And the word is...

[ampoule]

Perhaps this has already been done, but I was wondering if any of you would like to write a poem about the same word. I don't really consider this a game, but rather, a way for us to 'see' each other.

So, if it is okay to proceed, I will choose the first word. Lucky me. :D Tomorrow, being a special holiday for the U.S.A., I have chosen the word Independence, not necessarily for the red white and blue, but for you.

I am working on mine but PLEASE post yours as soon as you have it!

SPECIAL NOTE TO LATECOMERS: If you come late to the party and you see a word that we have already done, but you would still like to use that word for your poem, go ahead but let us know which word. Thank you.

[Pendragon]

Independence

Threw off those binding chains—
Got tired of those apron strings—
Look out, world, I gotta be free.

Tired of just moving with the flow—
Others telling me when to stop and when to go—
There’s more to life out there for me…

Packed up just the basic things I’d need—
Set out looking for my destiny—
Tires screeching as I drove away into the sunset…

Now I will probably feel the longing and the pain—
When I go to sleep under a bridge in this pouring rain—
But just look at it this way I have finally found the nerve to gain
My independence…

Pendragon
© 7/3/07

[symphony]

i feel like posting a poetry (by me of course) that's been already posted earlier in the picture poetry contest. dunno if i should proceed... may be its too far-fetched from the given word-of-inspiration...may be there's no room for repeatation.
well...?

[stephofthenight]

idpendencne

who am i to you?
and what do i mean.
obviously im not important
because you stole my heart and soul
i never needed you to stand on my own to feet
but you knocked me over just so you could help me up
i guess that kiss was just a trick
to capture the free spirit inside of me
and lock me in a cage
you took away my freedom
and tried to controll my life
you took away my hope and dreams
and you almost suceseded in keeping me down
you took away my controll
and you almost got controll of me
but even after you
and that pain staked journey
i still remain true to myself
and i still am a free spirit to yourney
alone and without hesitation.
~sickly in love with sucide~

[stephofthenight]

i hope its ok that it doesnt rhyme...and i hope this is kinda what you where looking for.

[ampoule]

symphony and steph, the only 'rule' here is that you post a poem about Independence...whatever that word might mean to you personally...no rules about rhyme or meter or any of that.

[Debrasue]

Independence...not a problem for me!
The problem's with those who would rather see...
Me happily married...or at least receiving alimony!
Though that would put their minds to rest...
Such conventions I do protest!
Besides... I haven't been so blessed.
But Freedom always has it's price...
I traded it all...and never thought twice...
Independence sure feels nice!

[PrinceMyshkin]

I am in-dependence
on food and shelter
and on my daily,
sometimes twice-daily espressos.

I am in-dependence
on communication with my
fellow men and women,
on breath, on thought.

But most of all
I am in-dependence
on love...

[jon1jt]

Independence:
The right to smile
whenever the
hell i want. :)

[ampoule]

Independence:
The right to smile
whenever the
hell i want. :)

You get an Amen! and a Hallelujah! from the choir on that one! :)

These are all wonderful.
I love the twisty turn with 'in-dependence'.
So far, we have the feelings of breaking the chains that bind us or no matter how down and out we are, we can still remain true to ourselves, and how others may be envious of our independence or how a simple gesture is all the freedom in the world.

Wow. "More please?"

[firefangled]

-for Carol


What fear hides in our skin has no faith in steel or design.

Through years it moves like water colors in rain,
mingles itself in moonlight, and gravity has its way,
pulling us into the dream where we have no wings.

And then there is the retrofit crew, the rusted plates
that bark like some ancient dog as the car passes over them,
a blessing in a way, drowning the Pacific waves
that sound so much like rushing air or the last whispers
of the day as we fall into sleep, hiding in the ear
like the ocean in a shell, the dark closet of falling.

Below the magnificence of the coast is a postcard,
but strength does not come from the book of splendor,
it is the breath of independence that takes in the world
and floats the blue palette of the sea in your open eyes.

[PrinceMyshkin]

-for Carol


What fear hides in our skin has no faith in steel or design.

Through years it moves like water colors in rain,
mingles itself in moonlight, and gravity has its way,
pulling us into the dream where we have no wings.

And then there is the retrofit crew, the rusted plates
that bark like some ancient dog as the car passes over them,
a blessing in a way, drowning the Pacific waves
that sound so much like rushing air or the last whispers
of the day as we fall into sleep, hiding in the ear
like the ocean in a shell, the dark closet of falling.

Below the magnificence of the coast is a postcard,
but strength does not come from the book of splendor,
it is the breath of independence that takes in the world
and floats the blue palette of the sea in your open eyes.

I wonder if you'd be capable of composing an ordinary post-card from, say, Cape Cod or some more mundane place without expressing yourself in such magnificent poetry?

But I note that you have opted not to receive private messages which saddens me because I would have loved to communicate with and get to know you - with NO ulterior motives!

[ampoule]

Independence by Ampoule, July 4, 2007

Look out!
There's another one!
They went flying to the giant rhododendron
and hid there glowing in the night.
The bombs were bursting,
The lights were flashing,
But she, Coleoptera, was too bright
And he, Lampridae, saw it coming,
But it was too late.
Whoosh! Clink!
She was gone.
He followed her captors in the dark of night,
listening to their cruel laughter,
And all that running here and there
Was exhausting, but he waited.
She sat there, dazed, and looked around her prison.
There were others like her,
But they just sat there still and quiet and resting.
Did you not try to escape?
They only looked at her.
She felt a draft from above and reached up
to push against the weight of it.
Nothing.
She flitted all around trying to catch a glimpse
of her lover but saw only the cruel hand
of her captor and fire sparkling in the distance.
She was frantic, closed in, the air so stale.
And then a stillness in the night and she heard a voice.
Her fellow prisoners began to stir.
What's this, she thought.
Julian! Marguerite! It is late. You must come in now.
But mother! Look what we've got?
She looked down at their little glass jars,
You must let them go for tonight.
Protesting all the way,
They went in for their nightly baths.
The prisoners flew out, one by one,
Smiling at her as they found the sky.
She rested at the top and blinked, I'm free!
But he was already there, beside her,
And together they flew off,
Into the night.

May all your jars be opened. Happy independence day, no matter where you are.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Independence by Ampoule, July 4, 2007

Look out!
There's another one!
They went flying to the giant rhododendron
and hid there glowing in the night.
The bombs were bursting,
The lights were flashing,
But she, Coleoptera, was too bright
And he, Lampridae, saw it coming,
But it was too late.
Whoosh! Clink!
She was gone.
He followed her captors in the dark of night,
listening to their cruel laughter,
And all that running here and there
Was exhausting, but he waited.
She sat there, dazed, and looked around her prison.
There were others like her,
But they just sat there still and quiet and resting.
Did you not try to escape?
They only looked at her.
She felt a draft from above and reached up
to push against the weight of it.
Nothing.
She flitted all around trying to catch a glimpse
of her lover but saw only the cruel hand
of her captor and fire sparkling in the distance.
She was frantic, closed in, the air so stale.
And then a stillness in the night and she heard a voice.
Her fellow prisoners began to stir.
What's this, she thought.
Julian! Marguerite! It is late. You must come in now.
But mother! Look what we've got?
She looked down at their little glass jars,
You must let them go for tonight.
Protesting all the way,
They went in for their nightly baths.
The prisoners flew out, one by one,
Smiling at her as they found the sky.
She rested at the top and blinked, I'm free!
But he was already there, beside her,
And together they flew off,
Into the night.

May all your jars be opened. Happy independence day, no matter where you are.

How fine! How fine and FREE! Truly worthy in its freedom and soaring elegance of the theme you set for us! What a 1 - 2, #11 above and now this!

[ampoule]

Thank you, thank you prince. That was exactly the feeling I was going for. Tell me though, did you know right from the start that I was talking about lightning bugs? I just HAD to use names for them when I saw how close Coleoptera was to Cleopatra. What that has to do with anything I have no idea. :)

Would you like to choose the next word?

[PrinceMyshkin]

Thank you, thank you prince. That was exactly the feeling I was going for. Tell me though, did you know right from the start that I was talking about lightning bugs? I just HAD to use names for them when I saw how close Coleoptera was to Cleopatra. What that has to do with anything I have no idea. :)

Would you like to choose the next word?

Well... how about a phrase: "sinful desires"? If you don't like that please choose anything else, I won't mind.

[ampoule]

I like that. Okay everyone, "sinful desires" it is...for you to write about not to act out...but of course, that's up to you isn't it....oh never mind, let's just 'hear' what you have to say.

[Adolescent09]

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

[Adolescent09]

-for Carol


What fear hides in our skin has no faith in steel or design.

Through years it moves like water colors in rain,
mingles itself in moonlight, and gravity has its way,
pulling us into the dream where we have no wings.

And then there is the retrofit crew, the rusted plates
that bark like some ancient dog as the car passes over them,
a blessing in a way, drowning the Pacific waves
that sound so much like rushing air or the last whispers
of the day as we fall into sleep, hiding in the ear
like the ocean in a shell, the dark closet of falling.

Below the magnificence of the coast is a postcard,
but strength does not come from the book of splendor,
it is the breath of independence that takes in the world
and floats the blue palette of the sea in your open eyes.

I can swear I haven't seen a picture in words even half as aesthetic as this. You have a tremendous piece of work here, fire.

[ampoule]

Sinful Desires

He stood behind the counter, flashing his tricky smile.
"What can I get for you today?"
Thirty years later, she swallowed, and answered him.
She stood there like her great aunt Maude, starched and priggish,
"Your samples, please, I would like to see your samples."
Another smile, "But, of course."
She watched, without looking, as he knelt to gather a gadget-filled box.
When he arose she was saying something about supple knees,
But it was far back, behind her breath, behind her real thoughts.
Holding her pocketbook, she leaned slightly forward, "May I see? Can you place them on the counter here for me?"
His smile was different now, not from the bother, but from the care.
He watched her face as he carefully placed each fragile sample in front of her.
No sound left her mouth.
No expression changed her face,
But he was sure he saw her eyes well-up and the breathing in her chest stop.
He continued his explanations, his expert salesmanship.
She watched as he hovered over one exquisite piece and the nuance of his fingers made her say, "That one........yes, that one. I will take that one please."
"Let me wrap it for you."
When he returned, she had all of the bills straightened, all of the coins stacked in perfect order.
As he took the final payment from her, he could not help himself.
He touched her finger so very, very slightly.
She did not withdraw it like he thought she would,
But slowly, she gathered her bundle and said thank you.
"Thank YOU," he replied.
Not wanting her to go he quickly said, "Is there anything else?"
"No, not really." And thirty years later she said,
"I must rush home now and think about this."

[PrinceMyshkin]

Sinful Desires

He stood behind the counter, flashing his tricky smile.
"What can I get for you today?"
Thirty years later, she swallowed, and answered him.
She stood there like her great aunt Maude, starched and priggish,
"Your samples, please, I would like to see your samples."
Another smile, "But, of course."
She watched, without looking, as he knelt to gather a gadget-filled box.
When he arose she was saying something about supple knees,
But it was far back, behind her breath, behind her real thoughts.
Holding her pocketbook, she leaned slightly forward, "May I see? Can you place them on the counter here for me?"
His smile was different now, not from the bother, but from the care.
He watched her face as he carefully placed each fragile sample in front of her.
No sound left her mouth.
No expression changed her face,
But he was sure he saw her eyes well-up and the breathing in her chest stop.
He continued his explanations, his expert salesmanship.
She watched as he hovered over one exquisite piece and the nuance of his fingers made her say, "That one........yes, that one. I will take that one please."
"Let me wrap it for you."
When he returned, she had all of the bills straightened, all of the coins stacked in perfect order.
As he took the final payment from her, he could not help himself.
He touched her finger so very, very slightly.
She did not withdraw it like he thought she would,
But slowly, she gathered her bundle and said thank you.
"Thank YOU," he replied.
Not wanting her to go he quickly said, "Is there anything else?"
"No, not really." And thirty years later she said,
"I must rush home now and think about this."

How STUPID I feel because I truly don't know what those samples are, and without that am I qualified to say how bloody marvellous I think this is?

But wait! Don't disclose what those samples are until a few of the other folk have had a chance to say if they care to and hen you wuill know whether you need to hint more at it or not. BUt let me mention again: this is so good!

[PrinceMyshkin]

That certain spot
to the left of your left breast...

The way you’d regress
to the manner
of a sexually precocious girl

The way you turned off the bedside lamp
the first time you undressed for me
and let me turn it on again

The time I first entered you
too soon
but no matter when
it would have been too soon

and never soon enough...

[firefangled]

Oh you are a tease!! I won't sleep tonight trying to figure this out.

[firefangled]

It's those samples I'm talking about. What an intriguing poem....hmmmmmm

[firefangled]

I think it is more intriguing not knowing what the samples are. A wonderfully captivating poem. In its mystery this is like some of Wallace Stevens' poetry, where you are not sure what he is getting at, but you are hooked nonetheless.

I will have to think about this for thirty years before I dare post something in its wake.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Oh you are a tease!! I won't sleep tonight trying to figure this out.


You mean number 21 surely, not mine?

[ampoule]

How STUPID I feel because I truly don't know what those samples are, and without that am I qualified to say how bloody marvellous I think this is?

But wait! Don't disclose what those samples are until a few of the other folk have had a chance to say if they care to and hen you wuill know whether you need to hint more at it or not. BUt let me mention again: this is so good!

Well, I had toyed with the idea of including the samples in some way but I had to go to a meeting. Maybe I will work on that.

And, thank you.

Yours did leave me a little breathless.

[firefangled]

You mean number 21 surely, not mine?

Yes I meant Ampoule's poem. Yesterday evening my posts were not showing up and for some reason all my settings were acting up, so I was not only confused about the samples, but what was going on with my posts.

[firefangled]

Well, I had toyed with the idea of including the samples in some way but I had to go to a meeting. Maybe I will work on that.



I think I know, but please don't reveal anymore. It is so perfect as is with not only the samples, but the time distortion as well. I read it again several times this morning and I'm still not sure.

I also have to say your timing in the poem is very well done.

I find it hard to believe we are left with this exsquisite puzzle because you were called away to a meeting.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I think I know, but please don't reveal anymore. It is so perfect as is with not only the samples, but the time distortion as well. I read it again several times this morning and I'm still not sure.

I also have to say your timing in the poem is very well done.

I find it hard to believe we are left with this exsquisite puzzle because you were called away to a meeting.

In the wake of that wondreful poem and all it implied, can you doubt what sort of "meeting" it was?!

[ampoule]

In the wake of that wondreful poem and all it implied, can you doubt what sort of "meeting" it was?!


Oh, how I wish.

[firefangled]

In morning’s last darkness I found you out
on your way home, under the full moon,
through the shroud of misty air. You did not know
it was me, the soft white night that enveloped you,
lying moist against your vibrant skin; it was I,
who could not speak, who drifted lightly to your lips
and gently rested there, then played and sparkled in your hair.
Caught within your motion, for the moment your captive there,
unseen you carried me inside your house, and I watched you
take petal from petal of clothing and could say nothing,
and could no longer touch you, could give no sign of love
you would see, but for one small tear, unnoticed on a chair.

Later, as you slept, I moved, silently, a thief enthralled,
through your room, feeling the residual warmth of your
clothing, touching what you hold dear, cherishing
each precious item as do you, becoming for the moment
the enveloped, letting you surround me as I had you.
For hours, hovering above the floor, so close with the fragrance
you had worn, like light against the morning breeze, I danced.
And then, glorious moment, I lie beside you sleeping there
and by your heat lost all form as I melded into you...
and slept as you slept, and breathed as you breathed,
and in the fading darkness, became the fabric of your dreams

[Adolescent09]

Man.. that's so wonderful. What brilliant imagery.

[PrinceMyshkin]

In morning’s last darkness I found you out
on your way home, under the full moon,
through the shroud of misty air. You did not know
it was me, the soft white night that enveloped you,
lying moist against your vibrant skin; it was I,
who could not speak, who drifted lightly to your lips
and gently rested there, then played and sparkled in your hair.
Caught within your motion, for the moment your captive there,
unseen you carried me inside your house, and I watched you
take petal from petal of clothing and could say nothing,
and could no longer touch you, could give no sign of love
you would see, but for one small tear, unnoticed on a chair.

Later, as you slept, I moved, silently, a thief enthralled,
through your room, feeling the residual warmth of your
clothing, touching what you hold dear, cherishing
each precious item as do you, becoming for the moment
the enveloped, letting you surround me as I had you.
For hours, hovering above the floor, so close with the fragrance
you had worn, like light against the morning breeze, I danced.
And then, glorious moment, I lie beside you sleeping there
and by your heat lost all form as I melded into you...
and slept as you slept, and breathed as you breathed,
and in the fading darkness, became the fabric of your dreams

But compared with the fever pitch you must achieve when writing such extraordinary poems, how do you tolerate the in-between times? Do you go and set off small tactical nuclear weapons in your back-yard?

You ARE sending these around for publication, aren't you? Or they've been published aready?

[symphony]

In morning’s last darkness I found you out
on your way home, under the full moon,
through the shroud of misty air. You did not know
it was me, the soft white night that enveloped you,
lying moist against your vibrant skin; it was I,
who could not speak, who drifted lightly to your lips
and gently rested there, then played and sparkled in your hair.
Caught within your motion, for the moment your captive there,
unseen you carried me inside your house, and I watched you
take petal from petal of clothing and could say nothing,
and could no longer touch you, could give no sign of love
you would see, but for one small tear, unnoticed on a chair.

