And the word is...

[CdnReader]

Well, to follow "HOME", the next word is.....


Heart

[motherhubbard]

This is my first go on this thread, so here goes

The heart of the matter


Peel away the layers as if it were an onion.
I know the juices make you cry.
Maybe if you hold it under cold water
or cut off the root first
the sting will be lessened.
It is a hard thing to face the pain
or general discomfort one finds
at the center of their own personal universe.
What things are hidden there-
secrets, lies, fantasies, ambitions, longings?
Peal away each thick layer and examine it.
Is it fodder or fit for your consumption?
Once you have revealed the heart.
hold it up for all to esteem
and chew over the sweet juicy center.

[CdnReader]

.

“Keep that door closed!”
the heart shouted back.
“Don’t you know any better?”
And he stomped off,
in search of a stronger padlock.

.
cdn/10feb07
.

[firefangled]

It is a hard thing to face the pain
or general discomfort one finds
at the center of their own personal universe.
What things are hidden there-
secrets, lies, fantasies, ambitions, longings?
Peal away each thick layer and examine it.



What things, indeed, MH. Beautiful beginnings for this word.

Psssst! I am cheating and writing this at work. I will tell them you have encouraged me to, if they ask. They won't ask. I am the strange writer with hawk feathers hanging on his computer screen. It's good to be strange. :p

[Pendragon]

Heart was the word, correct. This one may be too personal, and if you think so, PM me, and I'll remove it. OK?

Feeling empty again…


Forgive me if I sound bitter
I’ve tried so hard to understand
I know your job is important
And that things can’t always go as planned
But I just came through hell again yesterday
And I can still smell the flames
And here I sit again alone
I’m not saying you’re to blame
It just seems that when I need you most
Other things always get in the way
I can’t fight this battle all alone
I just don’t have the strength
God knows you’ve been more wife to me
Than I ever will deserve
I’d never have made it half this far
If you hadn’t helped to heal the hurt
Oh, but I wish and long to be together
To feel that magic once again
To feel the pain get chased away
By your fingers on my skin
To gaze into those deep green eyes
And fall in love with you all over again
To feel the brush and taste of your sweet lips
As you tell me I’m your man
Oh dear God it’s so hard—
Feeling empty again…

Pendragon
© 6/25/05

Heart out on the sleeve, perhaps, but heart...

[Bii]

It's a brave poem Pen, and beautifully done. I hope you share it with your wife, 'cos she's the one who needs to read it.

One of my own:

An Empty Heart

It takes me just a moment
to realise you are not here.

Your name echoes around the
empty chamber, reverberates off
the walls until all
that remains is
a nebulous murmur.

There was a time when
the thought of you sent
blood rushing; my veins
pulsed to the beat
of your voice.

Then it was gone.
And over time
the muscles weakened,
the valves closed;
I am left alone
in this lifeless
silence.

[ampoule]

Heart was the word, correct. This one may be too personal, and if you think so, PM me, and I'll remove it. OK?

Feeling empty again…


Forgive me if I sound bitter
I’ve tried so hard to understand
I know your job is important
And that things can’t always go as planned
But I just came through hell again yesterday
And I can still smell the flames
And here I sit again alone
I’m not saying you’re to blame
It just seems that when I need you most
Other things always get in the way
I can’t fight this battle all alone
I just don’t have the strength
God knows you’ve been more wife to me
Than I ever will deserve
I’d never have made it half this far
If you hadn’t helped to heal the hurt
Oh, but I wish and long to be together
To feel that magic once again
To feel the pain get chased away
By your fingers on my skin
To gaze into those deep green eyes
And fall in love with you all over again
To feel the brush and taste of your sweet lips
As you tell me I’m your man
Oh dear God it’s so hard—
Feeling empty again…

Pendragon
© 6/25/05

Heart out on the sleeve, perhaps, but heart...

Please do not remove this Pendragon. Sadly, it speaks for hundreds, maybe thousands of marriages. Yes, it IS personal and it IS sad and troubling but it is....now what were we talking about on another thread....truth. You have poured out your heart for many with this beautiful poem.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Heart was the word, correct. This one may be too personal, and if you think so, PM me, and I'll remove it. OK?

Feeling empty again…


Forgive me if I sound bitter
I’ve tried so hard to understand
I know your job is important
And that things can’t always go as planned
But I just came through hell again yesterday
And I can still smell the flames
And here I sit again alone
I’m not saying you’re to blame
It just seems that when I need you most
Other things always get in the way
I can’t fight this battle all alone
I just don’t have the strength
God knows you’ve been more wife to me
Than I ever will deserve
I’d never have made it half this far
If you hadn’t helped to heal the hurt
Oh, but I wish and long to be together
To feel that magic once again
To feel the pain get chased away
By your fingers on my skin
To gaze into those deep green eyes
And fall in love with you all over again
To feel the brush and taste of your sweet lips
As you tell me I’m your man
Oh dear God it’s so hard—
Feeling empty again…

Pendragon
© 6/25/05

Heart out on the sleeve, perhaps, but heart...

I'm reminded of the naming ceremony of the newborn grand-daughter of a friend of mine, when the child's father held her in his arms and spoke his wishes for her future, among which was: "My daughter, I want you to be strong enough to admit when you are weak."

[PrinceMyshkin]

:lol: :D :lol: :D

No silly, the new word hasn't been chosen yet. I was waiting for a few more people to tell us about laconic!



My neighbours have taken to walking
their pet anchovy
at peculiar hours of the night. A rather
laconic anchovy it is
or perhaps it is saving its words
of fish wisdom for some other
‘hood. This one
is becoming decidedly déclassé
with that flashy marlin
driving his pimp-mobile
and the three dissimilar
trout sisters with their perfectly
identical Smart cars.
How on earth do they know
which belongs in which?
If the anchovy knows
he isn’t telling.

[ampoule]

Sounds fishy to me. Are you poking fun at some of us? It's very 'cute' with lots of fun images.


Well, to follow "HOME", the next word is.....


Heart

Anyone else?

[Il Penseroso]

Like a weary wanderer funnelled
through his course, beating
the last waves of a feather's lust
for sky

this feeling lingers in the chest

as droplets do in tubes compressed.

[Pendragon]

It's a brave poem Pen, and beautifully done. I hope you share it with your wife, 'cos she's the one who needs to read it.

Oh, she has read it. She is the rock that first convinced me to submmit my poetry to magazines and the rest is history. I always pour emotion into poems or songs, without it, I couldn't write.
Thanks to all of you, and God Bless.

Pen

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/PuppyLove.gif

[motherhubbard]

I know the sound of two hearts beating
One softly in a fast flutter
The other like a battle drum
The two intertwined in a rhythm that is not broken
They grow together and mesh
And as one begins to rest the other takes over
To become the greater sound
The stronger drum
That faces the battle for both

[apples of gold]

I've only been able to read from post #256 onward today, and I am deeply touched by the poems Pen, amp, Bii, Il Penseroso, CdnR, and Mother.

[firefangled]

Birds like black smoke rise
from Autumn's fire. Cool nights
pull fescue from its roots,
and wire grass hunkers down
under the brown and amber past.

I am sad today that I must go,
the Jonquils now are sleeping fast.
Yet gold lies all around; to be,
rather than to seem, a sign
that first green too may last.

My boot print leaves no trace
in your mountain streams. Look
there in a trout's face for me,
or on a patch of once tended ground
where rue grows with the columbine.

What led me here I cannot say
for sure, or what kept me here
was ever meant to be,
but I know my heart was blue
long before I saw your skies.

[stephofthenight]

Heart was the word, correct. This one may be too personal, and if you think so, PM me, and I'll remove it. OK?

Feeling empty again…


Forgive me if I sound bitter
I’ve tried so hard to understand
I know your job is important
And that things can’t always go as planned
But I just came through hell again yesterday
And I can still smell the flames
And here I sit again alone
I’m not saying you’re to blame
It just seems that when I need you most
Other things always get in the way
I can’t fight this battle all alone
I just don’t have the strength
God knows you’ve been more wife to me
Than I ever will deserve
I’d never have made it half this far
If you hadn’t helped to heal the hurt
Oh, but I wish and long to be together
To feel that magic once again
To feel the pain get chased away
By your fingers on my skin
To gaze into those deep green eyes
And fall in love with you all over again
To feel the brush and taste of your sweet lips
As you tell me I’m your man
Oh dear God it’s so hard—
Feeling empty again…

Pendragon
© 6/25/05

Heart out on the sleeve, perhaps, but heart...


pen, beautifully bitter tears will be shed with this poem; but they need to be. it is a beautfiul poem, thank you for allowing us to read it.
steph

[apples of gold]

Birds like black smoke rise
from Autumn's fire. Cool nights
pull fescue from its roots,
and wire grass hunkers down
under the brown and amber past.

I am sad today that I must go,
the Jonquils now are sleeping fast.
Yet gold lies all around; to be,
rather than to seem, a sign
that first green too may last.

My boot print leaves no trace
in your mountain streams. Look
there in a trout's face for me,
or on a patch of once tended ground
where rue grows with the columbine.

What led me here I cannot say
for sure, or what kept me here
was ever meant to be,
but I know my heart was blue
long before I saw your skies.

This is really lovely and full of a sense of release. Thank you fire.


And Steph. Thank you for quoting Pen's poem Feeling Empty Again ...
This one is very moving Pen. It seems that love lost or love being lost is taking over now and I'm just so emotional.

[ampoule]

Heart

Tall, I stand against you and
trace your heart with my fingertip,
the scar so knobbly.

Your skin, so rough, it scratches my cheek,
but I place my ear against you
and hear the pulse of seasons.

Strong arms, I remember, lifted me high
into the sky so I could see a robin's
early breakfast or late night stars.

I put my arms around you and squeeze
and though you do not move,
I know you like it.

Again, with my fingertip, I trace your heart
and the arrow and two chiseled names,
with tears for the pain it caused you.

[apples of gold]

This is charming amp.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I know the sound of two hearts beating
One softly in a fast flutter
The other like a battle drum
The two intertwined in a rhythm that is not broken
They grow together and mesh
And as one begins to rest the other takes over
To become the greater sound
The stronger drum
That faces the battle for both

Those three opening lines are like the stirring sounds of a battle hymn! and the rest is more than up to them. What a moment or two or three it must have been for you in writing them! Did you perhaps get up afterwards, throw open your front door and shout out to the evening sky I've just written a bloody good poem!

[motherhubbard]

Thanks Jerry, for the compliment, but I liked #252 better. I'm beginning to think I have an obsession for onions. It did make me miss being pregnant.

[ampoule]

This is charming amp.

Thank you. :)

[PrinceMyshkin]

Thanks Jerry, for the compliment, but I liked #252 better. I'm beginning to think I have an obsession for onions. It did make me miss being pregnant.

What?! You are NOT pregnant? That is as if one of the laws of nature have been revoked!

I wouldn't say I liked this better or less well than the onions poem, but as with all our poems, we make each of them with love and then release them to the world, and the world chooses how to receive them.

[firefangled]

Heart

Tall, I stand against you and
trace your heart with my fingertip,
the scar so knobbly.

Your skin, so rough, it scratches my cheek,
but I place my ear against you
and hear the pulse of seasons.

Strong arms, I remember, lifted me high
into the sky so I could see a robin's
early breakfast or late night stars.

I put my arms around you and squeeze
and though you do not move,
I know you like it.

Again, with my fingertip, I trace your heart
and the arrow and two chiseled names,
with tears for the pain it caused you.


Oh, A. this took me by surprise. I was thinking a person and that it was too much for that with knobby scars on hearts...but the end ripped me. I am a freaking tree hugging pinko commie.

Beautiful.

And here is what that old man (I say that with utmost affection) Jerry was saying. He expects these surprises from your poetry. Like the flower uprooting itself and walking to the nearest raging river for a wild ride, having had enough of #^%!!@ droughts and flash floods. Like me he may be set in his ways. :yawnb:

[motherhubbard]

Amp, I think ths is most lovely. I can loose myself is swaying branches and even find beauty in the bare winter branches. I think I'll print this and put it in the cover of my copy of The Giving Tree.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I am a freaking tree hugging pinko commie.

Yeh, and prolly one of those who's in favour of universal health care & AGAINST global warming, smog emissions control &c. &c.


Beautiful.

And here is what that old man (I say that with utmost affection) Jerry was saying.

Yo! Mr Spring-chicken! Remember what Oscar Wilde said about youth...


Like me he may be set in his ways. :yawnb:

Dude! Even my ways are set in their ways!

[firefangled]

Yeh, and prolly one of those who's in favour of universal health care & AGAINST global warming, smog emissions control &c. &c.


Yo! Mr Spring-chicken! Remember what Oscar Wilde said about youth...




Hmmm...let me guess which one: As soon as people are old enough to know better, they don't know anything at all.

[firefangled]

Yo! Mr Spring-chicken! Remember what Oscar Wilde said about youth...




No...wait...wait...don't tell me: I am not young enough to know everything.



I just made $300 for that plug.

[firefangled]

Yo! Mr Spring-chicken! Remember what Oscar Wilde said about youth...





But I think maybe...To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable.


I like this one, especially!

For more of the importance of being Oscar Wilde go IBOW.com

[ampoule]

Amp, I think ths is most lovely. I can loose myself is swaying branches and even find beauty in the bare winter branches. I think I'll print this and put it in the cover of my copy of The Giving Tree.

Thank you very much mother. The Giving Tree. What an honor. That book is amongst my top ten favorites.

A little story.
I read The Giving Tree to my class every year. I used to tell them, 'Now boys and girls, I might cry a little when I read this, but it's okay. I'm okay. It just makes me happy and sad at the same time'. The problem then was that the children spent most of the time looking at my eyes to see when I was going to cry instead of listening to the wonderful story. Now as I read it to them, I just let my emotion show and most of them 'get it'.


And fire....thank you VERY MUCH for your explanation. That really helped.

[motherhubbard]

are we still on the same word?

[ampoule]

are we still on the same word?

Ooo, not necessarily. Do you have something in mind? :D Go for it! If not, anyone else?

I'm so glad you've joined us here mother. I hope others will too.

[ampoule]

Okay. I'll pick then. Hmmm...let's see. Well, school started here today. Let's write about the word ...

TEACH!! or any derivative thereof.

[firefangled]

Like bees on giant flowers, yellow buses
flit and weave over the quilted farmlands
and the hubs of clustered suburbs, gathering
and leaving children - pollen diverse and wild.

Summer now gone, the poison ivy reddens;
the day breathes in stops and starts, leaves
and captive cicadas, the pensive rattle and sigh,
in excruciating harmony before their brief flights.

The portentous moon rises like a holy crust
on the tongue of evening, and lays the long beam
across the water and the loon, and breaks
over the red dogwoods. Here, night will lie.

Soon, we gut and slice the pumpkin for a light,
and with cruel fingers rip the husk of peas
and beans for the rustless green, the new
(notice how like dew their moisture lingers).

While we sleep, a Beachwood falls silently;
children dream of flying, invisible in blue;
the pole beans bloom for the bees alone;
and the loon's song echoes until morning.

