1 Relating to or characteristic of hell or the underworld.
2 informal attributive Irritating and tiresome (used for emphasis)
Late Middle English: from Old French, from Christian Latin infernalis, from Latin infernus ‘below, underground’, used by Christians to mean ‘hell’, on the pattern of inferni (masculine plural) ‘the shades’ and inferna (neuter plural) ‘the lower regions’.
That region called infernal
Elicits a sense of nocturnal.
Though, if you there retire,
It’s thought you’ll find just fire.
With that scene in your mind
I wonder why, in matching kind,
It’s opposite, empyrean aerie,
Is also described as fiery.
Long form poetry is probably not best done with federated microblogging with Mastodon (or, if you must, the Twitter silo), but it does serve me very well for an occasional quatrain or two or three. Mastodon’s 500 character limit is less restrictive than Twitter, too.
Maybe if I were more serious about the effort, I’d give my rhymes more careful consideration, but microblogging seems like the perfect medium for what I like to do.
Each week a haiku:
spring winds fight the sun
both work to melt the snow banks
i watch from indoors
…and randomly, too, whenever the urge strikes me:
It fills my heart with glee
Whenever I do see
A starred notification
For the stuff I post for free.
There, there and there again
Fresh notice at the top
Another star from Ben
In the notification crop.
It may be fleeting joy
And could just as quickly fade
But for here and now, oh boy!
This special day is made!
There’s potential for almost immediate response along with comments returned over following days and weeks . A thick skin is probably a good idea, or at least not deep concern for my rhymes being appreciated.
Still, the rhymes are out there, faster than if I hoarded them to publish in a more traditional way.
And with the use of the #SmallPoems hashtag, it’s easy to find them again. If anyone wants to ask, the rhymes are officially released CC-BY.
Muscles are tired
From clearing the snow.
Much more than predicted
Only when done can you really know.
We got 17 inches
midnight to eight
People driving to work
Had to go in late.
Started the clearing at six
Inside for breakfast at nine
Will this top off the season?
With that, most will be fine.
Oatmeal with coffee
And a cookie or two
I take off my boots next
In favor of a regular shoe.
Let the lingering flakes
Dust the sidewalk and stair
I’ll rest quite happily
In my most comfortable chair.
Relating to or produced by percussion.
“Be original!” was the jussive command.
Don’t just use any old word at hand.
I do not intend to be rude,
But I’m certain of my verbish mood.
I like recycling as much as the next person
And I know without it our world will just worsen.
But a rule is a rule, here a very sharp tool
If I were to ignore it, I’d be a great fool.
So a new word to you I must give.
Ta-da, rat-a-tat-tat, take that: percussive.
I’ll drum it into you. Yes, you know it’s true.
It’s the thing which I must do, until you’re black and blue.
Morning errands were done in sneakers
It’s way too cold to entertain streakers.
Working now, I see the sun is gone,
Hidden above the clouds since dawn.
Beside me my boots are waiting.
They’ve gotten warm beside the grating.
Later today, they’ll be on my feet
As I go outside, the snow to greet.
This year, there’s been little snow
For me to joyfully shovel or blow.
But by later today the white stuff will show.
Then boots will go on, and outside I’ll go.
When it is quality you seek,
Avoid asking me to speak.
While I give my rhymes a tweak
Their insight is typically weak.
The actual fact, you see
Is that I write, not read, with glee.
It’s the failing of my art, while free
The focus, mainly out, not in to me.
I hope that I will appreciate poetry which I get the chance to see. I enjoy what I do encounter, but I admit, I do not subscribe to any poetry publications, nor do I visit book stores to buy or sit for readings… A failing.
For me, poetry is more a case of word sound, usually as rhyme. I don’t seek out poetry to read. Others have a much better grasp of the metaphor structure which fills what I see as the best sort of poetry to. I think of my work as ditties, at best.