Everyone is a poet. They might not know it...
Words are the all seeds you need. Plant one, for a poem, and grow it for a time... give it water and let it feed...no need to worry 'bout rhyme... and when it is it tall and it is flowering... here is a corner to show it... where it can speak or shout or sing.

Come on guys, do your thing.


Well, I hope that improvisation served to break the ice.

Chris has agree to help us out with this tread and I am looking forward to much fun.

So... poetry needed

No sagas, no epics, however. Sonnets, limericks, haiku, free verse, prose poems, epitaphs... are hereby solicited.

And no poem is too short, friends. For instance:

Lines Upon Milk Spilled On the Floor

He wept.
She swept.

Nor is any poem too silly, I hasten to add (ever try sweeping milk?).

I prayed the prayer of Jabez
'Twas the fash'n'ble thing to do.
Look where fashion led me,
It brought me here to you.

(This is the first verse of a poem I'd written in February. I'd be interested to see if anyone could come up with a few more lines. I have two more verses--somewhere. I'll share them if and when I can find them (the first I'd committed to memory, so it was easy to share.))

Sweep some milk, or herd a cat
Or something difficult like that
Such tasks will ease a troubled mind
And help escape a mental bind
Or at least keep one from getting fat

Alas those lines just barely scan
They flout poetical convention
I hope, in your kindness, that you can
Forgive this simple flawed invention

Blast convention!
We need invention
to ease our boredom with all
that lacks progressive intention-

like shopping at the mall-
like cringing at fashion's call
so that no possibility of retention
is, but dispersal in the halls

of commerce, - stifling the mother of invention.

Frank Zappa and the Mothers
Were at the best place around
But some stupid with a flare gun
Burned the place to the ground

(not original)

For fun, I sometimes like to take another poet's creation and alter it to suit my own taste.
Take for example, e.e. cummings poem:

l(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness


A twist and a turn, I give you:

g(an

ap
ple
fa
ll

s)
rav
i

ty

[quote=chris[ti(a)n](e)]I prayed the prayer of Jabez
'Twas the fash'n'ble thing to do.
Look where fashion led me,
It brought me here to you.

But where'twill lead I cannot tell
I can but hope and pray
T'will benefit us both until
We meet again some day

I'm sorry...I couldn't make head or tail out of this one...............

No problem, Don! Some poems aren't for everyone. I liked your second verse to my first! I couldn't find the original one I'd writte a while back, but here's the added verses I'd written last night:

I prayed the prayer of Jabez
'Twas the fash'n'ble thing to do.
Look where fashion led me,
It brought me here to you.

"Braoaden my horizons, Lord,"
I pled, "and make me new."
(Afear'd I'd grown too comf'rt'ble,
Afear'd my time was through.)

"God, muddy up and salve me,
Refresh, recleanse, renew."
When prayed, the prayer of Jabez
Draws others near to You.

Very good....

Chris, it is lovely! I'm glad to know someone else who reads e.e.cummings!

Don: here's a hint: around the parentheses is the topic word, within the parenthesis is a discription.

1st verse:
"l- (a leaf falls) -oneliness"

I leaf you the fun of deciphering the second :-)

I hope and pray
You do not think
That rhyming comes with ease
Nor words roll off the tongue intact
Like leaves from off the trees.
Sometimes one has to sit and think
When ne'er a thought arises
When suddenly the light comes on
And brings with it surprises.
So if you have the gift of rhyme
It's always good to share
It might not ever make you rich
Or take you anywhere.
So now this ditty soon will end
And I can hardly wait
To see if there is more besides
I've nothing more to state.

That was tons of fun to read; I'll bet it was even more fun to write! Weeeee-eeee!

Getting fat!! getting fat?!
From reading all of that???
Tis not flawed invention that we need
Tis creativity
Of words with great flare
concepts that lay bare
juxapositions we must swear
That motivates us to share
our lives spent, used up and declare
among those who are unaware....

Beware!
Creativity is catching
finding words scratching
and finally matching...
words and concepts galore.
For some, it is a bore
and others...adore.....

A poem made famous by John Wayne:

America, Why I Love Her
Written by John Mitchum

You ask me why I love her? Well, give me time, and I'll explain...
Have you seen a Kansas sunset or an Arizona rain?
Have you drifted on a bayou down Louisiana way?
Have you watched the cold fog drifting over San Francisco Bay?


Have you heard a Bobwhite calling in the Carolina pines?
Or heard the bellow of a diesel in the Appalachia mines?
Does the call of Niagara thrill you when you hear her waters roar?
Do you look with awe and wonder at a Massachusetts shore...
Where men who braved a hard new world, first stepped on Plymouth Rock?
And do you think of them when you stroll along a New York City dock ?


Have you seen a snowflake drifting in the Rockies...way up high?
Have you seen the sun come blazing down from a bright Nevada sky?
Do you hail to the Columbia as she rushes to the sea...
Or bow your head at Gettysburg...in our struggle to be free?