Later, as you slept, I moved, silently, a thief enthralled,
through your room, feeling the residual warmth of your
clothing, touching what you hold dear, cherishing
each precious item as do you, becoming for the moment
the enveloped, letting you surround me as I had you.
For hours, hovering above the floor, so close with the fragrance
you had worn, like light against the morning breeze, I danced.
And then, glorious moment, I lie beside you sleeping there
and by your heat lost all form as I melded into you...
and slept as you slept, and breathed as you breathed,
and in the fading darkness, became the fabric of your dreams

Oh my!

[Adolescent09]

My Fog: The Moral Cleaner

I sat by droplets licking the light of a sunset's glean;
It dubiously trickled, then quickly took form,
On my shoulder's, in the guise of compassion it waned my forlorn,
And just like a friend on whose shoulder you lean,
When adversity is the visage of all that you've seen,
It seeped out my woe in the form of an evil conformed,
and hurled it in the crest of a volatile storm.

My heart was set free in a verdurous green,
My sockets of fog-lifted pupils now showed,
Life in creatures and redolence for what it was,
the last frost on the end of a dead tree bow,
a silver-limped collection of mushroom villa-fuzz
the rebirth of green from a seed moist sowed,
and a pollen adhered bee irradiating every petal with its buzz
while I sat by droplets licking the light of a sunset's glean

[Adolescent09]

Ech! I give up! I suck!

[PrinceMyshkin]

Ech! I give up! I suck!


I don't think you suck but I do think you're making a BIG mistake by using language that belongs to another age and mode of thinking. In general it's probably best tostay away from that self conscious state of thinking I'm writing OH MY GOD poetry!!!

"Say it simple, forget your Dixie grammar." Jack Teagarden

[Adolescent09]

Yes, you're right. I'm sorry. Is the vocabulary in my poetry really difficult? I might have been oblivious to that..

[firefangled]

But compared with the fever pitch you must achieve when writing such extraordinary poems, how do you tolerate the in-between times? Do you go and set off small tactical nuclear weapons in your back-yard?

You ARE sending these around for publication, aren't you? Or they've been published aready?


I have to say with all sincerity that I appreciate very much the responses from everyone here for what I write. The feeling is equally mutual.

I have never really published anything but 2 poems that were in a couple start up magazines, one in NC and one in NH. I mostly do this for enjoyment. I write software documentation all day and although I enjoy that in a different way, it very unemotional as you might imagine. Poetry is a great outlet and keeps me in touch.

[Adolescent09]

Can someone tell me what's wrong with this poem or how I could improve?


My Fog: The Moral Cleaner

I sat by droplets licking the light of a sunset's glean;
It dubiously trickled, then quickly took form,
On my shoulder's, in the guise of compassion it waned my forlorn,
And just like a friend on whose shoulder you lean,
When adversity is the visage of all that you've seen,
It seeped out my woe in the form of an evil conformed,
and hurled it in the crest of a volatile storm.

My heart was set free in a verdurous green,
My sockets of fog-lifted pupils now showed,
Life in creatures and redolence for what it was,
the last frost on the end of a dead tree bow,
a silver-limped collection of mushroom villa-fuzz
the rebirth of green from a seed moist sowed,
and a pollen adhered bee irradiating every petal with its buzz
while I sat by droplets licking the light of a sunset's glean

It's my first real Sonnet (I think).

[firefangled]

Yes, you're right. I'm sorry. Is the vocabulary in my poetry really difficult? I might have been oblivious to that..

Prince is so right about using the language of another age.

I think that happens because we are forced to study the classics in school and only the best teachers bother to tell you why or bother to encourage students to write from your own time and heart.

The classics of literature are to illustrate a lineage of form and style, an evolution of language. On your own read Billy Collins, Sharon Olds, Mark Strand, Ann Sexton. Try to find poems that sound like you talk, that are about things you know about. These will help you find your own voice and you do have one like no one else.

[Adolescent09]

The French 'lai'

The stalwart chief came,
to guard the king's fame,
for he,
was a pompus stout,
with a case of gout,
and a
flee infested cat,
which tore his cravat,
with greed

[PrinceMyshkin]

Can someone tell me what's wrong with this poem or how I could improve?



It's my first real Sonnet (I think).

My hope is that no one will try to tell how you might improve any more than they should try to tell you how to be more like yourself or a better version of yourself.

READ! READ! READ! More contemporary stuff... the poets Firefangled suggested or pick up an anthology of 20th c. poetry that catches your eye and BROWSE through it. Do not consciously try to copy anyone else's style, but the things that are right for you will sink in more or less on their own.


By all means hope for and appreciate those who like what you produce BUT TRY TO BE YOUR OWN BEST AUDIENCE. Don't try to BE a poet - write poetry!

[Adolescent09]

You've got a point. I've been reading far too much of John Milton's Paradise Lost (this is my second time reading the unabridged epic) and Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbary Tales.

I've read absolutely nothing in contemporary poetry so I may fathom why my style of writing appears to be so pretentiously quaint. Thanks for your thoughts, Myshkin. (I would have called you Prince but that would make me look obsequious :p)

As for reading... I do that.. A LOT (but no, not contemporary literature, so you make a point there as well).

I actually like and appreciate a lot of my poetry. But it tends to get ignored so I'm stuck with the presentiment that my fellow audience of Lit-net forumgoers don't share my respect for my work. Well... I'll try HARDER! :D Let me just get out of this bum stage (or writer's block).

[ampoule]

AND SO......THE WORD IS......tell us firefangled.....what should our new word be?

[firefangled]

Since we have all been guilty of sinful desires...

The new word is Penance.


Get out your cat-o-nine-tails, your hair shirts. Down on your shameful knees poets and start writing those things that will forgive us all.

Mea culpa, mea maximum culpa. Et cum spiritu tuo.

[ampoule]

hehehehe very good

that's not my offering, just my comment ;)

[Adolescent09]

Penance

If a true plea had wings so innocent and fair,
through which place or time would mine have to
sour to show that penance is the threshold,
desire, the door, which needs be unbolted to liberate
my stall of lashes, wrinkles, blood and gore. For I've
waded in the depths of evil's shore and have delved
in the caves of leviathans galore
who dented my flesh,
halved my soul and
residued the rest
of me
on the deep sea floor.

[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.



Oh, I hate being first, but I do know penance.

[Adolescent09]

I don't know how you do it, fire. I wouldn't be able to come up with something like that if I spent a week on it.

[firefangled]

Penance

If a true plea had wings so innocent and fair,
through which place or time would mine have to
sour to show that penance is the threshold,
desire, the door, which needs be unbolted to liberate
my stall of lashes, wrinkles, sours and gore. For I've
waded in the depths of evil's shore and have been delved
in a cave of leviathans
which tore my flesh,
halved my soul and
residued the rest
of me
in pathogenic spite.

*******
If you have ever read the passage in Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man where Stephen Dedalus is enduring a sermon on the torments of hell, these are worthy lines to that effect. Go in peace.

[Adolescent09]

Really? Thanks. I sort of tweaked it though..:


Penance

If a true plea had wings so innocent and fair,
through which place or time would mine have to
sour to show that penance is the threshold,
desire, the door, which needs be unbolted to liberate
my stall of lashes, wrinkles, blood and gore. For I've
waded in the depths of evil's shore and have been delved
in the caves of leviathans galore
who dented my flesh,
halved my soul and
residued the rest
of me
on the deep sea floor.

I'm not sure if it makes a difference though.

[firefangled]

I don't know how you do it, fire. I wouldn't be able to come up with something like that if I spent a week on it.


There was actually a young girl named Magaret in my grade school who was like Charlotte Church and could fill the rafters with her voice. It was truly amazing.

For this she was envied by both the sisters and the choir master, who preferred supplication to exaltation. So she was surreptitiously persecuted. She was about 8 years old I guess and never flinched no matter what was thrown at her.

When she moved the people of the parrish asked about her so frequently, they made an announcement of it from the pulpit and the entire gathering sighed.

She always comes to mind when I contemplate the act of atonement, for she was, and is, one of the primary examples of the truth of that act in my life.

[ampoule]

Penance

I point myself to the corner and I shuffle there and slump against the wall, pouting.
I knew what I did when I did it and was sorry, but here I am wondering how tall I am.
I straighten myself up trying to measure myself by the bookcase across the room.
Am I really up to Tan and Tolkein and Trollope when surely it was only yesterday I stood with Updike and Uris?
I yawn and lean again against the wall, looking at my fingernails and I begin to hum some song in three-quarter time.
I hang my head and my face contorts like some dried apple dolly and I cry terrible tears.
"Oh God, I am so sorry. I am so pitifully pathetic. What you must think of me."
I stand there silently, holding my breath, looking around, as if to see if I am still here.
With a deep breath, I shake my head back and forth very slowly while looking inside myself.
At the count of ten I dislodge myself and walk over to the open window and pull back the lace curtain.
I sit on the plush, flowered window seat and sing to the birds, "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound..."
They stop for a moment looking toward the window where the sound is coming from,
As if on springboards, they fly off into the sky as if to say, 'we know, we know, we know'.

[firefangled]

Penance

I point myself to the corner and I shuffle there and slump against the wall, pouting.
I knew what I did when I did it and was sorry, but here I am wondering how tall I am.
I straighten myself up trying to measure myself by the bookcase across the room.
Am I really up to Tan and Tolkein and Trollope when surely it was only yesterday I stood with Updike and Uris?
I yawn and lean again against the wall, looking at my fingernails and I begin to hum some song in three-quarter time.
I hang my head and my face contorts like some dried apple dolly and I cry terrible tears.
"Oh God, I am so sorry. I am so pitifully pathetic. What you must think of me."
I stand there silently, holding my breath, looking around, as if to see if I am still here.
With a deep breath, I shake my head back and forth very slowly while looking inside myself.
At the count of ten I dislodge myself and walk over to the open window and pull back the lace curtain.
I sit on the plush, flowered window seat and sing to the birds, "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound..."
They stop for a moment looking toward the window where the sound is coming from,
As if on springboards, they fly off into the sky as if to say, 'we know, we know, we know'.


My favorite parts of poems are endings and you have an enormous capability of leading your poems to endings that make me just go...oh yes.

This is so honest describing our attempts at penance with our corporeal preoccupations as humans and our self pity for which we seem to have no means of fighting outside a monestary. I loved it. And isn't it always the birds with the resolution...Billy Collins come to mind here...In the Room of a Thousand Miles

Well done.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Some folk make poems as if with a dictionary, a thesaurus, a book of quotations at their elbows and thousands of half-remembered poems flipping through their minds while they wrestle the syntax to the ground, best two out of three falls,

But not you! It is as if this is the simplest way to say what you have to say, the most direct - and it needs to be said!

From

I point myself to the corner and I shuffle there and slump against the wall, pouting.

to the very end I was caught, mesmerized.

[firefangled]

The slow pulse of the black-water ballet,
in the deep country of the fireflies:

In yellow memory, in chains,
fragrance cupped from the dark lawn
— every petal was a mouth —

hungry, efflorescent stars,
one for many on a milky stem:

They fell with the veil of night, laden
with the bright of sun, and we would wait
for what was done in the dale of evening,
in the pale of the moonlit grass. They died,
if patience failed to hold us for their flights,

such fragile dolia of blossoms gone to light,
we galled them with a child’s haste,
watched their constellations slide
down blades and on our skin
with the scent of dandelion.

Oh silent aria of desire,
world of blind intent,
keep the secrets of your child:

wild flowers can redeem us

wishes gray make wishes green

fire hides in the quiet air

the choired whispers of the sea
are born in the twists of shells

and this cool water with its stars
ripples briefly in our eyes.

[PrinceMyshkin]

The slow pulse of the black-water ballet,
in the deep country of the fireflies:

In yellow memory, in chains,
fragrance cupped from the dark lawn
— every petal was a mouth —

hungry, efflorescent stars,
one for many on a milky stem:

They fell with the veil of night, laden
with the bright of sun, and we would wait
for what was done in the dale of evening,
in the pale of the moonlit grass. They died,
if patience failed to hold us for their flights,

such fragile dolia of blossoms gone to light,
we galled them with a child’s haste,
watched their constellations slide
down blades and on our skin
with the scent of dandelion.

Oh silent aria of desire,
world of blind intent,
keep the secrets of your child:

wild flowers can redeem us

wishes gray make wishes green

fire hides in the quiet air

the choired whispers of the sea
are born in the twists of shells

and this cool water with its stars
ripples briefly in our eyes.

My God, how beautiful this is! I have started a file on my hard-drive in which to keep your poems aswell as whatever communications pass between us.

[ampoule]

I don't know quite what to say except that I feel what Prince wrote. I also love the picture of the jar with perhaps small chains wrapped around its base.

So, Prince, will you have an offering of Penance for us?

Adolescent09...be thinking of our next word, please.

[PrinceMyshkin]

So, Prince, will you have an offering of Penance for us?



For this, Oh Lord, I am heartily sorry,
that when you permitted the lambs
to be led into the gas chambers,
I was not one of them.

That I am not worthy
of the life of this one or that one
who was brutalized and done to death,
I wish I could do penance.

That I have bread and meat
and fruit when others
all over this teeming earth
have none,
I would do penance...

http://www.hungersite.com/clickToGive/home.faces?siteId=1

[ampoule]

For this, Oh Lord, I am heartily sorry,
that when you permitted the lambs
to be led into the gas chambers,
I was not one of them.

That I am not worthy
of the life of this one or that one
who was brutalized and done to death,
I wish I could do penance.

That I have bread and meat
and fruit when others
all over this teeming earth
have none,
I would do penance...

http://www.hungersite.com/clickToGive/home.faces?siteId=1

thank you............................................... .........THANK you.

[Adolescent09]

Laconic or Negligible. If you don't like them I can come up with something else.

[PrinceMyshkin]

The other week, not being sure
of what I wanted to say,
I wrote 2,514 words.

Following that,
growing more confident of what I knew,
I wrote 1,257.

Given enough time
and careful study
I will write nothing at all.

[Adolescent09]

One Look in a Grand of Words

A portion of our timeless past
takes a mile in written words
to piece a thought that fails to last
in lieu of what we've seen and heard,

Our greatest senses 2 of 5
Record by ear and witness live,
a tape of history's adverse glory,
far more profound than transcribed story--

For all in all a manuscript's
lines on lines will not depict
a starving youth of weak encumber
whose soul takes flight as his being slumbers.

[PrinceMyshkin]

One Look in a Grand of Words

A portion of our timeless past
will take a mile in written words
to piece a thought that fails to last
in lieu of what we've seen and heard,

Our greatest senses 2 of 5
Record by ear and witness live,
a tape of history's adverse glory,
more profound by far than written story--

For all in all a manuscript's
lines on lines will not depict
a starving youth of weak encumber
whose soul takes flight as his being slumbers.

I believe this is the best of yours that I have seen thus far!

[Adolescent09]

All my other poetry was complete crap. It's all been deleted. I've been stumbling on a writer's block for two weeks. This poem in itself took me approximately a half hour to write... but in my normal phase it wouldn't have taken me more than three minutes.

[ampoule]

Oh, I agree. That is quite nice.

Edit: Ouch! I was just rereading this and my reply here is in agreement with what Prince had to say about your most recent poem here.
Sorry if it looked otherwise.

[ampoule]

If you care to do so, you may sing this to the tune of Fernando's Hideaway.

I..get tense..when you get terse
It makes..me wince..and I feel worse
When you're..concise..it's like a vise
That grips me by my little heart.

[Pendragon]

For this, Oh Lord, I am heartily sorry,
that when you permitted the lambs
to be led into the gas chambers,
I was not one of them.

That I am not worthy
of the life of this one or that one
who was brutalized and done to death,
I wish I could do penance.

That I have bread and meat
and fruit when others
all over this teeming earth
have none,
I would do penance...

Oh, mon ami... This would bring tears to the eyes of a statue... a beautiful poem... so beautiful... how ungrateful for my own blessings it makes me feel... Shalom, mon ami. Shalom. http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/Peace.gif

[PrinceMyshkin]

Oh, mon ami... This would bring tears to the eyes of a statue... a beautiful poem... so beautiful... how ungrateful for my own blessings it makes me feel... Shalom, mon ami. Shalom. http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/Peace.gif

And to you Shalom u'vracha (Peace and a blessing)

[ampoule]

And by the way Pendragon, I haven't seen anything from you just lately...penance...laconic.
And where is firefangled?

[PrinceMyshkin]

And by the way Pendragon, I haven't seen anything from you just lately...penance...laconic.
And where is firefangled?



He lives at a somewhat
acute angle
the one who’s known as “firefangle.”
And his poems never ever dangle
--that very sure-footed firefangle.
But seek him not! He won’t be caught!
And in his usual noble guise
He’ll be here when he has wrought
Something worthy of our eyes.

[ampoule]

He lives at a somewhat
acute angle
the one who’s known as “firefangle.”
And his poems never ever dangle
--that very sure-footed firefangle.
But seek him not! He won’t be caught!
And in his usual noble guise
He’ll be here when he has wrought
Something worthy of our eyes.

