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Mudcat Poetry Corner
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amergin Date: 21 Jul 15 - 03:47 PM The Tin Man The Tin Man walks down 6th Avenue, ipod stuck in his ears disguises the jangled sound of jagged metal, stripped toothed gears, half melted belts, over stretched springs, all in a plastic Fred Meyer grocery bag stuffed in the depths of his black backpack. Its been broken too many times, oiled tears drain down rain gutter cheeks, remembers the blue eyed munchkin maiden. The cool damp salt air drifts from Puget Sound paints rust tattoos on his silver skin, as he stands in the shadow of the Wizard's Space Needle castle, the throne room in a constant rotation against the blue sky. He came to see if his heart was under warranty, to see if he could trade the Wizard for a new one…. this one is too fucked up to repair. Nathan Tompkins © 2014 NonBinary Review |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amergin Date: 09 Jan 16 - 01:56 PM One of my poems was just published the other day. http://crabfatmagazine.com/2016/01/remember/ |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: CapriUni Date: 09 Jan 16 - 05:21 PM Congratulations, Amergin! |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Joe_F Date: 09 Jan 16 - 08:45 PM No apologies to B. Brecht: Oh, moon of Massachusetts, Why can't we say goodbye? This life's no bloody use, it's Just going thru motions, oh, you know why. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amergin Date: 16 Mar 16 - 05:33 PM Since it's St. Patrick's Day tomorrow...I have here an ekphrastic poem that was published by Yellow Chair Review in October. It is called The Dying Cu Chullainn |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: The Sandman Date: 16 Mar 16 - 06:02 PM where is St Patrick in Irelands hour of need to banish all the snakes who choose the path of greed |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: MGM·Lion Date: 24 Apr 16 - 07:20 AM am here 2 tell u that those who assure u that things get better as time passes r up own arses ≈MGM≈ mar 08 |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: MGM·Lion Date: 24 Apr 16 - 07:23 AM Lines at fourscore'n'three When am I Going to die? Who can know When I'll go? Michael Grosvenor Myer 8 October 2015 |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: MGM·Lion Date: 24 Apr 16 - 07:28 AM written on my first wife's suicide Aug 2007 POST-PARKINSONIAN Trying to keep going In the teeth Of the lethal Mix of grief And relief Michael Grosvenor Myer |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amergin Date: 28 Apr 16 - 08:34 AM Two of my more recent published pieces, both in the April issue of Menacing Hedge. There are also links where you can hear me read them. Nathan Tompkins |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: MGM·Lion Date: 06 May 16 - 03:39 AM Vive la France Y'a des gridlocks Terrifique Sue la Pé riférique Michael |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: MGM·Lion Date: 06 May 16 - 03:41 AM Sur, sodit! |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Donuel Date: 06 May 16 - 11:21 PM The I that can't see itself thinks wordless thoughts that flow in the wind Waves murmur melodies of "we" Sometimes it shares secrets with me. The blind may hear more than most souls. The wordless see more than you're told Like a blurred smear of future past Some see through time that ever lasts. We have abilities unknown To transmit though space you can't see So stop making fun of Tesla Everything you use he conceived. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Donuel Date: 06 May 16 - 11:44 PM oops: Old Franz heard ufo signals He heard them on his radio The one that he had invented People thought he flipped his wignal The I that can't see itself thinks wordless thoughts that flow in the wind Waves murmur melodies of "we" Sometimes it shares secrets with me. The blind may hear more than most souls. The wordless see more than you're told Like a blurred smear of future past Some see through time that ever lasts. We have abilities unknown To transmit though space you can't see So stop making fun of Tesla Everything you use he conceived. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Donuel Date: 11 May 16 - 06:03 PM cake walk waffle waddle frozen ice cream lox Donut dance, crappy snacks, chocolate bacon pants Many of the treats you eat have more to do with paint Salty sweet sour heat sold as great just aint. beef bark shark heart, deep fried nipple chips Everything cooked in mystery fat always goes to hips You don't need a Vegan Czar, you can use your head They used to eat Peacock breAst and rape seed sour bread The next time you crunch a snack think of a carrot slice or 15 hundred years of Indian food made with power spice. If your snack was made with palm oil you killed a habitat We all know you don't need that much grease, fat is fat is fat |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: MGM·Lion Date: 31 May 16 - 10:48 PM THE GHOST I know a place Where an 18th Century Murderer Walks down a staircase Into the open air Passes through a locked gate and then