-=-=-=-= poetry corner =-=-=-=-

Very few people here Terry! When I see him my heart skips a beat When he speaks my heart flutters When he askes her out my heart breaks When she turns him down I pick up the pieces If he speaks my name I would give myself to him I wonder... Can it be love?

Terry: I suspect that the Valentine season has opened the gates to much ] romantic poetry. But I enjoy what I am reading. Thanks for the website and opportunity to post some of my poetry for others to enjoy...er...read. MARTIN I am a smiling monk among solemn priests. I am a disonant voice among a capella chants. While others sleep uncomfortably, I like awake in my simple cell And wonder at His being. Sweetness others find in Christmas pudding, I find in the unleavened bread. Others pray for miracles, I pray for courage. Easing a dusty foot from my sandal, I cool it on the cobblestones. Forgive, forgive. Preston F. Kirk

i'll have to go find some...

please . . . that would be *wonderful*

yes, i'll have to find some stuff. it's a while since i've posted poetry anywhere.

that would be very cool of you.

i like my hand when it is in your hand; your hand is large and strong and very safe. (you are so tall i think you are a redwood tree) my fingers peek out from between your fingers, smiling. (you are the rosevine, flower and thorn) i like my hand even more when both of your hands are wrapped around it, and your eyes shoot sparks at me.(you are lovely and mysterious like a shooting star)

Return to me, my darling Until the world is no longer dizzy And love has given up Love me until our life dies Until your deadly gaze is turned away I'm drowning in this air, This space you try to leave me in Realize now, no matter how far you push me away, I'll still love you deep down Denial was fun Moments of peace now forgotten Replaced by a constant recollection of you So now to who do I turn? Gave uo the only one I'll always truly love deep down Confused and scared But pushing my limits In my mind I know I'm just fooling myself But my heart aches for the love we once shared And my mind again interrupts This time mind and heart collaborating Both hoping for the impossible deep down.

"Icicles" I see the icicles melting outside my window The sun ending their sharp, cold existance So beautiful, but so hurtful Dangerous combination you might say Something so harmless in any other form So needed by the world to survive, But such a horror and destructor too Ending lives, creating fear But still needed by all A metaphor for love really And what of the sun? The sun that melts away those feared factors Symbolizing compassion and understanding I hope that happens today I hope the sun helps me melt away the icicles

nice

thank you

(hope so, too) very pretty, amanda...

Let's populate the planet tango love the musical maestro conducting affairs of the heart since the start of the human race primitive man and woman stepping out of the cave first date on a Saturday night first neandrethal fred astaire grabbed his ginger by the hair his way of asking can I have this dance dragging her out on the dirtball dance floor stomped and trompled her toes doing the hey baby let's populate the planet tango love a rhythm section percussionist pounding blood in the veins midnight cat prowlers making the night scene snapping their pool hall fingers tapping their bar stool feet grooving on timeless beat beautiful women wearing i'm ready dresses drumming love me s.o.s.'es men sporting leather jackets stencilled on the back i'm no good but I want you tonight world tour same old standard new rendition doing the hey baby let's populate the planet tango � 1997 anastasia

this was neat, liked it!

yeah, i liked that a lot...

ditto. thanks for the post stazja!

The Fields of Wheat I shall ride my horse And sit tall on his back. I will follow the wind As it touches the yellow Wheat mixed with green. Will you be on the trail? The sound of leather Beneath my seat is Soothing as the whinny Of the stallion. He snorts the dust from His nostrils, flaring. He begins a slow trot, With a firm click of My tongue. I can see Smoke from a fire Up ahead, but the sun Is at my back, warm. The fields of wheat are Endless all around us. The wind plays in my hair, My steed's mane and tail. We respond in glee As the wind takes us. I see something move Between the rows just ahead. And I call out a name That I know from dreams. Pulling to a stop, listen, "Here am I, come to me." Together we ride among The wheat fields, laughing.

She Did What She Do (it's okay with me if it is with you) a night of moonlight on the water holds her afloat a night of moonlight on the water keeps her afloat you were watching, but what you were thinking sank your boat knowledge tears easily when she turns and says goodbye knowledge tears easily when she turns and says goodbye you know you're being talked to when she smiles and tells you why she pets the werewolves she thinks for the saints the pets the werewolves she thinks for the saints when they try to go without she catches the first who faints she'll sketch you something just to get you involved she'll sketch you something just to get you involved then you watch your biggest problem be completely solved she always answers your letters by calling you on the phone she always answers your letters by calling you on the phone but when you hear her voice it sounds like your own she blends in like a chameleon she changes like the wind she moves like a chameleon she gets through like the wind if you show a little heart she'll want you to come in

liked this, nice movement...

