I'm feeling a Little Lo... I'm feeling a little bilious. I'm feeling a little trashed. I'm feeling a little trapped. I'm feeling a little trampy. I'm feeling a litttle crippled. I'm dwelling on my little feelings. I'm feeling a little drilled. It kills my spirits. I'm feeling a little demonized. I'm feeling a little sermonized. I'm feeling a little frosty. I'm feeling a little icy. Now I see what I have been feeling. I am beginning to see a pattern. I am beginning to hear my patter. I am beginning to sense the clatter. Now I see what may be the matter. My teeth are beginning to chatter. My teeth are beginning clench. I'm sitting on the bench. I'm leaning against a fence. I'm inclined to take offense. Where is my common sense? i'm feeling a little dense. nothing makes any sense nothing? nothing makes sense? o i'm feeling a little enlightenment i'm feelng a lotle foolish now i'm beginning to see a little better now i'm beginning to see my way home now i'm beginning to see my front stoop i'm seeing some kind of a mess i'm eyeing a stoopy mess i'm sensing a stoop id ness a finger runs through a tress i feel a bit distressed i feel the need for rest i rise above the rest has this been a test? i am doing my best all the best? well I guess stop the press good news god rules no fools tools twos us .

I really enjoyed that moulton...

When I wrote that, about 10 weeks ago, I was still in the manic phase after my last big epiphany. Nan says it's an example of what Natalie Goldberg calls "Wild Mind." My post-epiphanetic high has since subsided, and I have not been able to write like that since slipping back into dysphoria. I actually forgot about that poem, but Nan had saved it from her E-Mail. I had not even saved a copy for myself.

Great resolution!

it's one of your best poems, bear...

I guess I'm not a very good judge of my own work.

I faced the thing I feared the most, And now it all seems clear. I've found the strength inside of me, And all I've lost is fear.

Seasons Forest green prickling against a morning sky nothing has changed, except winter crows have gone now, sparrows and robins in ritual initiation, gather up yesterday1s facade, weaving it into tomorrow1s promise. nothing has changed, except spring forms its first gown, blossoms give way in ceremonial observance of unrehearsed renewal, creating refuge in an autonomous playground. nothing has changed, except feelings which wane and emerge on the other side of yesterday1s dream, dripping with morning after dew. A spit and promise feeling that I tuck away among other forgotten seasons.

Very nice! "Spring forms its first gown" -- what a fine image.

Thanks Moonbeam! By the way...the way I found that is most effective to not miss others posts in here is to look at the the last 50 post and find my last on and read the topics up from there. You had expressed a concern about missing others posts some time back. I didn't reply because I have been searching for some very important paper- work this week. I found a small insurance policy from my mother, who died in 93....that it turns out is valid. Just enough for one months rent...but hey what a surprise! (grin) One last gift from mom.

CHAOS THEORY Looking back, I can see it was only a minor scrap -- some cross words, a smallish bubble in the smooth varnish of time that most anyone seeing the whole picture would scarcely notice. Who could have foretold it was the butterfly wing, a tiny event that would tweak the current of life and cause an earthquake years in my future? Who could construe a meaning from that, absent intent?

very well written, cryptic, obviously personal...

...I know the feeling... Thanks!

Thanks! I've been having fun over on Utne Cafe's literature conference in the poetry game topic. Every week someone posts a list of 10 words; the assignment is to use them all in a poem. That was my last week's poem. Here's another one: Telnet at Midnight You bring me words on an onyx plate, Floating green in a pool of darkness, Their edges knifing clean against the black. They nip those caught in the ether without a raft, With no way to keep heads up, breathing air. I love this no-place, my home of first choice And last resort. Your words punch the breath Right out of my lines. They leave me mute And stunned. Oh, see how well you used them, stoning me senseless without one bruise.

I learned computerese on telnet and pine...I do not long for the old days...! But, I did enjoy your poem...somehow words in stark contrast can punch the daylights out of you...!

really love Telnet at Midnight moonbeam... visual, strong... I thought my favorite phrase was "my home of first choice and last resort" but when I reread them I was drawn in again to the entirety of it all and felt the 'punch' and the bruiseless sensation of senselessness. I really love that piece. May I please copy and paste it on my office wall... with credits to moonbeam of course?