Vanishes I don't believe in ghosts! But when not long ago Someone who ought to know Told me that the story Was of no antiquity But the result of a hoax In the early 20th Century I felt oddly Disappointed! Michael Grosvenor Myer |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: MGM·Lion Date: 31 May 16 - 11:10 PM Footnote in case anyone interested:- The Fellows Building, Second Court, Christ's College Cambridge |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: MGM·Lion Date: 18 Jun 16 - 02:27 AM A limerick inspired by Child ballads #1-4 {Riddles Wisely Expounded &c}, #46 {Captain Wedderburn's Courtship} &c &c It's part of an ancient tradition That persons of noble condition Must faddle and fiddle To answer a riddle If they wish to indulge in coition ≈Michael≈ |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: kendall Date: 18 Jun 16 - 09:07 PM I tried to add a poem but it disappeared before I was finished. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 22 Jun 16 - 01:58 PM That's a sign of the very best sort of poem, Skipper! :D |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Georgiansilver Date: 30 Sep 16 - 05:21 AM THE POWER OF PRAYER. Mrs Brown had a wayward parrot, A pretty you thing called Flo. Who was always swearing and talking, with sexual innuendo. Mrs Brown went to tea with the Pastor, one Sunday evening last year. Where she saw his old parrot praying, and it gave her a clever idea. She asked the Pastor at teatime,''Can I borrow your old parrot, Rex'. To try to influence my parrot Flo, who talks of nothing but sex!'' She took Rex home the same evening, he prayed all the way in the car. She was so impressed with the old bird, whose manners outshone Flos' by far. But when she put him in Flos' cage, she realised get greatest fears. Flo said ''Do you want some Rex'' Rex replied ''I've been praying for this for years!!'' |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amergin Date: 06 Nov 17 - 06:20 PM The Drive Grampa tells me as we drive the snow brushed back roads of North Idaho, how he took my mother on a drive along the same unpainted asphalt paths, the night before she married her first husband, so he could explain to her it wasn?t too late to back out, that it would be ok, and even preferable for her to call it off, better to give the marriage an abortion, than to shove paper vows in a shredder, to erase her name from the pledge. She felt she owed it to the mystery man, the man I have only met once on a visitation in Portland, when I was six...so she spoke the words before the Bishop, slashed her name, placed her future on the contract line. If she hadn?t, he would never have donated his sperm, his genes. I would never have been thrust, screaming into this world, in that hospital by the Kootenai River. Sometimes, I think that would have been ok. Nathan Tompkins ? June, 2016-Dirty Chai |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Georgiansilver Date: 23 Dec 17 - 04:56 AM Happy Birthday to Jesus. Will you say ‘’Happy Birthday’’ to Jesus, On Christmas Day this year? Or will you just drink yourself silly, on vodka, whisky, or beer? When you open your presents, at Christmas, Will you think to yourself, this is fun? Or will you remember the gifts that were given, To the child who was Gods only son.? Will you go to a Church in the morning, To worship the Jesus who died? Or will you sit laughing and joking, As peace, joy and love all abide? Will you think of the man who died for you, As you sit with your family and friends? When you don’t pray or read your Bible, Will your means justify your ends? I’ll pray and I’ll read my Bible, No matter what anyone thinks. I’ll probably eat, a lot of good food, And may have a couple of drinks. Whatever may happen this Christmas, Fantastic or just ‘very nice’. I won’t forget why we celebrate, The birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. Mike Hill. Nov 2016. (C) |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Georgiansilver Date: 30 May 19 - 09:17 AM Found this old thread and thought I might revive it to see if we still have any poets amongst us. Here's one I wrote a while back. Her Type for 25 Years How would she have managed without me, For all of our twenty five years. A quarter of one whole century, That we’d part I just never had fears. On each other we were so dependant, I was such a provider you see. I could do nothing without her, And she nothing too without me. She loved my words, every letter, That I uttered for her when I did. I was devoted to her always doing as my lady bid. In a Stationers shop she first saw me, I could see she was really impressed. She gave me some fanciful glances, Until her eyes came to rest. I could tell how much she wanted me, As we left that Stationers shop. She held me close on the local bus, Until we reached her home stop. As we entered the house that evening, I felt so needed and loved. She said ‘’You are Gods’ greatest gift to me’’ Like I’d come from Heaven above. We’ve been through so much together, In the last twenty five lovely years. I’ve seen her joy and the laughter, And witnessed the sadness and tears. She wanted to be a great writer, To