Mudcat Poetry Corner

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Megan L
Date: 04 Sep 05 - 02:32 PM

GROWING

Here I am again
My hopes my dreams are shattered
On my knees again
Won't you help me now.

And then the sun shines
I turn my back
I walk away from you.

Here I am again
My hopes my dreams are shattered
On my knees again
Won't you Please help me now.

Won't I ever learn?
You want me, to grow up
To put away the toys of my life
You want me, to grow up
To come and be your bride

Here I am again
I've fallen, knees all bleeding
I'm holding out again
Please love me now

Won't I ever learn
You want me, to grow up
To know you always love me
You want me, to grow up
To walk forever by your side.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 05 Sep 05 - 05:20 PM

Prayer for the Hummingbird
 

 
Down on the lake edge, grasses bow to the cold snow-wind,
And bare aspens agree, bending toward hard waters without solace.
The snowdust wavers in the white eye, sending time into whirls and colors
Into oblivion, although
In California we are not supposed to know
What all these chills are for,
Nor meant to face
This hard bright water blind.

Under the carport, hard edges have been placed
-- They snap at every passage as far
As the heart can hear or even know
Under the law of snow wind
Coloring the very mind.
Those who still have far to go
Must think harder, hold the star
Just there, beyond the frost-long face.

This is where blood and fingers go
The private door
Fighting the private race
And no-one will mind
That time, unkind,
And hardened places
Will not reveal the core ?
Where the real heart knows alone,

Knows and know

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Pistachio
Date: 06 Sep 05 - 02:50 PM

I've been amazed by the beautiful words enclosed on this thread and offer two little verses that 'came into my head' when I heard the sad news,and I've just realised Michael would have been 13 today :(

For Michael - September 6th 1993 - November 20th 1994

There's one more star in the sky tonight
Way up high shining so bright
Shining down on his old home
Telling his Mum he's not alone
Telling his Dad, his brothers too
'Don't ever forget the life we knew
Sharing laughter, joy and tears
Don't forget me over the years'
x x x x


March 1996

It could have been the children in my son's class today
Thankfully, tomorrow - they will all go out to play
Sadly your tomorrows will never be the same
Our hearts are breaking with yours
We pray for you Dunblane.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Firecat
Date: 06 Sep 05 - 03:44 PM

I wrote this after hearing about yet more bombing in Iraq. Sorry if it's a bit depressing.

The Silent One

I am no one
At night I walk through your world unseen
Observing the fear and sadness you live in
I am alone

I am no one
I hear the cries, the screams of the dying
I look and pass on, I cannot assist
I am helpless

I am no one
I see the death and destruction you face
The blown apart walls and blood splattered floors
I am afraid

I am no one
I have left your world unseen
The news reports tell of my departure
I am dead.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 06 Sep 05 - 11:37 PM

The Kingfish

The Kingfish is the only thing
Lives in water black as this
where the Dead lie still
and the vapors kill
like a spectre bridegroom's kiss
Between the houses, laid like graves
with their broken window eyes
reflected Moon bends into lines
as the Kingfish fin slides by
Prowling bands of thieves give way
to the feral dogs and cats
where even serpents twist and die
to feed the feasting rats
Roaring flame erupting
into a blistered sky
drops hissing cinders in the inland sea
beneath the Full Moon's bloodshot eye
When the voices of the Slaughtered
trump the voices of the Saved
and the fingers point the Guilty out
in the Home of the Free and the Slave
When babies mouth on breasts of stone
and die in their Mother's sweat
and old ones turn their eyes within
as politicians voice regret

Beware the shape beneath the flood
where the Kingfish sucks a breath
Poison is his lifeblood
as he feeds on Fear and Death
And the Breaking of the Levy
is the Tolling of the Bell
that draws the Kingfish back to Earth
from his Kingdom down in Hell

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 06 Sep 05 - 11:49 PM

LEJ, Welcome back, man. We have surely missed you.