Have you seen the mighty Tetons? ...Have you watched an eagle soar?
Have you seen the Mississippi roll along Missouri's shore?
Have you felt a chill at Michigan, when on a winters day,
Her waters rage along the shore in a thunderous display?
Does the word "Aloha"... make you warm?
Do you stare in disbelief When you see the surf come roaring in at Waimea reef?


From Alaska's gold to the Everglades...from the Rio Grande to Maine...
My heart cries out... my pulse runs fast at the might of her domain.
You ask me why I love her?... I've a million reasons why.
My beautiful America... beneath Gods' wide, wide sky.

A good poem for the fourth!

Why does it read so well? Does it have any regular meter? Many lines seem to have eight feet and some i'm not sure of.

The meter on a whole is pretty good in this poem. I do see where the line about Aloha should have been combined with the next one so that both lines would end with the "ief" sound. "Does the word "Aloha"... make you warm? Do you stare in disbelief? When you see the surf come roaring in at Waimea reef?" I am a stickler for meter being just right...It drives me nuts..........

I simply cut and paste, may have been a problem with the website I was using.

As for meter...it appears to be an even 15..sometimes broken in 7/8 or 8/7. Regardless. It works. And maybe it works simply because it is about the beauty of God's creation--nothing more and nothing less.

Yes, I agree, it does work.

I was reading Canterbury Tales last night. They seem to be in 'iambic pentameter;' and in Nevill Coghills translation seem to float along easily when read at a good pace. Here's a sample from the prologue.

"A holy-minded man of good renown
There was, and poor, the Parson to a town,
Yet he was rich in holy thought and work.
He also was a learned man, a clerk,
Who truly knew Christ's gospel and would preach it
Devoutly to parishioner, and teach it.
.................
Holy and virtuous he was, but then
Never contemptuous of sinful men,
Never disdainful, never too proud or fine,
But was discreet in teaching and benign.
His business was to show a fair behaviour
And draw men thus to Heaven and their Saviour,

I must protest
I don't agree
The meter's not
Just right
For me.
To just throw in
An extra word
Upsets the flow
Of what I heard.
Write if you wish
In verse that's free
But don't expect me
to agree.

Saith the man,
Most humbly.

To be completely honest, most poetry that rhymes bores me. e.e. cummings is the most enjoyable read IMO. Rhyming poems remind me of elementary school music class: clapping, swaying and stomping one's feet. I like a poem that makes one think, that moves one's soul, that makes one chuckle...

Canterbury Tales is wonderful! In high school we were required to memorize the first lines of it. I'll never forget:

1: Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
2: The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,
3: And bathed every veyne in swich licour
4: Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
5: Whan zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
6: Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
7: Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
8: Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne,
9: And smale foweles maken melodye,
10: That slepen al the nyght with open ye
11: (so priketh hem nature in hir corages);
12: Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
13: And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
14: To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
15: And specially from every shires ende
16: Of engelond to caunterbury they wende,
17: The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
18: That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

e.e.cummings is good for moving the soul and making one think. His poetry is evocative of tenderness, sometimes hilarious.

who knows if the moon's
a balloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky-filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should

get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
why then
we'd go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody's ever visited,where

always
........it's
................Spring)and everyone's
in love and flowers pick themselves

[quote=chris[ti(a)n](e)]Saith the man

"To be completely honest, most poetry that rhymes bores me. "

Sorry that you don't like "my kind of "poetry" (?) which rhymes.
What I see of e.e. cummings turns me off. Give me Ogden Nash any day.

Ogden Nash? Give me don/aldridge any day, the meter's better.

Tis my humble opinion
that anyone with this diminion
who can cleverely compose
a polyphonic prose
is a much better versifier
among english authors and writers.
They don't have to be famous
to perform the writ of mandamus.
Just a bit of research, you see...
and a knak for clever-ity,
Is all that I require
in a poet that I would admire.

Prose poems fascinate me, Neil. This is by one of my favorite poets:

Watermelons

Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.

by Charles Simic

Here is a prose poem I wrote about 1965. Believe it or not it was published in a monthly sheet at the University at Austin, Texas and they paid me one dollar. :-| That was the end of my career as a poet. :-)

CREDO

as necessary
or un-
the soaring bird
silent
tall trees naked or
clothed
streams that are traveling
traveling
or any large rock
which
waits
in the
desert

LOL, your career as a poet sounds like my career as an author! One published work, a couple of acclaimed works--but not much more!

I love it, by the way--your poem!

Thanks, Cris. I did manage to get rejection slips from The New Yorker and from Harper's Magazine. Should have kept them and framed them. Oh, well, guess I could always get more. :-)

Observations on a Sabbath School Class
(dedicated to those whispering in the back row)

Listen you biddies
Bestow the yak yak
Lest deacons invite you
To go farther back.

The rumble's disturbing
The rest of the class
As glances go backward
Hoping 'twill pass.

You notice I'm quiet
My hands in my lap
No noise am I making
As I take my nap.....

Hey deacon! Hey preacher!
Hey sabbath school teacher!
Come closer and bend us your ear.

Should we raise our hands higher?
You preach to the choir!
We know the end's already near.