Thank you, Stacey! I'd be honored to be pasted to your office wall. ;)

here's a couple for ya! The National Poetry Contest had come down to two semifinalists: a Yale graduate and a cowboy from Wyoming. They were given a word, then allowed two minutes to study the word a come up with a poem that contained the word. The word they were given was "Timbuktu." First to recite his poem was the Yalie. He stepped to the microphone and said: Slowly cross the desert sand Trekked a lonely caravan Men on camels, two by two Destination: Timbuktu. The crowd went crazy! No way could the shitkicker top that, they thought. The cowpoke calmly made his way to the microphone and recited: Me and Tim a huntin' went Met three whores in a pop-up tent They was three, and we was two So I bucked one, and Timbuktu.

Oh Wolfie! Too good. *lol* Let's hear it for the Cowboy!!!

haha!!

* laughing! * ("Idaho?" "No, Udaho.")

Nan!!! There you are! How are you? We have missed your gentle voice here! Welcome Hugs

Must be late at night for me...-*lol* I just figgered out who-was-daho

here a three new ones. written one after the other..... Panic anxiousness runs to my bones body's fine but brain explodes all the troubles i can find are asked to haunt my tired mind. stresses such that i conceive only i, it's depth perceive. a moment and all's serene again only to remind me what had just been. ****** Faith How to call out and beg reprieve How to let go my sins I keep To let the One into my heart Let's loose the grasp I have so hard. Do I doubt the power He reigns? Nay, I pray He keeps me safe. But please my sorrows do take, They hold no place nor can make Right from wrong or hate to love I must trust the One Above. ******* A Prayer Lord, to Thee I praise To Thee I love, to Thee I raise Hearts and hands and spirits high Take me there when bodies die. Stay with me now, My Lord I pray Keep me filled with grace each day. Let me know the joy You bring Let me use my voice to sing. Forgive me of my human wiles Shine down the sun, Your warmth and smile. Allow the angels sit with me Let their light remind me of Thee. And when my troubles be so vile Walk with me each lonesome mile. And keep me close, your love I feel And with this prayer, I humbly kneel. Through Thy Son to Thee I speak Forever mild, forever meek.

Very touching and wonderful, Wolfie. I can relate to that first one...I experienced just that when you told me to talk to you. And, so I did. It helped a lot. Thanks for putting into graceful words what I felt.

Thanks Wolfie. From the heart.

Here is a poem I wrote. Lord, I feel like a small child, crying in the dark, alone,afraid. Frightened of the shadows that seem to leap up at me. Longing for the presence of someone to share the darkness with to comfort and reassure. I cry out to you and it seems as if your ears are deaf. Why do you not heed my crying? Why do you not answer? He does not answer becuase I do not listen. I'm curled up in my own little cocoon of self-pity and misery. Ears plugged to the sound of his voice by my own self-concern. Gradually I uncurl. I look around and realise that the dark is not so dark. I can see, but not clearly. I am aware that He has been here all along. Sitting, waiting. Quiet and uncondemning. I look up. He reaches out to me. My prayer is answered.

thanks for that, maggie *hugs*

Here's one I wrote in the early hours of this morning. The Tree Standing there Alone, Defiant, Wounded yet healed, bearing scars like a war heroe's medals. In winter, dead looking Drab Shrunken Death defying Alone Defiant Wounded yet healed. In Spring, reborn Alive Budding Death defying Alone Defiant Wounded yet healed.

Tree is great stuff. They don't do that here much, but in places where what you describe happens, Spring is almost magical. Like the Ent Forests in Tolkien...

We've just been for a forest walk among the bluebells. The trees are all budding madly, and in the early evening light it was magical.

indeed it is! thanks for the tree poem. i have never been able to see a tree as just a tree. it is a living creature.

Definitely an Ent (Tolkien)

Thanks for giving me the confidence to post!