Well, okay, but I don't have to like it. ;)

I do like your poem though. Hmmm, maybe I should answer...:idea:

Fishing For Fire

Early in the morning I walk to the pier's end glancing at the others fishing
in their yellow slickers covered with wet foggy dew.
They move just barely, a nod, a lift of the finger or stone cold,
remembering the sea or their night on the town.
Without making a sound I stretch and roar, beat my chest and breathe in
the sea air.
I look behind and around and nothing has changed and I give a sigh,
a silent sigh,
That no one has heard how much I love being here.
I find the spot, my spot, worn ever so slightly with my impressions and
I settle there with my feet hanging over the water, swinging lightly with delight.
I open my basket and search among the words for something fat and juicy,
something that would entice him, bring him up out of the water, dripping and squirming, and seeking,
to show himself.
Finally, I see the one that is right and I reach in and pull it out and place it
on my line.
I lie down and hold it out over the water, the word barely touching the surface, and my breath catches as I see him circling below.
Around and around, down, then up, and around and around, I am mesmerized......
I remove the seaweed ribbons from my hair and it tumbles to my waist.
With my hands gracefully pointed, I lean and slink into the dark waters.
He is nowhere to be found but I see a school and swim quickly to catch them.
They flick their tails and dart away from me but I beg them to share their recess with me, but mostly they stare with their round, innocent, unblinking eyes.
I am tired now.
I lean back into the water with my hair floating up all around me like a salty cocoon and I....
"Hey miss! Miss! You better wake up."
I raise my sunburned face.
Drool runs from my mouth.
With my hand shielding my eyes, I look up into a face decorated with a long mustache and sparkling eyes.
"I do believe, missy, something has taken your bait."

[PrinceMyshkin]

Well, okay, but I don't have to like it. ;)

I do like your poem though. Hmmm, maybe I should answer...:idea:


Early in the morning I walk to the pier's end glancing at the others fishing
in their yellow slickers covered with wet foggy dew.
They move just barely, a nod, a lift of the finger or stone cold,
remembering the sea or their night on the town.
Without making a sound I stretch and roar, beat my chest and breathe in
the sea air.
I look behind and around and nothing has changed and I give a sigh,
a silent sigh,
That no one has heard how much I love being here.
I find the spot, my spot, worn ever so slightly with my impressions and
I settle there with my feet hanging over the water, swinging lightly with delight.
I open my basket and search among the words for something fat and juicy,
something that would entice him, bring him up out of the water, dripping and squirming, and seeking,
to show himself.
Finally, I see the one that is right and I reach in and pull it out and place it
on my line.
I lie down and hold it out over the water, the word barely touching the surface, and my breath catches as I see him circling below.
Around and around, down, then up, and around and around, I am mesmerized......
I remove the seaweed ribbons from my hair and it tumbles to my waist.
With my hands gracefully pointed, I lean and slink into the dark waters.
He is nowhere to be found but I see a school and swim quickly to catch them.
They flick their tails and dart away from me but I beg them to share their recess with me, but mostly they stare with their round, innocent, unblinking eyes.
I am tired now.
I lean back into the water with my hair floating up all around me like a salty cocoon and I....
"Hey miss! Miss! You better wake up."
I raise my sunburned face.
Drool runs from my mouth.
With my hand shielding my eyes, I look up into a face decorated with a long mustache and sparkling eyes.
"I do believe, missy, something has taken your bait."

And the word was....
.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.


the word was.......

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

anchovy?

[ampoule]

And the word was....
.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.


the word was.......

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

anchovy?

: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!

[firefangled]

I am becoming dreams;
they stay open for me to enter,
to walk through the old doors left behind,
heavy with fear and moving shadow,
walking without going across the room.
So much happens in the small spaces
of yellow light, knees aching, head bent,
to see what can’t be seen.

[firefangled]

He lives at a somewhat
acute angle
the one who’s known as “firefangle.”
And his poems never ever dangle
--that very sure-footed firefangle.
But seek him not! He won’t be caught!
And in his usual noble guise
He’ll be here when he has wrought
Something worthy of our eyes.


Oh but I must dangle. I was written that way by Mr. Stevens.

The bird's firefangled feathers dangle down.

Thank you, Prince, for the portrait.

[firefangled]

One Look in a Grand of Words

A portion of our timeless past
takes a mile in written words
to piece a thought that fails to last
in lieu of what we've seen and heard,

Our greatest senses 2 of 5
Record by ear and witness live,
a tape of history's adverse glory,
far more profound than transcribed story--

For all in all a manuscript's
lines on lines will not depict
a starving youth of weak encumber
whose soul takes flight as his being slumbers.


I agree with Prince on this. I am, however, sorry to hear you say you trashed your old poems. You probably had some unpolished gems among all those thoughts and words. But then there is something to be said for new beginnings if that is how you felt.

This one is one of your best though.

[firefangled]

If you care to do so, you may sing this to the tune of Fernando's Hideaway.

I..get tense..when you get terse
It makes..me wince..and I feel worse
When you're..concise..it's like a vise
That grips me by my little heart.


In my haste to make up for lost time, I guess I missed that the new word is Laconic. Back to the drawing board.

[firefangled]

A poem inspired by the 'and the word is' thread, when the word was 'penance'.

When he was gone

I wonder if you still recall
the day he left.
A quiet exit, accomplished
without slammed doors
and querulous voices,
or broken crockery.
Instead his accusations lie
in the absences;
in the empty wardrobe,
in the lonely set of keys
on the hallway table,
in the gap-toothed idiot smiles
of the CD rack and bookcase.
Over time even
his scent has disappeared,
and only mine remains.

And you, you were so young,
how could I explain
why he had gone?
I wasn’t sure myself.
Instead I grew an extra heart for you,
built from all my dreams,
a bushel of tolerance,
a tonne of understanding,
an acre of hope.
A heart to replace the love
he took away.
Yet here we are, and you
are in your room,
door closed,
a back turned against me.
You always loved him more.



Oh Bii, this is so beautiful and the last line speaks volumes....that self-flagellation, that pity party so many of us attend over and over, that penance for the ones who grow extra hearts and never quite believe it is enough. Something in this reminds me of a line from The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan...

The old woman remembered a swan she had bought many years ago in Shanghai for a foolish sum. "This bird", boasted the market vendor, "was once a duck that stretched its neck in hopes of becoming a goose. And now look, it is too beautiful to eat!" Then the woman and the swan sailed across an ocean many thousands of lei wide, stretching their necks toward America. On her journey, she cooed to the swan, "In America, I will have a daughter just like me. But over there, nobody will say her worth is measured by the loudness of her husbands belch. Over there, nobody will look down on her because I will make her speak only perfect American English. And over there, she will always be too full to swallow any sorrow. She will know my meaning because I will give her this swan, a creature that became more than what was hoped for." But when she arrived in the new country the immigration officials pulled the swan away from her, leaving the woman fluttering her arms and with only one swan feather for a memory. For a long time now, the women had wanted to give her daughter the single swan feather and tell her; "This feather may look worthless, but it comes from afar and carries with it all my good intentions."

...and anyone who wants to add to any word or thought in the 'and the word is' thread is very very welcome to do so....at any time....and please do.

We could not finish with the previous word is... without this...simply beautiful poem and thought about it.

Bii this is so wonderful. Thank you for sharing it and Bless your extra heart.

[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!


Which of us has not suffered that?
Alone at the end of the row
even after the goofy-kid
with the coke-bottle glasses
and the raging acne had been picked,
you stood there, foolish, exposed,
that one sock slid half-way down your ankle
and you didn't dare to straighten it up
lest you be noticed. Not chosen yet
and, possibly, never ever to be.

[ampoule]

Pendragon...would you like to choose our next word?

[Pendragon]

OK. And the word is: Homecoming

Homecoming

The old man sits alone on a rocky shelf
where the rays of the setting sun filtering
through the mist
casts countless dancing rainbows.
The great cataract before him
tumbles down the mountain
like his own white locks
flow down across his shoulders.
His eyes are now faded,
yet somehow they seem to focus
on things beyond his field of vision.
He closes his eyes, and summons the memories:
A boy of just seven summers,
glowing with pride over his first big kill.
A boy of thirteen, more than slightly scared
at his initiation into manhood.
A young man of twenty,
basking in the warmth of his newly wed wife.
A young man of twenty-five,
rejoicing with his wife over their first son.
A young man of twenty-seven, heartbroken,
holding his wife as she cries over their stillborn daughter.
At thirty, a man of much responsibility,
with a wife, two sons, and a new daughter.
At forty-five, a man with a vision,
and a homeland forever scarred by war,
tired of broken treaties; broken promises.
At fifty, almost dead from grief,
he is supported by his sons at his beloved wife’s passing.
At sixty, now an elder of the tribe,
he teaches his grandchildren the ways of The People.
At present, he is seventy-two.
He can hear the voices calling:
His father and Mother.
His small daughter.
Finally, his wife.
He stretches his arms out to her
never opening his eyes,
as his frail body goes limp on the rocks.
The People have a saying:
“The earth and the sky go on forever,
but today is a good day to die.”

Dale Harris
2002

BTW, That's my real name...

Pen

[PrinceMyshkin]

OK. And the word is: Homecoming

Homecoming

The old man sits alone on a rocky shelf
where the rays of the setting sun filtering
through the mist
casts countless dancing rainbows.
The great cataract before him
tumbles down the mountain
like his own white locks
flow down across his shoulders.
His eyes are now faded,
yet somehow they seem to focus
on things beyond his field of vision.
He closes his eyes, and summons the memories:
A boy of just seven summers,
glowing with pride over his first big kill.
A boy of thirteen, more than slightly scared
at his initiation into manhood.
A young man of twenty,
basking in the warmth of his newly wed wife.
A young man of twenty-five,
rejoicing with his wife over their first son.
A young man of twenty-seven, heartbroken,
holding his wife as she cries over their stillborn daughter.
At thirty, a man of much responsibility,
with a wife, two sons, and a new daughter.
At forty-five, a man with a vision,
and a homeland forever scarred by war,
tired of broken treaties; broken promises.
At fifty, almost dead from grief,
he is supported by his sons at his beloved wife’s passing.
At sixty, now an elder of the tribe,
he teaches his grandchildren the ways of The People.
At present, he is seventy-two.
He can hear the voices calling:
His father and Mother.
His small daughter.
Finally, his wife.
He stretches his arms out to her
never opening his eyes,
as his frail body goes limp on the rocks.
The People have a saying:
“The earth and the sky go on forever,
but today is a good day to die.”

Dale Harris
2002

BTW, That's my real name...

Pen

There is something auspicious and very, very right in your choice of proclaiming your real name, your whole name following upon this MAGNIFICENT poem. That in itself is a kind of homecoming! Welcome back, Dale Harris!

[PrinceMyshkin]

“You’re never so far from home,”
I composed as the epigram
to my first novel,
“as when you’re there.”
And “Home is the place ,”
wrote Robert Frost, “where,
when you have to go there,
they have to take you in.”
But I don’t know about that.

I’m a Jew (or will be
if ever I figure out
what that is) so I’ve spent a long time
looking for that place where,
when I have nowhere else to go,
they won’t have to take me in
but they will want to,
gladly, whole-heartedly.

And so far, I’d have to say,
I never have found a home
but in the hearts
of a lover or two
or in that of my children’s
well-furnished, spacious,
solidly built hearts.

[ampoule]

Which of us has not suffered that?
Alone at the end of the row
even after the goofy-kid
with the coke-bottle glasses
and the raging acne had been picked,
you stood there, foolish, exposed,
that one sock slid half-way down your ankle
and you didn't dare to straighten it up
lest you be noticed. Not chosen yet
and, possibly, never ever to be.

I hate suffering and I'm not fond of being exposed but I might give you a glimpse of my ankle if you will write more wonderful things like this. I loved it.

now quit cher whinin' boy;) ;)

[ampoule]

“You’re never so far from home,”
I composed as the epigram
to my first novel,
“as when you’re there.”
And “Home is the place ,”
wrote Robert Frost, “where,
when you have to go there,
they have to take you in.”
But I don’t know about that.

I’m a Jew (or will be
if ever I figure out
what that is) so I’ve spent a long time
looking for that place where,
when I have nowhere else to go,
they won’t have to take me in
but they will want to,
gladly, whole-heartedly. "Yes yes yes!" says amp.

And so far, I’d have to say,
I never have found a home
but in the hearts
of a lover or two
or in that of my children’s
well-furnished, spacious,
solidly built hearts.

And just maybe in the heart or two of your poet friends???? Please?

[PrinceMyshkin]

I hate suffering and I'm not fond of being exposed but I might give you a glimpse of my ankle if you will write more wonderful things like this. I loved it.

now quit cher whinin' boy;) ;)

Ten rather quickly improvised lines for an ankle... what price for a bit of calf, or--?

As for my alleged "whining" I'm a JEW! Whining is my mother tongue!

[PrinceMyshkin]

And just maybe in the heart or two of your poet friends???? Please?

Anatomy appears to be the theme of the day. First ankles, now hearts... what next, pray?:flare:

[firefangled]

OK. And the word is: Homecoming


The People have a saying:
“The earth and the sky go on forever,
but today is a good day to die.”



Thanks for sharing this, Dale. Having just arrived I have only seen a few of your poems and this is by far my favorite. Such a wonderful reflection on a well lived time on this earth.

My Great Grandfather was a full Cherokee. He was 105, in the backyard, pruning a peach tree when, as a neighbor saw, he sat, put his shears down, laid back on the grass and died.

[firefangled]

And just maybe in the heart or two of your poet friends???? Please?


I second that emotion wholeheartedly. You don't want to see my ankle, I'm sure, so it's my heart or nothing.:yawnb:

Great poem. That makes two pieces of excellent work to start this word.

Whew, I had some laconic I mixed up in the sink, but it was not pretty.

[Il Penseroso]

homecoming

The sun's ruby glare approaches with soft feet through the window,
tiny photon fingers with uncanny strength lift melted sand
strained along the household square,
squeezing the pulsing bulbs of their bodies
through a sun-glazed entrance.

doorways left ajar breathe clear reflections like milk-intoned mirrors,
space a lingered sigh to the thoughtful depth
of walls sublimely smiling, the fix of memory infused in wood.

[Adolescent09]

;;;;;;;;;;;;

[firefangled]

A Homecoming of sorts. My attempt at a kids poem when my daughter was small. Apologies to Dr. Seuss.


Stop swatting that bird,
I said from the ground,
you’re the man from the place
where the sky’s green and brown,
and the rain never falls,
so the grass is all blue.
You’d better come down,
I’ve heard about you.

You must be crazy,
came the instant reply,
I’m already down,
you’re up in the sky.
And this bird’s gonna croak,
if I don’t net it soon,
or thrash around ‘til it does
in the Grey-blue Lagoon.

Your Grey-blue Lagoon
is where birds like to fly.
They’re not thrashing around,
they’re not going to die.
You can’t really be real,
this is some kind of joke,
an upside-down town,
filled with upside-down folk.

Look at that green thing
in front of your nose –
what do you call it,
and the branch where it grows?
Let me guess; they are clouds;
they could never be leaves,
and you all live in houses
that sit on their eaves.

So you’ve seen my home?
And he started to climb
(down, or up if you choose)
the trunk in no time,
until I was looking
directly at him
with a mouth in his head
and an eye on his chin,

and hair all around
from his head to his jaw,
and ten toes for fingers,
you won’t believe what I saw.
I started to run,
I was scared as could be,
but he started back down-up
and said follow me.

He gave me a foot,
that was really a hand.
It was way beyond strange,
I’m sure you understand.
Away we both went
through the tops of the trees,
this poet and a man
who had elbows for knees.

We arrived at a place,
at the edge of the wood;
I’d fail at descriptives,
if describe it I could:
A banner with “Get-Out-Of
Our Home in the Sky”
and instead of hello
they all said good-bye.

But I took off my shoes
and shook feet, nonetheless,
commenced my farewells,
in a daze, I’ll confess,
for it was true of the houses
I needed no further proof –
every one, every building
rose up from its roof.

I met all the children,
so smart and quite tall,
but the parents and grown-ups
were fussy and small.
This reversal was cleared
in a song that they sung
how they all were born old
and died when they’re young.

Once I accustomed
myself to the town,
I had fun falling up,
but got sick rising down.
It was quite an adjustment
to make in my head –
that night I slept on the floor
and fell into the bed.

I dreamed I awoke
and this was all in my dreams.
I assure you my dithers
were more than it seems,
for when I really woke down
by the light of the moon
the children all laughed
‘cause I’d slept out ‘til noon.

Breakfast was good,
we had eggs that were red,
they’re favorite for sure,
by the smiles on their heads,
but the frowns on their lips
told me late I must go
from this land of green sky
with the blue grass below.

You’ll become one of us
if you don’t say hello;
they were right, my left thumb
had become a big toe,
and both of my lips
were growing eyelashes,
the grass had turned gray
and was throwing out flashes.

I ran through the green clouds,
the branches were wet,
there the birds had found shelter;
it was all they could get.
It made me so love
the home of my heart,
where poems end when they stop
and begin where they start.

