The artist who created the above picture is Goodash. Happy writing. I'll give everyone until February 19 to write.
Printable View
The artist who created the above picture is Goodash. Happy writing. I'll give everyone until February 19 to write.
Memorykeeper
Memories erode with time,
turning to rust around the edges,
worn away and painfully dissolving
into crumbling fragments
which absorb damp musty smells
of decay from those dead places
they begin to fade into.
Impressions yet remain,
never fully erased,
peering out with glowing eyes,
faintly crying into still nights
as ghosts they appear,
only projections of the mind.
Still like the scent of tobacco
they linger, seeping deep
into cracks, spreading
across the walls.
Attached to abandoned rooms
as the corridors of the mind
you try to close,
but they
those faltering requiems
will not forget nor be forgotten,
tarnishing around the rims,
figments remain entrapped.
Every grain of dust sheds
another piece of the dead.
The House We Played In
In Roma, Italia during World War II
The house we played in was a spinning world
of seas, deserts, beaches, trees.
Upon whose shrine we did pass time, and space,
for what seemed like an eternity. My maternity
was lost in that single house on the street.
Where I would swim towards the reef
for a glimpse of starfish, and he would
dive for pearls, for pinky swirls, shiny shells,
and slip so deliberately through the journey in his mind
back to our shrine, feigning exhaustion.
Almost honest, we'd pretend we'd toured all of Rome.
Saw the Coliseum, the Vatican, the catacombs.
The Sistine was our nightly dream, oh! what a place to see!
Outside, mortar and missiles were the bloody pulse of the city.
With no food, we played like this to pass all time.
Semi-sincere, we'd enjoy the taste of oregano and pesto,
pasta and thyme, and when we were done, sip wine.
Shunning our juvenility: we were who we wanted to be.
A chameleon in the Sistine, at once heavenly white
then sophisticated gold. All the colours of the rainbow.
Like this, limitless, until one day, we suddenly had to bite awake -
For all of us, ourselves, wore numbers on our heads too. So few
of us had known the price of one, a single German, gone
in some far-off nearby land. Away from his
Motherland. And how all relief is really only fear
behind a white veil, waiting to assail
teetering towers for holding sway against seas, against gale.
And all of us, hoping only to scope the ornate ceiling of heaven.
He and I endured, we matured and
procured, so that when the taste of guns in our
mouths blew our minds, shards of veil danced in the
empty spaces of grey air, landing fair, and deliberately
on the stair of the house we played in.
*
And we exist, still, beyond the facade, beyond our grave
of wood and rusty steel, up here, on the heavenly
roof of the Sistine Chapel, painted in gold for eternity.
I'll throw my hat into the ring with this little number:
FeO(OH), Fe(OH)3
Rust reduces iron and steel
to a fine brown or red dust.
Water is the villain here.
Fe loves O so much
that he robs her twice over from H.
And the villain is quartered by a natural lust.
But perhaps I blame water too much.
Water's like us; we do what we must.
Take a look at the wooden cross.
Fungi can only eat the skeletal fibers
Within each board if they've first been made moist.
A brief rain and they'll eat the cross to dust.
Without water, crosses would last forever
And iron would never rust.
I don't know about that old picture
Of those two young women
Hugging in the FeO(OH), Fe(OH)3
Behind the future sawdust.
I think they're just memories.
And memories, I never trust.
O' lone keeper of forgotten ages,
Your hues shall stand Time's harsh hand,
Forever holding the secret of friendship-
Which was ripped from me, with mortal nonchalance.
Adorned with gilded rust and decay,
No Man or God can slay ye virtue,
Your life of color shall fade
Your faces shall rot into death;
Yet your heart shall outlive us all.
Oh my God! I'm gone for a few days and come back to this, this wealth of gorgeous words and ideas and imagery. Everyone of these is a beautiful contender.
My friends, I think we have a contest.