To whomever your thanks was directed, I am also grateful. Thanks Maggie!

Marcia, thanks (weeks later!) for welcoming me back - obviously I'm still catching up! My father died of cancer this morning, at home, my mom and sister with him to the end. I feel every inch of the 800 miles that separate us. I'd like to share a poem I wrote about his dying. --- In the dark of an evening rain as my father lay far away on his deathbed, golden fire burst the sullen shroud enveloping the distant mountains, and bathed my valley in the color of joy - Drenched in light so warm and fierce it turned car headlights blue I drove west, pulled by that bright magnet globe of yellow, an open door to heaven, and waited to see if my father walked through - But all I saw were white pelicans, Canada geese, sandhill cranes flying long slow wingbeats into the deepening twilight, rosy now, purple falling and the wet meadow turning silently from emerald to gray - Feathers carried my prayers upward to the flaming paintbrushed clouds, wrote them on the heart of God in the language of cinnamon teal, while the sea above me went on weeping, washing the world clear.

Oh Nan! I am touched and share my bleak sorrow with you on the loss of your father. You spoke him to Heaven with those words just as you did Alan (sp?) before him. Very big hugs of remembrance and love from me to you. Thank you for sharing so much of that incredibly beautiful soul you house in that mortal person I know as Nan. May it dance in Heaven with the men you have loved so dearly this evening in your dreams and bring you comfort.

Bless you, Marcia, for the comforting, loving spirit you share here so generously. You're a treasure. --- Do you remember, Daddy? Those late night walks out on the golf course, away from city lights, when you showed me Orion, the two dippers, Casseopeia? We watched Sputnik too, after man launced his tiny beam of light into the heavens -- I still get my bearings in the dark.

thank you for sharing those poignant pieces with us, nan. am very sorry for your loss. *HUGS*

A nightmarish week, resolved and put to verse SHADOWS OF CHILDHOOD Shadows of childhood Stretching long fingers of dark into the present Filling the nights with pain to be endured Childish fears and agonies amplified by adult perception Distorted images seen in the mirror of time. What healing balm is there to soothe away deep scars that become inflamed? Is there some magic potion to calm the fears of the small child within? The child that lives forever in the shadows Resurrected by fear and desolation Longing to be nurtured, and soothed by love to rest. Voices of childhood Stretching extended echoes in to the present. Filling the mind with murmurs that cannot be ignored Amplified by present darkness Distorted sounds that are now meaningless Shadows and voices of childhood Released to the light of His love Warmed, cosseted, cuddled, relieved Soothed by a balm and a warmth both unexpected and unearned A kind of dying in life.

*hugs* Sweet Maggie!!!

MARKED BY DARKNESS "Are you afraid of the dark?" She asks wrapping her hair around his arm. Tropically scented, dangerously dark hair Constricting against fish-belly pale. She sucks out his breath, murmurring, "The mark of darkness is on me And now it's on you too." Does she know about his first-born son? Who is very like him -- The boy who is a small dark blot on his father's pristine name. The child whose mother is quite like her -- And he has his father's eyes of porcelain blue. Among her people are those that remember the time Before the strange, pale people came Bringing their religion and refinements. Their burden to be the protectors of their lesser brethren. They bring disease and degradation as well. Such a small price though for all which they offer. Are they not wayward and wanton children? He feels the weight of their dark eyes as he labors To show them the error of his ways. He feels himself a small white dot adrift on a darkening sea. Reflecting on the darkness of their souls, Or is it his own soul engulfed by darkness? Does he know about his first-born son? Who is very like him -- A very beautiful child who is marked by darkness, In that the boy will be just like him -- And he has his father's eyes of porcelain blue. "Don't be afraid of the dark," She breathes into his ear. He should be. The mark of darkness is in him As it will never be in her. It's his own deep guilt festering In the darkness no one sees, Because he cannot see himself.

OOOooooh, Cheryl. Great stuff. Where did that come from. There must be more to it. My imagination wants to run with it but is directionless. I am fascinated by this poem.......

