A FaceBook friend, Ron Porter, issued the following challenge.
Since April is (in the US at least) “Poetry Appreciation Month” I am offering an exercise for you all. Below is a poem I wrote a few months ago and it is posted below. The exercise I propose is as follows: take this poem, write an original poem on the theme and post it. Please use the Title as a line in the poem. try to (but not mandatory) incorporate the Image of “the dark lady”; magic/ occult/ spiritual reference and; the duality of human nature (both good and evil). I hope you have some fun with this and, I will post all submission on my poetry page this month, unless you ask that I do not. I hope you guys join me in this; you ARE my favorite writers. Use any style or form you choose.
She Wears Midnight by Ronald S Porter ©2017
She wears midnight; she wears it well.
A veil of ebon shrouds her face,
lace trim outlines her jet black satin skirt.
Even the dirt at her feet sings praises
though hazes and mists rise from the ground;
Her footfall hushed- she passed unseen,
like fiend or wraith from a tale of horror.
Pale as alabaster; lovely as a night blooming flower
This is her hour, when all is dark and still;
She wanders where she covets; does what she will;
Weaves magic works – both charm and spell.
Heavenly hostess? Harbinger of hell?
None tongue can tell, obscured from sight,
neath dark new moon, she wears midnight.
A couple of hours later, I responded with this piece of doggerel.
She Wore Midnight by Anthony Stevens ©2017
The priest droned on, with routine sadness.
Hurried clouds wept streams o’er colored glass.
Wrinkled and shrunken by time’s cruel passing,
She was almost lost in the hard wood casing.
Distant thunder softly sounded, once, twice, thrice,
A fourth was louder, then repeat, even tones, nice.
Thunder? No! A hidden drumbeat. Rain like fabric moving
The priest offended while a mourner was half-smiling.
The half-sad husband tapped his fingers in drumbeat time.
His growling voice slowly rose in an ancient ryhme.
All present startled at the ringing sound of zills.
Short hairs rose on arms and necks. A draft chills.
All eyes wide at movement from between racks of dead blooms.
Smooth, youthful beauty, a whisp of silk, a girdle of coins,
Lithe muscles moving with erotic grace at the drum’s soft beat.
Close thunderflash dismissed bright light. Left only candle’s heat.
Glowing, smiling, dancing, writhing, she moved closer.
The old man, palsied hands drummed his knees, missed her.
She wore midnight as she knelt before him, he kissed her.
Harsh red emergency lights revealed a dead man, beside her bier.