thank you for sharing with us. the chameleon imagery is in my head and i like the smile i have on my face.

could be that the second stanza of it stepped out into Response 20 and sorta came alive could i also sorta cover that back up? I mean that notion didn't occur to me until a few minutes ago I mean, please also keep in mind that a good home has been found for me --the SPCA gave me the number of a Mr. River Phoenix or wait, was that a Mr. Kurt Cobain? no, a Mr. P.J. Harvey I'm okay, I'm just, y'know, trying to slip out of an embarrassing moment --why do i feel so precariously self-conscious all the time...? ...why does my self-worth always have to wear a condom...?

hey, at least yours is protected...

self-consciousness and self-worth. i think mine are so unstable because i want stuff i can't have. or that just aren't there. i could actually be getting alot outa what i do have. and that if i did that, it would create more. not more in quantity. more in quality or something. it would be healthy. like giving instead of taking. some of my desires flow and are cool. some are disconnected and loopy and camouflaged in what they're not. they're like pop-up emotions that poke out of inner schisms. and with a suddenness that made it feel like it seemed okay at the time. but quickly gets reduced to being outflanked by reality in no time. and there i am once again, down on my hands and knees, trying to clean up the silly mess with a bucket and a big sponge. like there was something i did morally wrong and shoulda known better. that makes me shudder about it so i can't go up high, let it go easy and sure, and then see it go in....swiiishhhhh. the abstractness of talking this way is the condom. it protects me from emotional growth, is all. another embarrassing mess to clean up with my guilt. seething with dumbness. too stuck to get unstuck.

what do you want that you cannot have?

I'm red as a beet. you really put it on the line. let's see, just one two three four five six seven eight words. yikes. what i want is inside a fantasy. therefore the "cannot have". Because in this case the fantasy is: your love not the "I love you all" love and I knew my fantasy was just that yet it still ventured inside and snagged a piece of me it crashed through into the associations migrating from the poem's stanza that made it more lurid my emotions were sillily bewitched by the succulence contained in the experience --I knew it was a flash experience gone as quick as it arrived and I know it's not that I can't have love and I know I can't have that kind of love from you but fantasy, y'know, what can I do, y'know. --this make you uncomfortable? --I being too truthful? --you appreciate knowing what I meant, rather than not knowing? I don't know what else to say....

this makes me uncomfortable. need to go lie down.........

no Leplep, it doesn't make me uncomfortable and I do apologize for putting you on the spot. Your response does make me curious though. My love? As in Stacey? Or the love of a woman in general? Or the love of a fantasy woman that has been created by you or by the interactions on the Spring? And then I suppose I'd ask why depending on your answer to the first question. You cannot usually be TOO truthful. Especially not when you're asked a direct question. Unless, that is, someone is trying to play with your head and make you jump through hoops and find fault with any response. And I wasn't trying to do any of those things.

