are we still on the same word?
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are we still on the same word?
Ooo, not necessarily. Do you have something in mind? :D Go for it! If not, anyone else?Quote:
Originally Posted by motherhubbard
I'm so glad you've joined us here mother. I hope others will too.
Okay. I'll pick then. Hmmm...let's see. Well, school started here today. Let's write about the word ...
TEACH!!or any derivative thereof.
Like bees on giant flowers, yellow buses
flit and weave over the quilted farmlands
and the hubs of clustered suburbs, gathering
and leaving children - pollen diverse and wild.
Summer now gone, the poison ivy reddens;
the day breathes in stops and starts, leaves
and captive cicadas, the pensive rattle and sigh,
in excruciating harmony before their brief flights.
The portentous moon rises like a holy crust
on the tongue of evening, and lays the long beam
across the water and the loon, and breaks
over the red dogwoods. Here, night will lie.
Soon, we gut and slice the pumpkin for a light,
and with cruel fingers rip the husk of peas
and beans for the rustless green, the new
(notice how like dew their moisture lingers).
While we sleep, a Beachwood falls silently;
children dream of flying, invisible in blue;
the pole beans bloom for the bees alone;
and the loon's song echoes until morning.
I love all of this but I just can't get past those little yellow school busses as bees on flowers and the quilted farmland. That is so precious.
I can't believe how well you have captured this season. (But of course, I CAN believe it because you've done it so many times before but I still can't believe it. ;) )
I think I may have poeted this somewhere before, Amp, but it so fits the aspect of "learn" from "teach" that I must post it again:
Carpe Diem
He wakes me up before the alarm clock rings,
And I rub my eyes and groan and grumble;
But he shouts, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”
He goes downstairs, and starts to sing,
While, wondering if I actually got any sleep for my cloths I fumble.
He wakes me up before the alarm clock rings!
He plays cat’s cradle with a piece of string—
While I have my coffee—black and strong! A double!
But he shouts, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”
He’s off again, like a new fledged bird on wings!
I rub my eyes, and stretch, yawn and stumble.
He wakes me up before the alarm clock rings!
Sighing inside, I try my best to keep up with his youthful springs,
Mouth ever ready to shout: “Keep out of trouble!”
But he shouts, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”
Ah, wretched time! What a curse the passing years bring!
Now my son is the one watching a little son blow bubbles.
But I remember how He woke me up before the alarm clock rang!
And shouted, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”
© 1996 D. L. Harris
By the by, I have no grandchildren, yet, thank the Good Lord, but I have two sons who dwarf their old dad, and a beautiful daughter whose boyfriend does the same!
Pen
Carpe ME!! You have seized me with this poem Pen. I love it. You have really captured that little boy exuberance. So.....come on.....let's do something!! ;)
Pen, again and again you amaze me with your dexterity with this form. You also always manage to tell some moving or delightful story as you spin these out. This is such a joyful poem. Thanks.Quote:
Originally Posted by Pendragon
Thank you, Amp and Fire. I love the form poetry, as it makes me think. I never let the form rule me, but still I like to use the form. This forum is loaded with my sonnets, for birthdays, in the Another Creative Thread in games, aka, the Obits, and here and there. I do reversibles which were the first form contest, Pantoums, Sestinas, but perhaps Villainelle is my bread and butter. Again, thank you. Coming from two winning poets it's high praise!
Pen
http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1.../PuppyLove.gif
John Crowe Ransom (I think) once said (I am paraphrasing) that poetic forms should be used the way fishermen use specific nets to catch specific fish.Quote:
Originally Posted by Pendragon
Hand In Hand
Time is of the
Essence when telling
About all you know and
Care about, passing with your
Heart to those who hunger and thirst,
Lessons that are steeped in living
Each question as it comes, to
Ask for the seed it holds,
Require the truth and
Never give up.
amp, August Nineteenth, TwoThousandSeven
Poppy's Dry Run Creek would have fit very well here. Perhaps he would like to choose a new word for us to write about???
This was real quick, but I wanted to get one in.
Through labor I sway, my head tilted back and my knees bent.
After the work I sway, to comfort my baby and to ease my own soreness.
With a gentle back and forth motion I sway as the baby fills his tummy.