[ampoule]

How delightful. Lucky daughter. I may have to read that to my class. :)

[ampoule]

Homecoming

A shiny white convertible, and me,
With red sequined gown spread from window to window,
Sitting on the back, waving,
Gliding into a stadium of cheers.
The glaring lights bid a shocking but somehow warm welcome,
With the stars beyond singing back-up.
Floating past the team, holding their helmets by their sides, in respect, of course,
I give a queenly glance, surprised to see, some who are familiar to me...
One dressed in camouflage with painted face and a bow at his side
And another in denim overalls.......Wait! I glance back......
Grandpa, is that you, with your missing fingers?
As we continue down the field, I wonder how in this world he can pass the ball, then,
"Driver! Stop! It's grandpa Artz and I'll just hop down for a second,
To gather grass clippings in brown paper bags so he will smile",
But the driver whisks by, as I spy Uncle Tex with his guitar on his back!
Laughing out loud and pointing my finger, I say,
"You won't get many touchdowns that way!"
There are farmers and soldiers and fishermen,
Team members reading books, teaching lessons and making change,
Looking up at me,
And standing in the far off background,
Even my opponents are smiling.
Next we come to the cheering stand and the band is playing,
"Peg 'O My Heart, I love you....",
While the pep squad shouts out in familiar voices.
The cheerleaders, with their silver hair and calico dresses,
Do flips and jumps, and stand in pyramids....Rah-rah-sis-boom-bah....for me,
For me.
Finally, my white chariot convertible hovers in front of the goal post.
The door swings open and I glide out on to the field of green with white chalk markings.
I take my place and can hardly breathe as I receive my crown.
I curtsy, and holding my bouquet of long-stemmed red roses,
I turn around to take in the marvelous scene,
Knowing that tonight,
I will dance.
http://www.frensley.net/ym94223.jpg

Disclaimer: I may or may not believe in such things but it's fun to imagine.

[Pendragon]

Thanks for sharing this, Dale. Having just arrived I have only seen a few of your poems and this is by far my favorite. Such a wonderful reflection on a well lived time on this earth.

My Great Grandfather was a full Cherokee. He was 105, in the backyard, pruning a peach tree when, as a neighbor saw, he sat, put his shears down, laid back on the grass and died.Really? Mine was also. BlackJohn Lamie. You can find his name on the list of the Cherokee Nation. As they recognize descendants, I guess were a fellow tribe members! http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/chief.gif

[Pendragon]

A Homecoming of sorts. My attempt at a kids poem when my daughter was small. Apologies to Dr. Seuss.


Stop swatting that bird,
I said from the ground,
you’re the man from the place
where the sky’s green and brown,
and the rain never falls,
so the grass is all blue.
You’d better come down,
I’ve heard about you.

You must be crazy,
came the instant reply,
I’m already down,
you’re up in the sky.
And this bird’s gonna croak,
if I don’t net it soon,
or thrash around ‘til it does
in the Grey-blue Lagoon.

Your Grey-blue Lagoon
is where birds like to fly.
They’re not thrashing around,
they’re not going to die.
You can’t really be real,
this is some kind of joke,
an upside-down town,
filled with upside-down folk.

Look at that green thing
in front of your nose –
what do you call it,
and the branch where it grows?
Let me guess; they are clouds;
they could never be leaves,
and you all live in houses
that sit on their eaves.

So you’ve seen my home?
And he started to climb
(down, or up if you choose)
the trunk in no time,
until I was looking
directly at him
with a mouth in his head
and an eye on his chin,

and hair all around
from his head to his jaw,
and ten toes for fingers,
you won’t believe what I saw.
I started to run,
I was scared as could be,
but he started back down-up
and said follow me.

He gave me a foot,
that was really a hand.
It was way beyond strange,
I’m sure you understand.
Away we both went
through the tops of the trees,
this poet and a man
who had elbows for knees.

We arrived at a place,
at the edge of the wood;
I’d fail at descriptives,
if describe it I could:
A banner with “Get-Out-Of
Our Home in the Sky”
and instead of hello
they all said good-bye.

But I took off my shoes
and shook feet, nonetheless,
commenced my farewells,
in a daze, I’ll confess,
for it was true of the houses
I needed no further proof –
every one, every building
rose up from its roof.

I met all the children,
so smart and quite tall,
but the parents and grown-ups
were fussy and small.
This reversal was cleared
in a song that they sung
how they all were born old
and died when they’re young.

Once I accustomed
myself to the town,
I had fun falling up,
but got sick rising down.
It was quite an adjustment
to make in my head –
that night I slept on the floor
and fell into the bed.

I dreamed I awoke
and this was all in my dreams.
I assure you my dithers
were more than it seems,
for when I really woke down
by the light of the moon
the children all laughed
‘cause I’d slept out ‘til noon.

Breakfast was good,
we had eggs that were red,
they’re favorite for sure,
by the smiles on their heads,
but the frowns on their lips
told me late I must go
from this land of green sky
with the blue grass below.

You’ll become one of us
if you don’t say hello;
they were right, my left thumb
had become a big toe,
and both of my lips
were growing eyelashes,
the grass had turned gray
and was throwing out flashes.

I ran through the green clouds,
the branches were wet,
there the birds had found shelter;
it was all they could get.
It made me so love
the home of my heart,
where poems end when they stop
and begin where they start.

Wonderful! Roll over, Dr. Seuss! Someone has added to your books!

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/chacha_big-1.gif

[Pendragon]

Homecoming

A shiny white convertible, and me,
With red sequined gown spread from window to window,
Sitting on the back, waving,
Gliding into a stadium of cheers.
The glaring lights bid a shocking but somehow warm welcome,
With the stars beyond singing back-up.
Floating past the team, holding their helmets by their sides, in respect, of course,
I give a queenly glance, surprised to see, some who are familiar to me...
One dressed in camouflage with painted face and a bow at his side
And another in denim overalls.......Wait! I glance back......
Grandpa, is that you, with your missing fingers?
As we continue down the field, I wonder how in this world he can pass the ball, then,
"Driver! Stop! It's grandpa Artz and I'll just hop down for a second,
To gather grass clippings in brown paper bags so he will smile",
But the driver whisks by, as I spy Uncle Tex with his guitar on his back!
Laughing out loud and pointing my finger, I say,
"You won't get many touchdowns that way!"
There are farmers and soldiers and fishermen,
Team members reading books, teaching lessons and making change,
Looking up at me,
And standing in the far off background,
Even my opponents are smiling.
Next we come to the cheering stand and the band is playing,
"Peg 'O My Heart, I love you....",
While the pep squad shouts out in familiar voices.
The cheerleaders, with their silver hair and calico dresses,
Do flips and jumps, and stand in pyramids....Rah-rah-sis-boom-bah....for me,
For me.
Finally, my white chariot convertible hovers in front of the goal post.
The door swings open and I glide out on to the field of green with white chalk markings.
I take my place and can hardly breathe as I receive my crown.
I curtsy, and holding my bouquet of long-stemmed red roses,
I turn around to take in the marvelous scene,
Knowing that tonight,
I will dance.
http://www.frensley.net/ym94223.jpg

Disclaimer: I may or may not believe in such things but it's fun to imagine.


And lovely to write the dream as well...

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

[PrinceMyshkin]

Homecoming

A shiny white convertible, and me,
Disclaimer: I may or may not believe in such things but it's fun to imagine.

Lovely, and I gladly accept the freedom to choose whether you do or do not believe in such things...

Just as I may or may not believe that




Love is just around the corner,
Any cozy little corner,
Love is just around the corner,
When I'm around you.

That making love may or may not be as close to heaven as any of us needs to get...

[Pendragon]

“You’re never so far from home,”
I composed as the epigram
to my first novel,
“as when you’re there.”
And “Home is the place ,”
wrote Robert Frost, “where,
when you have to go there,
they have to take you in.”
But I don’t know about that.

I’m a Jew (or will be
if ever I figure out
what that is) so I’ve spent a long time
looking for that place where,
when I have nowhere else to go,
they won’t have to take me in
but they will want to,
gladly, whole-heartedly.

And so far, I’d have to say,
I never have found a home
but in the hearts
of a lover or two
or in that of my children’s
well-furnished, spacious,
solidly built hearts.

Nice one, Jerry! What was it Pepe LePew said that time, oh yeah: "Flirt!" http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/LittleStinker.gif http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/Grin.gif

[ampoule]

And if Symphony would be so kind.......our next word PLEASE?

[symphony]

Ahh thank u so much ampoule, for considering me :)
My nosy quill hasnt found its way to this thread (not much, thats to say) till now, sorry for that, been a bit busy with school lately.

Only word coming to my mind right now is Soliloquy, since i myself am trying to write something on that. What do u say? :)

[PrinceMyshkin]

We long for dialogue.
That part-self that pretends to be a whole
wanders abroad as a soliloquy,
long strings of phrases, but
with pauses and interstices
hoping to be filled.

[ampoule]

Thank you symphony. Good luck with school and all.

Soliloquy

Most of what a mother says goes in one ear and out the other,
Onerous words of behaving and remembering,
Then one day they tell her what she said!
Hearing that, she begins to plot her conversations with herself more carefully, as
Recompense for those deaf years.

[symphony]

A Soliloquy of a Disabled

Here within my own little room
In a silent afternoon
When the birds get too idle
And are reluctant even to tweeddle
And the world gets a little too boring
I twoowhit twoowhoo to myself…

Here within my stabile frame
Lives a cheerful chirpy dame,
Merrily singing to my own
Songs that will never find a tone--
But still my soul will be gaily exploring—
Twoowhit twoowhooing to itself.

not a great one, but will have to do for now :p

@ ampoule and PrinceMyshkin: great poems :thumbs_up :)

[PrinceMyshkin]

Thank you symphony. Good luck with school and all.

Soliloquy

Most of what a mother says goes in one ear and out the other,
Onerous words of behaving and remembering,
Then one day they tell her what she said!
Hearing that, she begins to plot her conversations with herself more carefully, as
Recompense for those deaf years.


There is something haunting about this and especially moving in that it seems to say not one syllable more than it needs to.

[ampoule]

Thank you symphony. I think I heard you....twoowhit twoowhooing ;)

[ampoule]

Soliloquy

Most of what a mother says goes in one ear and out the other,
Onerous words of behaving and remembering,
Then one day they tell her what she said!
Hearing that, she begins to plot her conversations with herself more carefully, as
Evidence can now be used against her, or more hopefully as
Recompense for those deaf years.

Yikes! I left out a whole line. I hope it doesn't ruin it. Wondering if you noticed
M
O
T
H
E
R

?? How could you when it wasn't all there before. :bawling:

[symphony]

but now i know :p thats a real good one, ampoule, good job. :thumbs_up

[Pendragon]

Soliloquy #5

I sit upon the gravestone and watch as the Grand Lady passes,
Her slender figure robed in silk of deepest jet.
The stars are her diadem; they twinkle in her raven tresses,
Mother Night has long been on of the dearest friends I ever met.
Now the path glimmers silver through enchanted woodland,
Over three steep hills and thus to The Council of the Stones.
I hear the monoliths whisper to each other in the circle where they stand,
A mystic place dared by few; perhaps by me alone.
Onward now the pathway leads, more treacherous and harder
Until I arrive at the secret waterfall hidden in the heart of the glen.
I stop and listen to the murmur of The Voices of The Water—
Advice far more meaningful than the wisest of men.
I wear so many masks now, that I call myself only Persona:
Comes this from necessity, or is it but because I wanna?

Dale Harris
© 12/30/06

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Night.jpg

[ampoule]

stephofthenight.....if i may ask.....will you choose our next word?


I love your poem Pen.....so mysterioso.....but wanna? Ooops, it's for the rhyme.
I love the part about the path glimmering silver as if she's leaving some sort of glow-in-the-dark 'footsteps'.

[stephofthenight]

ok, i was thinking tranquility....

hope thats ok.

steph

[ampoule]

ok, i was thinking tranquility....

hope thats ok.

steph

It is MORE than okay!

Everyone....start your....fingers....steph has given us TRANQUILITY.
I have to go soak in it for a little while.

[Il Penseroso]

Placid reflections of the day,
the breath of seasons as they say
our dreams belong in open fields.
Lay a space where emotion yields
the softness of her dress in rills
swaying like starlit daffodils.
Fill the flowering winds of night
with arias of calm delight.

[firefangled]

To that darkness beneath Autumn after Autumn,
beneath the Elm leaves pushed to the back of the yard

by the winds you knew sufficiently to name,
and the small, unnoticed breezes –

I came to hear my breathing, a chamber in a chamber
that magnified me quietly within its humid fibers,

gave me presence like the hungry scuffling of squirrels –
each memory a wound, each leaf that fell, a touch.

[ampoule]

Tranquility

Morning
I open my eyes and see that I am alive and I am thankful for it,
To stretch and feel that I am all here, to look around at nothing in particular.
I wander out to the porch and smile at the morning paper for not crushing my sea holly,
Content to let it remain, bad news bound, in its rubberband.
I sit on the porch swing but I do not move, yet,
For the sun's rays are massaging my shoulders.
I turn my eyes very slowly to see an early bird standing in his bathtub,
Watching for peeping-toms who want to see him bathe.
A slight breeze floats through the planter bringing me air perfumed with
Rosemary, sage and lemon thyme.
Somewhere in this quiet sleepy town a car has likely started to take a parent to work,
A baby is crying for his mother's breast,
A dog barks to go outside and smell his yard's night visitors,
A child asks for pancakes and a cat is going home to sleep,
But the only thing I hear is the twittering of birds as I begin to move,
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Noon
The lawn is mowed and I sit watching the happy robin who can now get closer to his lunch,
While others dart in and around, playing bird tag, or stop for a cool drink of fresh water.
I hear the soft giggling of the neighbor children playing in their sandbox
While their mother chats quietly on her cellphone.
I watch my old neighbor make her daily pilgrimage to the mailbox,
Raising the red flag, but mostly hoping that someone has remembered her address.
A young father jogs by, keeping vessels open and flowing,
So that he can give his heart to his wife and children and not the surgeon.
A large brown truck comes to a quick stop and out jumps a man, dressed like his truck,
Carrying a package for Mr. Bill, the stamp collector.
Somewhere in this small little town workers are stopping for lunch,
A server is filling a water glass and bringing julienne salads and burgers with everything.
A mom is making PBJs and taking out a load of wash while thinking about supper.
A cashier rings up a tank of gas while the little church ladies open their resale shoppe for the afternoon.
But the only thing I know is rain is forecast and I can spend some time reading the writings of talented friends,
And thinking, thinking, thinking.

Night
The rain has come and gone, the humidity washed away, leaving a cool road,
Perfect for my walk west to watch the sunset.
I marvel at the gardens I pass, fresh and green, with tiger lilies standing tall,
Knowing their end is near, while buds of other flowers primp for their debuts.
A group of teenagers shuffle by their cars waiting for the dark of night to bring them life.
I walk past a half dozen cars crammed into a little drive-way and
I hear the strains of "Happy Birthday to you..." coming from the backyard,
A family celebrates and I remember that dessert is waiting for me at home.
As I walk past the library woods I hear crackling and know the deer are stirring.
Somewhere in this small sweet town fathers are taking their children upon their laps,
Ready to read to them their favorite bedtime stories.
A young bride snuggles next to her husband to help him watch his favorite show.
Mr. Bill flips on his desk lamp and looks through his magnifying glass at his new stamps.
An old woman, ready for bed, puts on her glasses and takes the card from her nightstand,
And reads the tender words, 'thinking of you'.
But the only thing I want is to sit on my steps and watch the stars appear one by one
And wonder where the early bird is sleeping.
How quiet, how calm, how peaceful.

[ampoule]

To that darkness beneath Autumn after Autumn,
beneath the Elm leaves pushed to the back of the yard

by the winds you knew sufficiently to name,
and the small, unnoticed breezes –

I came to hear my breathing, a chamber in a chamber
that magnified me quietly within its humid fibers,

gave me presence like the hungry scuffling of squirrels –
each memory a wound, each leaf that fell, a touch.

I'm bringing this forward. I don't want it to be pushed beneath my wordy mess. So beautiful.

[PrinceMyshkin]

To that darkness beneath Autumn after Autumn,
beneath the Elm leaves pushed to the back of the yard

by the winds you knew sufficiently to name,
and the small, unnoticed breezes –

I came to hear my breathing, a chamber in a chamber
that magnified me quietly within its humid fibers,

gave me presence like the hungry scuffling of squirrels –
each memory a wound, each leaf that fell, a touch.

Something about thids brought to mind http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15301
which I love so much that I committed the whole of it to memory. I confess that I quibble a bit with what feels here and there like the mere cleverness of his rhymes - not the funny ones that undercut the seriousness at times - but then at other times I think I should be so 'clever'!

Do tell me where you stand on that or any other issue you might have with the poem.

(And P'tite Rouge, don't you be getting on my case for digressing a bit from the theme of your thread)

[PrinceMyshkin]

Hard to single out a few favourite lines from this. but these:


[CENTER]Tranquility

Somewhere in this quiet sleepy town a car has likely started to take a parent to work,
A baby is crying for his mother's breast,
A dog barks to go outside and smell his yard's night visitors,
A child asks for pancakes and a cat is going home to sleep,
But the only thing I hear is the twittering of birds as I begin to move,
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.



A cashier rings up a tank of gas while the little church ladies open their resale shoppe for the afternoon.
But the only thing I know is rain is forecast and I can spend some time reading the writings of talented friends,
And thinking, thinking, thinking.

are certainly among them and the whole of it has the feeling of Thornton Wilder's Our Town.

[firefangled]

Morning
But the only thing I hear is the twittering of birds as I begin to move,
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Noon
But the only thing I know is rain is forecast and I can spend some time reading the writings of talented friends,
And thinking, thinking, thinking.

Night

But the only thing I want is to sit on my steps and watch the stars appear one by one
And wonder where the early bird is sleeping.
How quiet, how calm, how peaceful.

This is wonderful in its repetition. It reminds me of the practice of Matins and Vespers, but with a mid day prayer as well. It is very much a litany of beautiful, idyllic town. I love the movement from physical, to the mental, and finally the contemplative.

Beautiful!

[firefangled]

I confess that I quibble a bit with what feels here and there like the mere cleverness of his rhymes - not the funny ones that undercut the seriousness at times - but then at other times I think I should be so 'clever'!

Do tell me where you stand on that or any other issue you might have with the poem.



Loved the Snodgrass poem!

My hero for rhyme has always been Anne Sexton. To me she was a master at it. Some of her sonnets are so amazing in her ability to hide the rhyme you know is there.

I have a lot to learn about rhyme, but I don't always think it should be hidden, but it should never seem self indulgent or rhyme for the sake of rhyme, in which case a poem becomes more of a mnemonic device and does lose its intentions. I am fonder of internal rhyme than end rhyme.

My issues with writing this was with what I left out. I intended it to be small and sonorous to match what was happening in the last two lines in sound and touch as the sound of the squirrel overcame the sound of my breathing moving from inside to out to receive touch, if only from dead leaves. It isn't a happy poem, but it was meant to convey a certain, desperate tranquility.

Either Robert Frost or T.S. Eliot once said that one needed to work hard to write a poem in English without some rhyme because it is so inherent in our language.

[firefangled]

For now there is only the loft,
spruce ribs from plates to ridge,
design of five centuries, first pine.
For this the moon, like a nail,
was bent off the eastern sill,
the copper sun, hammered
well, in sky cut for the mow door.

Some works will have the hands they choose,
bring the living and the dead
to fit crowns to the earth’s round.

Here is an unlikely place
for redemption. The road so named,
sliced at both ends by highway,
no longer reaches Fayetteville.

Across from pastures, in Country Acres,
none see constellations off a Dutch slope,
nor hear the mortise creak as the night drifts.
They want more for less, new milk
in barn-gallons for a king’s gallon price.

What else can I do – I thank them
for their compliments and say,
it’s just a barn – an ark, yes,
I have looked at it that way.

Here there are thousands
who cannot tell their left hand
from their right. Yet we are alike –
with dogs and children,
and somewhere we are late arriving.

I close my eyes and still see
the clouds move like a wake,
scattering fishes on a black sea –
the loft floats in a slow sway –
the ribs flesh and a heart beats
in my ears.

With muted wail a nail twists –
the flesh turns and sounds,
in the dream of a far shore.

[stephofthenight]

Internal tranquility
Bestowed upon me
By your tender lips
And your feathery kiss

With a single touch
My hate and anger flees
I try to resist and hang on
But my strength is gone

Im falling onto clouds
Running my hands along angels wings
The stars are shining just for us
And baby cant you see

Everyone else has failed
But you suceed
You take my breath away
At the way you say my name

I try to stay mad
But like a river it flows away
I try to scold you
But the words never escape my lips

I say i want you to leace
Only because i want you to stay
I say i hate you
Becasue i love you

Youve shown me the stars
Taught me to dance in the rain
Melted my defences away
And replaced my hate with tranquility


my thoughts on it, it seems to be verry diffrent from the directoins that you are going at it from...o well. tis my best

[ampoule]

I close my eyes and still see
the clouds move like a wake,
scattering fishes on a black sea –
the loft floats in a slow sway –
the ribs flesh and a heart beats
in my ears.

I have often wondered about the ones left in the boat after Jonah was thrown to the great fish. Could this be it, the lovely tranquil feeling of a slow sway after a storm? Hmmm...as well as the calm before the storm.

wonderful

[ampoule]

my thoughts on it, it seems to be verry diffrent from the directoins that you are going at it from...o well. tis my best

Perhaps not as different as you think.
You are like an alligator..."hate and anger, trying to resist, everyone else has failed"...and HE is the one who has flopped you over on your back and is rubbing your belly, calming you..."I TRY to stay mad, I SAY I want you to leave"...you are still wild inside but giving in to his touch.

[ampoule]

Debra Su-ue
Where ARE you?

Would you like to choose the next word?

[Debrasue]

"PASSION!"

Passion.....
Live It...
Love It...
Breathe It...
Become It...
Be...It....
Passionate

[stephofthenight]

the hot flame of love
licks at my steaming skin
as you seductively whisper
the things in my ear
that every girl wants to hear
in this game of passion,
there is no way to win
its a lose, lose situation
a fight until the end
struggling to tame
that engulfing hunger
trying to extinguish the flame
but your kiss just seems to linger
leaving prints upon my parted lips
hungering for your touch
calling for your caress
longing for your lips
knowing I'm losing control
passion such a deadly game

[firefangled]

the hot flame of love
licks at my steaming skin
as you seductively whisper
the things in my ear
that every girl wants to hear
in this game of passion,
there is no way to win
its a lose, lose situation
a fight until the end
struggling to tame
that engulfing hunger
trying to extinguish the flame
but your kiss just seems to linger
leaving prints upon my parted lips
hungering for your touch
calling for your caress
longing for your lips
knowing I'm losing control
passion such a deadly game

I like the rhythm of this. It rises and falls in just the right places and picks up its intensity beginning with hungering for your touch, it then slows down in the last two lines as if resolved to the loss of control. The last line almost like a desperate sigh. I like it a lot.

[firefangled]

In the mornings as sleep leaves us slowly,
we are one body, like the waters of the oceans.

Your fragrance enters me the way light weaves
itself into the fabric of night and, while we slept,

found its way through louvers and lies unseen
in the folds of yesterday’s tossed clothes.

Even before my eyes open to the room
as we had left it, I am listening to the first birds,

like sailors, long at sea, listen for the gulls.
I do not look into the old world of the room,

I wait for the first whisper of your voice,
like morning waves breaking softly on a new shore.

[PrinceMyshkin]

In the mornings as sleep leaves us slowly,
we are one body, like the waters of the oceans.

Your fragrance enters me the way light weaves
itself into the fabric of night and, while we slept,

found its way through louvers and lies unseen
in the folds of yesterday’s tossed clothes.

Even before my eyes open to the room
as we had left it, I am listening to the first birds,

like sailors, long at sea, listen for the gulls.
I do not look into the old world of the room,

I wait for the first whisper of your voice,
like morning waves breaking softly on a new shore.

It's a toss-up for me between the precious love in this and the seeming inevitablity of the words, as if not one line was contrived or premeditated but came as freely as breath.

[firefangled]

snakes,
your maps -

motels -

blue veins of fragrances,
near the drains,

you read books,

hear voices - circling -
paths paced in dreams,

deep greens,

screams
in gray halls,

you stop at dotted lines,

request photos,
wear earphones

the jungle dies it seems,

sudden silence,
a pause,

and your diversion,

harmless love
you surmise -

breath hissing
into sultry air,

arms coiling
around you.

[PrinceMyshkin]

snakes,
your maps -

motels -

blue veins of fragrances,
near the drains,

you read books,

hear voices - circling -
paths paced in dreams,

deep greens,

screams
in gray halls,

you stop at dotted lines,

request photos,
wear earphones

the jungle dies it seems,

sudden silence,
a pause,

and your diversion,

harmless love
you surmise -

breath hissing
into sultry air,

arms coiling
around you.

silence
a word or two
dropped into it
like a tincture
that changes
the entire nature
of the composition

[ampoule]

Looking At The Moon

This lunar love I share with you, touches
the precious crater of our desires.
Slowly waxing.
Slowly waning.
Giving in now to the dark that covers it,
Spatial fingers point the way.
Again waxing.
Again waning.
Lifting itself to meet gravity's force, yet
Floating into space.
Waxing, waning.
Waxing, waning.
Bursting forth in starlight showers
That light your tender face.
Slowly waxing.
Slowly waning.
Loving that is round and full and satisfied,
For now.

[Pendragon]

Car Passion

Her curves are candy-apple red
And they sparkle with high-gloss sheen
I love the heartbeat of her piston heads
Her headlights wink: low-beam, high-beam

I love to run my hand over her leather interior
I see my reflection in her polished chrome
Her seats were made for my posterior
Her gearshift made for me alone!

I try not to bruise her soft rubber tires
Or make the slightest scratch on her lovely skin
Her horn proclaims to other drivers
“Honey, I’m the best that’s ever been!”

Driving my baby surely is heaven!
They really knew how to make cars in ’57!

Pendragon

[ampoule]

Car Passion

Her curves are candy-apple red
And they sparkle with high-gloss sheen
I love the heartbeat of her piston heads
Her headlights wink: low-beam, high-beam

I love to run my hand over her leather interior
I see my reflection in her polished chrome
Her seats were made for my posterior
Her gearshift made for me alone!

I try not to bruise her soft rubber tires
Or make the slightest scratch on her lovely skin
Her horn proclaims to other drivers
“Honey, I’m the best that’s ever been!”

Driving my baby surely is heaven!
They really knew how to make cars in ’57!

Pendragon

This is ADORABLE! I understand this passion too. Though my car isn't a classic and I refer to it as a him, I know the feeling. Love your poem!
May I just take a little detour, Pen, and share this poem that I wrote for a man I was seeing about his special red car....and me, of course. ;)

Driving Miss Rosie

His Rosie is a car of red like all the ones before.
She hums and purrs beneath his feet, no matter where he goes.
I know he loves to bathe her, to see the way she gleams,
So others look with envy, while he says, "In your dreams."
With the tiniest attention, I too will shine and gleam.
Others may not want me but he'll never have to dream.
My interior will not be cold when he takes me for a drive.
He'll never have to warm me up because I am alive.
So I pray when he's old and feeble and they take away his key,
And they say get rid of Rosie, he will trade her in on me.

Okay folks...all lanes now open...but continue to drive with caution...more Passion ahead. Anyone else? Please?

[PrinceMyshkin]

I know not passion
and passion knows not me
but madness, lust,
unbridled appetite are my insanity.

Throw me no bone
of romantic love
with its few clinging
pieces of meat,
but give me the whole animal
that I might employ my well-honed teeth.

[Debrasue]

I know not passion
and passion knows not me
but madness, lust,
unbridled appetite are my insanity.

Throw me no bone
of romantic love
with its few clinging
pieces of meat,
but give me the whole animal
that I might employ my well-honed teeth.

Grrrrrr!!! Yeah!.....Now that's what I'm talkin' 'bout! You don't happen to love the sound of a cracking whip ...do ya? Down, Boy! Just kidding.....

Almost reminds me of Richard III....almost....
Why do I love those crazy, obsessed, psycho dudes? Why?

[stephofthenight]

In the mornings as sleep leaves us slowly,
we are one body, like the waters of the oceans.

Your fragrance enters me the way light weaves
itself into the fabric of night and, while we slept,


I wait for the first whisper of your voice,
like morning waves breaking softly on a new shore.


i realy like this , especaily theses 3. its beautifull and full of love,not often is passion shown that way. verry well done
steph

[stephofthenight]

Car Passion

Her curves are candy-apple red
And they sparkle with high-gloss sheen
I love the heartbeat of her piston heads
Her headlights wink: low-beam, high-beam

I love to run my hand over her leather interior
I see my reflection in her polished chrome
Her seats were made for my posterior
Her gearshift made for me alone!

I try not to bruise her soft rubber tires
Or make the slightest scratch on her lovely skin
Her horn proclaims to other drivers
“Honey, I’m the best that’s ever been!”

Driving my baby surely is heaven!
They really knew how to make cars in ’57!

Pendragon

extreamly cute,
i realy like this, well thought out, verry easy to read.
you never cease to amaze me pen.
steph

[ampoule]

Bon Appetit

the phone
Would you like to come for supper?

the door
A smile of approval, a kiss.

the kitchen
Merlot? I'll pour while you set the table?

the dining room
No, sit here, beside me.

the living room
Now, tell me everything while we watch the fire.

the bedroom
Let me read to you.

the door
A smile of approval, a kiss.

the phone
Good, you're safely home.

the living room
I embrace myself and smile.

the kitchen
I close my eyes and dance around.

the bedroom
I sink into cool sheets, feeling very very full.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I don't know why that works, but it does - and very well. But I don't know why it works... I don't think it ought to, really, but it does!

[firefangled]

This is ADORABLE! I understand this passion too. Though my car isn't a classic and I refer to it as a him, I know the feeling. Love your poem!
May I just take a little detour, Pen, and share this poem that I wrote for a man I was seeing about his special red car....and me, of course. ;)

Driving Miss Rosie

His Rosie is a car of red like all the ones before.
She hums and purrs beneath his feet, no matter where he goes.
I know he loves to bathe her, to see the way she gleams,
So others look with envy, while he says, "In your dreams."
With the tiniest attention, I too will shine and gleam.
Others may not want me but he'll never have to dream.
My interior will not be cold when he takes me for a drive.
He'll never have to warm me up because I am alive.
So I pray when he's old and feeble and they take away his key,
And they say get rid of Rosie, he will trade her in on me.

Okay folks...all lanes now open...but continue to drive with caution...more Passion ahead. Anyone else? Please?

May I just congratulate you both at once. I enjoyed these so much.

Pen, that had to be a Chevy! Although I loved the '58s too, especially the convertables.

Miss Ampoule, When I was 18, I had a 1964 GTO (they didn't make very many of that year). I was guilty as you charge, but I think you would have been the only one who could have made me hang up my keys. Even Mary Ann Bensko couldn't do that.

[ampoule]

I don't know why that works, but it does - and very well. But I don't know why it works... I don't think it ought to, really, but it does!

Thank you. I took a chance. It takes a lot of reading between the lines. ;)

[ampoule]

Miss Ampoule, When I was 18, I had a 1964 GTO (they didn't make very many of that year). I was guilty as you charge, but I think you would have been the only one who could have made me hang up my keys. Even Mary Ann Bensko couldn't do that.


Thank you Fire. Cute reply.


Okay everyone....we NEVER run out of PASSION so keep adding as you like, however, maybe jon1jt would be so kind as to give us our next word/subject.

[firefangled]

Our truest life must be,
when we are awake in our dreams.

Do not cover your passion with shame,
bees cover themselves with the reason for flowers.

This day is your lucky day,
the morning light comes as a gift.

Mothers in those days rejected fear,
when it deserted them, they awoke.

Late night radio opened the way West,
that train at light speed — feel it?

This is the cause for your sadness,
laughter betters your chances than sex.

A Lexus is an uncomfortable bed,
for someone with a broken heart?

I’m not listening anymore,
I’m not lovesick for a shadow!

There is no cosmetic
for beauty like happiness.


The Ghazal (pronounced guzzle) is a Persian form, originating in the 10th century. It has a “true” form and meter of couplets called Shers and meter called Beher. I won’t go into that because I am using the form as it was introduced to Canada by John Thompson, that is a series of 7 - 19 couplets functioning as independent poems yet have subtle ties to a theme. I have tried several of these through the years. Thompson’s Ghazals whipsaw me every time.

The classic Ghazal in English is sing-songy and I think that is purely an outcome of translation of the form. I generally like translations for what they impart to syntax and grammar, but the classic in this case had no appeal to me.

So here we go. Criticism welcome. I’m a tough old guy.

[PrinceMyshkin]

The guzzle is a Persian form
designed, perhaps, to make me feel a clumsy worm.

I will not, shall not, must not perform
or fill the ranks to make a quorum.

No, I’d rather run naked in a savage storm
than join in this too orderly swarm.

[ampoule]

Welcome CdnReader! I do believe we're going to continue on with her choice of 'Seasons'! I don't think Jon1 is really participating here.

[Bii]

Well, I'll start off but it's a slight cheat as I wrote this a couple of months ago for a competition where the theme was 'Spring'. Didn't win (surprise surprise!) but was shortlisted. This is from the days when I was unable to avoid the cling of rhyming, so you'll have to forgive me for that.

Am writing a poem about Winter at the moment which promises to be extremely dark. Watch this space... (or not - I may never finish it!)

AS SPRING DAWNS

A rainbow stretches over
misty watercolour skies.
Bold bursts of rain
end winter’s reign,
melting beneath warm sunrise.

Daffodils are trumpeting;
diaphanous bluebells ring.
Their cheery song
sings out – ding dong!
Rejoicing the birth of Spring.

And now the sun is rising
hibernating creatures wake.
They slowly creep
from winter’s sleep;
tired muscles they stretch and shake.

A cleansing breeze sweeps over
brushing winter’s grime from view.
The world will gleam
all fresh and clean.
Ready; so life can renew.

[firefangled]

The guzzle is a Persian form
designed, perhaps, to make me feel a clumsy worm.

I will not, shall not, must not perform
or fill the ranks to make a quorum.

No, I’d rather run naked in a savage storm
than join in this too orderly swarm.


Firefangled, America has voted and you will be going home this week.

Well, Ryan apparently the Guzzle was taking too much of a chance. Anyway, someone has to be sent home.

How do you feel, though, that you made it this far?

Right now I just want to crawl back in my apple and write some greeting cards, Ryan. I should have stuck to writing Rionnaird Tri N-Ards and Cywydd Llosgyrnogs.

[CdnReader]

.
The seasons of my childhood
are remembered as distinct points in time.

Fall began early,
with new school clothes
(the only time of the year that we were allowed such a luxury),
and the bags of school supplies.
I was a school nerd.
I loved the smell of books and paper and pencils.
(Nothing has changed.)
Morning walks punctuated
with the crisp snap of thin ice
as we made our way gingerly over partially frozen puddles.
Water below, a skin of ice above.
What child could resist?

Winter was about snow....
that Northern Ontario snow
that packs perfectly for snowmen and snowcaves....
Caverns of ice between towering snowbanks,
a huddled refuge....
Blizzards that covered the naked world
in white lace petticoats...
playing indoor games --
Monopoly, Clue, Scrabble --
as icy gales whistled around the eaves.