Observations On Christian Education

Christian Education costs, they say
And some contend it doesn't pay
Can we a price put on a soul
As we continue toward our goal? For what we like we don't think twice
For quality we pay the price.

We house and clothe and feed our youth
Care for their needs, teach them the truth
We tell them stories, entertain
We must not let their interest wane.
But do we do all that we could
For their salvation as we should?

The home, the school, the church all do
A vital part to help us too.
Like a triangle,each a side
We cannot leave one open wide
For Satan's crew in dead of night
To change the signs from wrong to right.

As parents we must use each tool
To demonstrate the 'Golden Rule'
And why we're here,for what great plan
Our Heavenly Father created man.

"We can't afford our schools", some say
And think they've found a 'better' way.
So to the Public Schools they Send
Their kids----"It's cheaper in the end".

We can't afford to lend our youth
To those who have no love for Truth
Who train them just for now and here
Ignoring all that WE hold dear
That Christ is coming, soon we know
And to His Kingdom WE will go.

And so, my friends, what will it be?
Invest in Youth for eternity
For us the Father gave His son
Will He accept what We have done?

SILLY POEM FOR COMPACT-CARRYING GENDERS

When the mind goes blank
in the mid-afternoon
and your hair is a hank -
just a floppy cartoon

of it's usual fluff
and your posh is all poof
take your powder and puff
and you'll feel less uncouth

when you've smoothed off the shine -
you will have peace of mind.

You need two more lines

when you've smoothed off the shine
you will glow like the moon -
you will have peace of mind -

(in its frowsy cocoon.)


How about that, don? The last line should be spoken quietly and slowly. would it be too much to write it:

(in its froooowsy .... cocoooooooon)

?

A bit of inspiration on chris's poem...appologies to Chris for the taking apart and rearranging it...

Hey deacon! Hey preacher!
Hey sabbath school teacher!
Come closer move together
and bend us your ear.

Should we raise our hands higher and higher
That will inspire men to an ecclesiastical desire
that will be, in the hearts of men, absolutely heard...
to say something profound and say something absurd?

As a minister and a grocer, you preach to the choir!
You hawk your wears, you search for a buyer.
"It's the end! It's the end!" We know the end's already near.
But you clothe the message as the best marketeer.
It's not the end, that we need, that will draw us closer.
It's the Christ and that's a whole different grocer...

The Christ is large enough for any congregation
and specializes in the most tiny mutation.
To grow many a variety of species, that may
Tell of His love in a varied way.

Whose primary purpose is surgical you see,
A new purpose, a new life, a new generousity.
Christ's love is as varied as any grower,
and it is in the heart, man what a sower!

It's springs to life and produces much fruit
and we find it is far more astute
than anything found in sabbath school classroom
whose academics are kinda in costume..

dress up stuff up,...man, I am repeating myself
and so, I must, this poem, place on the shelf.

Apologies not needed! Bravo, Neil! **Woot!!**

I actually had a couple more lines to add to it, myself. I wrote them down in haste on the airplane and seem to have misplaced them. If I perchance across them, I'll share.

I love that you've taken mine and gone where inspiration leads!

Apropos for the times,
From Babes in Arms, "Johnny One Note"

Johnny could only sing one note
And the note he sings was this
Ah!

Poor Johnny one-note
sang out with "gusto"
And just overlorded the place
Poor Johnny one-note
yelled willy nilly
Until he was bleu in the face
For holding one note was his ace

Couldn’t hear the brass
Couldn’t hear the drum
He was in a class
By himself, by gum!

Poor Johnny one-note
Got in Aida
Indeed a great chance to be brave
He took his one note
Howled like the North Wind
Brought forth wind that made critics rave,
While Verdi turned round in his grave!

Couldn’t hear the flute
Or the big trombone
Ev’ry one was mute
Johnny stood alone.

Cats and dogs stopped yapping
Lions in the zoo
All were jealous of Johnny's big trill
Thunder claps stopped clapping,
Traffic ceased its roar,
And they tell us Niag’ra stood still.
He stopped the train whistles,
Boat whistles,
steam whistles,
Cop whistles,
all whistles bowed to his skill

Sing Johnny One-Note,
Sing out with "gusto" and
Just overwhelm all the crowd
Ah!
So sing Johnny One-Note, out loud!!
Sing Johnny One-Note
Sing Johnny One-Note out loud!

In View of the Fact
by A. R. Ammons


The people of my time are passing away: my
wife is baking for a funeral, a 60-year-old who

died suddenly, when the phone rings, and it's
Ruth we care so much about in intensive care:

it was once weddings that came so thick and
fast, and then, first babies, such a hullabaloo:

now, it's this that and the other and somebody
else gone or on the brink: well, we never

thought we would live forever (although we did)
and now it looks like we won't: some of us

are losing a leg to diabetes, some don't know
what they went downstairs for, some know that

a hired watchful person is around, some like
to touch the cane tip into something steady,

so nice: we have already lost so many,
brushed the loss of ourselves ourselves: our

address books for so long a slow scramble now
are palimpsests, scribbles and scratches: our

index cards for Christmases, birthdays,
Halloweens drop clean away into sympathies:

at the same time we are getting used to so
many leaving, we are hanging on with a grip

to the ones left: we are not giving up on the
congestive heart failure or brain tumors, on

the nice old men left in empty houses or on
the widows who decide to travel a lot: we

think the sun may shine someday when we'll
drink wine together and think of what used to

be: until we die we will remember every
single thing, recall every word, love every

loss: then we will, as we must, leave it to
others to love, love that can grow brighter

and deeper till the very end, gaining strength
and getting more precious all the way. . . .

from - http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16971

Absence makes the heart grow fonder
And now I have an urge to wonder.