A

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 06 Sep 05 - 11:54 PM

Sorry I had to re-appear with that dark little rhyme, but it's been lurking in my brain since the Hurricane did its work. Thanks for giving me a place to take it, A.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Jeri
Date: 07 Sep 05 - 09:32 AM

LEJ, I seem to remember something about you writing a book. When it's puublished, I hope you tell us. I'd like to read it very much.

Between Breaths

The world breathes in and grows full.
Ripe with life and love and inspiration, it dances and shimmers and sings.
It dreams of great things,
And it holds its breath because it doesn't want to go back to the way it was
But it does because it must --
Nothing can remain that full forever
The world breathes out
The stretched out skin of a once greater thing goes slack
It now knows emptiness and regret
Death rides the exhaled breath
It ravages those left behind
It takes and will never give back
The answer to the question "what's next" doesn't matter to those who remain
"What's next" for them is another day in a world without love or inspiration
A world with an empty, used up skin and memories of fullness
And memories of breathing in and trying to hold onto that rich air, and losing it.
Those left behind want that one breath back,
And so the world, for them, does not breathe,
But waits...

Not to take another breath, but to want to.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 23 Sep 05 - 11:10 PM

On The Birth of Poet

He stares down at the empty white spaces
Bordered with light blue lines
Armed with the weapon of his choice
Black gel pen held in his writing hand,
Ready to strike.
He contemplates the laws of his kind.
The laws of rhyme, metre, and verse,
But he is a wild sort,
Ready to blatantly disregard such edicts,
The mandates set down by his forebears
Centuries before.
His hand darts forward, striking the blank page
Packing the barren arena
With tightly curved letters and words
Each meticulously placed in its designated abode
Sometimes exploring outside the boundaries
Into the unexplored vastness of
Of the writer's vacant white egotism,
And then his hunger is sated
For a few sweet jerks of the clock's hands
As he stares at the result of his labour
The phrases melt into cadence and he smiles
He smiles at the adulations he will receive
His transformation into utter arrogance is complete.
He is now a translator of emotion and truth
A writer for all the people to hold high
Revered by the teachers, detested by students
He is now a poet.

nt

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: CapriUni
Date: 09 Jul 06 - 12:57 PM

Too long, too long, this thread so fallow lay,
So I shall share a verse I wrote today:

In Praise of Verse, and Iambs, Grouped by Five

Quite oft, I've heard the Philistines complain:
"Iambic verse is diffecult to learn--
Its fancy language taxes my poor brain!
Prosaic speach is best, when it's your turn."

Their puzzlement is hard to understand.
Iambic rhythm pulses through the heart,
And if they'd count the fingers on one hand,
They'd feel the language clicking, part by part.

It's prose that is a random, clutterd, mess.
How many words to choose from? What's the count?
(Reminds me of this office, I confess)--
A shifting heap that's harder to surmount.

I'll versify my speeches all the time
(Though if for business, I will skip the rhyme).

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 09 Jul 06 - 03:06 PM

Well crafted, Capriu!


A

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: frogprince
Date: 09 Jul 06 - 08:16 PM

To Kathryn Ann

I had seen one
Junked out
before;
The name already discarded,
The trim and upholstery ripped away,
The essential mechanisms dissassembled on the bench -
For practice -
The parts too worn to be reused;
Herein is wisdom:
To know for Truth,
No longer fact alone,
That each of us is mortal,
Drawing to an end.

A year passed by,
And I was given this gift:
To be present
In a beginning,
With God,
And Kathryn Ann;
When hope became frail thread,
Stretched taut in human hands,
And then cried out with being
Someone
Who would have need of a name,
And of being taught it's meaning.
This too is wisdom:
There is cause for joy.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: CapriUni
Date: 09 Jul 06 - 10:35 PM

That is lovely, frogprince. Thank you for sharing it.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 15 Jul 06 - 01:15 AM

A Wheel of Joys

Leave me the joys of the wheel to have,
Holding the colored lights and watered winds
In mind, the touch of some caring
Friend, and the dappling air.
A bowl of well-done rice and meat;
Hearing another girl speak sweetly,
Or a fellow sing with gusto to the boys,
And other of the wheels' perplexing joys;
A sort of evening peace,
From the turning sky; just these,
Knowing they are something I may have earned;
And we may leave the wheel alone
To turn, and turn.