I was expecting more of a Wolf reaction from you, Stacey. This society that we live in, the way men act toward women compared to the way women act toward men, and that break-in where you live, that kinda thing in overall accumulation can make men affect women with a mindset of anxiety. I know.....it's a complicated issue that can be looked at in many ways. It's hard to answer your question because it was a daydream that hit and in an instant was gone. I can't remember it at all as far as what actually happened. Maybe it was like if a tornado hit, and what people remember is their memories of the tornado rather than the actual I-am-there-now experience, because that's impossible....and then the memories change slightly and so on. And maybe that was a crummy analogy. My guess is that it was a combination of 2 of the possibilities you suggested, with the one out being the love of a woman in general. See, I got confused by the time I read your third one, because when I read your first one I thought it probably was that (your love, as in Stacey). Then when I read your second one (love of a woman in general) I thought it was probably not that. Then when I read your third one, my first thought was how could it be anything but that. Then I thought back to the first one and thought (guessed) your meaning of it was probably a little closer to what I actually experienced. It's not something I can say I know. The 'Why?' is real interesting. Fantasies are fantasies. They happen. They're beyond my control. What is within my control is what I make of the fantasy experience now. Everyone wants to be loved. Everyone wants to be loved by someone they would love to be loved by. Fantasy jumps in. Sometimes it takes a catalyst. A catalyst can subvert reality for a mechanism (fantasy) that feeds on non-reality. I'm sure this can be taken on and on, as far as why I had a fantasy. We all have fantasies. Why that one, though? Why was I primed to have it? Why was I susceptible to that fantasy? Well, uh, beet red again, that's the whole thing, it's embarrassing to say.... You have certain qualities that are very attractive in my imagination that I got from Spring, that I got from what the actual Stacey created with your actual words (input) in topics, and from what others inputted and I inputted in reaction to your inputs....it's all that mixing together. There are lower level fantasies that happen all the time that are verbalized all the time and not just on the couch in Philosophy. All the time, doesn't mean every response, it means somebody will usually verbalize that fantasy kinda thing about another person in some form every day. I do it with everyone: Autumn is statuesque, Wolf is funny and folksy and expressive, Riette is uncannily invigorating and revealing. That's silly saying Autumn is statuesque, cuz she's lotsa cool stuff. I was being simplistic about all three. But with each one there is an attraction. There is a fantasy of what would it be like to see them. What would it be like if they got to really like me. What would it be like if some of those couch things really happened. Fantasy drives the casual informality of how we do Spring sometimes, not all the time. A healthy Spring means a healthy fantasy (when we're talkin' about fantasy, that is). A healthy Spring means a lot more than just healthy fantasies, of course. Is this helping any? Am I making much sense? Isn't this worthwhile to bring up? I'm attracted to certain qualities of wer, too. It's not just attraction, it's also fantasy. I've fantasized that wer and i were together hangin' out and I was takin' in his qualities, albeit not in a romantic or erotic or love sense, except love of his brilliance and humor and personality, certain qualities of all three. The fantasy I had of you, Stacey, I can't recall if it occurred during or after I read your response to my poem, remember the fantasy was very short-lasting, maybe 5 seconds or less. But it was not a usual fantasy. It had an added potency. That's why I mentioned it, or one reason why. There's something I couldn't say about it till now, and I don't know why I'm saying this (the rest of this sentence) but this might have more to do with your second possibility (the love of a woman in general) than the other two possibilities. Here's what I couldn't say till now: the fantasy itself (don't forget, this is more like a memory of a memory at this point) somehow made it all the way in and touched my soul. I mean, what I'm saying is, even though it happened, and it was what it was, the fantasy that it was, it also was of a quality of feeling pure, heartfelt and innocent....oops I just remembered that I had earlier remembered it as succulent....ok, it was pure, heartfelt, innocent and succulent. That's why I decided to override my fears of arousing suspicion and stirring up uncomfortability (even of the kind where a person may have to lie down). I just thought to myself, well, it happened. It's truth now, a fact, and a fact of life. And the other thought I had was: why not erase all this before I send it out, and just not send it out [I'm talking about what I was thinking during response #(not #25, it was before #25 and after your response to my poem....I can't go back there to find out the actual number or I'll lose this post, I think)--ok, so why not erase it and not send it, cuz I coulda, I saw what I was doing and did it anyway, and that's because...? It's because this fantasy, though embarrassing, was virtuous, though succulent....I was prepared to suffer possible humiliation in the service of being vulnerable in the face of what happens when a messenger (me, sorta allegorically speaking) brings news of a certain significance. Often the receivers of that certain significance decide that the news implicates the messenger in a way that the messenger had or hadn't suspected, and the implications can have a certain significance for the news receivers that results in lets kill the messenger.....or mete out punishment or banishment. I wanted to be frank. Wanted to be honest. I wanted to report to you what happened. And now i want you to know that what I make of that fantasy is that it was a vision that was a mirage, and I know it. How will I act on it? By doing nothing except this reporting of it. How are you feeling about all this? I'm concerned about the uncomfortability factor. Is it there now, where it wasn't before? This is also, in a way, about how poetry affects us, in a way, in a way, in a way.......reactions to it catalyze other reactions....blahblahblah. I could be coming across to some of you as immoral....maybe to all of you,now.....maybe none of you. Alotta stuff I said in this post, just wasn't ready to be said in post #25, and stuff in post #25 I couldn't say in the the post that was right after your-reaction-to-my-poem post, Stacey. This wasn't so easy to do. Our society and everything.....MEN....or SOME men....not me not me not me not me... And the "some things are better left unsaid, Jim" factor. No one here has said that to me. Just so everyone hears me say this, I'm not going to do anything to your life, Stacey....in other words, I will remain as I have been, regarding your life. My question for y'all is, has the harm already been done to you, and now I must pay? Please feel free to say it would be better if I were not here at Spring. It only takes one of you and I'm gone. I would want to be gone. It would not be a problem. It would be a relief to know I wasn't doing any further harm, at least to who I may be harming here at Spring. This is a community that can be healthy and wholesome, and that takes accountability and us being willing to be really frank with each other, and intelligent about it, effective and discerning, and able to move together with the movement of the heart.....so says weird wacko Jim. Ask me anything. Tell me anything.

