Granny, this is lovely and so true.Quote:
Originally Posted by Granny5
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Granny, this is lovely and so true.Quote:
Originally Posted by Granny5
This was heartwarming, Granny. You very nicely summed up how much we inherit. My GrandMother's name was Edna Thirtyacre.Quote:
Originally Posted by Granny5
We don't hear Edna much any longer. Your Grandmother Edna must have been American Indian. What tribe?Quote:
Originally Posted by firefangled
Her maiden name was Edna Aurthur. Her father was Friend Aurthur, a Quaker whose lineage I've so far traced to the 12th century in Sweden...go figure.Quote:
Originally Posted by Granny5
Her mother's family is a real mystery. Ironically, Edna's first husband, my Grandfather's, father was full Cherokee and he lived to be 105. He was pruning a peach tree in his backyard and my Great Gradmother said he just sat down and died. That is how I want to go, pruning a peach tree.
One of my hobbies is tracing my ancestry through this great website, Ancestry.com. Their databases are incredible.
And since I am spilling my famiy trees guts here, my Grandfather (Edna's first husband above) was one of 24 children by 2 mothers. He became an auto mechanic, but they say his IQ was over 200. He was the smartest person I have ever personally known. The story of him has it that he wanted to be a surgeon and heal people, but he couldn't afford to go to school that long and support his family.
Finally (I bet you think twice next time you want to ask me a simple question, Granny :yawnb: :lol: ) Edna's second husband was a German named Fredrick Thirtyacre. We think when his mom and dad and he came over to America, they mispronounced him and the name stuck.
What else do you want to know? You, MH, Bailey, and Poppy have been so generous with your family information, I hope you don't mind me going on and on. Yours I've found very interesting.
These memory poems are like sharing parts of each other. I feel priviliaged to have had a glimpse into the lives of the people I share this forum with. Well-written poems from all! Littlewing, for you: http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1...mKane/Fish.gif
Mourning Mistamp, October Sixth, TwoThousandSeven
He watched as he faded from her eyes,
That evanescent look of love,
That moist green mist of disbelief
as his words pressed against her pulsing throat
choking the life right out from under her,
His pallid smile saying, forgive me, as she
bravely fought and closed her eyes.
Amp, I like the title reference on this very clever. You have this continuity of images through all your poems like characters in a story, for instance, green and indigo.Quote:
Originally Posted by ampoule
This is the dream of the neon
face you use to look at me,
colors, then fade to black,
a recurring evanescence
through the blinds,
are you
there, green spelling
out your eyes,
yellow moving arrow hair,
red red red red lips
are you
kisses in the dark?
Hey Fire, I do genealogy also. I have my Dad's family back to the 15th century and one branch of my Mom's back that far also. My Mom's dad's father is a complete unknown. The court house in Independence Co appearantly burned and records were lost. He left his family when my grandpa was very young, then my grandpa died 6 months before my Mom was born. His (my grandpa) mother died when he was young and he was raised by his grandmother. We had always thought that he was an only child but I've recently found someone who has information that there were other children raised by the other grandparents. I love doing the research.Quote:
Originally Posted by firefangled
I have to watch myself on the research, because it can get so time consuming. I'm glad you shared that Granny. I was thinking I had put everyone to sleep. Ask me what time it is and I'll tell you how the watch works. :lol:Quote:
Originally Posted by Granny5
That sounds like an good word, Fire: TIME
Echoes From the Edge: Memorabilia
These are Shadows of Things That Have Been.
They may not be altered in any way.
They flicker through his mind like old home movies:
Images of a boy whose father didn’t love him.
Of a boy robbed of his childhood.
Of a boy forced to become to become a man
Long before puberty set in.
Of a young man mocked by his peers—
Because he believed differently—
Or, because, being poor, he could not afford the comforts they enjoyed.
Of a young man working hard
To provide for his growing family—
To have the Apple of Success dangled before him—
(Just an bite)—
Then cruelly snatched away again.
Betrayed at last by his own flesh and blood—
Betrayed in the end by his own mind.
Of a lonely man, rejected by those he had aided—
Abandoned by those he had grown to love—
Forgotten by those who called him “Friend.”
Turn the projector off, please, Sir!
Finis.
D.L. Harris
© 7/26/96
Sorry. All Echoes From the Edge are a bit sad... but this one shows the effects of time writing on and in flesh...
Between the argentine veil of night's dark rainbow
And the slow seduction of the sun to another day,
I walk in half-light and joy at the shameless serenade.
There is no fear—though we are cause—no hesitation in those
Strong voices saying, " I am here...I am here." The moon
Is a Chinese lantern in the mist, a dull ball of papier-mâché
Caught high in a tree, a bees nest, a picnic plate —
No longer midnight's shining lake — a day old toy balloon.
Here I sit half blind, it is a time to listen, I surmise,
To the wisdom of this place. After all, I am just a visitor,
The noisy man who comes with his dog and sometimes cat
Making the wrens and sparrows chatter (I hope they will forgive me that).
And I wait, a pensive lover, searcher, forever restless inquisitor,
For morning’s gentle fingers to come and touch my eyes.
© October 2007
Just thought to post here in poetry games and contest as suggested by ampoule.
Time
Time, it never turns back,
waits for no one,
aging every existence,
sheds no tears on whatever fallen with it,
carries on and on...
creating pages in the history.
We now and then flip those pages to recall
where we once lived there before...
Yesterdays, series of moments spent,
only are written on diaries,
capturing old memories
where we recall
our heroic acts, our cowardliness,
tears we cried, pains we suffered,
faces we met, faces we lost,
moments of bliss, and unforgettable memories.
Tomorrows, hidden faces of uncertainties,
they will present themselves with the time,
maybe with surprising appearances
or maybe reverberating warning bells
or maybe with shocking facts.
Our human existence, powerless on controlling time,
can only surrender to the time and circumstances...
Yesterdays are gone,
today, we are living,
and tomorrows are yet unseen.
Slowly, tomorrows will become today...
Today will turn yesterday...
Live as if tomorrow never exists
and live just for today !
Soft at first,
the dream hidden
within the moonlit window
and the sound of waves breaking
just beyond our breathing. I am wrapped
in the fragrance of your hair, and your motion
balanced on my finger tips, your lips,
and how your tongue is speaking silently
to mine in the language of temperature
rising in the exotic décor,
the gauzing of the world beyond the bed netting.
One pool of vision, dream and knowing,
abandoning everything to space without time,
our skins shedding the resistance of sin,
one pulse, one touch, the arch of desire,
your hair, the rainbow’s edge pressing into earth
the gravity that pulls me into you,
the wetness of flesh like the hot moist air
before the lightning strikes and thunder drowns us
in a storm that seems to have no end.
Now we ask from somewhere, is this a dream?
Now we wait for the storm to begin again,
as I tread the green water of your eyes
watching me as the waves subside
and recede from the arms of the shore,
my fingers slippery on the memory of you,
the need of you, even as I am waking.
Dreams like this leave me floating...somewhere...and I don't even try to hold on. After just returning from such an exotic place, I can still see and hear the waves and I am intoxicated by the whole of it. I imagine the goddess Pele, lying somewhere smiling as the molten red flows. You have described it all so perfectly.
Shall this be our new word everyone? DREAMS
What is the value of my dream to you?
Will you measure in time or effort,
is it worth the ink and paper to print them- no.
And I won’t cast my pearls before the swine
I carry my dream like a secret-
tight in my white knuckled fist
shoved deep into my pocket
and held there stiff armed.
What precious things as these are there?
These simple treasures hidden away,
Only to be spoken and then scattered -
like chaff in the wind.
The secret dream spoken is
no longer hidden safe.
It is carried away
on a whimsy-
No longer hidden but floating on air
like dandelion seed carried to the ends
Where it blossoms
And grows
It is such a paradox
Dieing in the clutch of safety ,
yet blooming when strewn to the wind.
Lost only to be gained
Dreams
I wish my daydreams could be my night dreams,
for they are filled with vivid direction and shown
on an ivory ceiling speckled with afternoon light,
and the images remain, even as I close my eyes,
taking your hands and placing them around me.
.
A man can enter a dream,
where his steps are silent
and something real walks
with him into the dream,
the way clouds collide
in the clear brightness of a sky.
A man can love in a dream,
where his kiss makes no sound,
but something real is heard
and rises in his blood like a sigh,
as we hear the hissing of a wind
that never moves the leaves.
A man touches in a dream,
where the heart has placed its strings,
the ones you feel beneath the movement
of my hands reaching for you like music,
as you watch the sky turn from blue
to the milky edge of a universe on fire.
A Little Too Real
It was all so awfully real.
I dreamed that I was lost upon the downs,
And all around me in the fog
I could hear the fiendish voices howling:
“Cold be hand and heart and bone,
And cold be sleep under stone:”
To my horror,
I began to relive the details
Pertaining to the death of someone else.
Screaming in terror, I jerked awake
To find big drops of icy sweat
Rolling down my face…
DL Harris
© 3/15/99
Published in The Minis Tirith Evening Star by The American Tolkien Society
...beautiful poems i have read and beautiful dreams i have seen...here is a dream of mine
a dream lived
somewhere by the fluid flowing river
beyond the reeds and rocks
lies a dwelling of serenity
intoxicated with sweet tempered breeze
held in a place there beyond
between the seams and sky
translated for me
waiting to reside
a final destination
this very special place
basket, book and blanket
tucked firmly in place
holding recollections in tiny bits of being
forbidden and unreliable
to all who else appear
a net of hope and reason
stand firm and held steadfast
this place is mine alone
where music sings
and harmony floats
fixed on the curve of quarter moons
sitting on this blanket
that holds the warmth of fire
when cool cold ignites
i dream freely confident of tomorrow
Father comes home,
sits in a dark sound,
with brown glass —
we swallow
for different reasons.
In school, birds are not
taught. At church,
watching the basket pass;
in the window
men are climbing,
dropping pigeon babies
from gutters.
Father comes home.
Supper stares at me.
Darkness falls, brown
glass does not break…
sleep has wing sounds
follows the tolling bell
— January, 2005
Dreamer Unawakened
The dreams I had sailed on silken seas
Pitch-black but dotted with points of fire,
Into realms built of imagination and fantasy—
Warmed by the sunlight of my heart’s desire.
The dreams I had floated over far distant lands,
And they carried me away for the ride.
I left part of my soul on the beach’s white sand,
And part on the ledges of a granite mountainside.
The dreams I had whispered to me in the still of the Night,
Of secrets undiscovered and treasures yet unknown.
That someday I would waken and everything would be right,
I’d find someplace I could call mine and mine alone.
People may say you cannot live inside of your dreams:
What if my dreams are what are living inside of me?
Dale Harris
© 10/25/07
Very nice Pen. I always enjoy the images your poems evoke. I do think our dreams are living inside of us.
I think 'dreams' has been our most popular word to write about so far. Let's continue for awhile and see if any others would like to share a poem about
Dreams
I agree about dreams. We all have them and they are an excellent subject matter for poetry.
Besides sometimes it is difficult to get someone who wil listen to your dreams and other times they are just too strange to put into words.
When this thread started It made me think of that Melissa Etheridge song, "Baby You Can Sleep While I Drive" and the line, I'll buy you glasses in Texas, a hat from New Orleans, and in the morning you can tell me your dreams."
I think it is a very intimate expression to relay our dreams to someone.
In short, On with DREAMS
How about an original song...
The Guitar Player
People out there in the city
So busy, all hurrying, scurrying by—
The Guitar Player sits by the wall with his Gibson,
And he sings of his dreams…
Sometimes maybe there’s someone
Who is kind for a moment of time—
Stops in their busy rush hours of the evening
Listens to the words that he sings…
And he can carry them far on an ocean of sound,
Make the darkness vanish awhile as the notes all resound;
Promises ring in the words of the music that somewhere rest can be found—
Somewhere on dream painted song…
Sometimes the words are dark
And people pause at the tone of his music—
Pain unrestrained finds a foothold and gains
Freedom for a moment in time…
He sings about home and of family,
With a longing that cuts your lifeblood—
Though your tears you drop your donation in his guitar case,
Heading home to call and check up on mom…
No one knows the man or his story,
How he came to be here in this place by the road—
Anyone who will take the time to stop and listen a moment,
Will never think the same way again…
Dale Harris
© 10/26/07
Nice Pen.
And Fire, all you say is so true.
I am teaching a hula for a Christmas program to the song "White Christmas" sung by an Hawaiian group and the background music is the old Everly Brothers song, "All I Have To Do Is Dream"...dream dream dream. Really cool.
I dreamed once
a dream of snow and cocoa
of friends and failure
of fear and confidence
of living....and of dying
I dreamed once
of knowing and being unaware
of writing with no purpose
of love and passion
of hate and fire
of warmth and sunshine
yes, I dreamed once
when I was a child
when the world was nothing
and I stayed in my cocoon,
of comfort and innocence
And I dreamed.
The Philosophy of Dreams
Dreams have their place in the outlook on life,
Without dreamers we might still live in a cave.
Always there are those whose vision is not confined by this world,
To whom “That is not possible.” is not fact, but challenge.
And from the minds of the worshipers of Morpheus
Come wondrous things,
Some that help, some that heal, and some that destroy.
For The Lord of Dreams is neutral in dispensing his gifts—
What the dreamer creates from his dreams is his choice…
There lies another danger in somnolent repose,
In the throes of REM cycle sleep.
It can become so addicting like the most powerful of opiates,
That one always desires to be there and never awaken.
Then one crosses the line of demarcation between the two worlds—
Never really fully asleep and yet never fully awake.
Life becomes a realm of self-created delusions from which one cannot escape—
For to escape any prison, one must desire freedom above all things,
And the self-deluded prefer the delusion to any slice of cold reality.