Spring came with a scent.
Can you smell spring coming?
Crisp, clear, clean, new....
the snow retreats, melts, vanishes,
and the world comes to life.
Dust off the bikes and the roller skates,
put away the parkas till next year,
drag Dad to the park with a kite,
feel the wind on your face.

Summer brought camping and swimming,
picnics and berry-picking,
a hotness that dripped from your skin,
afternoons in the country.
Days of building tree forts,
chasing away intruders (boys!),
lying on our bellies in the field,
giggling when the grass tickled our arms,
reading Archie comics and slurping popsicles.

The rhythm of the seasons....
Somehow it was so much more clearly defined
as a child.
.

[PrinceMyshkin]

.
The seasons of my childhood
are remembered as distinct points in time.

Fall began early,
with new school clothes
(the only time of the year that we were allowed such a luxury),
and the bags of school supplies.
I was a school nerd.
I loved the smell of books and paper and pencils.
(Nothing has changed.)
Morning walks punctuated
with the crisp snap of thin ice
as we made our way gingerly over partially frozen puddles.
Water below, a skin of ice above.
What child could resist?

Winter was about snow....
that Northern Ontario snow
that packs perfectly for snowmen and snowcaves....
Caverns of ice between towering snowbanks,
a huddled refuge....
Blizzards that covered the naked world
in white lace petticoats...
playing indoor games --
Monopoly, Clue, Scrabble --
as icy gales whistled around the eaves.

Spring came with a scent.
Can you smell spring coming?
Crisp, clear, clean, new....
the snow retreats, melts, vanishes,
and the world comes to life.
Dust off the bikes and the roller skates,
put away the parkas till next year,
drag Dad to the park with a kite,
feel the wind on your face.

Summer brought camping and swimming,
picnics and berry-picking,
a hotness that dripped from your skin,
afternoons in the country.
Days of building tree forts,
chasing away intruders (boys!),
lying on our bellies in the field,
giggling when the grass tickled our arms,
reading Archie comics and slurping popsicles.

The rhythm of the seasons....
Somehow it was so much more clearly defined
as a child.
.

Wonderful profusion of specific detail!
Mine is (I'm afraid) one I already posted elsewhere:



After the thump of winter
we pick ourselves up,
shake the frog blossoms
off of our hearts and look
at the waste of our country.


The immediate neighbourhood
is buckled beyond repair and bodies
are heaped up here and there
of those, pickled in despair,
who thought they were immune
to nature's ravages and the heart's.


If only the core of us were made
of wood, all we would need to fear
was the snap of predictable winter,
the crack of thaw.


But the seasons in us
are more random than that. Midnight
and fall are as likely to strike
in the middle of summer, or when
the sun is at its height.




J. Newman Sudden Proclamations © 1992*

[ampoule]

Seasons

Would you like to fool around, he asked her.
Well, there's no stopping me, she said.
You've changed since last I saw you, he noted.
I can't stop that either, she replied.
But you're always beautiful, he remarked.
It's all in what you like I suppose, she shrugged.
Oh, I like it all, he smiled.
Then touch me, she teased.
He spread his fingers out and caressed her.
She was hot beneath his touch and he held her waist.
She twisted and turned, pulling away, leaving him,
Her blazing colors falling before his eyes.
What have I done to deserve your icy stare, he cried.
It's not you, it's me, I just can't get too close, she answered.
But when will I see you again, he begged.
I'll be around again, fresh and new, she promised.

************************************************** ***

[CdnReader]

Fabulous, Ampoule. Love it a lot!

[ampoule]

Thank you. Likewise. Where's the rest of our gang?

[stephofthenight]

hmm...seasons...here we go with that stupid brick wall...shall write on this one when i can think.
sorry
steph

[CdnReader]

One from the vaults.... :)


-----


A Spring Morning


I love spring mornings

I roll over sleepily, happily
awakened early by the chatter of the birds outside my window
i smile at the sunshine streaming through the partially opened blinds
bathing the room in a gentle delicate light
a weightless breeze enters
and strokes my arms like a lover

my bare feet reach for the hardwood floor, searching
and quickly finding the pale blue flip-flops
that wait there for me to arise

I open the door wide to let in the sun
my home is permeated with brilliant jewels of light and warmth and delight
and the sounds of the garden draw me outside

I am fascinated
by the pattern of sun and shadow on the deckboards
the beads of moisture that remain from a night-time shower
the glistening droplets of dew collected in the cupped leaves of the hostas
the patiently quiet rocks that guide my path
the magically blue sky

all joyfully welcome me
to the peace and beauty of this day

.
cdn/03jun06
.

[PrinceMyshkin]

One from the vaults.... :)


-----


A Spring Morning


I love spring mornings

I roll over sleepily, happily
awakened early by the chatter of the birds outside my window
i smile at the sunshine streaming through the partially opened blinds
bathing the room in a gentle delicate light
a weightless breeze enters
and strokes my arms like a lover

my bare feet reach for the hardwood floor, searching
and quickly finding the pale blue flip-flops
that wait there for me to arise

I open the door wide to let in the sun
my home is permeated with brilliant jewels of light and warmth and delight
and the sounds of the garden draw me outside

I am fascinated
by the pattern of sun and shadow on the deckboards
the beads of moisture that remain from a night-time shower
the glistening droplets of dew collected in the cupped leaves of the hostas
the patiently quiet rocks that guide my path
the magically blue sky

all joyfully welcome me
to the peace and beauty of this day

.
cdn/03jun06
.

Lovely! And if I might paraphrase William Carlos Williams:



so much depends
upon
a pair of
pale blue flip-flops
on a hardwood floor
beside your bed

[CdnReader]

I keep mine in a red wheelbarrow. Do you?

[ampoule]

Summertime

Did Aeolus know his holy wind would stir the hearts of brothers,
and friends, who would in turn stir my heart to begin this sultry day?
I have no field to pick, but a chest of white folded linens, starched
and ironed on a cooler day, and stacked for my touch and approval.
I lift my arms and cast the sheet that causes me to shiver with
another holy wind, as it slithers down upon my napping pillow.
Later I will use this white handkerchief to blot the beads of moisture
between my breasts, and I will rustle my skirt for a breeze.
A ripple in a pail of rainwater reminds me of a fish, jumping, and I,
swimming out to where he is, will feed him a crumb of bread,
and he will thank my rich daddy and my good lookin' ma for begetting me.
I rise up singing this aria to little babies crying, hush...hush now...shhh.
One of these days, you too will spread your wings and take to the sky,
Looking for places to go and things to do and fish to feed and love, yes love,
and babies to tend and naps for dreaming and cool breezes, or,
at the very least, sit on the edge of your white bed, singing.

***********************************************

[jon1jt]

NEW WORD:

VACANT

I’ve tried everything else. Starbucks served me a slice until a baby
stroller came barreling by, the kid's arm
pointing at me like the tube of a gun, a table of au pairs chalking up another weekend of bad dates.
“American men, puh!”
her hair spilled like coins while i sat there, a dark hat wondering if things had been different between her and me, and those assembled mouths the length of a garage. all at once how they snarled through tiny slits as I walked out as if on a leash, words still in the back of my throat, the wrinkly-paged poems rolled taut in my shirt sleeve like a pack of smokes.

[ampoule]

Yeah Jon, you found us. Okay...Vacant.

And whoa! I really like that.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Summertime

Did Aeolus know his holy wind would stir the hearts of brothers,
and friends, who would in turn stir my heart to begin this sultry day?
I have no field to pick, but a chest of white folded linens, starched
and ironed on a cooler day, and stacked for my touch and approval.
I lift my arms and cast the sheet that causes me to shiver with
another holy wind, as it slithers down upon my napping pillow.
Later I will use this white handkerchief to blot the beads of moisture
between my breasts, and I will rustle my skirt for a breeze.
A ripple in a pail of rainwater reminds me of a fish, jumping, and I,
swimming out to where he is, will feed him a crumb of bread,
and he will thank my rich daddy and my good lookin' ma for begetting me.
I rise up singing this aria to little babies crying, hush...hush now...shhh.
One of these days, you too will spread your wings and take to the sky,
Looking for places to go and things to do and fish to feed and love, yes love,
and babies to tend and naps for dreaming and cool breezes, or,
at the very least, sit on the edge of your white bed, singing.

***********************************************

God, this is lovely! I'd cut back, way back, on the allusions to the Gershwin song. I wonder indeed if you should use it at all? but once I saw the second partial quotation I got fixated on how may such allusions you might make, which took me far away from the wonderfully sensual detail that preceded it.

[ampoule]

Geez, I think you're right. Reading it again with your eyes...I know, you want them back right now...it almost sounds silly from 'I rise up singing' on. I cannot hear the word summertime without thinking of that song. It might be hard to remember now but do you think you knew I was talking about the song before all of that? Do you like my last line?

[PrinceMyshkin]

Seasons

Would you like to fool around, he asked her.
Well, there's no stopping me, she said.
You've changed since last I saw you, he noted.
I can't stop that either, she replied.
But you're always beautiful, he remarked.
It's all in what you like I suppose, she shrugged.
Oh, I like it all, he smiled.
Then touch me, she teased.
He spread his fingers out and caressed her.
She was hot beneath his touch and he held her waist.
She twisted and turned, pulling away, leaving him,
Her blazing colors falling before his eyes.
What have I done to deserve your icy stare, he cried.
It's not you, it's me, I just can't get too close, she answered.
But when will I see you again, he begged.
I'll be around again, fresh and new, she promised.

************************************************** ***

Oh, my God! I mean, Oh, my God!

No, wait. Let me try to put it some other way: Oh, my God!

[PrinceMyshkin]

Geez, I think you're right. Reading it again with your eyes...I know, you want them back right now...it almost sounds silly from 'I rise up singing' on. I cannot hear the word summertime without thinking of that song. It might be hard to remember now but do you think you knew I was talking about the song before all of that? Do you like my last line?

I wasn't aware that I'd heard your last line... yet.

Oh, you mean of the poem. Yes, I like it, very very much. And no, I didn't pick up on the play on Gershwin right away, though I did stop and wonder at


A ripple in a pail of rainwater reminds me of a fish, jumping
which of course I see now is the first such allusion but which puzzled me at the time, but I thought well, it's a poem, after all, so I shouldn't expect to understand everything on first reading

But about your erotic poem - I mean, it wasn't about metaphysics, was it? - Oh my God!

[Debrasue]

ROFLMAO.....Comic Relief....Prince Myshkin....boxer shorts & metaphysics...I love it.....

BTW...ampoule...beautiful poem...from the heart of a beautiful Lady.....bravissima!

[ampoule]

Oh, my God! I mean, Oh, my God!

No, wait. Let me try to put it some other way: Oh, my God!

Are you trying to butter me up? LOL
Well, if not, I sure feel all warm and gooey.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Are you trying to butter me up? LOL
Well, if not, I sure feel all warm and gooey.

Well, add a bit of parsley, some minced garlic and you'd be all ready to go, or...um, um...

[ampoule]

Well, add a bit of parsley, some minced garlic and you'd be all ready to go, or...um, um...

Don't you mean yum yum? LOL Guess what I want for breakfast now?
(danger danger...giving Prince a question such as this) :D

[ampoule]

NEW WORD:

VACANT

I’ve tried everything else. Starbucks served me a slice until a baby
stroller came barreling by, the kid's arm
pointing at me like the tube of a gun, a table of au pairs chalking up another weekend of bad dates.
“American men, puh!”
her hair spilled like coins. i sat there like a dark hat wondering if things had been different between her and me, and those assembled mouths the length of a garage. all at once how they snarled through tiny slits as I walked out as if on a leash, words still in the back of my throat, the wrinkly-paged poems rolled up taut in my shirt sleeve like a pack of smokes.

Here ya go folks.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Don't you mean yum yum? LOL Guess what I want for breakfast now?
(danger danger...giving Prince a question such as this) :D

...Prince slopes away in :blush: embarrassment at having been rendered, finally, without a comeback!

[ampoule]

Yes Vacancy

Like neons, standing in a line
with palm trees and pools and
televisions in every room,
So I am for you.
Like lots, cleared of broken glass
and other debris and leveled
for games of baseball and tag,
So I am for you.
Like chairs and tables waiting
behind freshly washed windows
beckoning with promises of treats,
So I am for you.
Like minds gone crazy with forget
now empty of old memories and
needing new, fresh lessons,
So I am for you.

[firefangled]

Yes Vacancy

Like neons, standing in a line
with palm trees and pools and
televisions in every room,
So I am for you.
Like lots, cleared of broken glass
and other debris and leveled
for games of baseball and tag,
So I am for you.
Like chairs and tables waiting
behind freshly washed windows
beckoning with promises of treats,
So I am for you.
Like minds gone crazy with forget
now empty of old memories and
needing new, fresh lessons,
So I am for you.


I love this! Love the pace of it, with the refrain. You need no lessons other than the ones you must be practicing. You get better and better. I have been popping in and out lately because of family and work, so I failed to comment on several of your poems that I felt inadequate time to write what I wanted to say. Kudos to you.

I would offer one suggestion that was given me recently by Bii about the use of the word like. The refrain you set up here is creating the simile very well and more subtly, you don't need the word like.

[Pendragon]

Vacant Ground

The drug has faded out the eyes that once were dark and brown,
But Peyote is strong enough they say to divide the body and the soul.
He sits there all alone upon a buffalo skin high upon the sacred ground—

Hoping to find an answer in the Spirit World if an answer can be found.
He is a Chief and an Elder, feeling weak and growing old—
The drug has faded out the eyes that once were dark and brown,

But The People now are vanishing, withered leaves blown around—
Treaties broken, their land taken, they must go where they are told.
He sits there all alone upon a buffalo skin high upon the sacred ground—

The Land once teeming with his People, now just vacant of all sound.
Will the Spirits whisper to him as they used to in days of old?
The drug has faded out the eyes that once were dark and brown,

But somehow the mind inside is clear and sharp and listens for a sound—
“Come to me, brothers, now I need guides. The People hunger and are cold.”
He sits there all alone upon a buffalo skin high upon the sacred ground—

The answers he receives are not the ones he sought but he accepts them anyhow—
He bows his head and somehow a golden glow seems to enter to his soul:
The drug has faded out the eyes that once were dark and brown,
He sits there all alone upon a buffalo skin high upon the sacred ground…

Dale Harris (Pendragon)
© 7/21/07

[ampoule]

vacant eyes, vacant land, vacant dreams....vacant, but full of beauty, your poem.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Vacant Ground

The drug has faded out the eyes that once were dark and brown,
But Peyote is strong enough they say to divide the body and the soul.
He sits there all alone upon a buffalo skin high upon the sacred ground—

Hoping to find an answer in the Spirit World if an answer can be found.
He is a Chief and an Elder, feeling weak and growing old—
The drug has faded out the eyes that once were dark and brown,

But The People now are vanishing, withered leaves blown around—
Treaties broken, their land taken, they must go where they are told.
He sits there all alone upon a buffalo skin high upon the sacred ground—

The Land once teeming with his People, now just vacant of all sound.
Will the Spirits whisper to him as they used to in days of old?
The drug has faded out the eyes that once were dark and brown,

But somehow the mind inside is clear and sharp and listens for a sound—
“Come to me, brothers, now I need guides. The People hunger and are cold.”
He sits there all alone upon a buffalo skin high upon the sacred ground—

The answers he receives are not the ones he sought but he accepts them anyhow—
He bows his head and somehow a golden glow seems to enter to his soul:
The drug has faded out the eyes that once were dark and brown,
He sits there all alone upon a buffalo skin high upon the sacred ground…

Dale Harris (Pendragon)
© 7/21/07

Wow! You've certainly got hold of this form and use it here as if it were the release from shackles rather than any sort of constraint. I love the music in this as much as I do the thoughts.

Thank you.

[PrinceMyshkin]

The vacant mind is a spacious room,
high ceilinged, unfurnished,

waiting to be filled,
a field that has yet to be tilled.

The plowmen approach
and a family in need of a home.

The vacant mind is an as yet
unwritten poem.

[CdnReader]

.
Vacancy

He gave no acknowledgment
through comportment or expression
of the gathering of those who would judge him
this day.

What thoughts were hidden behind the placid facade
that revealed nothing of his inner torment?
What emotions simmered within,
invisible to concerned eyes,
displacing his self-respect...
unbalancing his self-knowledge...?

For too long, he refused the love offered,
stubbornly brushing it aside....
as though nothing more than an unnecessary intrusion.
For too long, he used the pain and grief
(seemingly endless quantities of pain and grief)
to raise up impenetrable barriers that kept everyone away.

No one noticed that the space inside the walls was growing smaller.
No one understood that he was weary and empty.

His life hadn't prepared him
for a vacant heart.

.
cdn/21jul07
.

[zargon]

Howdy! Greeting fellow poets. Good to be here (feels like home).