produce a respected ‘Best Seller’. I didn’t quite think she would make it, But couldn’t possibly tell her. She still battles on with her writings, She has the true grit of a fighter. She, well known for eloquence, And me…. as her old typewriter. Michael J Hill © 2016 |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: beardedbruce Date: 30 May 19 - 11:28 AM 165th sonnet to my Reluctant Muse Sonnet 21/5/2019 MCCLVI I write now for an audience of none: This muse does not my verses read, nor think What she inspires has worth. My hopes now sink Away from light, and soul turns to despair. Yet, heart is not so willing to not care: I still pray dreams of her will sonnets give, And someday muse’s smile might let hope live. Must heart admit she has ending begun? It is not absence from muse that I fear, But that lines unread cannot her smiles earn. How shall I feelings tell, when she’ll ignore All that I write? How can I make it clear How much heart hurts, to know I’ll never learn Her dreams that could future verses ensure? |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Neil D Date: 01 Jun 19 - 04:24 PM Here's one I wrote while sitting out at the open mic my town holds every Saturday in nice weather. Nearly every line refers to someone who was there at the time, including my dogs, so you won't recognize them. I saw Joseph talking to Jesus Down on Market Street last night DJ was there a-running things While Saint Stephen lit his pipe Mike was miking at the mic Making sound that sounds quite right Heartbeats drumming at the sight Of beauty walking like the night Stetson hats are shading faces In the amber glow of the old street light The cowboy on his laurels resting After yodel-odel-odeling With Iron waiting in the wing With maybe one more song to sing Girly Girl was looking on With Bitty-bye protectoring Twilit skies in a hundred eyes Sparking and reflectoring Ears say thanks for gifts you bring While minds go transcendentalling |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: SamStone Date: 02 Jun 19 - 05:52 PM we should have made amends to our families and friends but that day has past never to come again and the old man up the street we should have seen that he was well and had enough to eat but that time was then never to come again and my Dad was distraught angry and sad my frail words couldn’t last now his life has past never to be again |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: SamStone Date: 02 Jun 19 - 07:34 PM he crested the top of the clouds turned and waved slighted and slid behind the embankment we knew the instant that his spirit had left his body and watched him ascend rapidly into the heavens there was no expression as he rose but when he turned he inclined his head slightly toward me and nodded slightly we never again looked back at his remains still strapped in that huey |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: beardedbruce Date: 03 Jun 19 - 03:01 PM Still raw, but I may polish it more over the next few weeks. Sonnet 2/6/2019 On the Dentzel Carousel, Glen Echo MCCLXVII I go around, and return to the start, But feel great calmness on this carousel. Soul finds ease in the memories, to tell My dreams I cannot give past muse my heart. It's not just that she will not value art, But that she thinks thought of her casts no spell To give true verse: For that, heart bids farewell. That is the reason I must from hopes part. I cannot alter words, nor change her mind To restore what has shattered: Should I send My dreams to Lethe, or now try to find Some kinder muse? Is there a balm, to mend The wound this angel sent my heart, or bind A soul broken from inspiration's end? |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: beardedbruce Date: 03 Jun 19 - 07:49 PM (Thank you, VerseElf) Sonnet 29/11/18 On Love MCLXLVI If one wants to be loved, love others: Give What you want to be given. To refrain From caring: How can one caring obtain? There is a balance. Seek, and one may find, But offer and be offered. Love is blind, Yet knows its’ own. One can but dreams pursue, To find heart’s desire: One must hopes renew To have the chance to let love in heart live. Love given is increased: The more one shares, The greater one may give. True love is not A zero-sum endeavor: All sides gain. In others one finds reason that one cares, But all have value to one’s dreams. The spot Each person finds in heart is held within. I know, weak rhyme at the end. No longer in that mood, to rewrite it now. Perhaps at some future time. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: SamStone Date: 03 Jun 19 - 09:12 PM the elemental winds of change are blowing the seasons around knocking them into trees and slamming them into the ground we watch all this from our kitchen window as the sun is shadowing at times long and billowing and other times underfoot leaves dancing through the windrows of hedges storm surges whirling the dust and sand piling up among the bushes and trees altering the scape of the land and we mortals living both in bondage and free |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: beardedbruce Date: 05 Jun 19 - 12:31 PM Sonnet Redouble to my Reluctant Muse Arms ache with longing to my muse enfold, But Heaven remains beyond reach of heart: How can I to reluctant muse impart All that she gives? Words alone do not tell What in her eyes and smile become the spell To fill my mind with verse. She brings a light To shadowed dream, to make my work seem right, That I might hope I have my passions told. How will I repay muse who is the source Of vision, and of dream? I cannot give, In all my verses, words enough to show How much she means to me: Heart holds to course At her guidance. I must let longings live, For all I know she does not wish it so. For all I know she does not wish it so, I will acknowledge debt I owe my muse. Without her light as guide, dream would refuse To show me what to write, and how to share Thought of my heart’s desire: That I might care As much as muse allows. She holds the key To inspiration in her smile to me: How can I keep from letting longings grow? She gives me reason to heart’s feelings write, In dream of her warm eyes, and sight of smile So sweet, to encourage my passions’ flow. I long to hold muse always in my sight, But know to not unasked of hopes make trial: How can I let her my heart’s desires know? How can I let her my heart’s desires know When I cannot my muse’s dream recall? Should she inform my heart, that would be all I need: I would then try to dream fulfil, If I might, and have cause to think she will Accept my offering of heart’s caring. Not knowing dream, I’ll but send words bearing My hope to see more of her eyes’ bright glow. If I might future find in dreams inspired By thought of muse, would I then know the way For verse to take to win to goal, or lose All that I seek offending muse? So mired In questions, I dare not heart’s desires say Without giving cause that she would refuse. Without giving cause that she would refuse I try to tell muse how I value smile, But do not know the words I may write: While I dare not say too much, it would be sin To say too little. In sight I begin To find my inspiration. Can I send Enough to tell, but not sweet muse offend? Would I win attention if words amuse? I long to find perfect word, to describe The curve of muse’s lips, that smiles create. Yet, I am satisfied to recall views And dream I might of heaven’s kiss imbibe. Should I my own heart’s desire now relate, To share her smile, or let dream of her choose? To share her smile, or let dream of her choose The future path of all endeavors seems To be all I might dare: I have no schemes That will win more than asked. Must I recall Unfounded dream, when I know dream is all That I might hold at night? Should I dream let Control imagination, sleep upset, And from verse hide all of my muse’s views? In muse I seek to focus of art find, That I might hold to a fixed path that ties Dreams and desires into verse that defines My soul. Apart from muse, I remain blind: Without her smile, and the light from her eyes, What can inspire all of my future lines? What can inspire all of my future lines When I so rarely at my muse may look, To see her eyes and smile? Yet, in what book Have I found promise that my dreams will be? I’ve only faith and hope muse might agree To guide my words, and lend heart’s passions voice. I dare not falter: I have only choice To pray muse gives power that verse refines. In muse I find reason to care: The gem Of bright eyes that let light into my soul. Yet, should I look in my dreams for the signs Of hope? Does not seeing my muse condemn Heart to darkness, and verse from reaching goal? Must I abandon hope that her light shines? Must I abandon hope that her light shines Upon the dreams that give me verse? I fear The darkness absence brings: How might I steer A path to muse’s presence? Dare I ask To spend time with my muse, or is that task I cannot on her place? Must heart defend The need for conversation? I intend Only to learn what hopes now muse defines. Without some dream of muse, heart is as blind, Not seeing soul, and falling to despair. Should I have concern caring is too bold, That I must longings keep only in mind? Might I ask for my muse to sweet smile share, To give reason to any verses mold? To give reason to any verses mold Requires a muse. To form more than just dream, There must be light from higher realm, a beam To fill the mind. So few provide the spark That fires the soul and lifts heart from the dark: Might I hold to this one, now found, to keep The inspiration? Would she have me weep, That passion’s heat condemns heart to be cold? I wait, hoping to spend a future hour With one who causes verse. I must head bow In silent prayer that heart might fears retire. Can I hope that muse will let my dreams flower To vision of her smile, or tell me how Am I to hold as hidden heart’s desire? Am I to hold as hidden heart’s desire To muse repay for gift? Can I not thank The one who fills my verse? Mind would be blank Without sight of her eyes: Her smiles restore Heart’s dream to life. Should I not beg, implore, And plead, for all that muse might share? I prize Seeing my muse: Perhaps it is not wise, But I care for one who holds heart entire. Yet, should I write of longings, when I know