[ampoule]

I love all of this but I just can't get past those little yellow school busses as bees on flowers and the quilted farmland. That is so precious.
I can't believe how well you have captured this season. (But of course, I CAN believe it because you've done it so many times before but I still can't believe it. ;) )

[Pendragon]

I think I may have poeted this somewhere before, Amp, but it so fits the aspect of "learn" from "teach" that I must post it again:

Carpe Diem

He wakes me up before the alarm clock rings,
And I rub my eyes and groan and grumble;
But he shouts, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”

He goes downstairs, and starts to sing,
While, wondering if I actually got any sleep for my cloths I fumble.
He wakes me up before the alarm clock rings!

He plays cat’s cradle with a piece of string—
While I have my coffee—black and strong! A double!
But he shouts, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”

He’s off again, like a new fledged bird on wings!
I rub my eyes, and stretch, yawn and stumble.
He wakes me up before the alarm clock rings!

Sighing inside, I try my best to keep up with his youthful springs,
Mouth ever ready to shout: “Keep out of trouble!”
But he shouts, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”

Ah, wretched time! What a curse the passing years bring!
Now my son is the one watching a little son blow bubbles.
But I remember how He woke me up before the alarm clock rang!
And shouted, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”

© 1996 D. L. Harris


By the by, I have no grandchildren, yet, thank the Good Lord, but I have two sons who dwarf their old dad, and a beautiful daughter whose boyfriend does the same!

Pen

[ampoule]

Carpe ME!! You have seized me with this poem Pen. I love it. You have really captured that little boy exuberance. So.....come on.....let's do something!! ;)

[firefangled]

I think I may have poeted this somewhere before, Amp, but it so fits the aspect of "learn" from "teach" that I must post it again:

Carpe Diem

He wakes me up before the alarm clock rings,
And I rub my eyes and groan and grumble;
But he shouts, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”

He goes downstairs, and starts to sing,
While, wondering if I actually got any sleep for my cloths I fumble.
He wakes me up before the alarm clock rings!

He plays cat’s cradle with a piece of string—
While I have my coffee—black and strong! A double!
But he shouts, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”

He’s off again, like a new fledged bird on wings!
I rub my eyes, and stretch, yawn and stumble.
He wakes me up before the alarm clock rings!

Sighing inside, I try my best to keep up with his youthful springs,
Mouth ever ready to shout: “Keep out of trouble!”
But he shouts, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”

Ah, wretched time! What a curse the passing years bring!
Now my son is the one watching a little son blow bubbles.
But I remember how He woke me up before the alarm clock rang!
And shouted, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”

© 1996 D. L. Harris


By the by, I have no grandchildren, yet, thank the Good Lord, but I have two sons who dwarf their old dad, and a beautiful daughter whose boyfriend does the same!

Pen

Pen, again and again you amaze me with your dexterity with this form. You also always manage to tell some moving or delightful story as you spin these out. This is such a joyful poem. Thanks.

[Pendragon]

Thank you, Amp and Fire. I love the form poetry, as it makes me think. I never let the form rule me, but still I like to use the form. This forum is loaded with my sonnets, for birthdays, in the Another Creative Thread in games, aka, the Obits, and here and there. I do reversibles which were the first form contest, Pantoums, Sestinas, but perhaps Villainelle is my bread and butter. Again, thank you. Coming from two winning poets it's high praise!

Pen

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/PuppyLove.gif

[firefangled]

Thank you, Amp and Fire. I love the form poetry, as it makes me think. I never let the form rule me, but still I like to use the form. This forum is loaded with my sonnets, for birthdays, in the Another Creative Thread in games, aka, the Obits, and here and there. I do reversibles which were the first form contest, Pantoums, Sestinas, but perhaps Villainelle is my bread and butter. Again, thank you. Coming from two winning poets it's high praise!

Pen

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/PuppyLove.gif

John Crowe Ransom (I think) once said (I am paraphrasing) that poetic forms should be used the way fishermen use specific nets to catch specific fish.

[ampoule]

Hand In Hand

Time is of the
Essence when telling
About all you know and
Care about, passing with your
Heart to those who hunger and thirst,
Lessons that are steeped in living
Each question as it comes, to
Ask for the seed it holds,
Require the truth and
Never give up.

amp, August Nineteenth, TwoThousandSeven

[ampoule]

Poppy's Dry Run Creek would have fit very well here. Perhaps he would like to choose a new word for us to write about???

[motherhubbard]

This was real quick, but I wanted to get one in.


Through labor I sway, my head tilted back and my knees bent.
After the work I sway, to comfort my baby and to ease my own soreness.
With a gentle back and forth motion I sway as the baby fills his tummy.
And when he is done I sway still, as he smiles spilling my milk from his mouth

The moves are old, as old as time
Through the rhythm of that motion knowledge is passed on and on
From a mother’s arms to the secret mind of her child
Words what were said or hummed or not even uttered aloud.

Tears are rocked away, bread is kneaded,
history is written, and stories are told
All to the rhythm of generations
culminated in my own dance, and passed along to you.

[CdnReader]

I really love this one, Mother. :)

[stephofthenight]

mother, sometimes the best poems are those of which wernt completly thought out, they where just written from thoughts, and emotions...I realy like it

[motherhubbard]

thanks guys- I just love having babies

[Granny5]

thanks guys- I just love having babies

Much better you than me....no work for me, just loving and spoiling!! I love my new job!! It's a very beautiful and moving poem, MH. I know exactly what you mean.

[Poppy]

I would think the word PATIENCE would be appropriate to TEACH then.

Full steam ahead, he yells.
Have patience old pal we don't
want to run out of coal
before the passengers
have boarded.

[ampoule]

All right everyone. Let's hear it for



PATIENCE


Thank you Poppy.

[PrinceMyshkin]

To hell with waiting any longer. I was an adult. I didn't have to wait. Children had to wait: sit here, sit there, keep still, we'll see, maybe on your next birthday, ask me one more time and... And old people had to wait, thanklessly, for release, for permission to leave. At either end of our lives, we spent hours and days, months, waiting. And in the middle, too. Prisoners had to wait, having refused at some time in the past to wait for what our society would have had them believe would be theirs, would belong to all of us, tomorrow: tomorrow being the time that adults invented to keep kids quiet, and the rich and powerful to keep the poor in line. And those who had given their hearts too easily in love, who had tried to buy love with the thin, perpetually diminishing coin of their patient hopefulness. All those and others had to wait, but not me; not any longer. Humanity was one long, endless waiting line that went in a spiral around and around the world. The line wavered in places and there were gaps in it here and there where some of the waiters had given up and others had not yet closed the ranks, but for the most part the line was docile and remarkably well-behaved. Everyone was waiting, as they had been trained since birth to do.

[CdnReader]

WELL! I can't compete with that!!! :flare:
(This is PERFECT, PM. Loved it!)

[motherhubbard]

Jerry, I think I'll step outside of those velvet ropes and leave my spot in the queue and JUST DO SOMETHING

[ampoule]

A beautifully written piece on a not so beautiful subject Prince. It stirs me up. Thank you.

[ampoule]

Waiting Without Complaining

My face, against the spindles of your crib,
is marked with my vigilant watch
of your tiny sleeping and those precious
eyelids that I want to kiss awake.
But I must wait without complaining
for you to finish your sweet baby dreams
and wake up hungry enough to satisfy
my fullness.

My face, pressed against a window now,
the panes marking my vigilant watch
for my love's headlights turning onto
our rainy street, your footsteps at the door.
But I must wait without complaining
for you to safely sit down at my table,
to reach for my hands, to look in my eyes
full of relief.

My face, marked by a cold and aching arm rest,
looks into the face of a large numbered clock
wondering if it is time to begin the wake for
the removal of my closest friend's identity.
But I must wait without complaining
for the angels of mercy to set her about
for garden walks and Earl Grey and lemon bread
with me.

My face, false strength holding a quivering chin,
searches my father's every detail, making note
of his voice and words, tracing his brow while
knowing he longs for a peaceful forever rest.
But I must wait without complaining
for each day, each hour, each minute, each second,
that his river veined hands might reach up and
brush my cheek.

Patience, I will gladly wait with you.

[PrinceMyshkin]

How lovely, Ampoule!

[ampoule]

How lovely, Ampoule!

Thank you Prince. Two such different perspectives on patience. I know I have felt yours and I'm pretty sure you have felt mine. :blush: Now what were we talking about here? ;)

[Pendragon]

If it was Patience, I think you guys covered it to the max! Salutations to all!

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/Wound_bows_2.gif

[Granny5]

Pen, give them a new word....Poppy is up and ready to have a go.

[ampoule]

Unless Pen comes back with a word, why don't we continue with virtues. Howz about CHARITY?

[Poppy]

Charity doesn’t have to cost anything,
well, not in the fiscal sense.
It can be just giving of time, efforts
and especially love.

Old man Dawson was a sage’s sage,
a man’s man if you will.
He lived in the green house next door
real close to my bedroom wall.

I first met him when he moved back North,
he was the new teacher in the sixth.
He was fairly aged at the time but didn’t
look his years.

I was in his class, on his teams and sometime
the target of his swats.
This was the year that JFK died, and when
teachers could still teach.

Besides his love of teaching, his passion was
the great outdoors.
I suspect at some point like self examination
he thought I should learn its ways.

There were endless trips to wood and stream,
coon, squirrel and perch.
In early morning we ran his hounds, the blue tick
and the redbone.

The bounty that we brought back home was never
gone to waste.
The nature meat was turned over to the lady of
the house.

His missus was such a lovely soul, God fearing but
always frail.
But cooking was her forte; well you could tell
just by the smells.

Both are long gone, both buried together
somewere I presume.
As I think back on them, remembering kind souls,
I wish I had thanked him more.

Giving of his time, his knowledge and his
friendship are the things I received.
So its payback time, its my turn to pass on
what this mentor shared with me.

~Poppy

[ampoule]

What a wonderful tribute! I can hear the hounds barking and smell the vittles!

[CdnReader]

You are such a wonderful storyteller, Poppy. I'm so glad you've come here to share your stories with all of us. Thank you!! :)

[Pendragon]

If I Have Not Charity…

It was a white frame house with a green tin roof,
Down on the corner near the river and the railroad.
When the winter snows would come it would get so cold,
I’ve seen ice freeze on the walls inside…

To call us poor was probably flattery,
Momma raising three kids by herself in the 60’s,
When a woman on her own like that could get a bad name.
But you know my momma bore up under anything…

She taught me never to be ashamed of who I was,
To mind my manners, and respect other folks—
How to give an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.
She taught me how that color doesn’t define anyone,
And that even faith has to come from somewhere within,
And if I had anything at all to share—that was charity.

Dad had pulled two tours of duty over in Vietnam.
Came back—he just never came back home.
Never sent a dime of support for his family,
But we always got by, somehow, someway, anyway—

Always appreciated all those hand-me-down clothes,
The milk and the eggs from the man who owned the farm.
We never really found out who had two loads of wood delivered,
And The Elder beside us sent us things from his garden.

And I can recall so many, many a time—
All of us kids on the block out in our backyard.
We didn’t have a lot, but we picnicked on kool-aid and bologna sandwiches.
Momma believed you gotta take Charity and give it right back…

Pendragon
© 8/23/07

[Poppy]

Pen, My, My. With your permission I have archived this to read again and again. I was partial to grape kool aid and I liked my bologna fried. If it was fried then you could keep it with you longer without spoiling. Or so we thought.
This is such a great tribute to your childhood and your Mother.
~Poppy

[ampoule]

Wonderful, wonderful Pen. I am thankful that YOU are charitable with your memories.

Oooo, I LOVE fried bologna! I'd like to have some right now but I'm trying not to eat stuff like that.

Grape kool aid, unsweetened makes great playdough.
Here's another trick. IMAGINE a packet of unsweetened grape kool aid. Pretend to tear off the corner. Now pretend to pour a little in the palm of your hand. Now touch it with your tongue. Does your mouth water or what? It's a great trick for singers.

[Pendragon]

Pen, My, My. With your permission I have archived this to read again and again. I was partial to grape kool aid and I liked my bologna fried. If it was fried then you could keep it with you longer without spoiling. Or so we thought.
This is such a great tribute to your childhood and your Mother.
~PoppyPermission doesn't have to be sought, Poppy. If I write something you like, read it as often as you like. I always liked mine fried too, and now, that's the only way I'll eat the stuff. I lived 10 years in that house, 1965-1975. Oddly, that empty lot still defines my home and memories, although the apartment complex still is there, now redone into a nicer place, I have little memory of it. It was never home...

Pen

[CdnReader]

Pen, I loved "If I Have Not Charity...." Just beautiful. Thank you.

* * * * *

if only

if only life were so simple
that all of our needs could be filled
without expectancy
without impatience
without injustice
without anger

if only life were so simple
that all of our dreams could be realized
without exception
without impunity
without greed
without help

if only life were so simple
that we would all give
just give

if only

.
cdn/24aug07
.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Pen, I loved "If I Have Not Charity...." Just beautiful. Thank you.

* * * * *

if only

if only life were so simple
that all of our needs could be filled
without expectancy
without impatience
without injustice
without anger

if only life were so simple
that all of our dreams could be realized
without exception
without impunity
without greed
without help

if only life were so simple
that we would all give
just give

if only

.
cdn/24aug07
.

Beautiful, darling friend, but... is it life that is other than simple - or our hearts? our yearning, craving but fearful hearts?

[CdnReader]

Thank you, Jerry. In the context of this poem (and the topic of "charity"), I do mean life itself, as a whole....but certainly "heart" could easily be substituted....or even subsumed.... :)

[ampoule]

Charitable Contribution

I am your charity and I stand
eager and ready for your inspection,
to see if I am worthy of your philanthropy.
There have been taxing times, yes,
but search the records and you will see,
how much you filled my internal needs.
I can provide you with an itemized list,
if you wish,
Joy for a lagging heart
Energy for a nagging life
Fullness for a sagging flesh
and all because you gave so freely.
But there is one little glitch in all of this,
Your exemption,
for surely others will see your profit
Through me.

amp, August TwentyFourth TwoThousandSeven

[Granny5]

Charitable Contribution

I am your charity and I stand
eager and ready for your inspection,
to see if I am worthy of your philanthropy.
There have been taxing times, yes,
but search the records and you will see,
how much you filled my internal needs.
I can provide you with an itemized list,
if you wish,
Joy for a lagging heart
Energy for a nagging life
Fullness for a sagging flesh
and all because you gave so freely.
But there is one little glitch in all of this,
Your exemption,
for surely others will see your profit
Through me.

amp, August TwentyFourth TwoThousandSeven

Oh, I like this. You are so darn good at what you do. Thanks for setting the example for me.

