Of Micros and Macros

The Ragtag Daily Prompt word this morning is MACRO

This is a word I’ve had only a passing acquaintance with. As in, heard it used; had no clue. So I checked in dictionary, I see that MACRO is the big picture whereas MICRO is the small one.

The Canadian Oxford Dictionary tells me:
Macro: A series of abbreviated instructions expanded automatically when required. (An accordion deep inside in your computer?)
Macro- combining form: long, large, large scale, comprehensive
Macrocosm: the universe, the whole of all nature
Macroeconomics: the study of large scale or general economic factors
(Macro is the Federal Budget; microcosm is our family budget.)

I’ve heard of micro-poetry, so I suppose the opposite is macro-poetry? As in, the macro-poem being the old familiar one by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and the micro-poem being my senryu version. What do you think?

THE DAY IS DONE

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor,
And tonight I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

Flourish.plainer

senryu version:

soft patter of words
the poet’s pen and your voice
night’s harmony

“Wee timorous beastie” indeed!

It’s Wednesday again and Biff seems to be AWOL as yet. Nevertheless, I’ll do a Whatnot Wednesday post anyway — mainly because I don’t know what else to do with this verse-of-sorts. 🙂

The following poem is based on a real life experience…

The moon rains silver on my window
pierces the darkness of my eleventh hour,
draws thin slats on my carpet as
warm ambiance enfolds me like a cloak
woven of droopy eyelids, wool-gathering.

My book slips from my hand; sinking into
the fronds of fern casting their shadows
in dark splashes on the carpet
rubbing the rich brown of the old
grandfather clock poised to chime.

Shattering my doze like a snare drum,
the steady rustle I have come to dread.
That MOUSE again!
Intrepid raider of the cat-food dish.
Its toes scratch on the floor tile as it creeps
forward toward its goal – then I hear
that brazen crunching I detest.

It knows – I’m positive it bides its time until
some telepathy reveals to its pea-brain
when I am most vulnerable. Too burdened
and half asleep — can it hear me breathe — 
to give chase. Then out it creeps
to fill its emptiness with a cat food snack,
which it erroneously believes
has been provided for its benefit.

I will the clock to strike, to boom
a hickory, dickory, dock. A horrid shock
that causes said mouse to die of fright.
Yet Grandfather has nothing to say just yet,
so
I sit here trembling in the darkness
while my cat, a warm ball on my lap,
snores on, oblivious to mouse or man.
Waking, only to glance at me in peeved disdain,

when I screech, “You’re FIRED!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In my dreams…

Cat + Mouse.K Tyl

Alone

Ragtag Daily Prompt this morning:  MOVIE
Word of the Day prompt:  RIFF

Like a boring old movie
the neighbors are at it again
that weary riff of picking
at past gripes and hurts,
festering wounds.

If only they could peek
into the dark years to come,
get a glimpse of “future me.”
If they could feel how lonely
life can be when you’re
left. Forgotten. Alone.

Having worked in seniors’ and nursing homes myself, I think everyone should have to spend six months working in one. Here’s where you clearly see the truth of “What goes around, comes around” and “You reap what you sow.”