Okay, Marcia I can tell you my intent when I wrote. What I wanted to get across, but first let me ask you -- what do you perceive from it? Why do think there must be more to it? Lastly, why do you feel directionless? Let your imagination run with it. I will tell you, however, that it came from the right side of my brain.

Now for a really bad poem. I wrote this, er, poem when I was an art student. I was taking an art history course at the time, that particular course was on the Pre-Raphaelites. So this bad poem is all the fault of John Everett Millais, William Holman Hunt, and Dante Gabriel Rossetti. A really bad poem -- hope you have a few chuckles between the groans. MAIDEN UNDER THE WAVES What did you do! You have drowned yourself in the sea, When I would have proudly married you. But you would have none of me. I am of a great house, with vast lands, the finest of horses, and a great fleet of ships Which carried me here that I might press my suit for a fierce lord's gray-eyed daughter. You gave me bitter recompense for my perilous trip. It was not blood coursing your veins, but salt water. When I swore love to you, your reply to me, "Sweet youth, I only have love for the waves. I only desire to stay here and watch the sea." I was in a way which only one who was mad would behave. Foolish maid, you could have had my love. Mine! Why were you so unkind? Now you lay with the deep, cold tide. Yet it is not as cold as your virtue, as cold as your pride. How beautiful you were Maiden with eyes as light as a winter's morning. I was ensnared by your alure. Your skin was as pale as the ocean foam at the height of storming. I brought you cloaks of silk, silver cups, and fine brooches of twisted gold. To watch your hair, a cloud of bright darkness, blowing behind you Was the greatest pleasure I was to be granted from one so cold. You were a wondrous work of shadow and silver, but hard. A mad creature masked in a perfect form For the purpose to rend men's heart apart? An empty, exquisite vessel of no warmth. Foolish maid, you could have had my love. Mine! Why were you so unkind? Now you lay with the deep, cold tide. Yet it is not as cold as your honor, as cold as your pride. You are beneath the watery deep. The colored fishes through dark tentrils of that wondrous hair. You never cared for those who now weep For you here in the realm of land and air. Wretchedly mad girl, I could have helped had you only accepted my love. The maiden under the waves. I stand fondling one of your embroidered gloves Wondering if you have found solace in your wet grave. Damp fingers of seaweed to caress your skin. May your chosen lord the sea find pleasure in you! Cold comfort for your velvet limbs. You or the waves. Which is the colder of the two? Foolish maid, you could have had my love. Mine! Why were you so unkind? Now you lay with the deep cold tide. Yet is not half so cold as your maidenhead, as cold as your pride.

Talk about pride??!! That is wonderful and it is only dreadful in the most wondrous sense. I love it!!! I can just see the paintings too...

i love it too!

can't you just see the seaweed hair???!!!

yes! and his frustration at her leaping into the waves!

Well, er, gosh, thank you. I am especially flattered that the poem affected you visually as it was inspired by movement in painting. The Pre-Raphaelites get rather derisive treatment from many art historians. They are praised as technicians, but the subject matter -- is such melodramatic, frilly drivel. I had one art history teacher who refused to even acknowlege Edward Burne-Jones as part of the Pre-Raphaelite Movement. That it was merely a folly of his youth; Burne-Jones would latter come into his own as Symbolist. It is within the psychological complexity of the Symbolist and Decadent Movement that he (Burne-Jones) should be viewed. That's what he taught. I also submitted this particular poem as a writing assignment for an English class. That teacher critiqued it as being "a bad approximation of Edgar Allan Poe's 'Annabelle Lee'". He gave me a "C+" on it. Told me in future if I wanted to write, it might help if I tried to write like myself. I did end up with an "A" for the course, though.

and had you read poe's poem? (before your writing?) i'll have to take a look through my poe anthology and read it for myself. but i liked yours. we never get away from critics, whomever they might be.

WOT??? Cheryl - That man should have been boiled in oil. The PreRaphaelites illustrated my treasured Howard Pyle books. They are as much of my fantasy life as a child as anyone ever was.

