The Neville Form of Poetry

Choosing Right Words 

I love to hear what poets say—
those bards, they can compose!
So much they tell . . . who knows
just why that blows the mind away!
Although the poets write
with words to bring delight,
sometimes their meaning goes astray.

© 2014 Freeda Baker Nichols

This Neville form is a seven-line poem composed of iambic tetrameter and trimester.
The syllable count per line is 8-6-6-8-6-6-8, and the rhyme scheme is abba, cca.


End of 2K14 National Poetry Month

This poem was written in January for the Month of Poetry 2014 and shared on Kathryn Apel’s blog at I dedicate it now to poets everywhere.

Flaming Candles

So Long, farewell,
goodbye, my friends.
Keep the
candles of poetry
If by chance, they
do not be discouraged.
Bring them back
to brilliance
with words
only you can create.

© Freeda Baker Nichols

Seldom in the Red


Poetess (Photo credit: Ant Smith)

Some poets burn their candles to the snuff;
it makes me shout that I have had enough!
I scan their lines for something new to learn;
they craft their works with words I can’t discern.
They write of politics, expose love scenes.
In outer space, they claim, they grow green beans.
They speak of chemo rooms like vintage wine
and pen a parody on porcupine.
A freeway runs along the coast to Maine;
they bus me there through sheets of coldest rain.
They guide me to the quaint brush arbor meets;
I pray for soldiers on Iraqi streets.
The poets tell of trains that dance the rails,
then paint the ships at sea with wind-torn sails.
Like wheels, they roll to publish what they know.
Some win awards and stash their dabs of dough!

© 2013 Freeda Baker Nichols

English: a beach in maine on a clear day with ...


My inkwell spilled —
its contents bled
blue-edged circles onto the
yellow-flowered cotton sash
that accented my 15-year-old
waistline like an engagement ring
around a bony finger.  Folks said
the chocolate milk I drank
made me unhealthy.
They also said my poetry would not
amount to much.  They meant well.
The flowered sash no longer fits,
and I haven’t needed a doctor
since Granny treated the barbed wire cut
on my arm with juice
from a black walnut hull.
Today, I read my poetry at the White
House.  Other guests included
international poets and folks
from home.

c Copyright, 2000, Freeda Baker Nichols

This poem is fiction. I’ve not read poety
at the White House.  Maybe, someday–
a poet’s dream, perhaps?

Poets’ Roundtable of Arkansas Anthology