But I'll return to you some day
Be good - don't fight too much. OK?

Wonder, if you must; wander if you may.
As the old, dear sweet book says,
"We'll meet again someday."

will be back next week, ciao

Charles Simic, a writer who juxtaposes dark imagery with ironic humor, is to be named the country’s 15th poet laureate by the Librarian of Congress today.
He was born in Belgrade and came to the U.S. at the age of 16.
He began writing poetry, he says, to impress girls!
The New York Times has an
ARTICLE about him by Motoko Rich.

A stanza from one of his poems:

"A dog trying to write a poem on why he barks,

That’s me, dear reader!

They were about to kick me out of the library

But I warned them,

My master is invisible and all-powerful.

Still, they kept dragging me out by my tail"

Two Poems for August

There is a story about a poet who was asked to talk about what his poem meant "in ordinary terms". He replied that if he had been able to express it in ordinary terms, he wouldn't have written the poem. Children are often very open to poetic language, and there are many poems that children enjoy hearing over and over. Poems open imaginations. If your read-aloud times haven't included some poems, you could check the library for some good anthologies for children.
Here are two for you to enjoy:

August
The opposing
of peach and sugar,
and the sun inside the afternoon
like the stone in the fruit.

The ear of corn keeps
its laughter intact, yellow and firm.

August
The children eat
brown bread and delicious moon.
- Federico Garcia Lorca

The next short poem describes perfectly the approach to the natural world that so many children instinctively practice:

Step out onto the Planet
Draw a circle a hundred feet round.

Inside the circle are
100 things nobody understands, and, maybe
nobody's ever really seen.

How many can you find?
- Lew Welch


- Donice Wooster in Family Matters, a blog at http://www.fcchurch.com

My two favorite poem books when I was little were "A Child's Garden of Verses" by Rob't L. Stevenson, and a book called "If Jesus Came to Your House."

I like beauty in poetry, not deep thinking (I can't think deep).

Welcome to the club, Dottie; I can't think deeply either. Well maybe if I were in a coal mine, or a submarine.

I

A Gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine,
Y cladd in mightie armes and siluer shielde,
Wherein old dints of deepe wounds did remaine,
The cruell markes of many a bloody fielde;
Yet armes till that time did he neuer wield:
His angry steede did chide his foming bitt,
As much disdayning to the curbe to yield:
Full iolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt,
As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters fitt.

2

But on his brest a bloudie Crosse he bore,
The deare remembrance of his dying Lord,
For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore,
And dead as liuing euer him ador'd:
Upon his shield the like was also scor'd,
For soueraine hope, which in his helpe he had:
Right faithfull true he was in deede and word,
But of his cheere he did seeme too solemne sad,
Yet nothing did he dread, but euer was ydrad.

Canto I, The Faerie Queene, Edmund Spenser

For Dottie:

The Snail

By Gladys Sims Stump

A snail is such a funny thing.
I saw one just this morning.
He was walking past my house.
Last night it had been storming.

I watched him go along the path.
He had a slow, slow pace.
With a house on his back-- he
Wouldn't be expected to run a race.

A home like a snail, no, no, no.
I wouldn't like it, you see.
The load would be heavy,
But-- worse than that--
No one could live in the house with me.

'ydrad' - a nice word. of the same ilk as 'yclept'



The Gentle Knight, at first sight, seems to embody some contradictions. He feared nothing, but rather himself was dreaded (although 'gentle'). He is 'Full jolly' yet 'too solemne sad.'

I think I see some influence of c.c. cummings maybe there.

Thanks very much for that, D. Allen. It's the longest rhymed epic in the English language and well worth reading.

Yes, and just as important, though less obvious, Robinson Jeffers and Walt Whitman were influences at that time. But who could ever hope to rival those three? It is just fun (and some times unavoidable) to let one's own soul speak in poetry or any other medium, - music, painting, horticulture, etc.

I Looked At Calvary, a Song


(1) I look'd at Calvary,
And what did I see?
I saw my bless'd Savior
Dying there for me! *

O wonderful Jesus,
This I do know:
Nothing have I done
For you to love me so.*

(2) I look up to heav'n,
And what do I see?
I see my sinless High Priest
Standing up for Me! *

O wonderful Jesus,
This I do know:
Nothing have I done
For you to treat me so.*

(3) I'll look into the sky,
And what will I see?
I'll see my righteous King
Come to rescue me!*

O wonderful Jesus,
This I do know:
Nothing have I done
For you to want me so.*

* Repeat last line of each stanza.