And when he is done I sway still, as he smiles spilling my milk from his mouth
The moves are old, as old as time
Through the rhythm of that motion knowledge is passed on and on
From a mother’s arms to the secret mind of her child
Words what were said or hummed or not even uttered aloud.
Tears are rocked away, bread is kneaded,
history is written, and stories are told
All to the rhythm of generations
culminated in my own dance, and passed along to you.
I really love this one, Mother. :)
mother, sometimes the best poems are those of which wernt completly thought out, they where just written from thoughts, and emotions...I realy like it
thanks guys- I just love having babies
Much better you than me....no work for me, just loving and spoiling!! I love my new job!! It's a very beautiful and moving poem, MH. I know exactly what you mean.Quote:
Originally Posted by motherhubbard
I would think the word PATIENCE would be appropriate to TEACH then.
Full steam ahead, he yells.
Have patience old pal we don't
want to run out of coal
before the passengers
have boarded.
All right everyone. Let's hear it for
PATIENCE
Thank you Poppy.
To hell with waiting any longer. I was an adult. I didn't have to wait. Children had to wait: sit here, sit there, keep still, we'll see, maybe on your next birthday, ask me one more time and... And old people had to wait, thanklessly, for release, for permission to leave. At either end of our lives, we spent hours and days, months, waiting. And in the middle, too. Prisoners had to wait, having refused at some time in the past to wait for what our society would have had them believe would be theirs, would belong to all of us, tomorrow: tomorrow being the time that adults invented to keep kids quiet, and the rich and powerful to keep the poor in line. And those who had given their hearts too easily in love, who had tried to buy love with the thin, perpetually diminishing coin of their patient hopefulness. All those and others had to wait, but not me; not any longer. Humanity was one long, endless waiting line that went in a spiral around and around the world. The line wavered in places and there were gaps in it here and there where some of the waiters had given up and others had not yet closed the ranks, but for the most part the line was docile and remarkably well-behaved. Everyone was waiting, as they had been trained since birth to do.
WELL! I can't compete with that!!! :flare:
(This is PERFECT, PM. Loved it!)
Jerry, I think I'll step outside of those velvet ropes and leave my spot in the queue and JUST DO SOMETHING
A beautifully written piece on a not so beautiful subject Prince. It stirs me up. Thank you.
Waiting Without Complaining
My face, against the spindles of your crib,
is marked with my vigilant watch
of your tiny sleeping and those precious
eyelids that I want to kiss awake.
But I must wait without complaining
for you to finish your sweet baby dreams
and wake up hungry enough to satisfy
my fullness.
My face, pressed against a window now,
the panes marking my vigilant watch
for my love's headlights turning onto
our rainy street, your footsteps at the door.
But I must wait without complaining
for you to safely sit down at my table,
to reach for my hands, to look in my eyes
full of relief.
My face, marked by a cold and aching arm rest,
looks into the face of a large numbered clock
wondering if it is time to begin the wake for
the removal of my closest friend's identity.
But I must wait without complaining
for the angels of mercy to set her about
for garden walks and Earl Grey and lemon bread
with me.
My face, false strength holding a quivering chin,
searches my father's every detail, making note
of his voice and words, tracing his brow while
knowing he longs for a peaceful forever rest.
But I must wait without complaining
for each day, each hour, each minute, each second,
that his river veined hands might reach up and
brush my cheek.
Patience, I will gladly wait with you.
How lovely, Ampoule!
Thank you Prince. Two such different perspectives on patience. I know I have felt yours and I'm pretty sure you have felt mine. :blush: Now what were we talking about here? ;)Quote:
Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin
If it was Patience, I think you guys covered it to the max! Salutations to all!
http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l1...und_bows_2.gif
Pen, give them a new word....Poppy is up and ready to have a go.
Unless Pen comes back with a word, why don't we continue with virtues. Howz about CHARITY?
Charity doesn’t have to cost anything,
well, not in the fiscal sense.
It can be just giving of time, efforts
and especially love.
Old man Dawson was a sage’s sage,
a man’s man if you will.
He lived in the green house next door
real close to my bedroom wall.
I first met him when he moved back North,
he was the new teacher in the sixth.
He was fairly aged at the time but didn’t
look his years.
I was in his class, on his teams and sometime
the target of his swats.
This was the year that JFK died, and when
teachers could still teach.
Besides his love of teaching, his passion was
the great outdoors.
I suspect at some point like self examination
he thought I should learn its ways.