Wolf, I'd read the Poe poem several years before, when I was 8th grade. I wrote my poem when I was in college. I've read Poe since. I was going for the "feel" of 19th Century poetry, so Poe did have some influence. The major impetus still came from 19th Century painting. Marcia, that's a bit extreme -- being boiled in oil. His thoughts on 19th Century Art were basically that their wasn't much to be regarded seriously outside the famous landscape painter Turner, later the realist Gustave Courbet, the Impressionists and Post-Impressionists, and the Symbolists and Decadents. The big problem with art history is that is very much at the whim of the prevailing opinions of each successive generation of art historians. It is, however, I real pain when your getting graded on it, and the prevailing taste dictates what will get you a good grade.

Ok, we'll just hang him by his....thumbs?! I did not see Peo at all until it was mentioned after I read it. Your PreRaphaelite images totally capivated my imagination. Thanks for sharing this. I loved it!

These offerings are the maiden postings for public consumtpion of a young friend who, in my opinion, has great potential. Going, Going, Gone! Watching, waiting, wondering Will he hit a homerun? Here he swings. Here he hits! The ball flies far from first and proudly prancing the runner runs, watching, waiting. The crowd cries out! He hit a homerun. this one's about my sister *** Sister Together we ride our bikes, play catch, and eat cookie dough ice cream. Together we run through the sprinklers screaming and yelling as the cold water freezes our legs. Alone she sings and watches her TV shows- Sailor Moon is her favorite. Together we sit in the back of the car on a long road trip and comment on our parent�s music, wishing we could listen to our own. Together we fight and overreact until our parents get involved. Together we hug and make up. Together there is sisterly love. *** Love Love. It strikes you with its arrow. Quick and sharp as it sends roses and hearts floating. At first, you are blind, but love opens your eyes to a new perspective. You feel as if you are walking on air and your heart is drifting in front of you, leading you, guiding you, to your love. He smiles. Your knees collapse and your lungs gasp for the next breath. You know he loves you too. *** Pain It's me who has to be different from the crowd. For the moment, it's a bad thing. I have been hurt, judged, teased, and mocked for the way I am. I have hurt. and sometimes the pain swallows me whole until I can no longer hold in the tears. When people throw stones at me, all the bones inside of me break, as if I'm a fragile box dropped from a twenty story building. I hold in my anger as it burns and spreads like a wildfire until I am alone and can let the rivers wash away my pain. *** People I do not understand why people are so judgmental who cares if your religion is different? who cares if you aren�t �pretty�? they do. What I really don�t understand is �materialism� why are items so important? you should already have everything you could possibly ask for: love, shelter, food, and a free life. why is that not enough for you? What I do understand is the differences between people how if we were all the same, it would be boring and how if we all liked the same music there would never be anything new and nothing to discuss how if we were the same, nothing exciting would happen to just one person... *** Copyright � 2000 mandy

She is wonderful, Marcia.

these are great, thanks for posting them here!

Thanks PPoP (Wolfie!!!) I'll let her know!

hey cudllz i love your poems love snowzie

Thanks for posting, falcon. It is always nice to know others appreciate your hard work when you bare your soul to the world and let them take pot shots at you! I am sure Mandy will be delighted you saw her poems and thought enough to comment on them.

Oh, and *hugs* to you both - of course!

PRECIPICE The world slants Away in slashes of white and blue. He is lost awash in dreams Of her and the glory To be found in climbing this mountain. He wants her because She will never acknowlege him. He scales the mountain Purely for himself. Clinging to a spur of the world Crooked into space. He catches glacial reflections of her Glimmering distant and silvery-blue. Shadowing, tinkling, Whispering in slow slide Of rivulets of snow. The world rips Away in a fall of white and blue. Careening into her embrace. A gash of dazzling blue thirty feet above. Sheer ice on either side Throwing out myriad images of her. He feels the blue, clear cold Seeping in, making him so clean and very pure, Dreaming eternal pale blue visions of her.

OOOOOooohhhhhhh This is spectacular. Thank you, Cheryl! How eloquent. The very personification of the frigid remote woman?!