I also like Robison Jeffers and Whitman very much. Jeffers is considered terribly depressing by most poetry-lovers because of his philosophy and the themes of his poems. For that reason, his poetry is not often found in the poetry anthologies. He's thought of as nihilistic, somewhat similar to Nietzsche. That is interesting because both men's fathers were Christian pastors. (Nietzsche was known as "the little pastor" when he was young and was constantly reading the Bible. He ended up hating God and, if his sister is to be believed, deliberately set out to compete against Jesus Christ. He wrote the famous sentence, often misunderstood, "God is dead," as well as the little book, "Antichrist," all of which had an influence on Jeffers.)

It has been a long time since I read Jeffers. I opened the 'Selected Poems' today and found this:

To the Stone-cutters

"Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly;
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun
Die blind and blacken to the heart:
Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained thoughts found
The honey of peace in old poems."

I never found Jeffers to be depressing. He found peace in 'old poems.' I don't know what old poems he had in mind but I found my peace in the old poems of David, his Psalms, esp. #21. So his father was a pastor! that's interesting.

"I Looked at Calvary"

Nice. Did you write it? Have you music, too?

Thanks, I'm glad you like it. I wrote it at the SDA church during an afternoon break in my colporteuring in Bremerton, Washington. My wife composed the music to it, but it isn't written.

I know Marvin Ponder, a recording artist and pastor at the Loma Linda University Church, and am planning on sharing it with him and seeing if he wants to use it.

In the meantime, if you send me a mailing address by PM, I'll send you a tape of me singing it so at least you will know how the music goes.

Compare the line, "For man will be blotted out... the brave sun die blind," (typical Jeffers) with two of our other great writers, Hemingway and Faulkner, contemporaries of Jeffers. Hemingway wrote of "the sun also ris[ing]" and of the earth remaining forever, and both Hemingway's and Faulkner's works were illustrations of their confidence that "man shall endure."

I personally don't find them depressing, either, but many found his themes (incest, suicide, infanticide, murder, mayhem, etc.) distasteful, and a number of his views were controversial too, such as his opposition to US entry into WW2. He seems to've been born out of time, because he'd almost certainly have fit in better with the classical Greek poets and tragedians. No doubt one of America's greatest poets, right up there with Whitman, though he's never received his due.

By the way, a publisher recently came out with his complete poems in 3 volumes.

My book is of the Selected Poems, 1959. Not even half of the complete. Three vols. sounds expensive!

Yes, very. And very big books too. I saw them recently at Barnes and Noble and was tempted to get them, but I decided to buy a truck instead. Seriously, though, each volume was like 12 x 16 inches and cost about $50.00.

They have comfortable chairs in Barnes and Noble.

George Bowering is Canada's first poet laureate and the author of over 80 books. A native of British Columbia, he has worked as a professor, editor and writer. Bowering is a member of the Order of Canada, the country's highest civilian honor. - Reuters/Corbis

His Web-Page - http://www.library.utoronto.ca/canpoetry/bowering/index.htm

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, in his poem "Nature," compares the old to a child who must "leave his broken playthings on the floor" and go to bed:

So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

An 80-Year-Old Poet for the MTV Generation

"It is John Ashbery, the prolific 80-year-old poet and frequent award winner known for his dense, postmodern style and playful language. One of the most celebrated living poets, Mr. Ashbery has won MacArthur Foundation and Guggenheim fellowships and was awarded a Pulitzer Prize in 1976 for his collection “Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror.”

more at: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/27/books/27laur.html?_r=1&8bu&emc=bu&oref=slogin

My Philosophy of Life, by John Ashbery: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15460

Bumping Poets Corner!

Nice move cricket!

I

Just a line or few
not looking for perfection -
something to do
a jackson polloc abstraction
maybe

II

an event of intro - spection
a roarrrrsach
for de - tection
a splotch
of rhymes

III

automatic writing poetic
resounding chimes
noetic
maybe at times
revealing

IV

whats in the soul
sounding
making whole -
untangling -
what-knot

V

who knows? there's hope!
haven't got
nuthin yet nope -
now -
the line is tugging tight

VI

Wow
reel it in
feel the swerve
and thrash left n' right
ooups.

VII

lost it.

- dAb

New Poet Laureate: Kay Ryan

"On July 17, Kay Ryan was appointed the 16th Poet Laureate of the United States. About her work, J. D. McClatchy has said: "She is an anomaly in today's literary culture: as intense and elliptical as Dickinson, as buoyant and rueful as Frost." A chancellor of the Academy of American Poets, Ryan will be featured in the upcoming Poets Forum in November." -Poets.org.

Death by Fruit

Kay Ryan

Only the crudest
of the vanitas set
ever thought you had to get
a skull into the picture
whether you needed
its tallowy color
near the grapes or not.
Others, stopping to consider
shapes and textures,
often discovered that
eggs or aubergines
went better, or leeks,
or a plate of string beans.
A skull is so dominant.
It takes so much
bunched up drapery,
such a ponderous
display of ornate cutlery,
just to make it less prominent.
The greatest masters
preferred the subtlest vanitas,
modestly trusting to fruit baskets
to whisper ashes to ashes,
relying on the poignant exactness
of oranges to release
like a citrus mist
the always fresh fact
of how hard we resist
how briefly we’re pleased.