Given, it is a dangerous frame of mind,
Making the ordinary into ordinary rhymes;
I have seen it tried, and done, before
By innocents ignorant of a coming war,
Who never dreamed how hot the world could burn
And in a sleepy richness, slowly turned
Until they were caught by bottomless surprise
To see the wheel betray them in such wise.
But such a sleep, and such a burning,
Is in the moment and inertia of the turning.
Early or late, a burn's a burn
Easier to let the wheel alone,
To turn, and turn.

San Diego
July 14, 2006

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Peace
Date: 15 Jul 06 - 01:20 AM

Beautiful, Amos.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 15 Jul 06 - 12:18 PM

Thank you, good Sir!

Poems are writ by fools like I;
but only Gawd can make a sky,

A

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 18 Jul 06 - 03:31 AM

One Concert Moment

Tiocfaidh ar la!
She screams
Clenched fist raised towards the wooden panels of the overhead
Tiocfaidh ar la!
She howls again
Angry voice straining to be heard
Over the heavy beating of raging drums
The metallic squeals of the dancing steel stringed guitar
The steady droning of electric pipes
And the lyrical growling of the pissed off bard
Tiocfaidh ar la!
She shrieks a third time
Black Guinness in her hand
Tan foam slopping from her drunken glass
Onto a once incandescent hardwood floor
I observe as the dim ballroom lights
Trace the ebony boundaries
Of the intricate Celtic cross
Permanently sketched into the back
Of her pale freckled shoulder
Her long red hair a stormy blood soaked sea
While it rippled in the air
As she bounced her head in badly kept time
Again she cries Tiocfaidh ar la!
"Our day will come"
The tongue of a green speckled section of dirt
That has not borne the weight of her ancestors
In almost two hundred years
Again the darkened fingers of the skyward lights
Caress the twists and curves of her tattoo
She jumps in a curve right arm towards the crowd
And the illumination reveals the hypocrisy
Painted on her left shoulder
By a needle bearing skin graffiti artist
And the light bends around the crimson dyed skin
Forming an encircled five pointed star.
Unexpectedly, she catapults her half empty
Plastic cup of slate coloured stout
Towards the electrified stage
And surges forward into the crowd
Elbows flying in a bloody ritualistic dance
And disappears from my alcohol hazed vision

nt

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: GUEST,Joe_F
Date: 18 Jul 06 - 09:00 PM

CRESCENT EARTH



I kept an eye open

Where night and day are places,

But could not see myself,

Because I was asleep

Down in the dark of the cradle.

--- Joe Fineman    [e-mail]

||: A bank will lend you money if you can prove you don't need it. :||

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Lil' Kiwi
Date: 18 Jul 06 - 10:33 PM

I'm reading all these poems (while I'm meant to be working) and it's fantastic! Thanks everyone for your sharing :-)

I used to write lots when I was in high-school - in lieu of schoolwork of course. And recently I've rediscovered my poems and writing nature.

So without further ranting here's one I wrote a few years back. It's one of my favorites.

-=Two lovers Lie=-

The gazing eyes dance across the faces
like a game of cat and mouse

Both at last imprint
the other into the heart
The shapes that are him
she will never forget
The curves that are her
he will forever adore

Two bare bodies
pale in the moonlight
pure in the passion
perfect in the union
as they lie
close and calm

They lie
melting,
him into her
and she into him

The messy hair from a thousand caresses
The flushed faces from a thousand pleasures
they lie tied to each other

Beating hearts
thumping in the silent night
a night of such sweet surrender

Surrender of love
surrender of trust
two souls presented into final completeness
never to end
as these two lovers lie.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Firecat
Date: 28 Jul 06 - 06:09 PM

This just came to mind as I was gallowing in Mudchat, and thinking about all the war reports. If anyone can think of a title, please tell me!

