And the word is...

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin

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

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

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

---

Oh Prince.

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

Why?

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


Perhaps you could add your own?

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by TheFifthElement

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

Why?

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


Perhaps you could add your own?

---

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

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by TheFifthElement

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

Why?

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


Perhaps you could add your own?

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Childhood, part one

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

amp, August ThirtyFirst, TwoThousandSeven

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by ampoule

Childhood, part one

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

amp, August ThirtyFirst, TwoThousandSeven

---

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

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

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

Quote:

---

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

amp, August ThirtyFirst, TwoThousandSeven

---

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

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

Quote:

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Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin

Novelty

Ecclesiastes 1:9:

What has been will be again,
what has been done will be done again;
there is nothing new under the sun.

What is the new
but the old rediscovered as if for the first time!
All that is old
is new in the voluntary heart!

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

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

waiting, as always,
for the bravest of hearts.

---

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by ampoule

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

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

---

Novelty


I second that emotion (in my best Smokey voice)

Ooooo....sing it! :D

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

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

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

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

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

A little tounge-in-cheek Novelty...

Million Years From Now

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

Pendragon
© 9/3/07

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1...s/LP_skull.gif

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Pendragon

A little tounge-in-cheek Novelty...

Million Years From Now

---

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

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

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

Saturday Night At the VFW

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

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

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

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

JEALOUSY

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by ampoule

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

Saturday Night At the VFW

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

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

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

---

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

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

Kudos again.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by ampoule

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

Saturday Night At the VFW

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

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

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

---

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

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by firefangled

I love the rhythm of it.

---

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

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


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

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

How jealous he is
of himself!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin

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

How jealous he is
of himself!

---

Wow! Yes, Prince, yes!

A somewhat different touch...

Green Eyes

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

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

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

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

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

Pendragon
© 9/8/07

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

Jealousy

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

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

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

Will you join me?


amp, September Eighth, TwoThousandSeven

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

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

Good ones Poppy and Demian!

Anyone have a new word?

how about
apathy?

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

APATHY

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

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

Mass What?

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

amp, September Twelfth, TwoThousandSeven

Great! Absolutely Great!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apathy

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

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

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

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

Pendragon
© 9/12/07

Great you guys!

:bawling: i hate writers block :bawling: