And the word is...

[ampoule]

And the word was....
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the word was.......

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anchovy?

No silly, the new word hasn't been chosen yet. I was waiting for a few more people to tell us about laconic!

[firefangled]

I am becoming dreams;
they stay open for me to enter,
to walk through the old doors left behind,
heavy with fear and moving shadow,
walking without going across the room.
So much happens in the small spaces
of yellow light, knees aching, head bent,
to see what can’t be seen.

[firefangled]

He lives at a somewhat
acute angle
the one who’s known as “firefangle.”
And his poems never ever dangle
--that very sure-footed firefangle.
But seek him not! He won’t be caught!
And in his usual noble guise
He’ll be here when he has wrought
Something worthy of our eyes.

Oh but I must dangle. I was written that way by Mr. Stevens.

The bird's firefangled feathers dangle down.

Thank you, Prince, for the portrait.

[firefangled]

One Look in a Grand of Words

A portion of our timeless past
takes a mile in written words
to piece a thought that fails to last
in lieu of what we've seen and heard,

Our greatest senses 2 of 5
Record by ear and witness live,
a tape of history's adverse glory,
far more profound than transcribed story--

For all in all a manuscript's
lines on lines will not depict
a starving youth of weak encumber
whose soul takes flight as his being slumbers.

I agree with Prince on this. I am, however, sorry to hear you say you trashed your old poems. You probably had some unpolished gems among all those thoughts and words. But then there is something to be said for new beginnings if that is how you felt.

This one is one of your best though.

[firefangled]

If you care to do so, you may sing this to the tune of Fernando's Hideaway.

I..get tense..when you get terse
It makes..me wince..and I feel worse
When you're..concise..it's like a vise
That grips me by my little heart.

In my haste to make up for lost time, I guess I missed that the new word is Laconic. Back to the drawing board.

[firefangled]

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.

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.

[PrinceMyshkin]

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.

[ampoule]

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

[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

[PrinceMyshkin]

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!

[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.

[ampoule]

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

[ampoule]

“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?

[PrinceMyshkin]

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!

[PrinceMyshkin]

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?