And the word is...

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Bii

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.

---

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by ampoule

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.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by ampoule

: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.

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

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

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by 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

---

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!

“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.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin

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;) ;)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by 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. "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?

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by ampoule

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!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by ampoule

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:

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Pendragon

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.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by ampoule

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by firefangled

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/l1...Kane/chief.gif

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by 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.

---

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

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1...acha_big-1.gif

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by 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.

---

And lovely to write the dream as well...

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1.../IceDancer.gif

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by ampoule

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

Quote:

---

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...

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by 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.

---

Nice one, Jerry! What was it Pepe LePew said that time, oh yeah: "Flirt!" http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1...tleStinker.gif http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1...ilies/Grin.gif

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

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? :)

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.

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.

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 :)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by 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.

---

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

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

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:

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

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/l1...Kane/Night.jpg

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'.

ok, i was thinking tranquility....

hope thats ok.

steph

Quote:

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Originally Posted by stephofthenight

ok, i was thinking tranquility....

hope thats ok.

steph

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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.

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.

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.

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.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by 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.

---

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

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by 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.

---

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)