[CdnReader]

I agree with Granny, and will add this: Amp, you always come up with THE most creative way to write about the topic. It's a constant delight to see in what unusual manner you will interpret the theme. Thanks! :)

[PrinceMyshkin]

Charitable Contribution

I am your charity and I stand
eager and ready for your inspection,
to see if I am worthy of your philanthropy.
There have been taxing times, yes,
but search the records and you will see,
how much you filled my internal needs.
I can provide you with an itemized list,
if you wish,
Joy for a lagging heart
Energy for a nagging life
Fullness for a sagging flesh
and all because you gave so freely.
But there is one little glitch in all of this,
Your exemption,
for surely others will see your profit
Through me.

amp, August TwentyFourth TwoThousandSeven

As in poetry so in life; as in life, so in poetry it is a rare pleasure to encounter heart and mind that work so well together!

[ampoule]

I agree with Granny, and will add this: Amp, you always come up with THE most creative way to write about the topic. It's a constant delight to see in what unusual manner you will interpret the theme. Thanks! :)

Thank you Cdn. It is great fun for me.



What do you say we mix it up a little and visit the 'other side'?


AVARICE

[PrinceMyshkin]

The mind has its own hand
to do its work for it,
legs that take it
to strange camps.

The mind knows no limit
to its power. It razes
half the world, day and night,
at any real or fancied slight.

Ten thousand of the choicest
virgins, the blackest
caviar, grapes
of an almost unimaginable sweetness

--all these, the mind lays out before itself,
and takes them at a single bite.





J. Newman Sudden Proclamations © 1992

[firefangled]

Wow!!

I have been remiss in coming here. Granny, Cdn, MH, Ampoule, Prince, Pen and Poppy all of these are so individual and I loved reading them. You've got Patience and Charity covered. Jerry that was a break from your usual style, I liked it very much.

I'm not that fast lately with a poem, but let's see if I can do Avarice before it changes.

She watched me as I made my trips,
along the stones I had placed,
from the guest house to the car —
she must have known the loss for me,
seventy species of flowers and herbs,
on once neglected ground tended now for years,
an oasis or a rainbow's end of color,
fragrance that would die when I was gone.
In the distance their house lurked cold
with stone and steel pushing back the red oaks,
dogwoods, like intruders or spectators,
the chimney towering like a snorkel seeking better air.
She craned her neck, nervously accounting
each simple item, ordered me to leave the
varnished stump that had been my bed table,
then must have pondered my rejection,
gave her head a toss that she had won her game.
When I had packed up my books and clothes,
my office, and tools with which I lived majestically
as I could, with a heavy heart, I looked my last around
and then at her, whose eyes were, for a moment,
cast down. I smiled sadly for her, being part of his estate,
knowing I would make another home, another place,
but she would remain here, would remain here snared in plunder.

[PrinceMyshkin]

snared in plunder.

is like the flash that allows one to see into an interesting, complex mind!

[Poppy]

I take all of you just for myself
I could never share that part.
There is no room for anyone else
to know what I feel and
experience.
Its just for me and me alone,
don't ever think I will apportion.
Yes, if I am greedy, so be it.
It's a sin I will gladly
commit.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I take all of you just for myself
I could never share that part.
There is no room for anyone else
to know what I feel and
experience.
Its just for me and me alone,
don't ever think I will apportion.
Yes, if I am greedy, so be it.
It's a sin I will gladly
commit.

For this, my son, I suggest you say 12 Hail Granny's and


Let my fishies go!

[Pendragon]

AVARICE, Greed, the thing that made the Native Americans a "Vanishing Race." I think I have a poem for that, yes.

Full Circle

It is truly ironic
that the lifestyle my people fought to preserve,
and the palefaces fought to destroy,
a simple lifestyle of dependence on Nature
for our food, clothing, and shelter;
of knowing which plants were good for food;
which plants were good for medicine;
of kinship with the animals
our Brothers,
killing only for food and wasting nothing;
of the bond within the tribe,
trusting fellow tribesmen without question;
putting your own life and the lives of loved ones
in the hands of others, without fear,
has become almost a religion
among many whites today.
As I sit here on the Sacred Rocks
above the rushing falls few non-Indians could ever find,
the full moon rises behind me,
casting velvet shadows that flow among the stones.
It has been over a century,
but time has finally come full circle.

DL Harris
© 6/12/99

[ampoule]

Very good poems everyone.



For this, my son, I suggest you say 12 Hail Granny's and


Let my fishies go!

Prince! You are so funny! :)

[Il Penseroso]

Native Americans are far from vanishing from my neck of the woods, though they are economically subjugated, to a frightening extent.

Avarice

shoulder folds that hint at
recognizable armor,
creased clothing of domestic stags
butting bent brows wrinkled like
their dollar tip.

[Pendragon]

Native Americans are far from vanishing from my neck of the woods, though they are economically subjugated, to a frightening extent.

Avarice

shoulder folds that hint at
recognizable armor,
creased clothing of domestic stags
butting bent brows wrinkled like
their dollar tip.I like this one, IP! I can almost see the old miser, in his out-of-fashion clothing, having ordered the cheapest thing on the menu, complained, weedled extras out of the waiter/waitress, and then screwing up his face as he must part with his payment and that dollar, a whole dollar mind you and for what? he thinks, as he puts it on the table and has to jerk his fingers loose as he stalks red-faced away...

Pen

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/ThumbsUp.gif

[PrinceMyshkin]

I like this one, IP! I can almost see the old miser, in his out-of-fashion clothing, having ordered the cheapest thing on the menu, complained, weedled extras out of the waiter/waitress, and then screwing up his face as he must part with his payment and that dollar, a whole dollar mind you and for what? he thinks, as he puts it on the table and has to jerk his fingers loose as he stalks red-faced away...

Pen

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/ThumbsUp.gif

I did very much like the strong taut poem by IP, and I love this vignette of yours, Pen! Brilliant bit of characterization!

[Il Penseroso]

Thanks Pen and Prince. Now if only I didn't find myself and some folks around me a bit in that depiction of avarice, I'd feel a little more comfortable with the poem.

[ampoule]

More

More
More for me
I really need more
I shall never have enough
Stack it here, stack it there
On the desk or under the chair
The shelf is full, spilled on the floor
I can still walk through it so give me more
What's that I hear, a knock at my door
I cannot get to it so I'll just ignore
The outstretched hand in need
Curse their incessant greed
I just don't have enough
They don't need more
More than me
More


Another update on the words we have written poems about. I think this has been so interesting. I hope others have and I hope others will join us.

Avarice (Ampoule)
Charity (Ampoule)
Gratitude (Ampoule)
Heart (CdnReader)
Home (firefangled)
Homecoming (Pendragon)
Independence (Ampoule)
Laconic (Adolescent09)
Oriental(ism) (Il Penseroso)
Passion (Debrasue)
Patience (Poppy)
Penance (firefangled)
Romance (Zargon)
Seasons (CdnReader)
Sinful Desires (PrinceMyshkin)
Soliloquy (Symphony)
Teach (Ampoule)
Tranquility (stephofthenight)
Trust (Bii)
Vacant (Jon1jt)

Someone, anyone, new word please!

[TheFifthElement]

Considering the very lovely poem you posted on the 'Pylon poetry' thread, perhaps:

Childhood

[PrinceMyshkin]

Novelty




Ecclesiastes 1:9:
What has been will be again,
what has been done will be done again;
there is nothing new under the sun.
What is the new
but the old rediscovered as if for the first time!
All that is old
is new in the voluntary heart!

And all that is new
is jaded and tired and despised
in the heart that knows only
the first person singular!

Between the “I” and the ”you”
of the universe
there is nothing but the emptiness of space,
the anti-matter
of unlove

waiting, as always,
for the bravest of hearts.

[ampoule]

Considering the very lovely poem you posted on the 'Pylon poetry' thread, perhaps:

Childhood

Good choice. I hope you will share a poem here also.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Good choice. I hope you will share a poem here also.

&^%$*#@ [deleted] [censored] [doubly deleted] [editted] [deleted] [deleted] [deleted] [deleted] [deleted]!!!!!

[ampoule]

&^%$*#@ [deleted] [censored] [doubly deleted] [editted] [deleted] [deleted] [deleted] [deleted] [deleted]!!!!!

DON'T DO THAT! We could have handled two words! At first I thought 'novelty' was your offering for 'childhood'. Please repost it. It was great!

[Pendragon]

For the word was Childhood, I believe?

TRANSFORMATION #2

The snowflake skies were bright with cold;
the porch sprouted icicle fangs, the roads grew slick.
Strangely, the old man didn’t feel quite so old;

life bubbled inside him; something seemed to remold
him—the years fell away. (Now, that’s quite a trick!)
The snowflake skies were bright with cold

and his boots skidded, frantic for a foothold,
but he laughed at his grandson, hidden behind the Buick.
Strangely, the old man didn’t feel quite so old.

He ducked a well-aimed snowball and didn’t scold.
Instead he fired one back yelling, “You’re on, Rick!”
The snowflake skies were bright with cold

as they snowball fought their way back to the threshold,
laughing wildly at each other’s antics.
Strangely, the old man didn’t feel quite so old,

grabbing his grandson in thin arms to enfold
him in a hug that belied the fact that he was old and sick.
The snowflake skies were bright with cold—
strangely, the old man didn’t feel quite as old…

Dale Harris
©4/4/98

And the word was also Novelty.

ANNIVERSARY

The call that came in was particularly annoying.
It was a tip, anonymous,
of course, on a shipment of bootleg alcohol.
And, as usual, no one else here at the Agency
could go. Still, it could be a lead on the gang we were after,
so I tried hard to forget that it was also our anniversary…

It was always like this on our anniversary,
some stupid, problematic, annoying
little tip that would send me scurrying out after
vague, anonymous
persons. But my job here at the Agency
wasn’t for the soft. There was an alcoholic

slumped by the curb, dreaming his alcohol-
induced dreams. The poor man probably didn’t even know what “anniversary”
meant. We had had a problem with these guys ever since the Agency’s
fiasco at Waco. Tonight, I found it extremely annoying.
He was just a bum, an anonymous
bit of stagnated humanity, but the way he jumped after

I yelled was comical. He fled as if he expected me to chase after
him. I laughed. Stupid, lousy alcoholics!
Because of them I had to track down these shadowy, anonymous
crooks on the night of my anniversary!
Not only that, but this was the sixth year in a row that this annoying
problem had occurred! Blast the AFT Agency!

The vacant warehouse wasn’t all that far from the Agency,
in a rundown neighborhood that you wanted to avoid after
dark. From somewhere inside an exhaust fan made an annoying
racket. One thing for sure, the place reeked of alcohol.
I thought of Laura. Some anniversary!
Well, I hoped the anonymous

tipster was right. There was a shape against the wall; unfocused, anonymous.
“Get your hands up!” I shouted. He was calm. “You from the Agency?”
“I said, put your…” “We’ve got unfinished business, copper. It’s our anniversary”
His face was suddenly visible. Still the same, after
seven years. His clothing was that of the old alcoholic.
He grinned in a way that I’d always found to be very annoying.

It’s annoying, really, writing the paperwork on these anonymous
homicides. But it’s Agency regulations, even on old alcoholics.
And after I write up Big Louie, here, maybe I can finally keep my anniversary!

Dale Harris
© 5/21/00

[PrinceMyshkin]

Some, it seems, are born old
or never acquire the knack
of being foolish and young!
And some, it seems, have both
in good measure.

Yesterday, my daughter, 37,
her lover, 24, and my next to youngest
grand-daughter, going on 6, discovered
the school playground
across the way from me, entered
and went climbing on everything
they could find, then
one of them proposed a game of tag

and 37, 24 and going-on-6 were soon chasing each other
around and around, laughing
their fool heads off and you couldn’t have told
37 from 24 from going-on-6!

[motherhubbard]

A quickie that comes to mind- I've had many spaghetti kisses

You little necked choochy butt,
With spaghetti on your face
Gum in your hair
Mud between your toes
And sticky sucker fingers
It’s time for a bath.
I’ll draw up the warm water with
Lots of bubbles and too many tub toys.
You can leave sand on the bottom
And a ring around the tub.
Once the water has turned cold on the floor
And you are clean and dry,
We’ll find your Spiderman pajamas
And think all the thinks you can think.

[PrinceMyshkin]

A quickie that comes to mind- I've had many spaghetti kisses

You little necked choochy butt,
With spaghetti on your face
Gum in your hair
Mud between your toes
And sticky sucker fingers
It’s time for a bath.
I’ll draw up the warm water with
Lots of bubbles and too many tub toys.
You can leave sand on the bottom
And a ring around the tub.
Once the water has turned cold on the floor
And you are clean and dry,
We’ll find your Spiderman pajamas
And think all the thinks you can think.


But did he think the thinks
you thought he’d think
or maybe he’d thunk them all before?
And anyway how many thinks
can a little thinker think
while you are mopping up the floor?

[ampoule]

Some, it seems, are born old
or never acquire the knack
of being foolish and young!
And some, it seems, have both
in good measure.

Yesterday, my daughter, 37,
her lover, 24, and my next to youngest
grand-daughter, going on 6, discovered
the school playground
across the way from me, entered
and went climbing on everything
they could find, then
one of them proposed a game of tag

and 37, 24 and going-on-6 were soon chasing each other
around and around, laughing
their fool heads off and you couldn’t have told
37 from 24 from going-on-6!


Prince...how very very delightful!


A quickie that comes to mind- I've had many spaghetti kisses

You little necked choochy butt,
With spaghetti on your face
Gum in your hair
Mud between your toes
And sticky sucker fingers
It’s time for a bath.
I’ll draw up the warm water with
Lots of bubbles and too many tub toys.
You can leave sand on the bottom
And a ring around the tub.
Once the water has turned cold on the floor
And you are clean and dry,
We’ll find your Spiderman pajamas
And think all the thinks you can think.

Awwww...that is really really sweet! And Prince's reply is darn cute too!

[motherhubbard]

prince it is very good. I can see them with rosy cheeks running and happy. It made me think of this which I have posted before-

I didn’t want to hear to them when
they said it would happen over night,
in the blink of an eye.

A week ago today I watched you play tag,
running and reaching with childish abandon-
free, uninhibited.

Today you applied eye shadow and lip gloss,
flipping your hair in the mirror
for hours.

What are you doing?
Go outside and run in the wind,
make a mud pie, get dirty!

There’s time and more time to be old,
but today is short and fading.
Take this minute and make it last.

Face the sky and spin.
You are young, but not for too long,
There’s no need to rush

[ampoule]

For the word was Childhood, I believe?

TRANSFORMATION #2

The snowflake skies were bright with cold;
the porch sprouted icicle fangs, the roads grew slick.
Strangely, the old man didn’t feel quite so old;

life bubbled inside him; something seemed to remold
him—the years fell away. (Now, that’s quite a trick!)
The snowflake skies were bright with cold

and his boots skidded, frantic for a foothold,
but he laughed at his grandson, hidden behind the Buick.
Strangely, the old man didn’t feel quite so old.

He ducked a well-aimed snowball and didn’t scold.
Instead he fired one back yelling, “You’re on, Rick!”
The snowflake skies were bright with cold

as they snowball fought their way back to the threshold,
laughing wildly at each other’s antics.
Strangely, the old man didn’t feel quite so old,

grabbing his grandson in thin arms to enfold
him in a hug that belied the fact that he was old and sick.
The snowflake skies were bright with cold—
strangely, the old man didn’t feel quite as old…

Dale Harris
©4/4/98


I love it Pen. Children keep us young. Playing is a child's work but it is our reward.