Let me take you on a journey
To a world that never was
Where all the nations lived in peace
And nothing was ever lost

No warplanes roared through the air
No people screamed and died
No destruction was there to be seen
And no tears were cried

No hatred sentenced men to death
No terror could be found
And the only thing that could be seen
Were flowers on the ground

Now you may wonder where this is
I'm afraid I do not know
But believe me, if I did
I'd be the first to go.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 30 Jul 06 - 02:26 PM

Civilization: The Angles

Along the road they spill – crystals and squares,
Arrogant in blocky rows.
Their brazen angles state,
"This space is owned by the Others, who are not you;
Take your Being elsewhere, and other-how."
Attention deflects, ricochets like wind, denied understanding
Of all they contain , defend, and hide.

Trees are otherwise, and some other wisdom theirs;.
With the wind, they have come to know
Only learning to dance is great,
And for this step, any being will do.
"Dances go step by step", the trees allow;
Down a longer road, in a different time, demanding
Less thought to who is in, and who outside.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: GUEST
Date: 01 Aug 06 - 03:13 PM

Subject: RE: BS: Which member could you live without !
From: Amos
Date: 31 Jul 06 - 05:52 PM

Oh, it was a vile and contentious post,
And a thread it started had no merit
From a wicked Guest with no guts or conscience,
May the wrath of Max his soul inherit.

Sure the thread grew long, then grew longer still,
But 'twas nothing made it well worth reading
Just a bunch of tripe, foolish and air-headed
May the wrath of Max their souls inherit.

Ach, these nameless trolls, may they rot in hell,
With no courage their own names to be sharing,
They are snipers all, with no wit or balls,
May the wrath of Max their souls inherit.

Kirk Glengood, Junior
Souls of the Shameless and Forgotten
Merriwether and Trollop, London, 1923

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 07 Aug 06 - 05:30 PM

Keys

Mine weigh, now, almost a pound;
In time, I guess, the first to go
Will be the connecting rings,
That link the house, the cars, the offices and doors
Of places I was known; then
The intimate teeth will lose their edge,
Forgetting what it was they were to unlock.
Finally the handles and the numbers , too, will yield to slow shocks,
And only a place in time will haunt the rust
Where once so many places came together.

But let it be, as if there were a choice—dust
Does not much care for wills and codes;
To resist the passing of keys makes little sense.
No more than the dying of locks.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 20 Aug 06 - 11:01 PM

From William Faulkner‚s Nobel acceptance:

I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance.

The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.

---

Regards,


A

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 21 Aug 06 - 08:30 PM

Well penned, Troubador

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: GUEST,Joe_F
Date: 21 Aug 06 - 08:45 PM

INSECTS

No, not with you or any of my kind,

But with a pair of coupling dragonflies,

Spindles gun-blue with wings of filmy black,

Will I embalm the last shreds of my mind.

Let chrevroned grasshoppers in full green dress

Parade in chaos where my body lies

To show me off, and I'll salute them back

While overflights of butterflies impress

The spies among the reeds. Oh, let me take

My leave of water striders as they row

To keep their station, court in ripples, make

Quick, bright-ringed shadows on the rock below,

And fireflies, dancing on the edge of night,

Flashing their itch against the fading light.

--- Joe Fineman    [e-mail]

||: I wish I had never been born -- but who has such luck? Not one in ten thousand. :||

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 22 Aug 06 - 06:13 PM

The Rattled Eye

The rattled eye does not agree
With things that normal vision sees
But breaks the frame.
The rattled eye, and fever-brain,
Dismiss the normal form of things
To ask why every flower sings,
And every color smells of home,
And every stone presents some broken poem.