I do not hold my muse’s heart? I try To dream of only smile, but heart might sin When muse is beautiful. When verses flow, I can but hope I might on words rely, That I might offer cause for smile, or grin. That I might offer cause for smile, or grin, To give me muse’s grace, would be my wish. I must hope I can with verse accomplish Intent: To dream of muse hold on the page, And keep a part of muse as mine. My stage Is fourteen lines, and muse provides the wing To lift words from paper, letting verse sing. I fear I must all of hopes on muse pin. How can I know what words muse will allow, Until words I share? Can I hold dream, while Reaching to muse? Dare I let desires toy With what muse provides me? Do I break vow To not of muse ask? Only with her smile Can I know what to write, to lines employ. Can I know what to write, to lines employ In reaching muse? Dare I reveal that part Of soul is bound? Desires may my dreams start, But it is smile that offers verses life. How am I to find peace, out of this strife, Without my muse’s blessing? Will she share The light of eyes, bringing glow to her hair? Can I see heaven and not lust destroy? It seems muse has from heaven brought a charm And beauty to guide mortal fools who’ve earned The pleasure of her smile. Might she inspire Enough to make verse worthy? Does hope harm The chance of smile? Can heart remain unburned In seeking to in muse’s eyes see fire? In seeking to in muse’s eyes see fire, To light dreams and warm heart, I find I fall Into my own desires: I dare not call My longings more than hope. She has made clear I should not think that I might hold her near. Yet, can I less than care? She is the one I will call muse: Would I gratitude shun, To not give thanks she does not of verse tire? In muse I see one who shares Heaven’s light And I will pray, to have the chance to get Such sacred blessings: I would my hopes spin This verse to fabric of a worth, that might Repay my muse for her gift, in soul set To forge in mind words that might her smile win. To forge in mind words that might her smile win Requires true passion’s flame, and words refined By higher power. The dreams one has in mind Are but the ore: One must from them burn dross That holds the soul to earth. From dream I’ll toss All parts that are not holy, that I might Hold to the prayer that muse will keep hopes bright. The line between longing and lust is thin. All I can do is try my best, to hold To muse’s gift: She gives with smile the source For Poetry. I hope not to annoy, But I wish I might know if muse might fold Her wings, and listen to my verse: Of course I long to know how to bring my muse joy. I long to know how to bring my muse joy That I might see her smile, and take delight In showing that the words I choose are right. I hope to give her pleasure that I find Such inspiration, yet must be resigned To holding only in my dreams. Muse is grail, To give verse desired power: I must veil Any dream that would muse’s gift destroy. I value muse for all she is, the cause Of verse. For lines to vex I would regret: My muse’s smile is worth far more than gold. I do not know how to my desires pause, With such a maid. She is an angel, yet Arms ache with longing to my muse enfold. Arms ache with longing to my muse enfold, For all I know she does not wish it so. How can I let her my heart’s desires know, Without giving cause that she would refuse To share her smile, or let dream of her choose What can inspire all of my future lines? Must I abandon hope that her light shines To give reason to any verses mold? Am I to hold as hidden heart’s desire That I might offer cause for smile, or grin? Can I know what to write, to lines employ In seeking to in muse’s eyes see fire To forge in mind words that might her smile win? I long to know how to bring my muse joy. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: SamStone Date: 05 Jun 19 - 02:45 PM my old cat sits at my feet thinks its time to eat by the tilt of her head. she'll wander off to bed after a few bites leaving me to think about what might have been. tonight i will bury my friend again and again each time i dream. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: SamStone Date: 05 Jun 19 - 02:48 PM snow men prayer for homeless veterans I wonder where they live these men of darkness with nothing to give save a smile and a wave flying their rags like ceremonial flags where do they go when the snows fly thin rolling and blowing with the harshness of a bitter winter wind. I wonder if they die and are replaced by other men when spring rushes in... or do they simply bend and fold themselves into the night and wait in stony silence for the coming light... |
