Rhythm in poetry - a touch of the Rhyme Whisperer

After writing one of my last posts (Rhythm of Writing), it occured to me that I could have been neglecting rhythm in my prose because I started out as a poetry writer.

The rhythm in my poetry came pretty naturally, you see. Which is why I reckon I'd gotten the silly idea that such rhythmic prowess would translate instantly to my prose. Didn't happen, of course (big surprise:)).

But I shall not give up! This is merely yet another element for me to craft to perfection from now on. Somehow, I'll do it:)

In the meantime, after a fantastic dinner with a friend who ignited thoughts poetic:), do have a taste of my Rhyme Whisperer side.

'Just Imagine' is one of my favourite poems in the Rhyme Whisperer series (available in both 'As The Moon And The Sun' and the longer anthology 'Just Imagine'). It's only one among a variety of poetic styles and themes in my work, but it employs a particular trick of rhythm that one reviewer was quick to notice and appreciate:)

I hope you enjoy it as well:)

Just Imagine

Just imagine,

Random thoughts, in random tone,

With paintings sure as painter’s own,

Large manor house and servant’s grave,

With battlements and eager knave,

Great forests green, with streams as deep,

As dryads falling to their sleep,

Winged dragons’ snare, and crying wren,

For fallen kings, and fallen friends,

The erstwhile scamp, and roguish eye,

Accompanied by rascal’s ploy,

Steps down the Earth, and through the roof,

Past doorways to Egyptian tombs,

Sweet roses red, and poisoned fruit,

As sharp as note on crystal lute,

Wine amber-shine, and perfect set,

For dining halls and ballroom step,

Fine waistcoats worn with filigree,

To rival dukedom’s ennui,

Of wolves galore, and caves of gold,

Entrancing all with love untold,

Of warlike fiends, brave princesses,

Merry foes brandishing cutlasses,

Then sorcery, and magic lights,

To warm a stranger’s smoking-pipe,

Whose smoke will turn to genie’s flick,

Enchanting all with spell and trick,

Talking trees and moonlit seas,

To frame a merchant’s legacy,

Sorry states of turning fates,

That speak of strange, time-turning gates,

Mirages claiming watering grounds,

With bandits hoarding jewels newfound,

There’s shrinking of house,

And faltering muse,

And portraits with eyes,

That do willingly move,

Knives sharpened with glee,

To fell wrong enemy,

And black capes in the night,

With adventures to find,

Grand visions of wealth,

Tall, powerful elves,

With portals to moons,

And spindle-like spoons,

And as quick as you look,

A sight of gold hook,

Going in circles,

With green barnacles,

Hiding in pirate’s inn,
Just imagine.

Rhythm in poetry - a touch of the Rhyme Whisperer