And the word is...

[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.

[symphony]

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

@ ampoule and PrinceMyshkin: great poems

[PrinceMyshkin]

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.

[ampoule]

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

[ampoule]

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.

[symphony]

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

[Pendragon]

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

[ampoule]

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'.

[stephofthenight]

ok, i was thinking tranquility....

hope thats ok.

steph

[ampoule]

ok, i was thinking tranquility....

hope thats ok.

steph

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.

[Il Penseroso]

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.

[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.

[ampoule]

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.

[ampoule]

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.

[PrinceMyshkin]

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)