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Subject: ADD: The Chain (Michael J. Hill) From: Georgiansilver Date: 06 Jun 19 - 01:55 PM THE CHAIN (Michael J. Hill) Beaten by the powerful rays of sunshine on my eyes, I knelt to pick some flowers, and lying there, oh what surprise. A chain of gold, enamelled bright in rainbow colours fine, The thought, to keep it, but I knew that it could not be mine. My quest now, to find the owner, of such delicate a piece, Perhaps somebodys’ mother, sister, cousin, auntie, niece. I spread the news by internet, an easy thing to do, I expected a response, maybe a greedy crank or two. But no-one recognised the chain from pictures I had shown, In spite of advertising in most places I had known. I started looking closely at this chain that I had found, And realised the workmanship, would many folk confound. I felt it had some age in fact great age as it turned out, What the museum told me, would fairly make me pout. A queens chain, from the medieval times they said, Which could have been converted to a tiara for her head. Treasure Trove is what I had, they told me on that day, We’ll have to take it from you and it must be sent away. I waited weeks to hear the news and one day yes it came, In a decorated envelope, in italics there my name. I really was exited as I thought ‘my fortune’s here’, But when I fully opened it, the content was quite clear. It had belonged to Royalty, so I didn’t have a claim, But the museum to show it, would mention me by name. I had become a donor though ’twas not a choice of mine, But when I thought much deeper, I just knew that this was fine. We share the world we live in, with great people and with things, I now respected this Royal chain which joy to many brings. I’m pleased that I am not a man, who is consumed by greed, I’m just content to live this life, with joys on which to feed. To be wealthy, is a thing to which, I really don’t reach out, I’d prefer a museum visit, to see what life’s about. Michael J Hill © 2019. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: SamStone Date: 07 Jun 19 - 11:32 AM i am wearing the skin of my seventy fifth year one day slips into the next without fanfare or fuss no bells or whistles who will be left to tell my story who will shout my last hurrah my days are wearing thin like threads of my best old shirt faded and bare never too old to discard and still good enough to wear |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Andy7 Date: 07 Jun 19 - 05:21 PM As the fisher folk Carried their catch Across the beach, A few of the fish, Clinging hopelessly To precious life, Leaped from the nets, And fell onto the sand. And there, In burning sun, And dry, unfriendly air, They died, And lay forgotten; Until the sea rose, And, with gentle waves, Caressed them. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Stilly River Sage Date: 02 Jan 20 - 08:33 PM Five years ago Amos sent me a long list of poem links in this thread (primarily) that he wanted hidden from view because he was hoping to have them published in print and didn't want the web versions out there (apparently the place he was thinking of publishing would want them unpublished in other formats). I checked his Amazon author page and there is no poetry book extant. I think life and death got in the way of those plans. This afternoon I restored several dozen of Amos' poems to view. They're wonderful, and need to be seen somewhere. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Georgiansilver Date: 03 Jan 20 - 06:45 AM Summer to Autumn to Winter to Spring to Summer, When the savage heat of Summer, has begun to fade away, And the first great shower of Summer rain, deigns to invade our day. The petrichor, such fragrant aroma, delights our sense of smell, And man and woman, and child all know that everything is well. When the leaves and flowers have gently drooped, and birds less sing. ’Tis then mens feelings, lightly turn to thoughts of love, not Spring. As the dark of night, much earlier, closes in to end our day, Migrating birds have taken flight, to find warmth far away. The rainclouds start to form, the old North wind begins to blow, It forces in the coldness, that predicts the fall of snow. Then Christmas songs resound around the shops in every town, And money is spent on presents, so that no-one gets let down. Then soon that Christmas cheer is gone. and Wintertime sets in, With chilly New Year winds, with frost and snow it all wears thin. Iced up windscreens, iced up locks, and cars that fail to start, Sliding your car to work, has now become a work of art. But it’s not a time to be fed up, it won’t last, very long, Spring will be here very soon, with the birds all in fine song. The land will fill with lovely sights, of flowers and leaves anew, With landscapes all bedecked with flora, all of wondrous hue. The land will glow with Spring delight, the sun will shine so bright, It will get stronger every day, then comes the shorter night. With Spring rains gone and smells afresh, life is great it’s plain, As the land heats up and people too, Summer’s here again. Michael J Hill © December 2019. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Georgiansilver Date: 14 Jun 23 - 06:50 AM Seems a long time since this thread was in regular use. I love reading others poetry. So how about it folks? This was written when I was in a care home after my major stroke......based on what I experienced and heard from others, many of whom had dementia. A Glimpse of life in a Care Home.. SometimesI cannot help but think that something isn’t right, I eat with lots of strangers, and the bed’s not mine at night. It’s like I’m in another life, with all the old things gone, It’s like I’m stuck in somewhere strange but how can I move on. Or maybe how can I go back, to the life I understood, To go out on the town again, now wouldn’t that be good. To eating in good restaurants, going daily to the gym, Now I’ve put on all this weight, I so want to be slim. I don’t know where my family’s gone, I love them all so much, And where’s my wife I miss her so, I long to feel her touch. I long to hold her in my arms, and kiss her on the lips, To get her on the dance floor, and see her swing her hips. To sit and read together in the evening with a drink, A drop of wine or whisky’s fine or a can of beer to sink. To go for walks in the Autumn, to kick up lots of leaves, To help the farmers in the fields, loading up the sheaves. To go out picking blackberries, wild strawberries by the score, Pick mushrooms and groundnuts, pick nuts from trees and more. Picking dandelion leaves and bags of nettles too, To make that greenish relish, that we eat with vindaloo. Since I’ve lived in this strange place, not been to school at all, Where’s my mummy and my dad, can I give them a call? Where are grannie and grandad, are they still in a flat, Have grannies eyes improved or is she still blind as a bat?. It was only a few years ago, we went out climbing trees, We walked into some boggy ground and sunk up to our knees. We all went paddling in the stream, got soaked through to the skin, Mummy wasn’t bothered though she just asked ‘’Where ya bin’’? She often packed us picnics, when we went down in the wood, We spent all day in sunshine, we were happy, feeling good. But what has happened to me now, what am I doing here? Trying to put a brave face on, and I haven’t shed a tear. Who are all these people though in the dining room and places, Lots of chairs to sit in there, but some are empty spaces. Some folk seem familiar and some of them know me, A few of them keep pestering, I wish they’d let me be. It’s all so very very strange, I’m feeling so confused, I asked a staff to explain it all, but she refused. What is this place I’m living in?. I’m not sure why I’m here, Oh here’s that lovely nurse again, she really is a dear. She makes me feel that all is well and often makes me smile, She’s the sort of person who will go the extra mile. The other one who smells so bad is nasty as can be, I keep well out of her way, so that she can’t shout at me. Who are those others anyway, who come to visit me? They seem to come at awkward times like breakfast, dinner or tea. I’m going to buy myself a house to move away some day, Oh, someones got some dominoes, I think I’ll go and play. Michael J Hill. © September 2016. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amergin Date: 14 Jun 23 - 11:12 AM Fading My music can be found in roots mining for minerals beneath the trees, in the blood drying brown on rusted barbed wire in the frigid depths of the snowmelt creek burning the air from your lungs it can be found in the beat of gravel grinding away the mountain top or locust fires cracking the earth dry. But sound can fade, sound can fade… dying on the eardrum. Smother the whispers just below the waves one foot two three…most soundwaves can’t feel their way in crumbling halls the lips flicker in the light, but the music dies at the border. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amergin Date: 14 Jun 23 - 11:13 AM Hell of a Drug Sitting beneath the trestle bundled against November. the illegal pipe glows beneath winter quelled stars and the Kootenai River rakes the questions downstream. “When is a home no longer a home?” “who the fuck knows?” Take another hit of depression, breathe deep, feel the lungs recoil from the smoke. A traffic jam of Canadian geese air rage honk on southward skyways. Glacial winds scratch the cheeks with snow spattered fingernails. Take another hit of depression, inhale the ashes of pain chiseled into the double helix. Depression is a boulder crushing the spinal column, the skull, the ribs like the metallic growl of the wheels above once crushed the face of a trapped penny as they dragged their cargo across. Nathan Tompkins © 1 February, 2021-Into The Void |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: GUEST,Nicola Carter Date: 14 Jun 23 - 01:39 PM From time to time I read some of my poems at the Monday singaround rather than singing. Several people have asked if they are available so when Martin found this thread I thought I might put a couple here for people to read if they want to. The first one is from a series of poems called Yearsong. November Wood. An Afternoon in late November. Church bells ring across the valley carried on the still air. Paths frozen hard, Dusted with frost like icing sugar. The crack of ice on frozen puddles. Beside the path a Blackbird scratches up the leaf mould seeking forgotten grubs While in the Hazel Brakes a Robin trills singing his defiance against the coming chill. Follow the path to the heart of the wood, To a lake, in summer teeming with life, Bordered with Bull Rushes and water Iris. Water Boatmen skim across its surface and Dragon Flies hover over Lilly Pads on lazy summer