-Partisan Review, PR 3/2000, Volume LXVII Number 3

YEAH Let's get this up and running again. How about more poetry from the members?

Here's a poem I wrote for a friend whose family is her worst enemy.

He cares

She suffers silently sequestered in her mind
Those who should care - don't
From her very beginnings, she knew
Knew things others didn't

But He cares

She loves, she cares, she's concerned
When others look the other way
She pierces the ether of unwanted consciousness
Eyes of compassion seeking happiness

But He cares

Her mind excels, an ebullience of thought
Clarity resounds in her words
Cerebral joy exudes in her presence
Oh, what joy ideas share with each other

But he cares

Sometimes sadness shrouds her
Tears flow inward, washing her joy away
But she stands tall agaainst the tide
Things sometimes don't look providential

He cares.

Alex

I didn't know that you had that in you buddy. Very good.

pk

I posted this one earlier today, not knowing that this thread already existed. I started a new thread in Town Hall called Poetry Corner but I now see that it's not needed.


I wrote this poem for my father who is presently in a nursing home, half paralyzed from a stroke. And I was thinking this morning as I was running in the snow that there should be a corner in this forum for purely aesthetic pleasure and creativity?

Running with my Father

My father lies semi-conscious in his hospital bed
But we ran together this morning in the early morning mist
This time I held his hand in mine as he did when I was a child
"Run faster, Dad. I can beat you!" and he let me - what did I know?

Along the river's edge I thought of all those stories he told me
His Bible in his hand, those archetypal stories reaching deep into my little heart
Were they real? how come the Bible sounded different when he read it to me?
Teaching me to pray, I knew I had more than one Father
A comfort in the time of trouble

Across the grassy green parkland I looked at him and saw his smile
The laugh I'll never forget, the smile that encompassed his whole body
His joy for life - we ran together him and I - his footsteps were large
No getting lost with him. We raced together once, that 5K in the woods
He was my age then and never winced as the hills kept coming and coming
"You did great Pops! How do you feel?" His smile was the answer.

I ran a little faster as I neared the end of my run with him
I wanted to gather all my memories as my heartbeat stirred ever faster
What little time I had left was going to be my memories of him
We finished together in the mist this morning. I had more than mist in my eyes.

I stopped my watch, walked in the doorl and cried. He cried too but we did it together
My father and I.

Alex (I hope it's okay sharing this with all of you?)

deja vu

Haikus = for those of you who aren't sure, forgot or never learned, these are short 3 line poems based on syllable count. 1st line = 5 syllable, 2nd line = 7 syllables and 3rd line = 5 syllables. They usually don't rhyme but if you're creative, who knows?

Early Morning Haiku

Come, follow me now
Order my steps in your Word
I belong to you.

Alex

ALEX

WELL thank you for the poerty lesson


dgrimm60

I used to be a poet.

here are more:

Nothing to ponder
Nothing to do. Guess I might
As well write a few.

Hopeful hearts await
When Haj Ali hesitates
To write a haiku.

Hyaenas hustle
To Haiti and Hawaii,
Out of haiku hell.

Hazard of the hall
Hoax of honey in the wall
Near the hedges high

Howling hounds of hell
Heaving helping hand grenades
At the horse brigades

Hyperbolic halves
Of the hobby horses shoes
Urge the house to lose.

The raggle taggle
Hermits haggle over hash,
Hot hors d'oeuvres, and cash.

He knows a haiku
Often bravely stands alone.
May we ask, will you?

delete

Those are some good haikus OS.

no eye deer.

wrong!

OLDSAILOR29

THOSE are some good ones

dgrimm60

you wouldn't laugh if you knew what you were laughing at....

I think rudywoofs that that is funny in itself. :)
Good one.

Nice oldsailor.

pk

thanks for your affirmations gentlemen. I don't know a lot about poems and how to evaluate them, so i don't really know what to think about them.

but here's another.

Reality

When a man has been through hell, I can see it in his eyes.
His face reveals the story of the weight of all the lies
Heaped upon him by the footfalls of those who never try
To remember vows and promises, spoken and forgotten.

Reality is heaven, when I want to get away
From all the paper pushers and parasites who play
The game of guilt and innocence so well, and the betray
My virgin trust, long taken, for the token gain, illgotten.

Away from all the offices and scrapers of the sky,
Away from busy corners where the hookers always try
To separate the money from the fool who wants to buy
The thrill of unknown pleasures, unbespoken, unbegotten.

Away to the forest, away to the sea,
To contemplate the sunset, or the beauty of a tree,
Where wild and unknown beasties want to make a feast of me!
Compared to hell, reality is rotten!!!

OLDSAILOR29

WELL that was an interesting poem...with a different
ending

dgrimm60

Go for it oldsailor. :)

pk

Did I mention that I used to be a poet?

No, did we miss that post. LOL

pk

I guess you did.

