And the word is...

[CdnReader]

.
Vacancy

He gave no acknowledgment
through comportment or expression
of the gathering of those who would judge him
this day.

What thoughts were hidden behind the placid facade
that revealed nothing of his inner torment?
What emotions simmered within,
invisible to concerned eyes,
displacing his self-respect...
unbalancing his self-knowledge...?

For too long, he refused the love offered,
stubbornly brushing it aside....
as though nothing more than an unnecessary intrusion.
For too long, he used the pain and grief
(seemingly endless quantities of pain and grief)
to raise up impenetrable barriers that kept everyone away.

No one noticed that the space inside the walls was growing smaller.
No one understood that he was weary and empty.

His life hadn't prepared him
for a vacant heart.

.
cdn/21jul07
.

[zargon]

Howdy! Greeting fellow poets. Good to be here (feels like home).

Vacancy

Vacancy - What in the world is it?
I thought so hard I nigh had a fit.
Could it be the lands unknown,
into the dark of night thrown,
into the very fibre of mystery sown?
or could it be that which we can't see?
Could this be Vacancy?
Could this be the key?
The idea bounced 'round my mind, like a pin-ball machine,
and a better answer, so far, I have not seen,
I'm mean, lean not to mention keen,
So i followed this train of thought into my mind,
not really sure what I would find.
twas indeed a bad idea,
I found a conflicting thought - my worst fear,
and so my furst notion was torn to shreds,
and i lay them into the trashcan - all thoughts' death beds.
Whats that i hear? What was my thought?
well it dam sure wasn't what i sought.
With emptiness it is close-knit,
in the dictionary it was writ.
Could vacancy be empitness's domain?
Everyone still with me? Still think me sane?
This post shall be my life's bane.
But it kinda makes sense!
Alright - enough with the pretence,
I dont really understand either,
but let our thoughts think as one - come hither,
unravel this oddity we shall,
my head hurts but I shall not fall.
When I go for a leak,
i close the door so no one will peak,
and thats when it became transparent,
if the next cubicle is empty, the lock sign says "Vacant"
so im right!
Victory is ours we have won the fight!!
in sucessfully proving emptyness is vacany, victory we seize!
now...err...where's my prize?

Cheers,
Zargon (known throughout many circles of society as "the human machine!" Kids at school call me "the thing". In darker circles of society I am the infamous, King of bling, At home they call me ray)

[PrinceMyshkin]

.
Vacancy

He gave no acknowledgment
through comportment or expression
of the gathering of those who would judge him
this day.

What thoughts were hidden behind the placid facade
that revealed nothing of his inner torment?
What emotions simmered within,
invisible to concerned eyes,
displacing his self-respect...
unbalancing his self-knowledge...?

For too long, he refused the love offered,
stubbornly brushing it aside....
as though nothing more than an unnecessary intrusion.
For too long, he used the pain and grief
(seemingly endless quantities of pain and grief)
to raise up impenetrable barriers that kept everyone away.

No one noticed that the space inside the walls was growing smaller.
No one understood that he was weary and empty.

His life hadn't prepared him
for a vacant heart.

.
cdn/21jul07
.

Wiw! Those last four lines are so strong!

[Pendragon]

Wow! You've certainly got hold of this form and use it here as if it were the release from shackles rather than any sort of constraint. I love the music in this as much as I do the thoughts.

Thank you.

You are too kind, Jerry. I do appreciate it.

The vacant mind is a spacious room,
high ceilinged, unfurnished,

waiting to be filled,
a field that has yet to be tilled.

The plowmen approach
and a family in need of a home.

The vacant mind is an as yet
unwritten poem.

In your own poem, I am awed at how much you can say with so few words. That last line says it all for the poet, the mind is never really vacant, there is a hdden unwritten poem waiting to be discovered.

Thank you, mon ami.

[ampoule]

Cdn....very nice. I loved that line 'no one noticed that the space inside the walls was growing smaller'.

Zargon....welcome and thanks for joining us.

ANYONE....want to choose the next word???

[zargon]

Oh! Let me have that honour! how about "romance"?

By golly, here i go.

Oh, where are the good old days?
Where are the old romantic ways,
Where are the days young men courted women,
With passionate poem and affectionate hymn,
Where are the days when romance was elegant?
Kisses on hands and roses were frequent?
When poets poured out their hearts with ink on parchment,
And with rose pedals and sweet perfume, to their lovers, sent.
When men laid their jackets, on a rainy day, for their lovers to walk across,
Romance will never be the same - that era of romance has been lost,
It has been buried, in times of old, under earth, trees and moss.
Romance as it once was is now dead,
Those days were not properly appreciated, and they left instead,
The poets left with them, seeing their era gone,
But where there is will there is hope – hence we rhyme on,
So that perhaps one joyous, fateful day,
People will remember the good old poet way.

[ampoule]

Very nice, Zargon.

Good choice.

I'll be back.

Can't wait to read what everyone has to say about....

Romance!

[firefangled]

At the moment the light catches your eyes,
I realize the pretty people here have quieted,
the music recedes into another room.