Vacancy

Vacancy - What in the world is it?
I thought so hard I nigh had a fit.
Could it be the lands unknown,
into the dark of night thrown,
into the very fibre of mystery sown?
or could it be that which we can't see?
Could this be Vacancy?
Could this be the key?
The idea bounced 'round my mind, like a pin-ball machine,
and a better answer, so far, I have not seen,
I'm mean, lean not to mention keen,
So i followed this train of thought into my mind,
not really sure what I would find.
twas indeed a bad idea,
I found a conflicting thought - my worst fear,
and so my furst notion was torn to shreds,
and i lay them into the trashcan - all thoughts' death beds.
Whats that i hear? What was my thought?
well it dam sure wasn't what i sought.
With emptiness it is close-knit,
in the dictionary it was writ.
Could vacancy be empitness's domain?
Everyone still with me? Still think me sane?
This post shall be my life's bane.
But it kinda makes sense!
Alright - enough with the pretence,
I dont really understand either,
but let our thoughts think as one - come hither,
unravel this oddity we shall,
my head hurts but I shall not fall.
When I go for a leak,
i close the door so no one will peak,
and thats when it became transparent,
if the next cubicle is empty, the lock sign says "Vacant"
so im right!
Victory is ours we have won the fight!!
in sucessfully proving emptyness is vacany, victory we seize!
now...err...where's my prize?

Cheers,
Zargon (known throughout many circles of society as "the human machine!" Kids at school call me "the thing". In darker circles of society I am the infamous, King of bling, At home they call me ray)

[PrinceMyshkin]

.
Vacancy

He gave no acknowledgment
through comportment or expression
of the gathering of those who would judge him
this day.

What thoughts were hidden behind the placid facade
that revealed nothing of his inner torment?
What emotions simmered within,
invisible to concerned eyes,
displacing his self-respect...
unbalancing his self-knowledge...?

For too long, he refused the love offered,
stubbornly brushing it aside....
as though nothing more than an unnecessary intrusion.
For too long, he used the pain and grief
(seemingly endless quantities of pain and grief)
to raise up impenetrable barriers that kept everyone away.

No one noticed that the space inside the walls was growing smaller.
No one understood that he was weary and empty.

His life hadn't prepared him
for a vacant heart.

.
cdn/21jul07
.

Wiw! Those last four lines are so strong!

[Pendragon]

Wow! You've certainly got hold of this form and use it here as if it were the release from shackles rather than any sort of constraint. I love the music in this as much as I do the thoughts.

Thank you.You are too kind, Jerry. I do appreciate it.


The vacant mind is a spacious room,
high ceilinged, unfurnished,

waiting to be filled,
a field that has yet to be tilled.

The plowmen approach
and a family in need of a home.

The vacant mind is an as yet
unwritten poem.

In your own poem, I am awed at how much you can say with so few words. That last line says it all for the poet, the mind is never really vacant, there is a hdden unwritten poem waiting to be discovered.

Thank you, mon ami.

[ampoule]

Cdn....very nice. I loved that line 'no one noticed that the space inside the walls was growing smaller'.

Zargon....welcome and thanks for joining us.

ANYONE....want to choose the next word???

[zargon]

Oh! Let me have that honour! how about "romance"?

By golly, here i go.

Oh, where are the good old days?
Where are the old romantic ways,
Where are the days young men courted women,
With passionate poem and affectionate hymn,
Where are the days when romance was elegant?
Kisses on hands and roses were frequent?
When poets poured out their hearts with ink on parchment,
And with rose pedals and sweet perfume, to their lovers, sent.
When men laid their jackets, on a rainy day, for their lovers to walk across,
Romance will never be the same - that era of romance has been lost,
It has been buried, in times of old, under earth, trees and moss.
Romance as it once was is now dead,
Those days were not properly appreciated, and they left instead,
The poets left with them, seeing their era gone,
But where there is will there is hope – hence we rhyme on,
So that perhaps one joyous, fateful day,
People will remember the good old poet way.

[ampoule]

Very nice, Zargon.

Good choice.

I'll be back.

Can't wait to read what everyone has to say about....


Romance!

[firefangled]

At the moment the light catches your eyes,
I realize the pretty people here have quieted,
the music recedes into another room.

It could be from an old upright, a black man,
weaving magic from the sleeves of a white jacket.
The fans on the ceiling move in that slow turn

we cannot feel, as if the blades are dancing,
without force, in the rhythm of the night air.
It is the romantic in me that hears the words,

a kiss is just a kiss…a sigh is still a sigh…
though this is not someone else’s story
and this poem merely scribbles in the margins

of the evening. They are still there if you look
on the shutter slats and paneled doors,
where I am looking now…there are no city lights,

only the sound of a single car in the streets
and occasionally this small alleyway. Outside
could be a small urban village in Singapore

or some port market square on the coast of Africa…
and the piano plays Masquerade as you wonder
what I am seeing. I turn and ask you to dance,

the rain is falling on whatever streets are out there,
the story turns in time. I think, why here,
this place with its colonnade and wide stair?

The piano has stopped, only the music of the rain,
the flowers on the table wait patiently for us to go.
We are the only ones dancing, dancing like slow
kisses. Do you know where we are, I whisper?

[Pendragon]

For this I pull out a poem already posted on my blog, but it is my somewhat different idea of romance:

THE LOVERS

Darkness is a lady that dances with Light,
a gentleman, he, proud and noble.
The shapes they create with their intertwining bodies
cause the mind to grow giddy with disbelief.
And the eyes ask themselves if they really saw
the things the mind says simply cannot exist.

No finer dancers in the Universe exist,
weaving a pattern unmatched, Miss Darkness and Mr. Light.
The Earth is their stage, their dance familiar to anyone who ever saw
lovers playing together. It’s beautiful and noble.
Their spinning might cause even a Dervish to disbelieve.
They dance to the music of the heavenly bodies.

Wherever they touch, the joining of their bodies
produces offspring. Thus, Shadows exist,
often mistaken for evil by those who disbelieve,
and feel that Darkness truly has no place with Light.
But their love is undying; their romance something noble.
It’s just that people often don’t understand what they saw.

Lovers more tender, I’m sure you never saw,
their fingers lightly caressing each other’s bodies,
his face all aglow, throwing hers into a noble
silhouette. Without him, Lady Darkness cannot exist,
nor, without her to be near him, can Sir Light.
They could care less about your disbelief.

Misunderstandings are what always lead to disbelief,
the fear of the unknown; doubt in what you just saw.
He leaps into the air, spinning, lightly
tossing Darkness and catching her. His glow reflects from her body:
she eclipses his with a glow science says should not exist.
She smiles down at him, a princess, her noble

eyes reflecting his own nobility.
They merge into each other, causing disbelief,
the eyes unwilling to believe that such wonders exist.
They part again as if divided by a saw,
but there is never a true parting of their bodies,
and the Shadows play at the feet of Darkness and Light

two scions of a noble race that must surely exist
in spite of all your disbelief, are Darkness and Light.
Even now, I feel the touch of their bodies. Can you believe what I just saw?

Dale Harris
© 1997


I think on the blog, it's signed Vic Noir, but it's time I threw away all the pseudonyms anyway... I think this one was published, but I confess I don't remember the magazine...

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

[Bii]

:thumbs_up I bow at your feet Pen - a full sestina, and nicely done.

[firefangled]

two scions of a noble race that must surely exist
in spite of all your disbelief, are Darkness and Light.
Even now, I feel the touch of their bodies. Can you believe what I just saw?



Very imaginative, Pen. I believe!

[ampoule]

Romance

How much better it is to caress your leg with my foot
While reading together on the divan, than it is to
Walk on a thousand cloaks you have spread on puddles.

How much better it is to hold you in my arms
And bury my nose in the wonderful scent of you, than it is to
Hold a dozen long stemmed roses you have sent.

How much better it is to taste your kiss
And dream of all the delicacies it can provide, than it is to
Open a box of the finest chocolates.

Your calling card is your smile
And with a gentle bow
You offer the kerchief of your twinkling eyes,
And I curtsy
And accept.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

[firefangled]

Romance

How much better it is to caress your leg with my foot
While reading together on the divan, than it is to
Walk on a thousand cloaks you have spread on puddles.

How much better it is to hold you in my arms
And bury my nose in the wonderful scent of you, than it is to
Hold a dozen long stemmed roses you have sent.

How much better it is to taste your kiss
And dream of all the delicacies it can provide, than it is to
Open a box of the finest chocolates.

Your calling card is your smile
And with a gentle bow
You offer the kerchief of your twinkling eyes,
And I curtsy
And accept.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

Sometimes fancy is good, but this is true romance and the best kind. Very well put. Who even knows how to curtsy or bow or when to do it these days. Ah, A. the man who will be yours should know he is a very lucky man, whether it is the Vinegar Man or Mr. Tanner or the mysterious Mr. "You".

[firefangled]

There was the boat of breath,
that lifted you, a brackish heat,
ashen clouds, the child in you
(who may have whispered something),

the curious weight of air…

you felt excitement in the storm,
the hair drawn up by nothing apparently,
but the passing of your life as it had been.

A wake from a phantom boat,
imagine, as real as a pulse or touch,
the wet disorder a tongue makes…

the mysteries we make for ourselves.

You should have known,
by the lightning with no sound,
the sky that pulled you under.

You could have gathered yourself
into the fire, into some strength you found,
into the screams you swallowed,
and rolled past like thunder.



There is Romance, then there is what we thought was romance.

[Pendragon]

"the mysteries we make for ourselves"

Romance in a single line, Fire!

Pen

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

[PrinceMyshkin]

Firefangled! Ampoule! How fine! How fine!


PUMMELING


Why, it's love! It's love
--calling to us
like a banana-boat in the night.


(But where is the glint
of native iron from the shore?)

The boat is low in the water.
The long oars dip, and dip again.
The wind is fresh, but with the taint
of something heavy on its breath,
and the downstream ocean
licks at the river,
wooing it home: "Come hooooome."

On the bank, palms sway.
The boat creaks. The crew shifts,
ready to earn their danger pay,
then

a stammer of moonlit spearheads
arcs across the water. "Jettison the cargo!
"Speed! More speed,"
the captain cries,

and hunchbacked bananas
shoulder apart the water.
The prow lifts, and the crew,
dirty and eager for home, clash oars

and go pummelling away in the night.




J. Newman Sudden Proclamations © 1992

[ampoule]

Firefangled! Ampoule! How fine! How fine!


PUMMELING


Why, it's love! It's love
--calling to us
like a banana-boat in the night.


(But where is the glint
of native iron from the shore?)

The boat is low in the water.
The long oars dip, and dip again.
The wind is fresh, but with the taint
of something heavy on its breath,
and the downstream ocean
licks at the river,
wooing it home: "Come hooooome."

On the bank, palms sway.
The boat creaks. The crew shifts,
ready to earn their danger pay,
then

a stammer of moonlit spearheads
arcs across the water. "Jettison the cargo!
"Speed! More speed,"
the captain cries,

and hunchbacked bananas
shoulder apart the water.
The prow lifts, and the crew,
dirty and eager for home, clash oars

and go pummelling away in the night.




J. Newman Sudden Proclamations © 1992


And me in my dark skin and my long black hair and my dress half-off.... grrrrRUFF!
And you are probably doing what computer people all over the world are doing, rolling on some dirty floor laughing......she doesn't get it, she doesn't get it......but that's how it made me feel. So there. :)

[firefangled]

PUMMELING


Why, it's love! It's love
--calling to us
like a banana-boat in the night.


(But where is the glint
of native iron from the shore?)

The boat is low in the water.
The long oars dip, and dip again.
The wind is fresh, but with the taint
of something heavy on its breath,
and the downstream ocean
licks at the river,
wooing it home: "Come hooooome."

On the bank, palms sway.
The boat creaks. The crew shifts,
ready to earn their danger pay,
then

a stammer of moonlit spearheads
arcs across the water. "Jettison the cargo!
"Speed! More speed,"
the captain cries,

and hunchbacked bananas
shoulder apart the water.
The prow lifts, and the crew,
dirty and eager for home, clash oars

and go pummelling away in the night.




J. Newman Sudden Proclamations © 1992



There is so much about this to admire and revel in that it is hard to pick one section. Even though there are sections, the rhymes and indirect repetition makes them stick like glue to each other...."and the downstream ocean licks at the river" has to be the ONE if any....

It is complex in the sense of some of Wallace Stevens' "Key West" poems like Someone Puts a Pineapple Together or The Idea of Order at Key West. Excellent!

[ampoule]

>>>>>>Gratitude<<<<<<

Would you share with us, please?

**

[PrinceMyshkin]

Not by wishing will magic be achieved,
Nor what we give
Will equal that which we’ve received.

We travel on crooked paths, in hazy light,
Convinced that we’re on highways, bright
And straight. By losing our way,

We finally get home. We say
The meanest things at times instead
Of the love we mean to say. That word

Is difficult for us.
But love is not what’s said,
But what’s both said and heard.




J. Newman © 2006

[symphony]

so is the next word gratitude?

[PrinceMyshkin]

so is the next word gratitude?

That's my understanding. Better that than "fish-sticks," don't you think?

[ampoule]

so is the next word gratitude?

Yes, the next word is gratitude. Thank you. Mahalo. Gracias. Merci. Danke. Grazie. Arigato. Go raibh maith agat, Dua Netjer. :)

[symphony]

That's my understanding. Better that than "fish-sticks," don't you think?
Debatable. With the talents in here, I bet this forum can even make fish-sticks poetic. :) In a postive sense, by the way.

Anyway, ultra-slow as I am, I was still writing on that love thing, *sigh* my love went in vain! :p

[symphony]

Nonetheless,


Gratitude

Another of those mornings
Where the brows never get the chance to be straight,
Where the roads are muddy and the car keeps getting stuck
In the endless manholes of Dhaka,
And the garbage bins are the only perfumeries
The city can offer!

Another disgusting day
Where the street beggars never stop knocking
At the car window—
Bless the traffic jams!

And oh the endless rain!

Another knock at the car window.
A quick look with a quicker frown
Showed a small shaky hand
Offering a rose,
“It wont cost u more than 2 bucks, ma’am”.
Her voice made my day.
And the look in her eyes—
It could have been gratitude,
Or may be it was the gleam of the polished window –
Spoke to my eyes.

Later that night
Winding up in my armchair,
I couldn’t help debating
On whether the rose has fitted more
In the wildernesses, or was it in her hand!

I couldn’t help wondering
On whether two bucks have, ever,
Bought anything so beautiful
As was that look
On her face.


now give me a blanket to hide my face in

[PrinceMyshkin]

Nonetheless,


Gratitude

Another of those mornings
Where the brows never get the chance to be straight,
Where the roads are muddy and the car keeps getting stuck
In the endless manholes of Dhaka,
And the garbage bins are the only perfumeries
The city can offer!

Another disgusting day
Where the street beggars never stop knocking
At the car window—
Bless the traffic jams!

And oh the endless rain!

Another knock at the car window.
A quick look with a quicker frown
Showed a small shaky hand
Offering a rose,
“It wont cost u more than 2 bucks, ma’am”.
Her voice made my day.
And the look in her eyes—
It could have been gratitude,
Or may be it was the gleam of the polished window –
Spoke to my eyes.

Later that night
Winding up in my armchair,
I couldn’t help debating
On whether the rose has fitted more
In the wildernesses, or was it in her hand!

I couldn’t help wondering
On whether two bucks have, ever,
Bought anything so beautiful
As was that look
On her face.


now give me a blanket to hide my face in

Who was it who told you that you are NOT a genius? Read this aloud to him or her - if you can get all the way through it without choking up - and watch them slither away in shame!

Feakingly, relentlessly, excessively beautiful!! Thank you!

[firefangled]

Nonetheless,


Gratitude

Another of those mornings
Where the brows never get the chance to be straight,
Where the roads are muddy and the car keeps getting stuck
In the endless manholes of Dhaka,
And the garbage bins are the only perfumeries
The city can offer!

Another disgusting day
Where the street beggars never stop knocking
At the car window—
Bless the traffic jams!

And oh the endless rain!

Another knock at the car window.
A quick look with a quicker frown
Showed a small shaky hand
Offering a rose,
“It wont cost u more than 2 bucks, ma’am”.
Her voice made my day.
And the look in her eyes—
It could have been gratitude,
Or may be it was the gleam of the polished window –
Spoke to my eyes.

Later that night
Winding up in my armchair,
I couldn’t help debating
On whether the rose has fitted more
In the wildernesses, or was it in her hand!

I couldn’t help wondering
On whether two bucks have, ever,
Bought anything so beautiful
As was that look
On her face.




Oh, Symphony, oh poet, this so reached my heart. Stay in this language of your heart, write what you think and feel as if you speak to us and you will be great and we will beg you to tell us what you see, tell us what is the world like. This was a rose in a wilderness of wonder. Thank you.

You've no need to hide your face, my friend.

[firefangled]

Another of those mornings
Where the brows never get the chance to be straight,
Where the roads are muddy and the car keeps getting stuck
In the endless manholes of Dhaka,
And the garbage bins are the only perfumeries
The city can offer!



I just had to come back and note the beginning, it is where the tears first came to my eyes. Are still there as I tell you this...yes as Prince said, you are a genius...stay, stay, live in this voice, you found it. I hope you know how precious it is to find your voice at 17...a blessing!

[symphony]

erm...
uhm...

i always thought this forum doesnt have enough smileys...
i always thought i dont know enough english to say thanks ...

but...
THANKS!

[ampoule]

".......I hear a SYMPHONY".....so sing the Supremes (you may not know of them) and today they are singing about YOU.
And, please, please continue with your poem about 'that love thing'.

[firefangled]

erm...
uhm...

i always thought this forum doesnt have enough smileys...
i always thought i dont know enough english to say thanks ...

but...
THANKS!