I'll comment on novelty later.

[firefangled]

Pen, Childhood was so sweet and reminded me of the scene in the Godfather where Vito and his grandchild were playing in the tomatoes. Very nice.




Some, it seems, are born old
or never acquire the knack
of being foolish and young!




This especially rang true.

Such a genuine life picture of losing (or is it finding) ourselves during a moment with how we used to play. Wonderful!

[firefangled]

It was Sunday night; they had been dancing slow,
in some Chapel St. dive, maybe feeling a highball —
my father had just come home from two years in Fiji,
and with her face burning from whiskey and waiting,
she was pressing into him, arms around his neck,
perfume and heat rising with his breathing.
There would have been no guilty hesitation later,
they would have ravaged each other like animals
and then lingered for hours in the chimerical sweetness
of touching, the light of nakedness pouring into dilated eyes.
They would have smiled like sleepy children and then slept
in the twisted singularity of forgetting they were two.

There are no photos of where I was waiting that evening,
but some say I made the choice knowing both of them —
that his hearing was growing lost with his lullabies,
and he would carry unknown for his life the incessant
shock and recoil of the guns aiming into his spot of light.
I knew, they say, and regardless went to her tenderness
that would petrify in the harsh desert of his fatherless anger,
I wanted to arrive, captured in the tangled web of Rome,
where they played out their duty in a different kind of story
than I can now write, and that would have served them better.
And though I can imagine remembering the music of their dance,
I am lost forever between that waltz and early Monday morning.

[firefangled]

This is mine, I think, the words
in their rows, like an ear of corn,
unique, and of course the screen with titles:
The Garden, Fortress, Love Poem.

Then I read a book of poems
by a “courageous writer,” “slicing
through the arbitrary,” “a writer
of astounding novelty.” Page
after page with gardens, and love,
fortresses of syntax and form.

How alike we are to use the same words
over and over and mean so many different things.

[CdnReader]

^^^ I love this, FF. The anthropology of language looks at WHY we choose the words we do.... both in speech and in writing. Not to mention wondering whether we can or how we can think of things if we don't know the "words" that go with them. This aspect of humanity is utterly fascinating, I think.

You're so right. All we do is continue to rework the same words into different orders, different formats. But what does it all MEAN? :D

[CdnReader]

.

play



play house, drink pretend tea
climb in the tent, hide and go seek
read a book, tell a story
snuggle

run outside, sing a silly song
push each other on the swing
share a pizza
giggle

a three-year-old pretending to be grown
and a grown-up pretending to be three



.
cdn/16may06
.


P.S. Amp.... Loved your "More" under the theme of avarice. Well done!

[ampoule]

.

play



play house, drink pretend tea
climb in the tent, hide and go seek
read a book, tell a story
snuggle

run outside, sing a silly song
push each other on the swing
share a pizza
giggle

a three-year-old pretending to be grown
and a grown-up pretending to be three



.
cdn/16may06
.


P.S. Amp.... Loved your "More" under the theme of avarice. Well done!


Thank you Cdn. Makin that little ball was fun. It reminds me of a Friendship Ball I got once that was full of very special treats and I was very greedy and did not share. :(

I like your play poem. Pretending is such fun.

[stephofthenight]

hey guys, whats the new word?

[ampoule]

hey guys, whats the new word?

Hey Steph! Good to see you. The word is CHILDHOOD.

[Granny5]

Summer

We don’t need no stinking shoes
Or toys to keep us happy
We just need an empty field
And trash to mark the bases
A watermelon patch in dark of night
And salt to add more flavor
Under the street light we’ll eat the hearts
And hope the farmer don’t catch us
A cotton field that’s tall enough
To hide our heads from the seeker
A neighbor lady who likes to tell
Stories of ghosts and undertakers
Give us a shovel and we’ll dig a pool
Cause someone has new flooring
We’ll use the old to line our pool
And we’ll swim till our toes are swiveled
Tomorrow will be another day
And we’ll find a new game to play
And when we grow old and think
Of these things we’ll smile and not
Remember of the toys we wanted

[ampoule]

Granny, I adore this. How did you know about my childhood? ;) Well, some of it anyway. Mmmmm....watermelon hearts. I used to steal them from my husband's watermelon. He knew I could not be trusted but he would always go into the TV room after slicing his watermelon leaving the other half for my temptation....and I was weak and never prayed for strength.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Summer

We don’t need no stinking shoes
Or toys to keep us happy
We just need an empty field
And trash to mark the bases
A watermelon patch in dark of night
And salt to add more flavor
Under the street light we’ll eat the hearts
And hope the farmer don’t catch us
A cotton field that’s tall enough
To hide our heads from the seeker
A neighbor lady who likes to tell
Stories of ghosts and undertakers
Give us a shovel and we’ll dig a pool
Cause someone has new flooring
We’ll use the old to line our pool
And we’ll swim till our toes are swiveled
Tomorrow will be another day
And we’ll find a new game to play
And when we grow old and think
Of these things we’ll smile and not
Remember of the toys we wanted

How lovely how this flows out like one long breath of exaltation!

[PrinceMyshkin]

“Hope,” it was said,
“is the childhood of the world.”
I passed mine by the other day
on Villeneuve Street in Montreal
where it always waits for me.

The neighbourhood kids were still out there
playing sidewalk handball, roiller-skating,
Norma Dishell and Lionel Segal
and the Dalfen boys with their intriguing
older sisters, seldom seen,
but fantasized about in their young
womanhood, and Barney
Furstenfeld, Muriel and Harriet
Atkins and of course

the Garfinkle boys assisting their father
in the grocery. Blonde Jews!
Calm, soft-spoken, vigorous-bodied Jews!
I never knew what to make of them
but I loved going there
on errands for my Mom.
I make a point of driving by that block
whenever I can, to revisit my childhood
and wave fondly at it as I drive by...

[ampoule]

“Hope,” it was said,
“is the childhood of the world.”
I passed mine by the other day
on Villeneuve Street in Montreal
where it always waits for me.

The neighbourhood kids were still out there
playing sidewalk handball, roiller-skating,
Norma Dishell and Lionel Segal
and the Dalfen boys with their intriguing
older sisters, seldom seen,
but fantasized about in their young
womanhood, and Barney
Furstenfeld, Muriel and Harriet
Atkins and of course

the Garfinkle boys assisting their father
in the grocery. Blonde Jews!
Calm, soft-spoken, vigorous-bodied Jews!
I never knew what to make of them
but I loved going there
on errands for my Mom.
I make a point of driving by that block
whenever I can, to revisit my childhood
and wave fondly at it as I drive by...


Oh Prince.

[TheFifthElement]

Considering the very lovely poems so far, I almost didn't post this, but then I suppose every parent will relate to this most dreaded of words. Synonymous with childhood.....

Why?

Why do the rainbows come when it rains?
Why can't I fish the leaves from the drains?
Why can't I have chocolate cake for my tea?
Why won't you let me climb the tree?
Why can the birds fly, but not I?
Why do you always know when I lie?
Why do my Grandma's teeth come out?
Why do you tell me not to pout?
Why do you send me to bed at night?
Why can't me and my sister fight?
Why is the grass green and not blue?
Why do you tell me what to do?
Why don't you answer my questions Dad?
Why do they always make you mad?!


Perhaps you could add your own?

[ampoule]

Considering the very lovely poems so far, I almost didn't post this, but then I suppose every parent will relate to this most dreaded of words. Synonymous with childhood.....

Why?

Why do the rainbows come when it rains?
Why can't I fish the leaves from the drains?
Why can't I have chocolate cake for my tea?
Why won't you let me climb the tree?
Why can the birds fly, but not I?
Why do you always know when I lie?
Why do my Grandma's teeth come out?
Why do you tell me not to pout?
Why do you send me to bed at night?
Why can't me and my sister fight?
Why is the grass green and not blue?
Why do you tell me what to do?
Why don't you answer my questions Dad?
Why do they always make you mad?!


Perhaps you could add your own?

But why? hehe
Very good. I'm glad you added it because childhood would not be complete without why. Thank goodness...and children...for it.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Considering the very lovely poems so far, I almost didn't post this, but then I suppose every parent will relate to this most dreaded of words. Synonymous with childhood.....

Why?

Why do the rainbows come when it rains?
Why can't I fish the leaves from the drains?
Why can't I have chocolate cake for my tea?
Why won't you let me climb the tree?
Why can the birds fly, but not I?
Why do you always know when I lie?
Why do my Grandma's teeth come out?
Why do you tell me not to pout?
Why do you send me to bed at night?
Why can't me and my sister fight?
Why is the grass green and not blue?
Why do you tell me what to do?
Why don't you answer my questions Dad?
Why do they always make you mad?!


Perhaps you could add your own?

For me the troublesome word was "when," especialy at the beginning of a question. After the mothre of my kids and I separated, I would have them every week-end. The drive was about 30 minutes long and inevitably my daughter, at 3 or 4 or 5 would ask: "When are we going to get there, Dad?"

Assuming that she had only a hazy sense of time, I forbade her to ask questions that began with "when." Of course it took her about three seconds to come up with: "How much longer until..."

[firefangled]

Across my bed I would build with random size
blocks of wood, the cities you and I protected;
armies of molded soldiers under my command
and you ever vigilant against intrusive eyes.

Though I listened poorly, it was you who gave
the gift of story as my life’s reason and my refuge,
castles from crates, enhancing Autumn leaves,
and lost within a patch of trees, a voice to save.

Never named, your voice calls, enchanted friend,
from beyond the wall, the briar thicket, darkness,
all that has grown or been built for years between us:
Carve out a door; follow me to childhood’s end.

Leave what you can, whatever blocks your way. Keep
what you must keep, what love and hate have burned
into your soul. These pages are no longer in the past,
they rush at you in your aerie, lifting you to see.

[Poppy]

Great Fire...my molded soldiers were on a big pile of top soil. Fresh and cool when you dug deep into it. Thanks.
~Poppy

[ampoule]

Childhood, part one

Begat by force, the mystery
surrounds this smiling thing
that she holds at arms length,
this thing that seems to require
nothing of her, just the basics.
Of that she is expert and the
smiling thing is so perfect in
frills and patent and bouncing
ringlets of red, a father is
captured and held with his
utmost approval by the tiny
antics of this happiness, and
the lavish gift of freedom to
roam outside fences, is given.
The smiling thing pays no heed
to furious fights or hot Georgia
sun blisters, but offers mudpies
and magnolia sandwiches to
satisfy their hunger, and they,
they call her daughter.

amp, August ThirtyFirst, TwoThousandSeven

[Poppy]

Childhood, part one

Begat by force, the mystery
surrounds this smiling thing
that she holds at arms length,
this thing that seems to require
nothing of her, just the basics.
Of that she is expert and the
smiling thing is so perfect in
frills and patent and bouncing
ringlets of red, a father is
captured and held with his
utmost approval by the tiny
antics of this happiness, and
the lavish gift of freedom to
roam outside fences, is given.
The smiling thing pays no heed
to furious fights or hot Georgia
sun blisters, but offers mudpies
and magnolia sandwiches to
satisfy their hunger, and they,
they call her daughter.

amp, August ThirtyFirst, TwoThousandSeven

Excellent amp. Gosh I love the South!!!!!

[ampoule]

Poppy, thank you so much. I don't know why I struggled coming up with a poem about childhood. I had such a happy one that when word was chosen several ideas just jumped out. But when I tried to complete them, they all dead ended. But this one does capture my youngest years. I lived in Georgia for many of those so I also love the south. :)

[firefangled]

This so celebrates the genius of children to see beyond what we call reality and create. Something, Ampoule, you were born to do! Wonderful poem. I can't wait to see Part B.



The smiling thing pays no heed
to furious fights or hot Georgia
sun blisters, but offers mudpies
and magnolia sandwiches to
satisfy their hunger, and they,
they call her daughter.

amp, August ThirtyFirst, TwoThousandSeven

[ampoule]

And now I can click my heels together and go off to meet my day with a nice little smile that will make people wonder. ;) Thank you Fire, very much.

We have gotten quite a lot of mileage with the word CHILDHOOD so do you think we should move on to Prince's choice.....



Novelty




Ecclesiastes 1:9:
What has been will be again,
what has been done will be done again;
there is nothing new under the sun.
What is the new
but the old rediscovered as if for the first time!
All that is old
is new in the voluntary heart!

And all that is new
is jaded and tired and despised
in the heart that knows only
the first person singular!

Between the “I” and the ”you”
of the universe
there is nothing but the emptiness of space,
the anti-matter
of unlove

waiting, as always,
for the bravest of hearts.

[firefangled]

And now I can click my heels together and go off to meet my day with a nice little smile that will make people wonder. ;) Thank you Fire, very much.

We have gotten quite a lot of mileage with the word CHILDHOOD so do you think we should move on to Prince's choice.....


Novelty


I second that emotion (in my best Smokey voice)

[ampoule]

Ooooo....sing it! :D

[firefangled]

What if the iPod and the Blackberry, Wii,
the Razor and the Blackjack were renamed?
Instead of Captain Crunch, or Improved
Tide or, now, Green Mountain, Seattle’s Best,
Newman’s Own coffees, or, where there is White
Ice Tea, Pastel Bottled sugar of an infinite variety,
what if they were all named Dernier Cri? Every fad
the way Frank Wakefield names his mandolin tunes —
Jesus Loves His Mandolin Player #2, Jesus Loves
His Mandolin Player #67. No more misleading words
like BEST, Healthy, or Less Tar. We would be free
from the curse of embellishment affecting our choice.
If there were Dernier Cri #5, Dernier Cri #183? What then?
Which would we choose, in their brightly illustrated
boxes, the layers of packaging, each revealing
a different material concealing the prize. Digging
like a paleontologist for the celebrated bones, past
gauzy styrofoam, boxes within boxes of felt lined
compartments, their Nalgene™ skeletons pressed
out in a wonder of contemporary manufacturing,
slanted on each side to a 57.01234 degree angle,
intended to cast a slight shading between
the latest thing and its rapidly disappearing edge.

Finally, you would reach the desired strata, the find,
the presentation layer, and it would lie framed in shadow,
the User Manual in Vellum Bristol, nestled in a niche
on the underside of the lid, calculated to impress.
The thing itself covered in a unique sheet of bubbles,
each tiny dome bearing the initials DC, lying gently
over your quest, 3.00314572 by 5.88986989 inches,
the label in Garamond 9.5, Sunlight on Wicker glaze,
or Blue Tsunami, the LED covered in a smoke E-Z Peel™
film, the Satin Brushed finished, the long awaited, Dernier Cri #999.

[PrinceMyshkin]

God, Dernier Cri is glorious! Glorious! Who would have thought that in addition to your brightly coloured palette, your fine brushes, you possessed a rapier as well?

Smite the infidels! Discomfort the comfortable! Sail on, O ship of state! Sail on, O union strong and great! Humanity, with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging, breathless, on thy fate...