The rattled eye informs you
That no one object can be true
Unless heard through the sea
Painted in heart-linked greens--
Yours, another's, it does not care
Knowing just that links are there.
And cataract and spalpeen, or what you will,
Are useless, as the rattled eye sees further still.

Woebegone soul, ruined by loss and pain
Is nothing to the fever-brain that cries
Back to the ruthless rattled eye
That does not care, except for asking why.


San Diego
22 August 2006

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 23 Aug 06 - 12:01 AM

Joe:

That is a very well made poem indeed; I love it.


A

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 07 Oct 06 - 01:25 PM

Lying Incurable

The mystic teachers, scrambling for donations, agree on one call.
The words they weave are all-insistent:
If only you would stop lying about your body
Something wonderful, and very new,
Would overcome you and un-shell you like a
Boiled egg turned out in the Universe to bounce,
Vulnerable, but at least naked, and certainly whole.

The question is whether it can even be done at all.
Because a lie breeds, casts spawn, grows eggs, multiplied, persistent,
And a true thought comes still-born, lapsing and shoddy;
They cannot survive even one of the contractions going through you.
Where is the mid-wife who would dare announce
The comings and goings of such failures in the soul?

And who would want them said? "She tried…."
Is little comfort to all those who also lied;
Who reave the borders of the body-lands,
Plundering better lies, for making stronger stands,
Off in their private places, where old fires
Are kept alive long, long and long by ancient liars.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Cordwangler
Date: 08 Oct 06 - 08:27 AM

Trees

Trees are such wonderful things; they grow up to the sky,
They always seem quite friendly,
And wave when I go by.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 09 Oct 06 - 01:18 AM

The Joy of Breaking

When the telephone rang, she
forgot the ceramic bowl
that held the strained carrots
in an instant, small fingers grasped the rim
held it high momentarily
then flung it Pop! like a pistol shot
instant of scattered shards and spattered orange paste
with shock-pried stare, mouth agape
he waits her reaction
Shit! The word is spat against the phone
Then his sudden gleeful laughter
Fingers that grasp for
something else to break
That a child should take
such joy in breaking
would seem to bode ill
for the man that child will be
Except that Hands are sculpted by Time
Brain is tempered and tuned
and Fingers are given to making
The clay at last
turned deliberately, fired
an Act of Slow Deliberation
An act of Change
which more slowly opens the Heart
and at last reveals the Love of Making
(should one transcend the Joy of Breaking)

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 09 Oct 06 - 01:33 AM

Another Restless Night

Another restless night
Of broken dreams
And shattered sleep
As I listen to your tranquil snores
Studying your blanket sheltered form
As it slightly shifts with each hoarse breath
Frustrated I fling back the shadow darkened covers
From my fatigued unadorned flesh
To stalk in two furious steps
To the concealed starlight framed windows
And thrust aside an insignificant fragment
Of the moon silhouetted curtains
I gape through the murky windowpane
To the silent flat across the car park
Slowly raising my eyes skyward
At these cold bleak southern stars
Watching them throb with fragile distant warmth
Straining to pierce this veil of winter
I shiver as the bumps prickle across my body
With the frosty air seeping through the glass
I push the drapes back in position
And crawl towards your sleepy bed
Kneeling over you to tenderly sweep
The plum coloured locks from your face
And kiss good night your slightly opened lips

nt

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 29 Oct 06 - 04:34 PM

Unexplained Wheels

The violence of tires, partly a mystery,
Is quite normal. Most scientists refrain
From rash conclusion – but, it seems clear, tires are driven
By a complex system, they explain.

Endless attacks on roads, curbs and sometimes children
Is a natural phenomenon because
The complex system follows natural laws.
Heat and pressure seem to come to bear and the true
Impact of direct current flowing in careful time, too,
Is poorly understood – these sparks and magnetics whirl
And in some way define the tire's higher world
Or the governing awareness of the wheel,
Perhaps the seat of all that it can think, or feel.

In any case, in their natural sphere,
Force and erosion, and therefore, fear
Are natural concomitants of living
In ways that seldom see forgiving.