:yawnb: :yawnb: :yawnb: :yawnb: :yawnb: :yawnb: :yawnb: :lol: ;) ;) ;) :p :p :p :p :) :) :) :D :) :) :D :) :D :yawnb: :D :yawnb: :D :yawnb: :D :lol: :lol: ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) :yawnb: :yawnb: :yawnb: :yawnb: :yawnb: :yawnb: :yawnb:

:thumbs_up :thumbs_up :thumbs_up :thumbs_up :thumbs_up :thumbs_up

just for you! Thanks again!

[symphony]

And again u leave me wordless! :lol:
:D thanks ! (i wish that word could say it all for me!)

[symphony]

".......I hear a SYMPHONY".....so sing the Supremes (you may not know of them) and today they are singing about YOU.
And, please, please continue with your poem about 'that love thing'.

I deleted it :( lol i meant it when i said my love went in vain!! :lol:

[Pendragon]

erm...
uhm...

i always thought this forum doesnt have enough smileys...
i always thought i dont know enough english to say thanks ...

but...
THANKS!
You asked for more smilies, I believe: These links will help. Of course they are not my private stash, but good. Good hunting!

http://www.cosgan.de/smilie.php?wahl=0&ziel=froehlich
http://www.zoicks.com/smileys3.htm
http://www.websmileys.com/
http://www.smileyville.net/index.php
http://www.industreal.spb.ru/smiles.htm
http://www.emofaces.com/emoticons/categories/nature-amp-science/animals

Pen

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

[Pendragon]

You might not think this a poem on graditute on a first reading. So read it more than once.

THE VELVET GOWN

She wore a long, white velvet gown
and pretended to be a princess
or queen of the Fairies
or anything her childish mind could dream up.
They often played together, sharing dreams.

She wore a long, white velvet gown
and danced in his arms at the prom.
She closed her eyes
and pretended he was her Prince Charming
and floated off to a castle in the stars.

She wore a long, white velvet gown
and said “I do” at the altar
staring into his eyes
and dreaming of forever together.

She wore her small, white hospital gown,
her mind locked forever into a world from which
she would never return again.
He held her hand and shook his head
as the Doctor mention the word "Institution."

She wears a long, white velvet gown
and dreams her dreams
no one else can understand—
but he tries.

Dale Harris
© 1997

[ampoule]

Oh, I believe I understand this very well as gratitude.

Have you ever heard the song, "I'm Looking For Something In Red?" You made me think of it. Even though a country singer got hold of it, I do like the message in the lyrics and I like your message also.

[CdnReader]

.
Gratitude

A pale sandy beach
scattered with pink shells and driftwood.
Tiny crabs scurry for cover.
A gentle wave slides up silently
through the wet sand
and kisses my bare feet.
All I see is bathed in a soft orange light
that heralds day's end.
Gifts from a world beyond.

.
cdn/25jul07
.

[Pendragon]

Oh, I believe I understand this very well as gratitude.

Have you ever heard the song, "I'm Looking For Something In Red?" You made me think of it. Even though a country singer got hold of it, I do like the message in the lyrics and I like your message also.
Yes. I find the lyrics of the song very good. I have said it before and I will say it again, people so often miss the poetry in the lyrics of a song. They loose themselves in the music, but I am a musician, and the words are what I love best.

[ampoule]

Gratitude

The day was heavy but her heart was light
as she stood marveling at the Water Tower,
wondering how it, amongst all the beautiful
buildings of that day, had survived the fire.

The day was heavy but her heart was light
as she skipped down Michigan Avenue
touching skyscrapers with one hand while
waving at sailboats with the other.

The day was light but her heart was heavy
as she trembled in the arms of the black woman,
clinging to the curb from which she had fallen,
marveling and wondering and skipping.

The day was light but her heart was heavy
as she longed for a name and a town,
hoping to place them upon the floral paper
that would hold her fanciest pen of gratitude.

But as she sat, staring out at the day,
She knew, in reality, both of their hearts were light.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Marvellous Ampoule, I especially loved the inversion of the day was heavy in the 3rd & 4th verses.

[ampoule]

Marvellous Ampoule, I especially loved the inversion of the day was heavy in the 3rd & 4th verses.

Thank you. You must be a great baseball player!

[firefangled]

These are my favorite poems by you, A., where you never directly disclose...

Wonderful poem!

[ampoule]

Thank you firefangled. I appreciate the encouragement I get from all of you.

Just an interesting update to prove that I may not have another life:

Independence...Ampoule
Sinful Desires...PrinchMyshkin
Penance...firefangled
Laconic...Adolescent09
Homecoming...Pendragon
Soliloquy...symphony
Tranquility...stephofthenight
Passion...Debrasue
Seasons...CdnReader
Vacant...Jon1jt
Romance...Zargon
Gratitude...Ampoule

And where are my manners. Il Penseroso...a word...per favore...and then after that will be Bii, if you please.

[Il Penseroso]

Ha, funny, and in such big letters... Penserosa? Should be Penseroso...I'm male. (the name's taken from the Milton poem) and don't worry, it's so easy to mistake genders around here, I'm sure there are several fish floating about that I've gotten a wrong picture of in my head.

but thanks ampoule, I'm honored to choose the next word, and I've enjoyed your poetry as well, along with everyone else's who posts in this thread.



lets see...time for something a little different. How about...


Oriental(ism)?

[Pendragon]

Yin-Yang

It is such a simple symbol—
Black and white—
Two identical, yet different,
Ever joined to make the whole…

Without a Yin for balance,
There can be no Yang in existence—
People sometimes mistake the two as different
Failing to see they make only one…

Dual personalities that lie in everyman,
The will to do evil or to do good—
A struggle for supremacy inside
What many call “the soul.”

Thus you came to me, here, young one,
In search of true enlightment—
I can only teach you what I have learned myself…
To know the meaning of that symbol
You must ask yourself…

Pendragon
© 7/26/07


http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Yang.gif

[firefangled]

The plum wine was hiding in the city.
Glasses from Japan gathered dust since last
May, when the exchange student was here,
with her kimono, fan and ancient grace.
Someday was the promise she gave to us,
our flower of kindness she would repay.
A simple gesture across time and space,
to guide my way unseen to a small shop,
the way moonlight opens the Ghost Orchid.

[ampoule]

Haole Girl

Haole girl on Honolulu street ask
Japanese lady, how you say thank you?
Ah, she say, with slight bow, arigato,
Hai, arigato.
Now you say.
Ah ree gah toe, ahree ga to, arigato!
Hai!

Haole girl on Honolulu street run
to Japanese store on corner for rice
wrapped in seaweed and sweet sour seed
Hai!
She smile big grin, arigato.
She pay.
Hai, arigato.

[CdnReader]

.
cherry blossoms pale
bloom with delicate beauty
caresses in pink
.

[ampoule]

Dear Bii
Would you please...choose a word.
It looks like no one else has anything to say about orientalism, at least for now.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Perhaps I was west
when I should have been east
when you called for poems
on Orientalism...
In any case, I was here
when I should have been there.
I sometimes get the two mixed up
but here is something
Zennish (I think):

Clear your mind! Clear your mind!
Let it be free
at last! Free at last!
As it has not long since been.

An empty mind
is the measure of timelessness,
the temperature
of infinity.

Imagine there is nothing
in it but the lazy wash of sound
Shhh-wah Shhh-wah Shhh-wah
Shhh-wah Shhh-wah Shhh-wah
Shhh-wah Shhh-wah Shhh-wah

And then even that washes out...

[Bii]

OK, the word is Trust

[CdnReader]

.
The fall into love begins as
A hypnotizing drift, born in a smile....
Quickens into breathless exhilaration...
Touch forces a heart-stopping pulse-racing tailspin...
Rapidly accelerating earthward
at supersonic heart-speed.

Catch me?
.

[stephofthenight]

the safety of your arms
as they engulp me
the flame of desire
simply engulfs me

im trembling and shaking
fighting to breath
you watch me carefuly
and i know that you care

its ok i sigh im ok
he looks at me with the passion
and he says he wont hurt me
just to relax

im scared
my body is shaking uncontralbly
you whisper i love you
i begin to relax

i love you
your holding me in your arms
i trust you
you kiss my forhead goodnight

[symphony]

Trust

The ballroom floor shines red beneath my shy eyes
As I bow to the thundering applause.
His eyes shine bright with confidence,
Mine follow his, shining with trust.


The trembling toes couldnt leave the wheelchair,
“Trust me”, he had said,
And I did.

My footsteps faded as the night went on.
The tears twinkled in my eye,
“Trust me”, he had said
And I did.

The pain screamed out,
I was filled with doubts
And the world was too much on me.
“Trust me”, he had said
And I did.


The ballroom floor shines red beneath my shy eyes
As I walk away from the dance floor
And help him hold his white long stick—
“Were you good?” asks he.
“Trust me”, say I,
And watch the smile light up his blind eyes.

[Pendragon]

Trust boiled down to a broth.

ON A LESS-TRAVELED ROAD

Life is a long, one-way street
that, often as not, takes the long way around.

Frost spoke of “The Road Less-Traveled By”.
I’ve been on it all my life. What’s the difference?

Then again, how could you tell any difference
when there is really nothing to compare it to?

Nothing. Something. Are they really the same?
“I think, therefore I am.” Or is it. “I am, therefore I think?”

Existence is like a soap bubble:
It’s pretty, but it doesn’t take much to burst it.

One thing about a less-traveled road:
There is less traffic, and fewer rest areas.

Oh, and don’t break down along the way.
“Less-traveled by”, remember? So who’s going to fix your car?

Dale Harris
© 1996

[ampoule]

Trust

I stand at the edge of the stage
Looking back at arms outstretched
With fingers beckoning, saying,
Trust me.
I look again and again to be sure,
And fall back into the pit that carries
Me, like pass the butter please.

I stand at the edge of the water
Looking back at little waves of deep and blue
With ripples and droplets, saying,
Trust me.
I look again and again to be sure,
And fall back into the lake that engulfs
Me, like an apple waiting to be bobbed.

I stand at the beginning of each day
Looking back at past and future
With things unknown, saying,
Trust me.
I look again and again to be sure
And fall back into a life that teaches
Me, like a bird pushed from it's nest.

I stand now in front of you
Looking deep into your eyes
With so many promises, saying,
Trust me.
I look again and again to be sure
And fall back into arms that surround
Me, like the farmer in the dell.

Like softened butter or a floating apple,
Like a new bird flying or someone chosen for the circle,
I trust.

[stephofthenight]

Trust

I stand at the edge of the stage
Looking back at arms outstretched
With fingers beckoning, saying,
Trust me.
I look again and again to be sure,
And fall back into the pit that carries
Me, like pass the butter please.

I stand at the edge of the water
Looking back at little waves of deep and blue
With ripples and droplets, saying,
Trust me.
I look again and again to be sure,
And fall back into the lake that engulfs
Me, like an apple waiting to be bobbed.

I stand at the beginning of each day
Looking back at past and future
With things unknown, saying,
Trust me.
I look again and again to be sure
And fall back into a life that teaches
Me, like a bird pushed from it's nest.

I stand now in front of you
Looking deep into your eyes
With so many promises, saying,
Trust me.
I look again and again to be sure
And fall back into arms that surround
Me, like the farmer in the dell.

Like softened butter or a floating apple,
Like a new bird flying or someone chosen for the circle,
I trust.



i like the way you did this...its realy nicely done...i especialy like all of your metaphors at the end ot the stanza at first they didnt make much since bbut it took me a moment to reread them and realise that there beautifuly wovent throught.
steph

[ampoule]

Thank you steph! I struggled with this trust word but I kept going back to a game we played in summer camp which led me to thinking of a mosh pit etc.
Again, thank you.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Trust

I stand at the edge of the stage
Looking back at arms outstretched
With fingers beckoning, saying,
Trust me.
I look again and again to be sure,
And fall back into the pit that carries
Me, like pass the butter please.

I stand at the edge of the water
Looking back at little waves of deep and blue
With ripples and droplets, saying,
Trust me.
I look again and again to be sure,
And fall back into the lake that engulfs
Me, like an apple waiting to be bobbed.

I stand at the beginning of each day
Looking back at past and future
With things unknown, saying,
Trust me.
I look again and again to be sure
And fall back into a life that teaches
Me, like a bird pushed from it's nest.

I stand now in front of you
Looking deep into your eyes
With so many promises, saying,
Trust me.
I look again and again to be sure
And fall back into arms that surround
Me, like the farmer in the dell.

Like softened butter or a floating apple,
Like a new bird flying or someone chosen for the circle,
I trust.

So lovely! It reminds me of that trust exercise, where you stand behind the person and invite her to fall backwards and trust that you will catch her or him... How wonderful isn't it when we can take up that challenge without hesitation?

[ampoule]

So lovely! It reminds me of that trust exercise, where you stand behind the person and invite her to fall backwards and trust that you will catch her or him... How wonderful isn't it when we can take up that challenge without hesitation?

LOL....that's just what I had mentioned to steph. :D

[ampoule]

So......doesn't anyone have a new word for us? :(

[firefangled]

So......doesn't anyone have a new word for us? :(

If I may, in honor of your return, how about ... HOME. :yawnb:

[ampoule]

Yes, HOME. Thank you fire.

[Pendragon]

Where the Heart Is: Home

Down at the end of a short little block in town they call Maple Street,
There is an empty lot on the right hand side of the road.
I have all of my memories buried there always waiting, it’s my retreat—

As a boy in the 60’s the little white house there seemed like a treat,
As poverty-stricken as we were, at least we had a home.
Down at the end of a short little block in town they call Maple Street,

My mom raised three kids on her own sometimes wondering how to makes ends meet,
And I learned responsibility and how to hold down a job of my own.
I have all of my memories buried there always waiting, it’s my retreat—

How those old wooden floors resounded with pounding of happy feet,
My little brother and I, lost in our dreams and our fantasy tomes.
Down at the end of a short little block in town they call Maple Street,

We finally had to move away from there to an apartment complex from difficulty.
I was in the hospital at the time and when I was let go, I didn’t go home—
I have all of my memories buried there always waiting, it’s my retreat—

But the old house fell in the great flood two years later; we were safe as could be.
Stood and watched from across the river until the old homestead was gone—
Down at the end of a short little block in town they call Maple Street,
I have all of my memories buried there always waiting, it’s my retreat—

Pendragon
© 8/7/07

[firefangled]

Earlier the night long rain ended,
and now rises like watery ghosts.
Everything is muted with morning
as if morning is trying to recall
what it has been doing
and where it has been, and I
know from some old experience
not to speak. So my eyes whisper.

Sitting on the damp rock wall
watching the wet waffled empty
bench, I sense someone there,
but there is no one now.
The concrete walk shines, reflecting
nothing but indistinct sky, soft
and ethereal like a child’s hair,
distant lone trees and towers
stand like shadows in a darkened room.

On the walk is a brown long neck
bottle, its reflection sharp, another
bottle joined at the hip, the whole
making alligator jaws or binoculars,
through which I look this windless
gray morning, wanting to see
how distance found its way here,
wanting to find the lens that reaches home.

[CdnReader]

You have truly beautiful vision, firefangled. Thanks for this.

[CdnReader]

.
greeted with a warm smile
whispers of comfort and acceptance
easy communication in familiar surroundings
an acknowledgment of radiance shared
the peaceful luxury of being
myself

friends never met
keyboards only connect...
can this be home?

answers escape me
questions scattered in the wind
a breathless moment away

.
cdn/02jul06
.

[ampoule]

Footlocker

No burro, no horse, no ox,
but a wooden box of army-green
lopes along, carrying my treasures
from house to house,
but it is my true home,
that footlocker.

Father-built,
a baby girl playpen made room
to hold Tiny Tears and paperdolls
and books with golden spines,
and Mother said whatever fits,
you can take and the layers began.

A Chinese tea set with dragons,
Korean dolls from Father keeping peace,
a tiny silver and turquoise ring made
by roadside natives, lava rocks, and
a tearful note from a little friend
whose party I would miss.

Layers of photographs and stacks of 45 love,
with books by Uris, the love scenes earmarked,
and letter sweaters and yearbooks and ribbons
and trophies and poems and stories and books,
always books and love notes hidden,
all frosted with Grandmother's garden quilt.

Yes, like some luscious rectangular layer cake,
I imagine the contents turned out upon a plate
to make my mouth water as I eye all of the
wonderful fillings, just sweet enough with memory
and the right amount of teary salt and sprinkles,
sprinkles of color from all I have seen and done.

And as I look around this messy room,
stacked with papers and books, music and photos,
what would I choose today to fill that box,
and I know...Tiny Tears, paperdolls, books
with golden spines, a Chinese tea set, Korean dolls,
a silver and turquoise ring...all that, and a thankful heart.

.

[ampoule]

Earlier the night long rain ended,
and now rises like watery ghosts.
Everything is muted with morning
as if morning is trying to recall
what it has been doing
and where it has been, and I
know from some old experience
not to speak. So my eyes whisper.

Sitting on the damp rock wall
watching the wet waffled empty
bench, I sense someone there,
but there is no one now.
The concrete walk shines, reflecting
nothing but indistinct sky, soft
and ethereal like a child’s hair,
distant lone trees and towers
stand like shadows in a darkened room.

On the walk is a brown long neck
bottle, its reflection sharp, another
bottle joined at the hip, the whole
making alligator jaws or binoculars,
through which I look this windless
gray morning, wanting to see
how distance found its way here,
wanting to find the lens that reaches home.

I love those morning drip drops after the rain has just passed by.
And whispering eyes...how beautiful.
Home is where we are, right?
I love the buddhist saying, Wherever you go, there you are.

[ampoule]

Another word please. Someone, anyone, please choose.