Unrhymed and WIP'd!

I tried to write a rispetto, I really did. I actually got the the iambic tetrameter, but am struggling with the rhyme. The feel of the poem feels genuine, and I really don't want to lose that. Maybe it's destined to be a unrhymed rispetto. What do you think, Dear Readers? Should I try to make the rhyme happen, or just enjoy the poem I wrote. I am happy that I got the iambic tetrameter to happen. Do you ever struggle with writing a rhyming piece versus and non-rhyming piece? Do you prefer rhyme to non-rhymed?

Today is my final warm-up for OctoPoWriMo that begin tomorrow. 31 poems in 31 days! Check it out!!

I used Clavichord as my writing prompt. A Clavichord  (from dictionary.com) an early keyboard instrument producing a soft sound by means of metal blades attached to the inner ends of the keys gently striking the strings.

Where Words and Music Meet

When you prepare to write a poem

its best to try to remember 

that meter comes while on a whim

much like those melodies composed

Upon clavichords, metallic

counting the beats as they roll past.

Measures and words, from writers and

composers, are no different.

Today is also WIPpet Wednesday, brainchild of K.L. Schwengel, author extraordinaire. Every Wednesday writers share a bit of their WIP. By taking the day's date, you select a snippet to share. Still confused? Don't worry, it took me a little while to get it. See today is 9/30/2015 and by using the numbers in the date you can pick how many sentences, paragraphs, or words to share. Also, from which chapter and page (if you know that much of you WIP). Clearer now? Okay. 

Come visit my fellow WIPpeteers at the Linky List here.

How could he even get here, wherever here was? Not even sure he could speak. He’s thoughts were wild, racing about the real world. For he believe that he was not in the real world, either a dream or maybe it was the end and he finally succumbed to the pulse of the city he had fled years before.

That made something stir, memories float to the surface of his mind. He was sure that he was still himself, but who that was he wasn’t sure. Memories of his Abeula singing to him, teaching him how to play. Thos were the best of times, sitting in front of the fire after a meager dinner of rice, beans, and whatever vegetable that could be procured by the roadside markets in the middle of the night. He smiled. Was sure he was smiling, thinking about Abeula and the vegetables and the fire and the guitar. He missed her terribly, but another memory floated to the surface.

It was of anger and sadness, and a choice that he made so long ago.

There were harsh words between him and someone else. Not Abeula! She would never have made him leave. Never! Who then?

The image of the angry voice was blurry in the blackness, suddenly he felt cold. And he dropped the memory, he felt a faint warmth tip his head and nose, as it flushed through his body and he was aware of his nose, his mouth exhaling, his eyes blinking. There was dampness on his face, sweat maybe, tear. He didn’t really cry, did he?