my burmese than-bauk

with haiku line

yet with fine change

makes mine than-bauk

~ sld


Jason A. Muckley, Poems for Warriors, recommends “a simple and fun, epigram-like poetic form to try your hand at during National Poetry Month… the Burmese Than-bauk.” His poem, Everywhere, can be found here.

“The Than-bauk is a Burmese poetic form with simple rules:
– Three-line poem (Tercet), but you can string together multiple stanzas to form a longer poem
– Four syllables per line
– The final syllable of the first line rhymes with the third syllable of the second line and second syllable of the third line.

Here’s a visual representation of rhyming syllables for each line:


The poem is written traditionally like an epigram, so it is sometimes a clever or witty poem.”


a novel thing to do

Thought I’d do something novel this month :o)

Decided it’s more than time to complete the book I began on November 1, 2017, if only to keep my promise to my dear friend, Ruth (of Silver Screenings fame).

So, as I make good use of my copy of The Marshall Plan for Novel Writing: A 16-step program guaranteed to take you from idea to completed manuscript, the adventure begins again.

Here’s a snippet from my nanonovel entitled, Pages . . .

Emily quietly slipped unnoticed from the living room, into the kitchen, towards the back stairs, away from the gathering of friends, family. So many friends. So much laughter. Yet another “do-you-remember-the-time-when-Sid…” story faded as she climbed the steep stairs. A smirk curled the left corner of her lips as the threadbare steps began playing their ancient melody.

Her aunt’s voice rose above the others. “Does anyone want more coffee?”

A chorus of cheering voices.

“And all the people said, ‘Amen.’”

More cheers.

It had been years since Emily stood in this house, in this doorway. Grandpa Sidney’s library remained the same, its compact quarters still stuffed to the gunwales with books, magazines, maps. It reminded her of the man himself. Comfortably neglected. He always seemed to have a button loose or missing, mismatched socks.

She squared the jumble of newspapers decorating the armchair, dropped them on the footstool and sank into the familiar comfort of the worn chocolate-brown velvet icon. Leaning her cheek against the wing of the chair, she could still smell his cologne. Wood. Spice. And of course, cognac.

On the oak table next to her, partially covering a water stain, rested a copy of “William,” the Conqueror! [I.E. W. E. Gladstone.] a Jubilant Jubilee [In Verse]. by “Jove.”. Gladstone.

A yellowed page of her grandpa’s stationery fell onto her lap as she opened the book. Puzzled, she turned it over. A child’s printing. A poem.

She smiled.

It was the first poem that Grandpa Sidney had made her memorize.

“If you’re cold, Tea will warm you.
If you’re too heated, it will cool you.
If you’re depressed it will cheer you.
If you’re excited it will calm you.”

The paper blurred.

He’d kept it.

What a dear, sweet man.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Wonder what shall happen with Emily and her Grandpa Sidney’s books? You and me, both.

Stay tuned . . .