It is thought that when these details are better understood
The question of tire-violence will be solved; then, we should
Be able to cure them of their tendency to beat
Mindless and brutal, upon the sleeping street.
Finding the source of their brutal black embrace
Will make the road-world a kinder, stiller place,
Free of the screaming cries of blackened hard assault,
As soon as we learn just what it is we ought to call
The governing power, or the subtle link
That drives it – or so the experts think.

A

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 05 Jan 07 - 02:22 PM

Ragnarok

And it was like Cassady
to go in search of Death
in the same way he came at Life
with a manic grin
and a heart full of curiosity
leaving no room for fear
tripping across weathered black railroad ties
oozing tar in the Mexican sun
kicking sparks from loose gravel
flipping a sledge hammer in the air
to count three and catch it by the handle
his powerful frame
drained by the drugs and the sleepless nights
fooling himself that his indomitable will
his Life Spirit
could face up to Death and dog her down
Calling, daring Death to come at him
and wrestle in the desert
in the magnificent Ratlands where the contrasts were clear
good/evil life/death light/shadow energy/inertia
and only Cassady and Death were party to that last episode
and he was found like Thor fallen
with his hammer beside him
his big fists doubled-up and bloodied
and a grin clenched in his face
with his clouded eyes staring
straight up into a sky as blue
as the edge of eternity

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 05 Jan 07 - 02:58 PM

Jaysus, LeeJ! Takes my breath away! Superb as ever, darlin'.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Joe_F
Date: 05 Jan 07 - 08:58 PM

DEGREES OF DIFFICULTY

Stop, and you still the ripples.
With a finger the tangles are raveled.
The knots rot with the rope.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: slowerairs
Date: 06 Jan 07 - 04:51 PM

TRIANGLE

With smile that spoke of years of love
He kissed her cherished brow
Then very gently, stroked her cheek
As he remembered how
She once could dance away the night
And put them all to shame
But that was then and this was now
With only time to blame.

Now looking in those faded eyes
He knew not, why he wept
For he was hers and she was his
Yet still the secret kept
So frail was she, he could not speak
Of how he loved another
Instead, he kissed her once again
And whispered, Goodnight mother.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Hawker
Date: 06 Jan 07 - 08:26 PM

Wow what a thread! I have not found thid before now, MORE talent out there!
Humble offering from sunny!!!! Cornwall

If there was no music
If there was no music
What a sad world this would be
There would be no running water
No humming bumble bee
Who would wake the morning
If not the song of birds
There would be no singing
Just hollow tuneless words
Silent would be the raindrops
Tapping on the pane
The wavelets gentle murmur
No more a sad refrain
The howling wind a silence
The crowing cock would hush
No more joyous chiming
From the linnet or the thrush
No church bells brightly ringing
No cheery kettle call
No violin, no harp, no song
There'd be no sound at all.

Cheers Lucy

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Hawker
Date: 06 Jan 07 - 08:28 PM

and a seasonal offering......

Jacky Frost
When Summers blue sky fades to grey
And swiftly ends the shortening day
When coldness takes the flowers away
Ill dance the dance of winter
Over hedges see me trip
To frost the leaf and haw and hip
To petrify each sparkling drip
And dance the dance of winter
Ill fade the roses red to white
Redress the landscape in one night
Make the cobwebs crisp and white
And herald in the winter
I'll tiptoe over lawns and trees
The water pipe I soon shall freeze
Ill bring transport to its knees
And turn all things to winter
In leafy Hollows, see me hide
I herald in the Christmas tide
Where man keeps snug by fires inside
While outside, I am winter.