(What this has to do with your poem, I don't know. But it got lodged in my brain & this was the only way I could get it out. And by the way I can do a fairly creditable imitation of Winston Churchill quoting that from a handwritten note he'd received from FDR before the US joined in fighting WWII.)

[Pendragon]

A little tounge-in-cheek Novelty...

Million Years From Now

Just thinking about my skull,
Been x-rayed and MRI scanned.
I’ve been knocked out cold,
By fists, car wrecks, and bicycle chains.
I think I have had about three concussions,
I used to break bricks with my forehead.
I have high cheekbones from the Cherokee,
And a brow ridge from who-knows-where.
There’s a place on my forehead where the bones grew funny;
You can sink your fingernails into the crack.
I’m wondering what kind of man science will call me,
When they dig me up and label my skull.
A million years from now…

Pendragon
© 9/3/07

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/LP_skull.gif

[PrinceMyshkin]

A little tounge-in-cheek Novelty...

Million Years From Now

And a bloody funny one it is, too! Thanks!

[firefangled]

Funny poem, Pen. Your skull would, of course, be Homo Sapiens Pendragon.

[ampoule]

I know we shouldn't have to explain our poems but I thought some people may not know what I mean by VFW. Those are the initials for Veteran's of Foreign Wars and when I speak of 'at the VFW', I am referring to a building, a hall, where Veterans can gather together for private or public events.

Saturday Night At the VFW

I love jammin' with the old guys at the VFW on Saturday nights.
Did they sit in fox holes choosing the tunes they would play tonight?
Were they charging onto foreign beaches with harmonies going through their heads?
Was Hank Sr. calling the beat as they walked their close-order drills?
Did they sleep with their rifles pretending they were plucking the strings
of their guitars, banjos, mandolins, an occasional bass or hammered dulcimer?

I love jammin' with the old guys at the VFW on Saturday nights,
pickin' and grinnin', the old country songs, those Appalachian lullabies so sweet,
the twang and the yodel from their throats so free,
the clappin' and stompin' when the band plays "I Saw the Light", and
the tear wipin' on "Farther Along....we'll know all about it, farther along
we'll understand why...." Will we?

I love jammin' with the old guys at the VFW on Saturday nights
who would gladly put on their uniforms if they could button them,
whose uniforms now are faded blue jeans and plaid shirts that bulge at the belly,
and caps emblazoned with the initials of their service, when they were young
and strong and brave and scared to death and wishin' like heck
that they were jammin' with the old guys at the VFW on Saturday nights.

[ampoule]

Granny's poem this morning, Just A Thought, made me wonder if we would like to write about....


JEALOUSY

[firefangled]

I know we shouldn't have to explain our poems but I thought some people may not know what I mean by VFW. Those are the initials for Veteran's of Foreign Wars and when I speak of 'at the VFW', I am referring to a building, a hall, where Veterans can gather together for private or public events.

Saturday Night At the VFW

I love jammin' with the old guys at the VFW on Saturday nights.
Did they sit in fox holes choosing the tunes they would play tonight?
Were they charging onto foreign beaches with harmonies going through their heads?
Was Hank Sr. calling the beat as they walked their close-order drills?
Did they sleep with their rifles pretending they were plucking the strings
of their guitars, banjos, mandolins, an occasional bass or hammered dulcimer?

I love jammin' with the old guys at the VFW on Saturday nights,
pickin' and grinnin', the old country songs, those Appalachian lullabies so sweet,
the twang and the yodel from their throats so free,
the clappin' and stompin' when the band plays "I Saw the Light", and
the tear wipin' on "Farther Along....we'll know all about it, farther along
we'll understand why...." Will we?

I love jammin' with the old guys at the VFW on Saturday nights
who would gladly put on their uniforms if they could button them,
whose uniforms now are faded blue jeans and plaid shirts that bulge at the belly,
and caps emblazoned with the initials of their service, when they were young
and strong and brave and scared to death and wishin' like heck
that they were jammin' with the old guys at the VFW on Saturday nights.

Amp, this is joyous, marvelous, and such an indirect but poignant salute. I love the rhythm of it.

My stepfather was a Colonel in the Air Force and a POW in WW II. I have been at some of the "jammins" he goes to at the VFW and they get so much out of the company.

Kudos again.

[Poppy]

I know we shouldn't have to explain our poems but I thought some people may not know what I mean by VFW. Those are the initials for Veteran's of Foreign Wars and when I speak of 'at the VFW', I am referring to a building, a hall, where Veterans can gather together for private or public events.

Saturday Night At the VFW

I love jammin' with the old guys at the VFW on Saturday nights.
Did they sit in fox holes choosing the tunes they would play tonight?
Were they charging onto foreign beaches with harmonies going through their heads?
Was Hank Sr. calling the beat as they walked their close-order drills?
Did they sleep with their rifles pretending they were plucking the strings
of their guitars, banjos, mandolins, an occasional bass or hammered dulcimer?

I love jammin' with the old guys at the VFW on Saturday nights,
pickin' and grinnin', the old country songs, those Appalachian lullabies so sweet,
the twang and the yodel from their throats so free,
the clappin' and stompin' when the band plays "I Saw the Light", and
the tear wipin' on "Farther Along....we'll know all about it, farther along
we'll understand why...." Will we?

I love jammin' with the old guys at the VFW on Saturday nights
who would gladly put on their uniforms if they could button them,
whose uniforms now are faded blue jeans and plaid shirts that bulge at the belly,
and caps emblazoned with the initials of their service, when they were young
and strong and brave and scared to death and wishin' like heck
that they were jammin' with the old guys at the VFW on Saturday nights.

Well Amp you knew I would like this one. Its my kind of stuff.

[ampoule]

I love the rhythm of it.

Thank you very much fire. I may read this one today. I'm going to visit a poetry group and thought I would take a couple of things...just in case. A long time ago, Prince thought Solstice would make a good reading.

Thank you too Poppy. It did occur to me that you might like the subject matter.


Okay everyone...the word is JEALOUSY. Do you think women feel this more than men?

[PrinceMyshkin]

The jealous lover seethes
along the sidelines. Even
in his lover’s arms
he wonders, Did she love him
perhaps more yesterday?

How jealous he is
of himself!

[ampoule]

The jealous lover seethes
along the sidelines. Even
in his lover’s arms
he wonders, Did she love him
perhaps more yesterday?

How jealous he is
of himself!

Wow! Yes, Prince, yes!

[Pendragon]

A somewhat different touch...

Green Eyes

Why does he have to stop by the Bakery,
Every day that he knows she’ll be there?
I trust my lady with all of my heart—
But his eyes are so brilliant and green…

“Do you know the price of this cake, Martha?”
Hey, pal, it’s marked on the box!
But she is always a lady and always polite—
But his eyes are so brilliant and green…

“Do you have doughnuts fresh this morning, Martha?”
Good Lord! Dude, the display case is five inches to the left!
But she keeps her decorum and shows him the pastries—
But his eyes are so brilliant and green…

Today it is cookies, tomorrow perhaps an apple pie,
Always something he could find on his own.
She has to wait on him and flash her bright smile—
But his eyes are so brilliant and green…

I take several deep breaths and I focus my chi,
He’s bothering her over nonsense this morning again.
Yet I shake his hand as the eighty-year-old man smiles up at me—
With his eyes still unfaded and so brilliantly green…

Pendragon
© 9/8/07

[ampoule]

Oh is that neat Pen! I love that cute little twist. Very nice.

[ampoule]

Jealousy

The first time I heard someone say God may have created other worlds,
I was jealous thinking why would that be necessary,
Were we a mistake?
But God does not make mistakes, we do.

Still, I find myself glancing into space wondering if some other creation
is closer to God, more full of love,
more full of the peace that passes all understanding.

But I am not green or spiteful or full of rage,
No, I am watching for love wherever I see it,
I am speaking forgiveness where it is needed,
I am giving and asking for peace, helping God create that other world.

Will you join me?


amp, September Eighth, TwoThousandSeven

[Poppy]

I say I am happy they have time to
do things together. I say it’s great
they are able to get away.
I say it’s wonderful that everything
is organized and put in its place.
I say your lucky that this is the
last payment. I tell them what
a great feeling it must be to have
their health. I tell them how they
don’t look their age.
But!
What am I really saying?

[Demian]

Even love has a dark side
though we are wrapped within her light:
The fractious haze of uncertain ways
can burn bliss from desire when left in sight.

[ampoule]

Good ones Poppy and Demian!

[ampoule]

Anyone have a new word?

[Granny5]

how about
apathy?

[ampoule]

Excellent choice ma'am, very tasty indeed. It will go beautifully with this bottle of...... ;)
Okay everyone, get your forks ready and dig in to Granny's choice of


APATHY


a little note: amp is so scared that she is this that she is going to have to work very hard. :(

[ampoule]

Gosh, I didn't want to go first, but this came to me. Hope it works.

Mass What?

She saw him everyday as she skirted into the coffee shop for her latte,
him, with his same glazed eyes, like the glazed donut that just sat there on his plate.
He really should get a life she thought...wake up, smell the coffee mister,
always, the newspaper laid out in front of him.
She clicked her fingernails on the counter and looked at her watch,
ah, extra time today, and so she sat at a table next to him, flitting through
the pages of her Cosmo, looking for new techniques she would never get to use,
constantly looking his way hoping she could engage him with her hip effervescence.
Finally, she could stand it no longer, and with her biggest smile, said,
"So, what are you reading?"
Slowly he glanced her way and looked her over, straightening his glasses,
he lifted the newspaper showing the headline, Mass Evasion in U.S.A.
Her eyes grew wide as her breath caught in her throat, "When did this happen?!"
A small smile touched his lips as he laid the paper back down on the table,
and she, checking her watch again, jumped up saying,
"Well, I'm sure our military will nip THAT in the bud! Gotta run! Nice talking to you."
He watched her race out the door and as he picked up his glazed donut he thought,
like a charm, like a charm.

amp, September Twelfth, TwoThousandSeven

[Granny5]

Great! Absolutely Great!

[motherhubbard]

Oh, how sad.
The poor dears.
May God bless them.

Did you hear that * got a promotion?
We’re planning a cruise to celebrate!

What a pity.
Yes, the poor are always with us.
It’s a good thing there’s a social program for those people.

Well, we’ve been blessed again
Another baby on the way!

Don’t look dear-
Just keep walking and don’t even think of giving him a dollar.
He’ll just spend it on cheep liquor.

Honey, look at the new drapes that just came in
I may have to change to sofa to match.

[Pendragon]

Apathy

Who knows?
Who cares?
Is it really my concern?
Am I my brother’s keeper—?
Go and ask him for yourself!
Oh, whatever!!

Are you writing a book?
Yeah, well, that’s how it goes.
You learn fast that life ain’t fair.
What does it bleeping look like?
Sure, sure. Right.
Un-huh.

Look, it’s my life, OK?
So that was back in your day, old man.
This is now; things are a whole lot different!
Of course I know what I’m doing!
Do you see “stupid” written up here?
Sheesh!

Um, hey Dad?
You got a minute?
Well, I kinda messed up here, a little.
Um, yeah, you could say that.
How long will it take you to get here?
Yeah, I’ll be waiting.
Thanks, Dad.
Love you, too, Dad, love you too…

Pendragon
© 9/12/07

[ampoule]

Great you guys!

[stephofthenight]

:bawling: i hate writers block :bawling:

[Granny5]

Turn the channel,
I can’t look at that.
“Can we send money?”
Turn the channel,
Find something else.
I’m trying to eat
And I can’t watch that.
“But the babies are crying.
They are hungry and cold.
Can we send money?
I have some of my own.”
Turn the channel,
I can’t see that.
It ruins my sleep
And I need my rest.
“But they look so sad
And I have a bank
Filled with nickels and dimes
I don’t need it at all.”
Turn the channel,
I don’t want to know.
Be a good boy now
And do as your told.

[motherhubbard]

good mom. children to often feel more than the grown ups

[Granny5]

Skyler always wants to send money when he sees the commericals of the starving children or adobt one of them. He thinks that he'll have a brother or sister if we adobt one.

[Granny5]

Do we have a new word?

[PrinceMyshkin]

Do we have a new word?

How about..."Hidden"


There is a word that is hidden from each of us.
A different word for you and me.
Our own sacred “rosebud” or Open, Sesame!

It is there on the tip of our soul’s
aching tongue, that longs to proclaim it.
We might see a stranger on the street
and want to call out: Sister! Or Brother...

But that isn’t it, exactly.
Or to the wounded child within us
we might want to say “There, there...”
But that isn’t it, exactly, either.

What is the word?
Can you provide it to me,
or must I still go on searching?

[Pendragon]

Naked Is the Best Disguise

When you pour out your heart
And the basin cannot contain it—
Dripping emotions splatter
Blood drops on an ivory floor…

The mangled detritus of dreams
Like the path of a cyclone—
A path for which there’s no need for bloodhounds,
Too easy to see…

Tears leave carved out canyons
Along sharp-edged cheekbones—
Drip-drop from the overhang of an aquiline nose
To join the spots on the floor…

A sob like a shroud tearing,
Escapes the cage of bones in the chest—
Cold are the echoes,
Like the grim laugh of Death..

With all of this taking place
On Life’s Brightly Lit Stage—
Out there before you in plain sight—
How does my hurt remain so hidden from you?
How can my misery be the one thing that remains hidden from view?

Pendragon
© 9/19/07

[Granny5]

Beautiful, Pen.

[Granny5]

Unshared

Here I am
Alone
Lonely
Locked down
Till time to
Start over
Then I will be
Alone
Lonely
Locked down
Till time to
Start over
Then I will be
Alone
Lonely
Locked down
Till time to
Start over…….

[PrinceMyshkin]

Oh, my God, Granny, this is so sad! (But at least you managed to have the last word.... again!)

[Granny5]

I have now!!! (you have to sleep sometime, Prince.)

[Granny5]

Oh, my God, Granny, this is so sad! (But at least you managed to have the last word.... again!)

Prince, I didn't mean it to be sad, just the way things are.

[motherhubbard]

mom, that was clever

[Granny5]

mom, that was clever

I'm just a clever mom.:lol:

[PrinceMyshkin]

I have now!!! (you have to sleep sometime, Prince.)

In case you haven't noticed, Sweetie, half the time I do respond to you while asleep!

[Granny5]

In case you haven't noticed, Sweetie, half the time I do respond to you while asleep!

Well, I had noticed but didn't want to say anything. I though it might be an "age" thing.:lol:

[TheFifthElement]

Because ampoule asked so nicely...

Hide and Seek

You were always good at hiding.
I covered my eyes,
and counted
10,
9,
8…
… shouted
’coming, ready or not!’,
excited by the game
we’ve played so many times before.
I start behind the sofa,
peeking round looking
for two flat feet. Instead
I found your smile,
I put it in my pocket and it
warmed me through
the thick fabric.
Behind the curtain your
irrepressible humour
wriggled and jiggled
mischievous as always
and difficult to catch.
In the cupboard under
the stairs your modesty
hid quietly, shy as always
avoiding the limelight.
Your warm heart beat
beneath the bed obvious,
as always,
you never could hide it
no matter how you tried.
In the last place left to look,
the darkened wardrobe where
you would often slip between
the coats,
I opened the door
shouting boldly,
‘I found you!’.
There was nothing there.
And then, I knew
you were hiding for good,
and we would never
play again.

