‘The Minute Poem is a 60 syllable verse form, one syllable for each second in a minute. The theme should be an event that is over and done completely, as in a minute. Since the dominant line is short the effect is likely humorous, whimsical or semi-serious. It was created by Verna Lee Hinegardner, once poet laureate of Arkansas.
The elements of the Minute Poem are:
a 12 line poem made up of 3 quatrains. (3 of 4-line stanzas)
syllabic, 8-4-4-4 8-4-4-4 8-4-4-4 (First line has 8 syllables of each stanza. Remaining lines has 4 syllables in each stanza)
rhymed, rhyme scheme of aabb ccdd eeff.
description of a finished event (preferably something done is 60 seconds).
is best suited to light verse, likely humorous, whimsical or semi-serious.’
“In truth each day is a universe in which we are tangled in the light of stars.”- Horses, Jim Harrison
Some moments are held for the merest fleet, some tumble along while carving deep. I am a map of clefts and lines, lunar woven over time. I see the crescent shine, monochrome of light, catascopus looking thus at my life.
Words left his mouth, shivering into the room, naked in the light of others. Their skin pricked with their own awareness, stumbling together for comfort and warmth, and retreating back to the safe haven of his thoughts.
‘It’s only a story. A flipping daft made-up thing Ma used to tell us. It’s not true, for crying out loud!’ But I could see fright in my sister’s eyes and she was holding the door handle so tight her fingers were white. ‘Let me by,’ I shouted as I wrenched her out of my way. ‘Or come with me and see if I’m mad.’ The sun was slipping low as I ran from the house towards the sea. As I reached the cliff edge, the movement of ground was barely visible. But I could feel it. The slow heave and thrust of the land as the cliffs moved their rocky feet and shuffled further into the ocean. Ropes of deep red sunlight pulled the limestone beasts further in, crimson ripples tugging from the horizon, coaxing them. An eyelash of new moon hung faint in the east, watching as eventually the cliffs shuddered to a halt. Loose stones tumbled down into the dusky water as a shoal of laughing nereids emerged from the foamy pink splashes. They swam and swirled, throwing the fading ribbons of sunset from wave to wave. I watched, entranced by their grace and beauty. And from the writhe and glint of skin and scale, I heard a voice I had always known, call out to me: ‘It’s time, my love.‘ I let myself fall down, past the crumbling edge, into the spinning water far below. And as the waves covered my body, I felt the strength of many hands support me – at last.
This was written in response to the latest Visual Verse prompt, and published on their site. The link to their site is below.
I imagine a beast that rose, lifting its broad back from the depths of dun clay, pushing up into the loamy mantle, curving up, over and over. A teacher from the sea, birthing white rock, writing lessons, soft and powdered, verdant baized, high enough for us to stand and wait, and hope to spy a glimpse of our past.
Another day, another walk in the beautiful Dorset countryside. My photo does not do it anything like justice. The steep hills that form a basin around our town create breath-taking views. Only a few minutes’ walk and you are surrounded by mile after mile of Dorset beauty. An added bonus is it provides a great work-out for the lungs and heart!