Cheers Lucy

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Metchosin
Date: 07 Jan 07 - 07:21 PM

Oh wow! This thread still gives me goosebumps.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 07 Jan 07 - 10:32 PM

I are not a poet. I think that I've written a grand total of three poems in my life: two in high school under duress, and this one, after my Mother's death:

Love Is Not Like A Bicycle

Love is not like a bicycle
You can't sit on it, or ride it
It is not of the physical world

Love may be expressed through words
But words are not love
Actions speak louder than words
But actions are not love
Love is not limited by time or space
Love is omnipresent
God is love
In loving, we touch divinity

On Friday, October 13th, Mom died
But her love did not die
Neither did our love for her die

True love remains

Jerry

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 07 Jan 07 - 11:02 PM

Well done, Lucy and slowerairs! And, Jerry, who better to write a poem about but your mom? Thanks, folks!

The folks I know
Would to a person say
I'll give you my love
My caring, your pain takeaway.

The friends I know
Open hearts, open minds
With gifts from above
All the same, yet different kinds.

The dearhearts I know
Give to each or to all
All kindness and care
Though none sought glory to recall.

(Bah! Haven't written a good poem in 2-3 years. Time to practise!!)

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: GUEST,Illegal Poet
Date: 08 Jan 07 - 02:13 PM

OLD FRIENDS

"Love what lives...
fry the rest."
Like ragged gravel
poured across a gutteral rasp,
the words spilled
forcibly from his lips
as he preached to the rusting shrines,
those decaying automotive shells
which house their dust laden,
forgotten worlds.
Sometimes he referred to them
as his children,
a ragamuffin orphanage
of seasoned metal, glass and rubber,
shelved, piled -- no,
more like configured,
with a librarian's precision,
sandwiched between each other and
his memories of their era;
collated recollections
selectively inserted
here, there;
affixed, as dated license plates
'neath grills and bumpers
no designers will dare create again;
autosculptors,
he believes,
have lost their nerve
and context.

Rabbits, lizards,
cats and birds,
a dog named Bolts...
this rabbled collection of disciples
who
have come,
comprise a choir of sifted souls;
their brave enlistment,
or desperate gestures chasing significance,
join them to the sacred grounds
which grow the dirt
beneath the eyeless carcasses,
broken-toothed chromium grins,
and creaking groans of squeaking rust.
These meticulous caregivers
occupy Eden's corner,
nurturing via the pat of feet,
fluttered wing
and choruses of chaotic praise,
this fragile garden.

A quite distinctive fragrance
wanders there
when
whisper-soft
melting rain,
splatters icing
over every thirsty surface,
activates a secret scent
which fills his nostrils,
with... imagination;
as freshened soil and weeds
enhance the fleeting
prospect of those shiny,
momentarily reborn
painted metal skins;
which in that greying light
lose blemish, dent and sorrow;
unmasking lost personas.

Upon occasion he
does settle gently still upon
a dustly aromatic
cushioned seat inside some chosen craft
and sometimes
studies
starry depths
through glassless windshields,
notes
the moonbeam-laden dashboard,
and is comforted
by those white-blue reflections
dancing across such glorious
art-deccoed landscapes
stretched inside from door to door.
As he fingers silver buttons,
rotates dials,
remnants of
the last of all the real
radios,
sometimes he
allows himself
to hear a greater Tune
which enters slowly,
through open, hanging door;
almost audible,
the rich wrapped groan,
chorded moans,
heaven-spilled
raptured tones
of cello,
low
and lonely plays
mournful,
powerful,
complete.

Washing through the car,
it effortlessly wraps
him in the blanket
of a God
who apparently,
also,
pays attention.