days. While the sly old Pike lurks, stealthy, waiting to catch the unwary and small birds pipe among the reeds. But now the lake is silent, resting in its winter sleep. Until a stick thrown upon its frozen surface calls forth a hollow sound. A Bittern call to break the stillness. Trees keep their ancient vigil round the lake' Beech and stately Oak Silver stemmed Birch and Fair Rowan. Their branches intertwined reflecting the setting sun. A blood red crown of thorns. Written June 2023 |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: GUEST,Nicola Carter Date: 14 Jun 23 - 01:53 PM False Autumn (also from Yearsong) Autumn came early in the year of drought. Leaves scarlet and golden falling untimely. Cobnuts trodden underfoot litter the path. As the sun beats down. Dry leaves carpet woodland floors in this false Autumn, Crackling like fire with every step. As I seek shade. I remember the autumns of my childhood. The wild bounty of sloe and elderberry, blackberry and rose hip. Of polished conkers ready for playground battles and orchards ripe with apple, pear and plum. A time of gentle plenty. I long for the soft mists of true autumn. Damp leaves and moist earth. For the sharp, clean smell of frost. With cobwebs draped like silver nets on hedgerows, Each water droplet a shining jewel caught in frosted threads and delicate ferns of ice etched on window panes, As the year begins to turn towards Winter. Autumn came early in the year of drought. A travesty of Autumn. Born of too much heat. Of dried up rivers, scorched earth and withered crops. Late summer trees shed leaves, Stressed beyond endurance, seeking to survive, Hastening towards their winter rest. A healing sleep. A sleep from which not all will wake. written in the summer of 2022 |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: MaJoC the Filk Date: 14 Jun 23 - 02:02 PM
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: GUEST,Bradfordian Date: 14 Jun 23 - 06:06 PM I read this parody at the Mudcat singaround 12/06/23 If ( *Boris Johnson/*Donald Trump party remix) by Brian Bilston If you can get the job when all around you Lies ravaged from what it is you’ve done, If intellect and common sense Confound you and if integrity You have, but none. If you can lie and not be tired by lying And pretend you act for the public good, But then leave the people to their dying and say sadly, you did all you could. If you can dream Of nothing more than power, if you can think- But only of yourself, If you believe this country’s finest hour Is when the chosen few can gain more wealth, If you can flout the law with bluff and bluster And not care whether you are believed, or deny with scorn every single blunder And not care how many you may deceive. if you can stir up hatred fear and violence to create division to suit your ends, and answer cries for help with silence and then laugh about it with your friends, if you can stretch this country to its limit Or until you’ve had your fun, yours is this land and everything that is in it and as you wished- you’ll be President*,/PM,* my son. (*Delete as appropriate ) |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Acorn4 Date: 15 Jun 23 - 04:21 AM Why do Pushchairs? Tell me, why do pushchairs need such enormous wheels? Are people really going to be pushing them across wet ploughed up fields? Their occupants are minuscule though precious to be sure But do they actually need the babys’ equivalent of the four by four? Do Tarquin and Atlantis, though mum thinks them the greatest Need all that chrome and aluminium to enhance their social status? Those old style buggies were ideal for the busy dad or mother You could fold them up with one hand Holding onto Junior with the other. “Oh, you’re such a grumpy so and so – I don’t know what all the fuss is!” But where the situation gets ridiculous is taking them on buses Two women got on a rush hour bus in town the other day Both pushing these monstrosities In they swept like a tidal wave. Did they bother to fold them up – consideration shown? No! – oblivious in the gangway gobbing down their phones. “With our shopping bags, pushchairs and big fat bums all access we’ll deny Old ladies you must leapfrog or sprout wings and fly- They shall not cross our barricades – we have dug in our heels With our mighty pushchairs – and their enormous wheels”. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: GUEST,Nicola Carter Date: 01 Aug 23 - 05:29 AM This was read out at last night's Singaround, and various people asked for copies of it ....
Copyright © Nicola Carter Written 29 July 2023.
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amergin Date: 02 Aug 23 - 11:46 PM Fruit rots in the field eaten by worms and maggots like my love for you. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Acorn4 Date: 03 Aug 23 - 04:13 AM My True Love She Would Talk to Me My true love she would talk to me, She treated me so kind She came to me each evening To tell me what was on her mind But how my love has changed of late, How sad my life has grown, For now my true love comes to me To tell me what’s on her phone! |
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