Memories of a Moment in Time
Sepia-colored flesh tones on that picture of us,
Taken all those many years ago
Now somehow it seems carved into stone,
When Chaos has framed that moment we shared…
Is the stone carved in the actual factual world,
Or is the moment just engraved in my mind…
Of how lovely you looked and how young we were
Back in a happier time
I’ve brought you more flowers and I’ll spend time with you,
Whispering words I know you love to hear—
But it is hard being alone and though tear-filled eyes
I see our picture engraved on your tombstone…
Pendragon
© 2/5/10
The First Signs of Frost
My son art thou to write a face unto
The pillars of a dream forgot? as to her
I say that my forgetful love hath threw
Her ruins and sickled o'er dry tubers.
She hath cleansed the tide and sweet melody
within its sweet tune and time. Never
Shall the tide wash up upon sand's grody
Carcass and sweep the winds morever.
The Tao that can
be told,
has not been
told
the name
e
.
I feel like a kid on Christmas morning! Pendragon, Daniel, just beautiful...
I see our reflection everywhere,
even in the flame red copper.
It prevents people from entering our old abode
but out of it the memories have always flowed.
Nothing could seperate us here, even now in my memory
the wooden cross cant keep us apart.
You still cross over into my arms
as we protect each other from all harms
The vision of us two,
returning to me like the phoenix
from the flames.
The hole in top left corner
reminds me of the void in the life of this mourner.
A Meeting with the Saint
mazhur
sent to stake
burnt alive
your ashes thrown
into the Seine;
you paid your debt
to your conviction
to your religion
your executors failed;
your words:
'If I am not, may God put me there;
and if I am, may God so keep me.'"
God honored;
you live in hearts,
like blood flowing
through the veins;
Saint Joan or
Joan of Arc
physically though
you are no more there
yet I can feel your presence
surreal be it
alongside the wooden fence
like a cross
at the cottage entrance
how blessed I feel
how fortunate
to kiss you
to hug you
to hold you in my arms
the National Heroine of France
the saint of the world,
in my dream!
Thank You, Allbion and mazHur. Your entries are beautiful and touching.
Time's up qimi :p
Ah, my impatient young friend, I have not forgotten or deserted this thread. The contest is now closed. I will return with the results shortly, by which I mean tomorrow, God willing.
It was hard to make a decision on this. Partly that's my fault. I always want everyone to be happy. And these are good, all of them.
So, here goes.
A Meeting With the Saint by mazHur. I also love the passion of St. Joan, mazHur. I like where your leap of inspiration took you. I was especially take by the lines
"I feel your presence alongside the wooden fence like a cross at a cottage entrance..." I can so very clearly see St. Joan as a mass of wild iris.
Albion wrote "you cross over into my arms as we protect each other from all harms..."
I love the protective nature of the poem, the narrator, who is protective of both his (or her) memories and loved one.
Memories of a Moment in Time by Pendragon, a reflection of a life lived lovingly and sorrow for the loss. "...when chaos has framed the moment we shared...' how true is this! Don't we spend our lives trying to keep chaos at bay, carving out a little space and time to live and love?
AlexanderIII wrote of a friendship which was "ripped from me with mortal noncahalance...no man or God can slay ye virture...yet your heart shall outlive us all." The intangible will be what lasts forever.
Memorykeeper is by Dark Muse, and I love how this author followed every detail of memeories eroding from the opening sequence to the grim reminder of the final couplet:
"Every grain of dust sheds another piece of the dead." No one slay you with quiet words quite like Dark Muse.
The House We Played In is by TheDave. What I adore about this poem is the picture he paints of two boys playing through wartime Italy. How poignant the ending when they end up in the ceiling of their beloved Sistine Chapel.
The First Sign of Frost is by Daniel Benoit.The gorgeous imagery of that first line: "My son art thou to write a face unto the pillars of a dream forgot?" Wow.
But the winner is The Comedian with FeO(OH), Fe(OH)3. The line that clinched the deal: "Water's like us; we do what we must." Water, like man, like Shiva, the perfect destroyer.
Thank You all. It was a magnificent feast. Comedian, please chose the next picture for us.