There were endless trips to wood and stream,
coon, squirrel and perch.
In early morning we ran his hounds, the blue tick
and the redbone.
The bounty that we brought back home was never
gone to waste.
The nature meat was turned over to the lady of
the house.
His missus was such a lovely soul, God fearing but
always frail.
But cooking was her forte; well you could tell
just by the smells.
Both are long gone, both buried together
somewere I presume.
As I think back on them, remembering kind souls,
I wish I had thanked him more.
Giving of his time, his knowledge and his
friendship are the things I received.
So its payback time, its my turn to pass on
what this mentor shared with me.
~Poppy
What a wonderful tribute! I can hear the hounds barking and smell the vittles!
You are such a wonderful storyteller, Poppy. I'm so glad you've come here to share your stories with all of us. Thank you!! :)
If I Have Not Charity…
It was a white frame house with a green tin roof,
Down on the corner near the river and the railroad.
When the winter snows would come it would get so cold,
I’ve seen ice freeze on the walls inside…
To call us poor was probably flattery,
Momma raising three kids by herself in the 60’s,
When a woman on her own like that could get a bad name.
But you know my momma bore up under anything…
She taught me never to be ashamed of who I was,
To mind my manners, and respect other folks—
How to give an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.
She taught me how that color doesn’t define anyone,
And that even faith has to come from somewhere within,
And if I had anything at all to share—that was charity.
Dad had pulled two tours of duty over in Vietnam.
Came back—he just never came back home.
Never sent a dime of support for his family,
But we always got by, somehow, someway, anyway—
Always appreciated all those hand-me-down clothes,
The milk and the eggs from the man who owned the farm.
We never really found out who had two loads of wood delivered,
And The Elder beside us sent us things from his garden.
And I can recall so many, many a time—
All of us kids on the block out in our backyard.
We didn’t have a lot, but we picnicked on kool-aid and bologna sandwiches.
Momma believed you gotta take Charity and give it right back…
Pendragon
© 8/23/07
Pen, My, My. With your permission I have archived this to read again and again. I was partial to grape kool aid and I liked my bologna fried. If it was fried then you could keep it with you longer without spoiling. Or so we thought.
This is such a great tribute to your childhood and your Mother.
~Poppy
Wonderful, wonderful Pen. I am thankful that YOU are charitable with your memories.
Oooo, I LOVE fried bologna! I'd like to have some right now but I'm trying not to eat stuff like that.
Grape kool aid, unsweetened makes great playdough.
Here's another trick. IMAGINE a packet of unsweetened grape kool aid. Pretend to tear off the corner. Now pretend to pour a little in the palm of your hand. Now touch it with your tongue. Does your mouth water or what? It's a great trick for singers.
Permission doesn't have to be sought, Poppy. If I write something you like, read it as often as you like. I always liked mine fried too, and now, that's the only way I'll eat the stuff. I lived 10 years in that house, 1965-1975. Oddly, that empty lot still defines my home and memories, although the apartment complex still is there, now redone into a nicer place, I have little memory of it. It was never home...Quote:
Originally Posted by Poppy
Pen
Pen, I loved "If I Have Not Charity...." Just beautiful. Thank you.
* * * * *
if only
if only life were so simple
that all of our needs could be filled
without expectancy
without impatience
without injustice
without anger
if only life were so simple
that all of our dreams could be realized
without exception
without impunity
without greed
without help
if only life were so simple
that we would all give
just give
if only
.
cdn/24aug07
.
Beautiful, darling friend, but... is it life that is other than simple - or our hearts? our yearning, craving but fearful hearts?Quote:
Originally Posted by CdnReader
Thank you, Jerry. In the context of this poem (and the topic of "charity"), I do mean life itself, as a whole....but certainly "heart" could easily be substituted....or even subsumed.... :)
Charitable Contribution
I am your charity and I stand
eager and ready for your inspection,
to see if I am worthy of your philanthropy.
There have been taxing times, yes,
but search the records and you will see,
how much you filled my internal needs.
I can provide you with an itemized list,
if you wish,
Joy for a lagging heart
Energy for a nagging life
Fullness for a sagging flesh
and all because you gave so freely.
But there is one little glitch in all of this,
Your exemption,
for surely others will see your profit
Through me.
amp, August TwentyFourth TwoThousandSeven