G.Brown

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 24 Jan 07 - 09:16 PM

Refilling


The gas tank when low, the coffee-maker, are easy --
Filled up again when, burned away in cells and in cylinders,
They are tapped out. Not many moments to be ready
For a new morning and another run down to work, up to home,
Over to her place, no?
The heart, now, fills and empties on another map of things,
And flies furthest when nearly empty, stays home when full,
And breaks untapped and unheard. Mornings
Are not so easy, but when filled up a new one can be made,
Even the moon is not too far.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 01 Mar 07 - 11:26 PM

The Concert

The noisy public house grows silent as her fingers gently stroke the strings of her lap dulcimer, fondling each fret to create every note. The music reaches its fingers out to grab and caress the listeners as they sit, entranced eyes gazing up at her face. Once in a while, they they flicker to her hands in a vain attempt to understand her magic. She smiles inwardly as she watches the audience and the first words of the song are tasted upon her tongue, escaping passed her moving lips. She closes her eyes as the hungry words transport her back to burned out castles long since ground to dust. She can smell the blood of murders centuries old, the smoke of battlefields now overgrown, and the sweat of lovers whose names have long been forgotten. Her words fall faint, her fingers slowly grow still, and she hears the thunder as the gathered multitude roars in adoration. Her eyes open and finds she is on the stage once more.

nt

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Jim Lad
Date: 01 Mar 07 - 11:36 PM

The Highway of Tears (I heard the owl calling out my name)



By the side of a lonely highway

Where the tall pines bend and sway

Where the raven spins on a cold north wind

And the owl spends his day.

While the snow falls all around me

And time drifts slowly by

I turn my eyes to the cold grey skies then I hear my mother cry.

Can't you hear me cry? can't you hear me cry? Oh Mother can't you hear me cry?



And I'm sure I saw my sister

Some time in the early morn.

She came to me but she couldn't see me

Standing here alone.

And she seemed to look right through me

Though her eyes were open wide.

Then she turned around looking down on the ground and walked to the other side.

On the other side, On the other side, Oh Sister I'm on the other side.



And I wonder Do they miss me?

Do they think I'm doing well?

Does my brother know how I love him so

Or can he really tell?

Then somewhere in the distance

At the closing of the day

If the wind is right, in the failing light I can hear my Brother pray.

Can't you hear me pray? Can't you hear me pray? Oh Brother can't you hear me pray?



In the shadow of the evening

When the moon comes over the hill

I stand alone, chilled to the bone

And I know I always will.

Then morning comes around again

It always seems the same

My father's near I can almost hear him calling out my name

Calling out my name, Calling out my name, I can hear my Father calling out my name.



It's a long time now since I heard the owl, calling out my name.

Calling out my name, Calling out my name, I heard the owl calling out my name.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Hawker
Date: 02 Mar 07 - 04:18 AM

Jimn Lad, that is beautiful, have you set it to music? it feels like a song
Cheers, Lucy

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Joe_F
Date: 02 Mar 07 - 08:46 PM

LINES INSPIRED BY A GRAFFITO
IN _OATH OF FEALTY_ BY NIVEN & POURNELLE

Think of it as evolution in action:
Nature cares nothing for your introspection.
She has far cruder tastes in vivisection,
Which don't give either of you satisfaction.

Hegel be hanged! It's not a contradiction.
Think of it as evolution in action:
Call it a conflict or a counteraction,
Collisions needed for lubricious friction.

It's lunchtime. Stuff your mouth with mame-lokshn
And feel your paunch expand with each contraction.
Think of it as evolution in action.
Don't giggle, or you'll spew the whole concoction.

And if you find the only sure distraction
Leads first to rage and then to self-destruction,
Take comfort in the obvious deduction:
Think of it as evolution in action.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: black walnut
Date: 03 Mar 07 - 12:17 PM

MARCH WINTER

Sitting alone
With you over there and your cool glass of wine
Nothing to talk about
Nothing to ask
So I stare out the window
At the warm blanket of snow
And the sky is a bird
And the feathers fall
like the telling of stories.

Held and displayed
By untouchable walls
Icicles of blue-rooted light
Hang frozen on dead wood.

I stand and walk
Increasing the space between two
Nothing to say
Nothing at all
So I lay down this sweater
On the lap of the tall chair
By the back door
And tiptoe outside
to my turned-down bed.

(c)2001 D. Carroll

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Jim Lad
Date: 03 Mar 07 - 01:08 PM

I will, Hawker. Still, I'd rather someone less "Celtic" did that to it too!