It could be from an old upright, a black man,
weaving magic from the sleeves of a white jacket.
The fans on the ceiling move in that slow turn

we cannot feel, as if the blades are dancing,
without force, in the rhythm of the night air.
It is the romantic in me that hears the words,

a kiss is just a kiss…a sigh is still a sigh…
though this is not someone else’s story
and this poem merely scribbles in the margins

of the evening. They are still there if you look
on the shutter slats and paneled doors,
where I am looking now…there are no city lights,

only the sound of a single car in the streets
and occasionally this small alleyway. Outside
could be a small urban village in Singapore

or some port market square on the coast of Africa…
and the piano plays Masquerade as you wonder
what I am seeing. I turn and ask you to dance,

the rain is falling on whatever streets are out there,
the story turns in time. I think, why here,
this place with its colonnade and wide stair?

The piano has stopped, only the music of the rain,
the flowers on the table wait patiently for us to go.
We are the only ones dancing, dancing like slow
kisses. Do you know where we are, I whisper?

[Pendragon]

For this I pull out a poem already posted on my blog, but it is my somewhat different idea of romance:

THE LOVERS

Darkness is a lady that dances with Light,
a gentleman, he, proud and noble.
The shapes they create with their intertwining bodies
cause the mind to grow giddy with disbelief.
And the eyes ask themselves if they really saw
the things the mind says simply cannot exist.

No finer dancers in the Universe exist,
weaving a pattern unmatched, Miss Darkness and Mr. Light.
The Earth is their stage, their dance familiar to anyone who ever saw
lovers playing together. It’s beautiful and noble.
Their spinning might cause even a Dervish to disbelieve.
They dance to the music of the heavenly bodies.

Wherever they touch, the joining of their bodies
produces offspring. Thus, Shadows exist,
often mistaken for evil by those who disbelieve,
and feel that Darkness truly has no place with Light.
But their love is undying; their romance something noble.
It’s just that people often don’t understand what they saw.

Lovers more tender, I’m sure you never saw,
their fingers lightly caressing each other’s bodies,
his face all aglow, throwing hers into a noble
silhouette. Without him, Lady Darkness cannot exist,
nor, without her to be near him, can Sir Light.
They could care less about your disbelief.

Misunderstandings are what always lead to disbelief,
the fear of the unknown; doubt in what you just saw.
He leaps into the air, spinning, lightly
tossing Darkness and catching her. His glow reflects from her body:
she eclipses his with a glow science says should not exist.
She smiles down at him, a princess, her noble

eyes reflecting his own nobility.
They merge into each other, causing disbelief,
the eyes unwilling to believe that such wonders exist.
They part again as if divided by a saw,
but there is never a true parting of their bodies,
and the Shadows play at the feet of Darkness and Light

two scions of a noble race that must surely exist
in spite of all your disbelief, are Darkness and Light.
Even now, I feel the touch of their bodies. Can you believe what I just saw?

Dale Harris
© 1997


I think on the blog, it's signed Vic Noir, but it's time I threw away all the pseudonyms anyway... I think this one was published, but I confess I don't remember the magazine...

[Bii]

I bow at your feet Pen - a full sestina, and nicely done.

[firefangled]

two scions of a noble race that must surely exist
in spite of all your disbelief, are Darkness and Light.
Even now, I feel the touch of their bodies. Can you believe what I just saw?

Very imaginative, Pen. I believe!

[ampoule]

Romance

How much better it is to caress your leg with my foot
While reading together on the divan, than it is to
Walk on a thousand cloaks you have spread on puddles.

How much better it is to hold you in my arms
And bury my nose in the wonderful scent of you, than it is to
Hold a dozen long stemmed roses you have sent.

How much better it is to taste your kiss
And dream of all the delicacies it can provide, than it is to
Open a box of the finest chocolates.

Your calling card is your smile
And with a gentle bow
You offer the kerchief of your twinkling eyes,
And I curtsy
And accept.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

[firefangled]

Romance

How much better it is to caress your leg with my foot
While reading together on the divan, than it is to
Walk on a thousand cloaks you have spread on puddles.

How much better it is to hold you in my arms
And bury my nose in the wonderful scent of you, than it is to
Hold a dozen long stemmed roses you have sent.

How much better it is to taste your kiss
And dream of all the delicacies it can provide, than it is to
Open a box of the finest chocolates.

Your calling card is your smile
And with a gentle bow
You offer the kerchief of your twinkling eyes,
And I curtsy
And accept.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

Sometimes fancy is good, but this is true romance and the best kind. Very well put. Who even knows how to curtsy or bow or when to do it these days. Ah, A. the man who will be yours should know he is a very lucky man, whether it is the Vinegar Man or Mr. Tanner or the mysterious Mr. "You".

[firefangled]

There was the boat of breath,
that lifted you, a brackish heat,
ashen clouds, the child in you
(who may have whispered something),

the curious weight of air…

you felt excitement in the storm,
the hair drawn up by nothing apparently,
but the passing of your life as it had been.

A wake from a phantom boat,
imagine, as real as a pulse or touch,
the wet disorder a tongue makes…

the mysteries we make for ourselves.

You should have known,
by the lightning with no sound,
the sky that pulled you under.

You could have gathered yourself
into the fire, into some strength you found,
into the screams you swallowed,
and rolled past like thunder.



There is Romance, then there is what we thought was romance.

[Pendragon]

"the mysteries we make for ourselves"

Romance in a single line, Fire!

Pen