Dream and find pleasure, even meaning in your dreaming.
But every thing we do and seem is not a dream within a dream—
Awake, for the night has passed, and a new day dawns:
Somewhere in this jigsaw puzzle that we call life is a spot on you can fill.
Make that your dream to fill it to the best of your ability—
Dream, but dream with purpose and meaning…
Pendragon
© 11/18/07
Concerning my dream:
I've put it in my pocket,
Along with my pen.
It had so many thoughts upon it,
It has so many hopes.
Nourished by my naiveity,
Fostered by my joys.
Held up by the coloumns,
of dreams before it,
by the passions of others,
inspiring it to unfold.
It drags the ink upon it,
with a seductive leisure.
this paper will conceal,
my own secret pleasure.
I liked the old bartender
but now there's your old art history teacher.
The bar did very well
in the middle of nuclear war
despite the radiation and all
it was a mighty show
before you came with your ideas of peace
(It wasn't like anyone got hurt in here anyway)
Once there was a good old shortcut
from toilet to the roots of Yggdrasil
but now
there is no toilet at all
since that didn't fit your ideas.
I could make dozens of more examples
of things that aren't the same
(like melting giraffes or clocks that do burn)
but my point is still the same:
Perhaps it's just a lucid dream for you,
but in here I HAPPEN TO LIVE
and the word is.......
Waiting
.
.
Waiting On a Ride
I must have missed the last train out of here,
The station is closed-up and it’s dark.
Night train must not stop at all here anymore.
Guess I can spend the night on the bench near the window.
Train should be coming in about six or maybe seven.
The fog shrouds the tracks and the station house like spider-silk,
Somebody must have turned the moon off for the night.
Heard the whip-poor-will’s singing, a lonesome, loathsome sound,
And a wolf howl away in the fog bank not very distant.
When that cougar let out it’s scream, I thought I would die,
A Banshee-wail hidden away in the night—
I must have fainted away…
Sunshine coming down over the ridge of the mountains,
And first thing I notice is the rust on the rails.
The ticket-window is not only closed,
Boarded over, and has been for what has to be years.
That bench that I slept on, or tried to anyway, last night—
Is a cluttered old pile of junk made into a sort of den.
I lean down and take me a long look but I know what I’m gonna find.
That cougar had three cubs, presently feasting on the remains of me…
Pendragon
© 12/3/07
http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1...est/Cougar.jpg
Oh my gosh! Pen! That is wonderful! What a shocker. You set the scene perfectly but I wasn't expecting that ending at all. I like it!
Thank you! Thank you! I'm working on that twist ending poem. I intended all along to have a ghost ending, that one just popped up last minute...Quote:
Originally Posted by ampoule
Good word, Waiting.... for that type of poem!
Pen
I saw that the word was waiting, and I’ve been waiting for some kind of poetic revelation. Nothing yet. I wondered if everyone else was waiting for the same thing?
Birdsong
The scent of spice
Cheek pinking breezes
And soft wool socks
Have all escaped me this winter.
There seems to be an egg timer
Ticking away the moments
While I stand expectantly in the kitchen
Or pace with anticipation
Just waiting for the buzzer
What I will do when it sounds is a mystery
I may raise my arms and sing
Or gallop through the house on my imagined horse
Or I may break free from what hinders my senses
From birdsong or the smell of spice.
This is lovely Motherhubbard, may we all ride off on a wave of spice this year :)Quote:
Originally Posted by motherhubbard
Waiting is it?
Oh what a wait
Looking for my Eve
patiently I bided my time
but that was twelve years ago
when I was twenty years and six
I thought I saw her again and again
but it was mere reflection of her
the wake of the scent she gave off
was a palpable vision
but not so long ago
we met and danced and smiled
and she left me again
that was 1,968 days after
I thought I first saw her.
Do you know how many places I've been?
How many faces I've forgotten?
How many hearts I've broken?
and how many times my heart was crushed?
I've spent a lot of energy hurting the hurt away
the breaks are bad, but the broken mends
I've got wind of you now Eve,
I'm coming to get you
I am so tired of waiting.
This is wonderful. I absolutely LOVE the lines...what I will do when it sounds is a mystery...I may raise my arms and sing...or gallop through the house on my imagined horse...or I may break free...Quote:
Originally Posted by motherhubbard
Oh my gosh, B! Just change the name (to protect the innocent) and you have written about something I know so well. I know not if it is really about you or if the Eve is a person or the eve of things we are always waiting on or what, but it speaks to me and I love it.Quote:
Originally Posted by B-Mental
B, you made my heart pound and I felt so excited. I think we would all love to be someone’s Eve and anticipate these last three lines