Tip the driver to hotel,

Tip the doorman; he won’t tell.

Tip the scales of decency

By parting someone else’s sea.

Tip the bimbo in the room;

Stormy weather coming soon.

Tiptoe out the White House door;

We can’t take it anymore.

 

The first gray hair makes you grumble;

Arthritic knees cause a stumble.

You rant and you rave,

But eventually waves

Will even make lighthouses crumble.

 

It comes for us all in the end,

No matter the prayers that we send.

There is no recusal,

Resistance is futile;

The Angel of Death does not bend.

 

As existence begins to fade

And the world turns to graphite shade,

Regardless how strong

You fight to prolong,

The end you cannot evade.

 

Nobody can escape the fate

Of reaching their expire date;

You will get there on time,

But the joke is sublime –

At your funeral you will be late.

 

I hope the title of this poem didn't scare you off. I'm not about to stop writing, leave social media (although that is becoming increasingly tempting), or die (as far as I know). This was a difficult one to write. The NPM Scavenger Hunt prompt was #8. Use these words: resistance, funeral, lighthouse, graphite. Of course, with the word funeral in there, it's an automatic leap to death as a subject. I couldn't resist the absurdity of writing about death in limerick form.

I've really enjoyed these challenges so far. I think I need somebody to tell me what to write about every day; I seem to be better about blogging when I'm given a challenge. But first, I have seven more poetry prompts to work through.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

Close your eyes.

Inhale, exhale,

Taking slow, deep breaths.

Think of a sunny day;

A gentle breeze rustling leaves;

A small stream flowing lazily.

Breathe in, breathe out, let peace fill your mind.

Everything is going to be alright.

 

This poem is an etheree. Murisopsis will be proud of me because I remembered this form and its name without having to ask or look it up (although I was insecure enough to look it up and make sure I was remembering correctly). An etheree consists of ten lines, with the first line containing one syllable and adding a syllable to each line. You can also write these in reverse, beginning with ten syllables and working your way down to one. That is called a... wait for it... reverse etheree. This poem is for prompt #7: Air, in the NPM Feeling Foolish Scavenger Hunt.

For today's National Poetry Month Scavenger Hunt entry, I took a page out of murisopsis' blog and wrote a blitz poem. A blitz poem doesn't have to rhyme, but there are strict rules on the wording. You can probably figure it out by reading my poem, but if you want to know how this poetry form works, click this link to the blitz poem on murisopsis' blog and you can read all about it in her explanation. I did rebel with the rules for the title, though; I thought I was to use the first word of line 3 and the last word of line 47 and constructed the entire poem to end up with a workable title. And then I reread the rules and discovered it was supposed to be the first word of line 47, not the last. I didn't like that title and didn't want to rewrite the entire poem, so I stuck with my mistaken title.

The prompt for today was #7: Fire. The poem was inspired by a trip I took out west in 2015. There were fires all over Washington, Oregon and California (and other states, too, but those were the three states we were in). A haze of smoke hung over the entire west coast and some national parks we visited had closed off large areas while they fought the fires there. The worst one I can remember was Crater Lake. I was so happy to finally find an area that was above the smoke so I could breathe! Driving down the highway through the Redwood Forest, we came around a curve and spotted a beautiful, secluded beach. The sun was setting through the smoky haze and the whole world turned to gold. It remains one of my most beautiful and cherished memories.

 

HILLS ARE AFIRE

Fire in the forests

Fire on the hills

Hills dry and dusty

Hills bare and brown

Brown soil blackened

Brown grass crackling

Crackling flames

Crackling like crows

Crows taking flight

Crows black as soot

 Soot in the air

Soot-smudged landscape

Landscape heat-distorted

Landscape wrapped in smoke

Smoke to the horizon

Smoke makes eyes burn

Burn off the detritus

Burn so life can return

Return in richer soil

Return to arid land

 Land of hope and promise

Land of broken dreams

Dreams of easy riches

Dreams of fields of gold

Gold that’s for the taking

Gold just lying there

There where miners rushed

There in California

California burning

California in the sun

 Sun that never darkens

Sun that never clouds

Clouds that never threaten

Clouds that hold no rain

Rain that never falls

Rain to quench the flames

Flames that keep on burning

Flames that roar like wind

Wind shifts to the west

Wind blows toward the sea

 Sea is calm and peaceful

Sea sparkling in sunset

Sunset through the smoke

Sunset glowing golden

Golden lies the ocean

Golden soars the sky

Sky and sea afire

Sky and sea at sunset

Sunset

Afire