They've got some really bad poetry going over on the Jesuit thread.

Oh? well bump it up here where we can see it.

I used to smoke poet. I've even been called a poethead.

No really, I was a poet. I can prove it if I have to.

He used to be a poet
And wants us to know it.
Stop rhyming and I mean it.
Anybody want a peanut?

You may have some hidden talent there karl.

The last poetry I wrote was in the 7th grade, and it was about motocross racing. My teacher kept it on her bullitin board until she retired a few years ago.

Christian Haiku

O God in heaven
Make our hearts like Jesus Christ
And grant us your peace


Microsoft Haiku

The blue screen of death
No one hears your silent screams
More money for Bill


Old-school SDA Haiku

The law is the law
Not one tittle or one jot
Dry as Gilboa

KARL

well those are some interesting poem you wrote down

dgrimm60

Don't keep me in the dark rudywoofs. Is it something like "The Walrus and The Carpenter?"

Bad poetry from the Jesuit (conspiracy) site:



I hope this stuff isn't copywrited.

some may find this interesting:

INVESTIGATIVE JUDGMENT

To inquire of imprecautions and inconsistencies
And improper inclinations and incongruities
And idyllic incantations of incredibilities
And introspective interludes of informalities;

To interrogate the innocent irregularities
And isolate ironic irrationalities
And interpolate internal individualities
And incapsulate impetuous improprieties;

To inspect the invocations of inferiorities
And impulsive inspirations of intangibilities
And intended indications of irrelativities
And incidentally implied impossibilities

Is to imitate infusions of infallibilities
And illustrate iconoclastic ideologies
And instigate ignition of innate impieties
And investigate the judgment of all infinities.

I hope this stuff isn't copywrited.

And if it is?

Everything is protected for fifty years under copyright laws, and so it is.

Nobody's making any money off of it.

even so, it is illegal to copy or use without permission.

None of my rhyme is copywrited
And my machine is floppy blighted.
So just feel free to cut and paste
To demonstrate your lack of taste.

After the dazzle of Day

After the dazzle of day is gone,
Only the dark dark night shows
to my eyes the stars;
After the clangor of organ majestic,
or chorus, or perfect band,
Silent, athwart my soul, moves the
symphony true.
Walt Whitman

You can hear this to music if you listen to Fred Hersch's interpretation of Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass". I also speak briefly about this in my blog:

http://abelisle.blogspot.com

This brief poem makes me think both literally and figuratively, just what happens to us when "the dazzle of day is done?"

Another poem that comes to mind as I think about this one is this one by Dylan Thomas:


DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Alex

KARL

WELL thank you for the information

dgrimm60

Karl - It is protected by the Copyright Act of 1976, as are all the poems which are published here. But I was just wondering why you would hope they were not.

Copyright law in the U.S. is governed by federal statute, namely the Copyright Act of 1976. The Copyright Act prevents the unauthorized copying of a work of authorship. Copyrights can be registered in the Copyright Office in the Library of Congress, but newly created works do not need to be registered. In fact, it is no longer necessary to even place a copyright notice on a work for it to be protected by copyright law.

ALEX

THANK you for both poems

dgrimm60

I'm just kidding, long-time aqueous navigator.

Nevertheless, I hereby give anybody permission to copy AND SELL (if someone, by some chance, is willing to pay you for it,) any poetry I post here.

KARL

WELL I am glad that you are willing to do that

dgrimm60

Those are great poems, both public domain Karl, in case you were concerned about copyright protection. Here is one which is not in public domain yet, but it is legal for me to publish. And by the way, anyone who reads my poems and wishes to copy them, has my permission to do so.

SILVER BULLET

If you don't know where you are,
And you don't know where you've been,
And you don't know where to go,
It's silver bullet time again.

If you are building on the sand,
Sinking in the sea of sin,
And you need a helping hand,
It's silver bullet time again.

Looking for the bread of life,
You can tell you're near the end
By the universal strife.
It's silver bullet time again.

The silver bullet is the kiss
That heals the hidden source within
Of mortal pain and emptiness.
It's silver bullet time again.

If confusion takes your day,
And you don't remember when
You didn't feel the need to say,
"It's silver Bullet time again,"

It's silver bullet time again.
Look around yourself, my friend.
Things are getting out of hand.
It's silver bullet time again.

BROKEN HEARTS

"These broken hearts are not for sale," Quietly I said.
"And why would someone want a heart, heavier than lead?"
"I'd think you'd want a cheerful and unblemished heart instead
Of one of these old broken hearts, ripped and stomped, and left for dead."

He said, "I have the balm, to heal the broken hearts.
I'll take away the deadly pain,
And give them sunshine for the rain,
And make them new again."

I said, "I've heard of you before,
Gently knocking at the door
Of any heart within your reach,
To touch and heal, to teach and preach
The Son of man forevermore."

"I'm glad you came for hearts today,
From places near, and far away.
I have been saving them for you,
And that is why I always say
'These broken hearts are not for sale.'
They're yours for healing anyway."