For Paul 1963 - 2007

[symphony]

That was terrific, Fifth.


And since I havent been in this thread for ages ... :)

The Hidden

I am tired
of being trussed within
the warmth of your heart,
tired of the veins
pumping blood all around me
all the time.

I am tired
of being intimidated
by these pounding beats
whenever she gets closer,
tired of being licked by
the jealousies inside you,
and of the vying loathings
fostered by you.

And I’m tired
of waiting
to be beckoned
for once
and for all.
Tired of waiting
for the flight out—
out from this clogged heat,
lapped in torrid words.

How long will it be
till the Me in me erupts?
I’m tired, of enduring
your vain endeavours
to keep me tamed,
stilled and hushed.

Let me out. Now.
I’m tired of being--
The hidden,
The forbidden.

[ampoule]

Hidden

Hey! You there!
Yes, you, over there in the corner.
Come here a minute, please.
Can you help me find something?
It's got to be here.
This is where I left it.
It can't just get up and walk away.
It's here.
I know it is.
Okay, that's it.
Yes! There!
Try right there.
Well?
Did you find it?
No?
Well try again.
Sometimes it moves when it's touched.
Be gentle.
Sometimes it breaks.
Warm?
Of course it's warm.
Well....it used to be.
Can't you get just a piece of it?
Oh, I forgot to tell you.
It has a mind of its own.
What's that you're saying?
You only work for plums?
Yeah, right.
Merry Christmas to you too.
amp, September TwentySecond, TwoThousandSeven

[Riesa]

Hidden


Here I go jaunty
out in rain
swelling the earth

slick purple
lends it’s ease to them
sliding off my hat

when I shake to scatter,
your murmur reaches,
sweeps aside
twisted locks
that once
bound ears
to all but rain.

and I listen,
small and hidden.

how it’s comfortable:

truth-telling
in the rain.

your truths
enter
my mouth
like bread,
tasting
fresh and hot,

we fall easily

into a rain-soaked slide

your murmur
cracks with
utopian hope;


but raindrops
aren’t enough,
for you.

[firefangled]

She sings of pins, the mouths of birds,
among the sheets her mother hangs,
of wings which rise with night
and stir the air of dreams throughout the house.

Monsignor tells her, God hides in song,
and waits for her at the hour of death.
She is more direct with spirit things,
dreams of Kyries to feed the wings of sleep.

Father guides the choir, gives her scales
she evaporates in meadow larks,
and thrushes on the way, the room left quiet,
hushed and still like unnoticed rain.

The sisters give her pages, signed with clefs,
and birds in cages fluttering solfeggios:
she sets them free before their paper clouds
in a sky the sisters do not see.

She sleeps in sheets crisp with the day.
Like will-o'-the-wisp her breathing winds
around the bed, the chair and past the open sill,
as birds wait silently in the unfinished air.

[ampoule]

She sings of pins, the mouths of birds,
among the sheets her mother hangs,
of wings which rise with night
and stir the air of dreams throughout the house.

Monsignor tells her, God hides in song,
and waits for her at the hour of death.
She is more direct with spirit things,
dreams of Kyries to feed the wings of sleep.

Father guides the choir, gives her scales
she evaporates in meadow larks,
and thrushes on the way, the room left quiet,
hushed and still like unnoticed rain.

The sisters give her pages, signed with clefs,
and birds in cages fluttering solfeggios:
she sets them free before their paper clouds
in a sky the sisters do not see.

She sleeps in sheets crisp with the day.
Like will-o'-the-wisp her breathing winds
around the bed, the chair and past the open sill,
as birds wait silently in the unfinished air.

Oh fire, this is so achingly beautiful. I am printing this off to tape into my choir folder this morning.

[PrinceMyshkin]

When Adam heard the voice of God
in the Garden call out:
“Adam, where are thou?’
he went and hid
–as we have been doing ever since.

But then the voice of God
drew near his hiding place
and called out once again:
“Adam, where are thou?’
He found another hiding place
–as we have been doing ever since.

But God came close again.
“Adam, where are thou?’
And Adam understood
there were no more hiding places,
stepped out and said:
“Heeneni!” (Here am I!)

As you and I must do
now - or soon.

[ampoule]

~
~

evanescent

~
~

[Pendragon]

Fade to Black

Just a breath of whispered air,
A touch of faded might-have-been,
Memories lit by firefly glow
Hard to recall, eroded times.

Smoke from a campfire rises to the sky,
Mixed into the mist of maybe so.
The eyes that once never missed a thing,
Now play havoc with the words.

The mirror shows the face of someone else,
Carved out canyons on puffy flesh.
It’s the eyes that have lost it all,
They now give visions of pain, and not the soul.

Each night the prayers still go up to heaven,
“God bless all my family and friends.
But if you’d have sometime left over after that
Would you mind if I just went home?”

Funny, he isn’t really all that old,
And probably has a lot left to share.
But every day that goes by it seems a little more of him dies—
Tired out from fighting and homesick…
Just slowly fading to black…

Pendragon
© 9/27/07

[firefangled]

Fade to Black

Just a breath of whispered air,
A touch of faded might-have-been,
Memories lit by firefly glow
Hard to recall, eroded times.

Smoke from a campfire rises to the sky,
Mixed into the mist of maybe so.
The eyes that once never missed a thing,
Now play havoc with the words.


Pendragon
© 9/27/07

I really like these two stanzas, Pen. Excellent poem, but so sad.

BTW, should "might" in the last line be "mine?" Or am I misreading?

[firefangled]

Who lives with the poet but himself,
with his ash and cinders of reality,
things he first burns in the mind’s kiln?

The real and imagined are dewy mornings,
the sun and moon equally bright in the sky,
and he must state which is the reflector
and which is the furnace — his progenitor.

And from which would come his love’s Sonata,
and where is love divided from the whole and how?

Who lives with the poet's immense, ubiquitous love,
when love must be substantial, a heartbeat, clear
and cozy, rooted in the deep redness of life,
even as it gathers the dim, distended morning into words?

On the concrete streets in a bright day,
the man next to you will board the same daily train;
you do not see who walks with him in the tiffany air,
fading sun in his left hand, evanescent moon in his right.

[TheFifthElement]

Who lives with the poet but himself,
with his ash and cinders of reality,
things he first burns in the mind’s kiln?

The real and imagined are dewy mornings,
the sun and moon equally bright in the sky,
and he must state which is the reflector
and which is the furnace — his progenitor.

And from which would come his love’s Sonata,
and where is love divided from the whole and how?

Who lives with the poet's immense, ubiquitous love,
when love must be substantial, a heartbeat, clear
and cozy, rooted in the deep redness of life,
even as it gathers the dim, distended morning into words?

On the concrete streets in a bright day,
the man next to you will board the same daily train;
you do not see who walks with him in the tiffany air,
fading sun in his left hand, evanescent moon in his right.

Firefangled - why aren't you famous? I'm yet to read a poem of yours that isn't beautiful, touching and wonderful. This is no less so.

[firefangled]

Firefangled - why aren't you famous? I'm yet to read a poem of yours that isn't beautiful, touching and wonderful. This is no less so.


Could you please make that rich and famous. :lol:

[AuntShecky]

Firefangled, you never cease to amaze me. You should submit "Bixby Bridge" to a poetry journal.

[gothic]

Fire,may be you wouldn't believe it,but the truth is-your poem brought tears into my eyes(assuring you,i am not that weepy-kind!;) ). how beautifully you presented the obvious lonliness of poets! I am touched.

[gothic]

I'm afraid if the subject has been changed:(...okay,here goes my attempt on 'hidden'....

Hidden forever

I reign everywhere.
I'm above,beneath
and beyond you.

I remain hushed and obscure,
despite all your quests for ages.
Time alone can define my solemn mystery.

Veiled with the myriad queries,
I prevail-the unique answer
To your existence.

[ampoule]

I'm afraid if the subject has been changed:(...okay,here goes my attempt on 'hidden'....


It's okay if the subject has been changed. You are welcome to post a poem about any of our words. The current word we are working on is EVANESCENT.

I liked your poem.

[Pendragon]

I really like these two stanzas, Pen. Excellent poem, but so sad.

BTW, should "might" in the last line be "mine?" Or am I misreading?Thanks, Fire. Brain gets ahead of my fingers. I was never that fast at typing. The word should have been "mind". Changed now.

[firefangled]

I'm afraid if the subject has been changed:(...okay,here goes my attempt on 'hidden'....

Hidden forever

I reign everywhere.
I'm above,beneath
and beyond you.

I remain hushed and obscure,
despite all your quests for ages.
Time alone can define my solemn mystery.

Veiled with the myriad queries,
I prevail-the unique answer
To your existence.

I like this, Gothic.

[stephofthenight]

umm. what is our current word???

[firefangled]

I was in the woods
where I carved a door
with my persistent entering.
The Wrens were mating,
calling like piccolos.
I stared at the moon
caught in a treetop,
like a paper plate, or an old balloon.

When the Whitetail deer bolted,
you appeared and I knew
I was dreaming, because you
wore your perfect smile,
and sang all the arias of the world,
with your cadence of selfish lamentation.
Over your body the armor of sexuality
pulled like a magnet, but I had become
the substance of a feather. You touched me,
what is it you asked and I turned away.
It was then I noticed the trees receding below me —
It was then I saw the stars fading into blackness.

[Pendragon]

Memories #3

I decorated my life with a sprig of white heather,
a pinecone, nautilus shell.
One by one I embraced the memories
as I placed them on my bookshelf.
There was a collection of rocks from all over the world,
a skull; a wineglass filled with Mojave sand;
some shells I discovered in a tidal pool in Hawaii,
and an eagle feather from a Medicine Man.
There was a collection of magazines from back in the forties,
(Doc Savage, The Avenger, The Shadow);
a faded old picture of mama and dad.
(The mirror says I look like him now!)
Now, millions of people might call it all “junk”,
and trash it all come cleaning day;
but there’s a tear in my eyes as I softly and tenderly
visit my memories today…

Dale Harris
© 5/7/00

[CdnReader]

^^^ Oh, I like this one very much, Pen. The ol' "grocery list" format. Hard to do well, but you've done it beautifully. Thanks!

[Granny5]

Edna

I heard my Mother’s voice
As I talked to my children
Something I swore
Would never happen
But I found comfort in it

I hear my Mother’s voice
As I listen my daughters
Talk to their children
I find comfort
Knowing her wisdom
And her love lives on in them

[littlewing53]

...beautiful poems fire, pen, granny....herz my memory...

fishin
emptying the bottle
he drank the drink
running down his chin
erasing memories
too heavy to hold

a collection of frames
his past lost life
looking back
he trembles and cries

his family sitting in
the second row pew
listening to stirring songs
filled with the spirit
cleansing his soul

holding the hand
of his loving young son
anticipating the fish
they'd soon catch

son and father
sitting by the river
poles in hand
quietly creating memories
too young to remember

everything changed
it's a different life
without him his heart
gave way

[TheFifthElement]

Edna

I heard my Mother’s voice
As I talked to my children
Something I swore
Would never happen
But I found comfort in it

I hear my Mother’s voice
As I listen my daughters
Talk to their children
I find comfort
Knowing her wisdom
And her love lives on in them

Granny, this is lovely and so true.

[firefangled]

Edna

I heard my Mother’s voice
As I talked to my children
Something I swore
Would never happen
But I found comfort in it

I hear my Mother’s voice
As I listen my daughters
Talk to their children
I find comfort
Knowing her wisdom
And her love lives on in them

This was heartwarming, Granny. You very nicely summed up how much we inherit. My GrandMother's name was Edna Thirtyacre.

[Granny5]

This was heartwarming, Granny. You very nicely summed up how much we inherit. My GrandMother's name was Edna Thirtyacre.

We don't hear Edna much any longer. Your Grandmother Edna must have been American Indian. What tribe?

[firefangled]

We don't hear Edna much any longer. Your Grandmother Edna must have been American Indian. What tribe?

Her maiden name was Edna Aurthur. Her father was Friend Aurthur, a Quaker whose lineage I've so far traced to the 12th century in Sweden...go figure.

Her mother's family is a real mystery. Ironically, Edna's first husband, my Grandfather's, father was full Cherokee and he lived to be 105. He was pruning a peach tree in his backyard and my Great Gradmother said he just sat down and died. That is how I want to go, pruning a peach tree.

One of my hobbies is tracing my ancestry through this great website, Ancestry.com. Their databases are incredible.

And since I am spilling my famiy trees guts here, my Grandfather (Edna's first husband above) was one of 24 children by 2 mothers. He became an auto mechanic, but they say his IQ was over 200. He was the smartest person I have ever personally known. The story of him has it that he wanted to be a surgeon and heal people, but he couldn't afford to go to school that long and support his family.

Finally (I bet you think twice next time you want to ask me a simple question, Granny :yawnb: :lol: ) Edna's second husband was a German named Fredrick Thirtyacre. We think when his mom and dad and he came over to America, they mispronounced him and the name stuck.

What else do you want to know? You, MH, Bailey, and Poppy have been so generous with your family information, I hope you don't mind me going on and on. Yours I've found very interesting.

[Pendragon]

These memory poems are like sharing parts of each other. I feel priviliaged to have had a glimpse into the lives of the people I share this forum with. Well-written poems from all! Littlewing, for you: http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Fish.gif

[ampoule]

Mourning Mist

He watched as he faded from her eyes,
That evanescent look of love,
That moist green mist of disbelief
as his words pressed against her pulsing throat
choking the life right out from under her,
His pallid smile saying, forgive me, as she
bravely fought and closed her eyes.
amp, October Sixth, TwoThousandSeven

[firefangled]

Mourning Mist

He watched as he faded from her eyes,
That evanescent look of love,
That moist green mist of disbelief
as his words pressed against her pulsing throat
choking the life right out from under her,
His pallid smile saying, forgive me, as she
bravely fought and closed her eyes.
amp, October Sixth, TwoThousandSeven

Amp, I like the title reference on this very clever. You have this continuity of images through all your poems like characters in a story, for instance, green and indigo.

[firefangled]

This is the dream of the neon

face you use to look at me,

colors, then fade to black,

a recurring evanescence

through the blinds,

are you

there, green spelling

out your eyes,

yellow moving arrow hair,

red red red red lips

are you

kisses in the dark?

[Granny5]

Her maiden name was Edna Aurthur. Her father was Friend Aurthur, a Quaker whose lineage I've so far traced to the 12th century in Sweden...go figure.

Her mother's family is a real mystery. Ironically, Edna's first husband, my Grandfather's, father was full Cherokee and he lived to be 105. He was pruning a peach tree in his backyard and my Great Gradmother said he just sat down and died. That is how I want to go, pruning a peach tree.