"I know the pain of a broken heart. I know it well," He said.
"For I have given all my love, and my love was rejected.
My heart was broken on he cross, and by the world neglected.
But from my grave and sabbath rest, nearly undetected
I ascended to a place where hearts are well protected.

And now I'm back for others who were
Ripped and stomped and left for dead.
And many will rejoice when they feel the gentle rain
Of the happy tears of those who find the joy of love again."

I couldn't say another word,
For it is very clear,
I'm in the presence of the Lord,
And all the saints are here.

I pray for His eye salve, that I may see my true condition.
I pray for His purest gold, tried in the fires of hell.
I pray for His pure white robe, to keep me from perdition.
I pray for His love, within my heart to dwell.

I only pray for love, to take my heart and mend it.
I only pray for love, to take my pain and end it.
I only pray for love, and peace, and blessings from above.
To heal my broken heart, I only pray for love. Amen.

Who wrote that one old sailor?

Gus is the Cat at the Theatre Door.
His name, as I ought to have told you before,
Is really Asparagus. That's such a fuss
To pronounce, that we usually call him just Gus.
His coat's very shabby, he's thin as a rake,
And he suffers from palsy that makes his paw shake.
Yet he was, in his youth, quite the smartest of Cats--
But no longer a terror to mice and to rats.
For he isn't the Cat that he was in his prime;
Though his name was quite famous, he says, in its time.
And whenever he joins his friends at their club
(Which takes place at the back of the neighbouring pub)
He loves to regale them, if someone else pays,
With anecdotes drawn from his palmiest days.
For he once was a Star of the highest degree--
He has acted with Irving, he's acted with Tree.
And he likes to relate his success on the Halls,
Where the Gallery once gave him seven cat-calls.
But his grandest creation, as he loves to tell,
Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.

"I have played," so he says, "every possible part,
And I used to know seventy speeches by heart.
I'd extemporize back-chat, I knew how to gag,
And I knew how to let the cat out of the bag.
I knew how to act with my back and my tail;
With an hour of rehearsal, I never could fail.
I'd a voice that would soften the hardest of hearts,
Whether I took the lead, or in character parts.
I have sat by the bedside of poor Little Nell;
When the Curfew was rung, then I swung on the bell.
In the Pantomime season I never fell flat,
And I once understudied Dick Whittington's Cat.
But my grandest creation, as history will tell,
Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell."

Then, if someone will give him a toothful of gin,
He will tell how he once played a part in East Lynne.
At a Shakespeare performance he once walked on pat,
When some actor suggested the need for a cat.
He once played a Tiger--could do it again--
Which an Indian Colonel purused down a drain.
And he thinks that he still can, much better than most,
Produce blood-curdling noises to bring on the Ghost.
And he once crossed the stage on a telegraph wire,
To rescue a child when a house was on fire.
And he says: "Now then kittens, they do not get trained
As we did in the days when Victoria reigned.
They never get drilled in a regular troupe,
And they think they are smart, just to jump through a hoop."
And he'll say, as he scratches himself with his claws,
"Well, the Theatre's certainly not what it was.
These modern productions are all very well,
But there's nothing to equal, from what I hear tell,
That moment of mystery
When I made history
As Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell."

Richard - re Broken Hearts, I wrote it, and if you like it, you have my permission to use it.

Karl - I like your poem.

Gus the Theater Cat is by TS Eliot

I'll see if I can find "My Favorite Duchess" and post it here. That's another good TS Eliot poem.

Thanks oldsailor, your poem is really good.

My mistake. Of course I have heard of T. S. Eliot, but never read any of his work, so i didn't recognize it and thought it was yours.

Lots of weird things happen.

O. D.

I was on the road, down on my luck,
When a farmer on tractor picked me up.
It started to shimmy at fifty-five.
I said, "This thing got overdrive?

We did some "T". I shifted gears.
And paranoid with civil fears,
We ripped around the parking lot.
We didn't care if we got caught.

Back on the road, we took the lead.
While shifting gears, we did some speed.
Our heads were hot. We did a lot.
We passed a truck, and I woke up.


This was an actual dream I had. I wrote this poem about it when I awoke. The tractor was one of those old Fords with the tie rod connections down beside the foot pedals. And the parking lot was triangular, at a fork in the road, where a small saloon was located, in New Jersey.

Below are the lyrics to a song I wrote twenty years ago.

'TIL HE COMES

There's not a lot more time you know.
There's just a short while left to go
'Til He comes.
'Til He comes.

The wedding feast is all prepared
And we're invited to be there
When He comes.
When He comes.

People of God get ready.
The bride of Christ must shine
With the Son.

Our righteousness has left us bare.
Do you know what you're gonna wear
When He comes?
When He comes.

The wedding feast is now proclaimed.
Will you be dressed and not ashamed
When He comes?
When He comes.

People of God get ready
There isn't much more time
To run the race
To grow in grace
Reflect His glory and shine shine shine.

There's not a lot more time you know
For us to feed on Christ and grow
'Til He comes.
'Til He comes.

People of God get ready.
The bride of Christ must shine
With the Son.

People of God get ready.
The bride of Christ must shine
'Til He comes.

Karl - This looks like a really good one .