One of my hobbies is tracing my ancestry through this great website, Ancestry.com. Their databases are incredible.

And since I am spilling my famiy trees guts here, my Grandfather (Edna's first husband above) was one of 24 children by 2 mothers. He became an auto mechanic, but they say his IQ was over 200. He was the smartest person I have ever personally known. The story of him has it that he wanted to be a surgeon and heal people, but he couldn't afford to go to school that long and support his family.

Finally (I bet you think twice next time you want to ask me a simple question, Granny :yawnb: :lol: ) Edna's second husband was a German named Fredrick Thirtyacre. We think when his mom and dad and he came over to America, they mispronounced him and the name stuck.

What else do you want to know? You, MH, Bailey, and Poppy have been so generous with your family information, I hope you don't mind me going on and on. Yours I've found very interesting.

Hey Fire, I do genealogy also. I have my Dad's family back to the 15th century and one branch of my Mom's back that far also. My Mom's dad's father is a complete unknown. The court house in Independence Co appearantly burned and records were lost. He left his family when my grandpa was very young, then my grandpa died 6 months before my Mom was born. His (my grandpa) mother died when he was young and he was raised by his grandmother. We had always thought that he was an only child but I've recently found someone who has information that there were other children raised by the other grandparents. I love doing the research.

[firefangled]

Hey Fire, I do genealogy also. I have my Dad's family back to the 15th century and one branch of my Mom's back that far also. My Mom's dad's father is a complete unknown. The court house in Independence Co appearantly burned and records were lost. He left his family when my grandpa was very young, then my grandpa died 6 months before my Mom was born. His (my grandpa) mother died when he was young and he was raised by his grandmother. We had always thought that he was an only child but I've recently found someone who has information that there were other children raised by the other grandparents. I love doing the research.

I have to watch myself on the research, because it can get so time consuming. I'm glad you shared that Granny. I was thinking I had put everyone to sleep. Ask me what time it is and I'll tell you how the watch works. :lol:

[Pendragon]

That sounds like an good word, Fire: TIME

Echoes From the Edge: Memorabilia

These are Shadows of Things That Have Been.
They may not be altered in any way.
They flicker through his mind like old home movies:
Images of a boy whose father didn’t love him.
Of a boy robbed of his childhood.
Of a boy forced to become to become a man
Long before puberty set in.
Of a young man mocked by his peers—
Because he believed differently—
Or, because, being poor, he could not afford the comforts they enjoyed.
Of a young man working hard
To provide for his growing family—
To have the Apple of Success dangled before him—
(Just an bite)—
Then cruelly snatched away again.
Betrayed at last by his own flesh and blood—
Betrayed in the end by his own mind.
Of a lonely man, rejected by those he had aided—
Abandoned by those he had grown to love—
Forgotten by those who called him “Friend.”
Turn the projector off, please, Sir!
Finis.

D.L. Harris
© 7/26/96

Sorry. All Echoes From the Edge are a bit sad... but this one shows the effects of time writing on and in flesh...

[firefangled]

Between the argentine veil of night's dark rainbow
And the slow seduction of the sun to another day,
I walk in half-light and joy at the shameless serenade.
There is no fear—though we are cause—no hesitation in those
Strong voices saying, " I am here...I am here." The moon
Is a Chinese lantern in the mist, a dull ball of papier-mâché
Caught high in a tree, a bees nest, a picnic plate —
No longer midnight's shining lake — a day old toy balloon.
Here I sit half blind, it is a time to listen, I surmise,
To the wisdom of this place. After all, I am just a visitor,
The noisy man who comes with his dog and sometimes cat
Making the wrens and sparrows chatter (I hope they will forgive me that).
And I wait, a pensive lover, searcher, forever restless inquisitor,
For morning’s gentle fingers to come and touch my eyes.


© October 2007

[dibyendra]

Just thought to post here in poetry games and contest as suggested by ampoule.

Time
Time, it never turns back,
waits for no one,
aging every existence,
sheds no tears on whatever fallen with it,
carries on and on...
creating pages in the history.
We now and then flip those pages to recall
where we once lived there before...

Yesterdays, series of moments spent,
only are written on diaries,
capturing old memories
where we recall
our heroic acts, our cowardliness,
tears we cried, pains we suffered,
faces we met, faces we lost,
moments of bliss, and unforgettable memories.

Tomorrows, hidden faces of uncertainties,
they will present themselves with the time,
maybe with surprising appearances
or maybe reverberating warning bells
or maybe with shocking facts.
Our human existence, powerless on controlling time,
can only surrender to the time and circumstances...

Yesterdays are gone,
today, we are living,
and tomorrows are yet unseen.
Slowly, tomorrows will become today...
Today will turn yesterday...
Live as if tomorrow never exists
and live just for today !

[firefangled]

Soft at first,
the dream hidden
within the moonlit window
and the sound of waves breaking
just beyond our breathing. I am wrapped
in the fragrance of your hair, and your motion
balanced on my finger tips, your lips,
and how your tongue is speaking silently
to mine in the language of temperature
rising in the exotic décor,
the gauzing of the world beyond the bed netting.

One pool of vision, dream and knowing,
abandoning everything to space without time,
our skins shedding the resistance of sin,
one pulse, one touch, the arch of desire,
your hair, the rainbow’s edge pressing into earth
the gravity that pulls me into you,
the wetness of flesh like the hot moist air
before the lightning strikes and thunder drowns us
in a storm that seems to have no end.

Now we ask from somewhere, is this a dream?
Now we wait for the storm to begin again,
as I tread the green water of your eyes
watching me as the waves subside
and recede from the arms of the shore,
my fingers slippery on the memory of you,
the need of you, even as I am waking.

[ampoule]

Dreams like this leave me floating...somewhere...and I don't even try to hold on. After just returning from such an exotic place, I can still see and hear the waves and I am intoxicated by the whole of it. I imagine the goddess Pele, lying somewhere smiling as the molten red flows. You have described it all so perfectly.



Shall this be our new word everyone? DREAMS

[motherhubbard]

What is the value of my dream to you?
Will you measure in time or effort,
is it worth the ink and paper to print them- no.
And I won’t cast my pearls before the swine

I carry my dream like a secret-
tight in my white knuckled fist
shoved deep into my pocket
and held there stiff armed.

What precious things as these are there?
These simple treasures hidden away,
Only to be spoken and then scattered -
like chaff in the wind.

The secret dream spoken is
no longer hidden safe.
It is carried away
on a whimsy-

No longer hidden but floating on air
like dandelion seed carried to the ends
Where it blossoms
And grows

It is such a paradox
Dieing in the clutch of safety ,
yet blooming when strewn to the wind.
Lost only to be gained

[ampoule]

Dreams

I wish my daydreams could be my night dreams,
for they are filled with vivid direction and shown
on an ivory ceiling speckled with afternoon light,
and the images remain, even as I close my eyes,
taking your hands and placing them around me.

.

[firefangled]

A man can enter a dream,
where his steps are silent
and something real walks
with him into the dream,
the way clouds collide
in the clear brightness of a sky.

A man can love in a dream,
where his kiss makes no sound,
but something real is heard
and rises in his blood like a sigh,
as we hear the hissing of a wind
that never moves the leaves.

A man touches in a dream,
where the heart has placed its strings,
the ones you feel beneath the movement
of my hands reaching for you like music,
as you watch the sky turn from blue
to the milky edge of a universe on fire.

[Pendragon]

A Little Too Real

It was all so awfully real.
I dreamed that I was lost upon the downs,
And all around me in the fog
I could hear the fiendish voices howling:
“Cold be hand and heart and bone,
And cold be sleep under stone:”
To my horror,
I began to relive the details
Pertaining to the death of someone else.
Screaming in terror, I jerked awake
To find big drops of icy sweat
Rolling down my face…

DL Harris
© 3/15/99

Published in The Minis Tirith Evening Star by The American Tolkien Society

[littlewing53]

...beautiful poems i have read and beautiful dreams i have seen...here is a dream of mine

a dream lived
somewhere by the fluid flowing river
beyond the reeds and rocks
lies a dwelling of serenity

intoxicated with sweet tempered breeze
held in a place there beyond
between the seams and sky

translated for me
waiting to reside
a final destination
this very special place

basket, book and blanket
tucked firmly in place
holding recollections in tiny bits of being

forbidden and unreliable
to all who else appear
a net of hope and reason
stand firm and held steadfast

this place is mine alone
where music sings
and harmony floats
fixed on the curve of quarter moons

sitting on this blanket
that holds the warmth of fire
when cool cold ignites
i dream freely confident of tomorrow

[firefangled]

Father comes home,
sits in a dark sound,
with brown glass —
we swallow
for different reasons.

In school, birds are not
taught. At church,
watching the basket pass;
in the window
men are climbing,
dropping pigeon babies
from gutters.

Father comes home.
Supper stares at me.
Darkness falls, brown
glass does not break…

sleep has wing sounds
follows the tolling bell


— January, 2005

[Pendragon]

Dreamer Unawakened

The dreams I had sailed on silken seas
Pitch-black but dotted with points of fire,
Into realms built of imagination and fantasy—
Warmed by the sunlight of my heart’s desire.

The dreams I had floated over far distant lands,
And they carried me away for the ride.
I left part of my soul on the beach’s white sand,
And part on the ledges of a granite mountainside.

The dreams I had whispered to me in the still of the Night,
Of secrets undiscovered and treasures yet unknown.
That someday I would waken and everything would be right,
I’d find someplace I could call mine and mine alone.

People may say you cannot live inside of your dreams:
What if my dreams are what are living inside of me?

Dale Harris
© 10/25/07

[ampoule]

Very nice Pen. I always enjoy the images your poems evoke. I do think our dreams are living inside of us.

I think 'dreams' has been our most popular word to write about so far. Let's continue for awhile and see if any others would like to share a poem about

Dreams

[firefangled]

I agree about dreams. We all have them and they are an excellent subject matter for poetry.

Besides sometimes it is difficult to get someone who wil listen to your dreams and other times they are just too strange to put into words.

When this thread started It made me think of that Melissa Etheridge song, "Baby You Can Sleep While I Drive" and the line, I'll buy you glasses in Texas, a hat from New Orleans, and in the morning you can tell me your dreams."

I think it is a very intimate expression to relay our dreams to someone.

In short, On with DREAMS

[Pendragon]

How about an original song...

The Guitar Player

People out there in the city
So busy, all hurrying, scurrying by—
The Guitar Player sits by the wall with his Gibson,
And he sings of his dreams…

Sometimes maybe there’s someone
Who is kind for a moment of time—
Stops in their busy rush hours of the evening
Listens to the words that he sings…

And he can carry them far on an ocean of sound,
Make the darkness vanish awhile as the notes all resound;
Promises ring in the words of the music that somewhere rest can be found—
Somewhere on dream painted song…

Sometimes the words are dark
And people pause at the tone of his music—
Pain unrestrained finds a foothold and gains
Freedom for a moment in time…

He sings about home and of family,
With a longing that cuts your lifeblood—
Though your tears you drop your donation in his guitar case,
Heading home to call and check up on mom…

No one knows the man or his story,
How he came to be here in this place by the road—
Anyone who will take the time to stop and listen a moment,
Will never think the same way again…

Dale Harris
© 10/26/07

[ampoule]

Nice Pen.
And Fire, all you say is so true.
I am teaching a hula for a Christmas program to the song "White Christmas" sung by an Hawaiian group and the background music is the old Everly Brothers song, "All I Have To Do Is Dream"...dream dream dream. Really cool.

[AdoreroDio]

I dreamed once
a dream of snow and cocoa
of friends and failure
of fear and confidence
of living....and of dying
I dreamed once
of knowing and being unaware
of writing with no purpose
of love and passion
of hate and fire
of warmth and sunshine
yes, I dreamed once
when I was a child
when the world was nothing
and I stayed in my cocoon,
of comfort and innocence
And I dreamed.

[Pendragon]

The Philosophy of Dreams

Dreams have their place in the outlook on life,
Without dreamers we might still live in a cave.
Always there are those whose vision is not confined by this world,
To whom “That is not possible.” is not fact, but challenge.
And from the minds of the worshipers of Morpheus
Come wondrous things,
Some that help, some that heal, and some that destroy.
For The Lord of Dreams is neutral in dispensing his gifts—
What the dreamer creates from his dreams is his choice…

There lies another danger in somnolent repose,
In the throes of REM cycle sleep.
It can become so addicting like the most powerful of opiates,
That one always desires to be there and never awaken.
Then one crosses the line of demarcation between the two worlds—
Never really fully asleep and yet never fully awake.
Life becomes a realm of self-created delusions from which one cannot escape—
For to escape any prison, one must desire freedom above all things,
And the self-deluded prefer the delusion to any slice of cold reality.

Dream and find pleasure, even meaning in your dreaming.
But every thing we do and seem is not a dream within a dream—
Awake, for the night has passed, and a new day dawns:
Somewhere in this jigsaw puzzle that we call life is a spot on you can fill.
Make that your dream to fill it to the best of your ability—
Dream, but dream with purpose and meaning…

Pendragon
© 11/18/07

[Chava]

Concerning my dream:

I've put it in my pocket,
Along with my pen.
It had so many thoughts upon it,
It has so many hopes.
Nourished by my naiveity,
Fostered by my joys.
Held up by the coloumns,
of dreams before it,
by the passions of others,
inspiring it to unfold.
It drags the ink upon it,
with a seductive leisure.
this paper will conceal,
my own secret pleasure.

[Taliesin]

I liked the old bartender
but now there's your old art history teacher.
The bar did very well
in the middle of nuclear war
despite the radiation and all
it was a mighty show
before you came with your ideas of peace
(It wasn't like anyone got hurt in here anyway)
Once there was a good old shortcut
from toilet to the roots of Yggdrasil
but now
there is no toilet at all
since that didn't fit your ideas.
I could make dozens of more examples
of things that aren't the same
(like melting giraffes or clocks that do burn)
but my point is still the same:
Perhaps it's just a lucid dream for you,
but in here I HAPPEN TO LIVE

[ampoule]

and the word is.......


Waiting
.
.

[Pendragon]

Waiting On a Ride

I must have missed the last train out of here,
The station is closed-up and it’s dark.
Night train must not stop at all here anymore.
Guess I can spend the night on the bench near the window.
Train should be coming in about six or maybe seven.

The fog shrouds the tracks and the station house like spider-silk,
Somebody must have turned the moon off for the night.
Heard the whip-poor-will’s singing, a lonesome, loathsome sound,
And a wolf howl away in the fog bank not very distant.
When that cougar let out it’s scream, I thought I would die,
A Banshee-wail hidden away in the night—
I must have fainted away…

Sunshine coming down over the ridge of the mountains,
And first thing I notice is the rust on the rails.
The ticket-window is not only closed,
Boarded over, and has been for what has to be years.
That bench that I slept on, or tried to anyway, last night—
Is a cluttered old pile of junk made into a sort of den.
I lean down and take me a long look but I know what I’m gonna find.
That cougar had three cubs, presently feasting on the remains of me…

Pendragon
© 12/3/07

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Newest/Cougar.jpg

[ampoule]

Oh my gosh! Pen! That is wonderful! What a shocker. You set the scene perfectly but I wasn't expecting that ending at all. I like it!

[Pendragon]

Oh my gosh! Pen! That is wonderful! What a shocker. You set the scene perfectly but I wasn't expecting that ending at all. I like it!Thank you! Thank you! I'm working on that twist ending poem. I intended all along to have a ghost ending, that one just popped up last minute...

Good word, Waiting.... for that type of poem!

Pen

[motherhubbard]

I saw that the word was waiting, and I’ve been waiting for some kind of poetic revelation. Nothing yet. I wondered if everyone else was waiting for the same thing?





Birdsong
The scent of spice
Cheek pinking breezes
And soft wool socks
Have all escaped me this winter.

There seems to be an egg timer
Ticking away the moments
While I stand expectantly in the kitchen
Or pace with anticipation
Just waiting for the buzzer

What I will do when it sounds is a mystery
I may raise my arms and sing
Or gallop through the house on my imagined horse
Or I may break free from what hinders my senses
From birdsong or the smell of spice.

[TheFifthElement]

I saw that the word was waiting, and I’ve been waiting for some kind of poetic revelation. Nothing yet. I wondered if everyone else was waiting for the same thing?





Birdsong
The scent of spice
Cheek pinking breezes
And soft wool socks
Have all escaped me this winter.

There seems to be an egg timer
Ticking away the moments
While I stand expectantly in the kitchen
Or pace with anticipation
Just waiting for the buzzer

What I will do when it sounds is a mystery
I may raise my arms and sing
Or gallop through the house on my imagined horse
Or I may break free from what hinders my senses
From birdsong or the smell of spice.

This is lovely Motherhubbard, may we all ride off on a wave of spice this year :)

[B-Mental]

Waiting is it?
Oh what a wait
Looking for my Eve
patiently I bided my time
but that was twelve years ago
when I was twenty years and six
I thought I saw her again and again
but it was mere reflection of her
the wake of the scent she gave off
was a palpable vision
but not so long ago
we met and danced and smiled
and she left me again
that was 1,968 days after
I thought I first saw her.

Do you know how many places I've been?
How many faces I've forgotten?
How many hearts I've broken?
and how many times my heart was crushed?
I've spent a lot of energy hurting the hurt away
the breaks are bad, but the broken mends
I've got wind of you now Eve,
I'm coming to get you
I am so tired of waiting.

[ampoule]

I saw that the word was waiting, and I’ve been waiting for some kind of poetic revelation. Nothing yet. I wondered if everyone else was waiting for the same thing?





Birdsong
The scent of spice
Cheek pinking breezes
And soft wool socks
Have all escaped me this winter.

There seems to be an egg timer
Ticking away the moments
While I stand expectantly in the kitchen
Or pace with anticipation
Just waiting for the buzzer

What I will do when it sounds is a mystery
I may raise my arms and sing
Or gallop through the house on my imagined horse
Or I may break free from what hinders my senses
From birdsong or the smell of spice.

This is wonderful. I absolutely LOVE the lines...what I will do when it sounds is a mystery...I may raise my arms and sing...or gallop through the house on my imagined horse...or I may break free...

[ampoule]

Waiting is it?
Oh what a wait
Looking for my Eve
patiently I bided my time
but that was twelve years ago
when I was twenty years and six
I thought I saw her again and again
but it was mere reflection of her
the wake of the scent she gave off
was a palpable vision
but not so long ago
we met and danced and smiled
and she left me again
that was 1,968 days after
I thought I first saw her.

Do you know how many places I've been?
How many faces I've forgotten?
How many hearts I've broken?
and how many times my heart was crushed?
I've spent a lot of energy hurting the hurt away
the breaks are bad, but the broken mends
I've got wind of you now Eve,
I'm coming to get you
I am so tired of waiting.

Oh my gosh, B! Just change the name (to protect the innocent) and you have written about something I know so well. I know not if it is really about you or if the Eve is a person or the eve of things we are always waiting on or what, but it speaks to me and I love it.

[motherhubbard]

B, you made my heart pound and I felt so excited. I think we would all love to be someone’s Eve and anticipate these last three lines

[PrinceMyshkin]

and the word is.......


Waiting
.
.
Belatedly and not a poem but an excerpt from an unpublished novel of mine:

To hell with waiting any longer. I was an adult. I didn't have to wait. Children had to wait: sit here, sit there, keep still, we'll see, maybe on your next birthday, ask me one more time and... And old people had to wait, thanklessly, for release, for permission to leave. At either end of our lives, we spent hours and days, months, waiting. And in the middle, too. Prisoners had to wait, having refused at some time in the past to wait for what our society would have had them believe would be theirs, would belong to all of us, tomorrow: tomorrow being the time that adults invented to keep kids quiet, and the rich and powerful to keep the poor in line. And those who had given their hearts too easily in love, who had tried to buy love with the thin, perpetually diminishing coin of their patient hopefulness. All those and others had to wait, but not me; not any longer. Humanity was one long, endless waiting line that went in a spiral around and around the world. The line wavered in places and there were gaps in it here and there where some of the waiters had given up and others had not yet closed the ranks, but for the most part the line was docile and remarkably well-behaved. Everyone was waiting, as they had been trained since birth to do.

[Sweets America]

Belatedly and not a poem but an excerpt from an unpublished novel of mine:

To hell with waiting any longer. I was an adult. I didn't have to wait. Children had to wait: sit here, sit there, keep still, we'll see, maybe on your next birthday, ask me one more time and... And old people had to wait, thanklessly, for release, for permission to leave. At either end of our lives, we spent hours and days, months, waiting. And in the middle, too. Prisoners had to wait, having refused at some time in the past to wait for what our society would have had them believe would be theirs, would belong to all of us, tomorrow: tomorrow being the time that adults invented to keep kids quiet, and the rich and powerful to keep the poor in line. And those who had given their hearts too easily in love, who had tried to buy love with the thin, perpetually diminishing coin of their patient hopefulness. All those and others had to wait, but not me; not any longer. Humanity was one long, endless waiting line that went in a spiral around and around the world. The line wavered in places and there were gaps in it here and there where some of the waiters had given up and others had not yet closed the ranks, but for the most part the line was docile and remarkably well-behaved. Everyone was waiting, as they had been trained since birth to do.

You are a real good writer. A real one. :)

[TheFifthElement]

Belatedly and not a poem but an excerpt from an unpublished novel of mine:

To hell with waiting any longer. I was an adult. I didn't have to wait. Children had to wait: sit here, sit there, keep still, we'll see, maybe on your next birthday, ask me one more time and... And old people had to wait, thanklessly, for release, for permission to leave. At either end of our lives, we spent hours and days, months, waiting. And in the middle, too. Prisoners had to wait, having refused at some time in the past to wait for what our society would have had them believe would be theirs, would belong to all of us, tomorrow: tomorrow being the time that adults invented to keep kids quiet, and the rich and powerful to keep the poor in line. And those who had given their hearts too easily in love, who had tried to buy love with the thin, perpetually diminishing coin of their patient hopefulness. All those and others had to wait, but not me; not any longer. Humanity was one long, endless waiting line that went in a spiral around and around the world. The line wavered in places and there were gaps in it here and there where some of the waiters had given up and others had not yet closed the ranks, but for the most part the line was docile and remarkably well-behaved. Everyone was waiting, as they had been trained since birth to do.

Check out post 300 on this thread ;)

[ampoule]

uh oh....is he testing us or just blatantly throwing his write around? Ya know, you guys are gonna have to help me here. I tried to take him to the spanking room once before and he started kicking and screaming and made Sweets do his dirty work and.....come on....any ideas???

Good eye Fifth! ;)

[Sweets America]

Check out post 300 on this thread ;)

:lol: Prince is getting old. :D
Well, I didn't remember that either, so maybe I am getting old too? :)

[TheFifthElement]

uh oh....is he testing us or just blatantly throwing his write around? Ya know, you guys are gonna have to help me here. I tried to take him to the spanking room once before and he started kicking and screaming and made Sweets do his dirty work and.....come on....any ideas???

Good eye Fifth! ;)

It was a memorable piece. Perhaps he is testing our memories, mine's working (yipee! Something works!)

[PrinceMyshkin]

:lol: Prince is getting old. :D
Well, I didn't remember that either, so maybe I am getting old too? :)

Shoot! Sorry about that! I must have thought it was too good to post just the one time! Look for it again at message # 736

[PrinceMyshkin]

It was a memorable piece. Perhaps he is testing our memories, mine's working (yipee! Something works!)

Something of yours does work indeed:

http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=31327

[firefangled]

Blackbird says he is the absence and beginning
of all things, his red is the edge of the worlds.

Look, when he spreads his wings, and listen –
our dreams are full of stars and waiting to see
them rise in another now that knows us better.

In the black night, there is only his song in the tree,
moonlight drifts through him, between two skies – follow it
to where love has no questions concerning how or whys
or when. There you will remember, as if you never left.

[CdnReader]

.

Waiting

My paddle dips
beneath the silken skin
of water's quiet stillness.
Weightless, noiseless,
slowly propelling me through
the early morning mist.

Shhhh........
The oar rests
across my knees....
my craft bears me along
without desire,
without pain,
without that fiercesome
screaming that defines
the rest of my life.

Shhhh........
There is nothing here
but the mist across the bay,
floating without need,
colourless, directionless,
held together by the
coming warmth of the rising sun
and the call of the loon.

.
cdn/03jan08
.

[firefangled]

.

Waiting

My paddle dips
beneath the silken skin
of water's quiet stillness.
Weightless, noiseless,
slowly propelling me through
the early morning mist.

Shhhh........
The oar rests
across my knees....
my craft bears me along
without desire,
without pain,
without that fiercesome
screaming that defines
the rest of my life.

Shhhh........
There is nothing here
but the mist across the bay,
floating without need,
colourless, directionless,
held together by the
coming warmth of the rising sun
and the call of the loon.

.
cdn/03jan08
.

Shhhh is right...best not to disturb the absolute serenity and beauty of the last three lines...

Cdn, I know this water and you have described it well.

[CdnReader]

:) Thanks, Fire. This one's been "floating" in my head for a few days now. Amp provided the right atmosphere to bring it to life. :)

[Pendragon]

Stigma

The disease was hard enough to bear without the enforced concealing robes,
and the further shame of tolling bells: Leper! Outcast! Unclean!
The disease was the least communicable of communicable diseases—
yet they must cry “Come not near me and touch me not.”, though they begged for a living.
It is called giving the sick a stigma that goes with them everywhere, a mark they may not hide.
In this, the modern age where true medical miracles are preformed on a regular basis
in trauma units world-wide, where people live from transplanted organs, synthetic skin,
and other wonders of modern medical advancements, there remains stigmas.
The AIDS patient often dies cold and lonely in a corner bed of a hospital, quite quickly.
He or she didn’t have to go so fast, but there was that stigma, AIDS: Don’t Touch! Avoid!
There are only a few ways to get the disease. The patient may be touched, hugged, comforted.
Your care may keep them here longer and may ever give them enough reason to live to beat the illness!
See the person not the stigma…
That person with the mental problem is laboring under a great stigma which our TV shows doesn’t help.
The villain is always a Bi-polar who is off his medication or a schizophrenic or something who lost it.
Thank you very much! Those of us who live with the illness now have to live with the stigma!
People begin to avoid us and first you know we have no close friends we can depend upon if we need help.
We are normal most of the time and when we have problems, we need someone to call our doctors.
I have fallen and lain there for the better part of an hour outside and not one person came to my aid.
Heads up: you cannot catch this stuff. I have the doctor’s number’s in my wallet for you to call.
I don’t come back around violent, I come back around very confused and wonder even where I am.
All you want to see is a stigma. I am a human being.
When It comes to brains, I acknowledge some superiors, and a few equals! Stigma be darned!

Pendragon
© 1/31/08

[ampoule]

I hate stigma also. As far as mental health, we have made a very little progress but at a snail's pace. We need to be educated and not scared off by the movies and other media.
Some women from our church used to travel to a Gary, Indiana, hospital to hold and rock babies with AIDS.
Have you ever considered getting a MedicAlert bracelet to wear? I know that even those can be overlooked but it might help.
I'm sorry those things have happened to you.

[ampoule]

It's been awhile. Would someone like to choose a new word for us?? Here is a reminder of what we have used so far (in ABC order) ;):
apathy (granny5); avarice (ampoule); charity (ampoule); childhood (FifthElement); dreams (ampoule); evanescent (ampoule); gratitude (ampoule); heart (CdnReader); hidden (PrinceMyshkin); home (firefangled); homecoming (Pendragon); independence (ampoule); jealousy (ampoule); laconic (Adolescent09); novelty (PrinceMyshkin); Oriental(ism)(Il Penseroso); passion (DebraSue); patience (Poppy); penance (firefangled); romance (zargon); seasons (CdnReader); sinful desires (PrinceMyshkin); soliloquy (symphony); stigma (Pendragon); teach (ampoule); time (Pendragon); tranquility (stephofthenight); trust (Bii); vacant (jon1jt); waiting (ampoule)...

and the word is???????

[firefangled]

I'm so happy you are reviving this. It is a marvelous exercise and fun. This thread, cinquains, and Haikus have rescued me many times from the despair of wordlessness, or worse yet words all dressed up with nowhere to go.

This thread has been dark too long. So let's light it up using one of my favorite books, kinda old fashioned these days, but they are usually short and small and they always brighten up a room especially when coupled with the new word.

So put your fingers together, twist, flick your wrist and rub (maybe a couple rubs ;) ) and light up the new word CANDLE.

now I've got to get busy

[firefangled]

I never give you my pillow,
I only send you my invitation,
and in the middle of the celebrations
I break down.

—Lennon/McCartney, Carry That Weight, Abby Road


You would not stay,
in this story between the light and the wall.
What is grotesque I know is only what I make
with my hands, and the sound is how I breathe here.

You are here nonetheless.
When I say, then your hair rose up like clouds,
I see you, the wind moving your beauty
from a cliff over the Pacific to this place,
where you wait outside the door, or wave
from a shore you’ve chosen cautiously.

Intimacy does not join us. Here you are alone.
There is always the space between us
and our shadows, even as we embrace in the light.
This is why I write you my dreams, or wake you,
waving tirelessly over the waters, shaking the bed.
What can we do otherwise, when the space narrows,
and the shadow envelops our perception?

Here, the face of a stranger is who turns in the crowd,
and I am crying because it is the place where I cry, or
someone, something shadowless awakens me as I sleep.

[TheFifthElement]

Ignore me, missed fire's posts above. Am now thinking (thinking...thinking...)

[ampoule]

Thank you Fire and candle it is. Your poem is full of flickering light. Beautiful.

[ampoule]

Candle

He handed her the tiny piece of cake,
one candle, twisty pink and white,
the birthday kind and he said,
"Make a wish."
In the dark she held it up,
trying to see his eyes, his lips
where his words came from and she said,
"I can't."