no Jim, it wouldn't 'take one of' us for you to be gone. You are already a huge part of us. And I'd hate for, now that you feel you've revealed the previously unrevealable, that your position in my life whould remain stagnant. We all adore you. Or maybe I should only speak for myself. I understand a five second fantasy, heck, perhaps I'd understand more if you said you had it everytime you logged on to the spring. You see, I too have felt the twinge, the 'what if?' the 'what not?', the sense that perhaps ou understand me more completely than the man I sleep next to every night, the thought that perhaps you could touch me physically as deeply as you touch me mentally, spritually and virtually. I've thought it all. (and I've also been unable to express it) I didn't intend to 'call you out' but perhaps I'm glad I did. The fact that you have similar sensations makes mine seem not so unusual (or inappropriate) I like the fantasy, sometimes it causes me true physical sensations... warmth, anger, sadness, joy... all somewhere within the butterfly net in my middle and lower abdomen. I wonder what we would talk about over a beer, I wonder how you would react if I gave you a hug, I'd love to hear you laugh and to see the look on your face when you're nervous, or proud of yourself, or angry, or happy, or in love. I've printed out posts of yours, put them in my journal but somehow never thought... well, I just never thought. I enjoy the posts, I adore the poetry, I respect the stream of conscious musings and I'm sending you a smile via the electronic ether to let you know that everything is allright.

thank you two for showing me how conversations between friends should be I applaud the both of you

yeah, thanks for showing me too, Stacey. that WAS a conversation. how do you do that? you seem to settle into such a perfectly natural personal circle of sharing. there's this word that's cruising on a fine line through my mind. innate innate innate it's innate with you. you're one of those ones who knows. I just had no idea a person could be that understanding. I've never had the feeling that I've been related to like that. I gotta find somebody in this Austin town to fall in love with. Someone who has real intelligence....REAL intelligence. Human intelligence....the kind that can grow wings....the kind that soars... Now I really see the worth. No one's ever brought that home to me like today. This is just amazing.

(sitting here content) well I'm certainly glad we were able to work through that! and I am extremely grateful for the opportunity.

By the way, if you don't mind, I'm taking the bit about good communication as a huge compliment (certainly not as flattery! *smile*) and... thank you.

To Believe And should the light pale inbetween Or the shifting sky move to extreme, "You would find shelter here," said He. When tall mountains fall into the sea And valleys fill up with Man's debris, "You would find shelter here," said He. If all the Earth's treasures were held in the sky, The stars could all fall, the truth become lie, "And you would find shelter here," said He. When they all scorn and sneer out your name, Should hate and love become one and the same, "You would find shelter here," said He. We then raised our heads to see He who's higher, His arms stretched out with love never tire, "Come and take shelter here," said He.

that's really pretty wolf. I especially like the part about hate and love becoming the same and truth becoming lie.

thanks....

Very nice, Wolf.

t'anks *smile*

good work, elke... liked it very much...

thanks....you written anything lately?

nope... not really... not much poetry, anyway...

so you're writing other things? good....give us a sample sometime!

actually been doing a lot more reading than anything else... some other kinds of writing, like i said... but basically just trying to clear my head sort of kind of i guess...

did come up with something today....hmmmm, doesn't have any real stanzas or anything or any rhyme, for that matter...but once i started the words just wrote themselves, so i'm just going to post it the way it came out. Landscape Clouds of such that they were of a woman's white hair being blown by the breeze, perfectly accented by the deep, soft blue of the sky. Have I ever seen eyes the color of a clear day, surely I would remember. The kind of heaven one could lose themself staring into while lying on the green grass, soft. Who'd have thought a spring day in fall? God doth surely have a deft hand with His paintbrushes, a palette from which to choose. All the details not left off for the mind to wonder. All set just so when upon or afar this beautiful lanscape. And does He yet inspire a closer look for the eye to ponder a lady bug, butterfly, among the poppies in the meadow. Let me soul breathe this in, let me be one with Thy canvas. Indeed, as I am part of His marvelous work and thankful am I for being given such a gift.

that's really lovely, elke... it's wonderful, feeling like that...

really? (well, i used the wrong version of me---let MY soul not ME soul) but you all knew what i meant *smile*

and it was like that today!

i'm in austin today... cold and sort of drizzly... (adam's family weather... i love it)

LOL! been like that all week here, love the cool down...

wrote this yesterday... (untitled) cold here now. fading light through the square little window above my bed mirrors in aspect cold- rhythms dead- imaged chaos in my head. i could- in a chosen instant could- decompose. each wasted breath, thought, want, sensory perception beating there- wash away. that i don't- this instant, next- means some little thing less. being man of Man- fool of Fools- given, thus am to subversion's rule- i subvert too. no less than any- undoubtedly so- that is the single rule of that i know- follow that light, however it goes- follow it, whether it to some store of love mislaid in a dreaming heart or within the blackest waste of that some way come dark- follow, whether you live at midnight or noon, whether your god speaks sun or moon- follow that light, dissolving through every spiralling eternity misspent upon your disappearing soul- (it is there i go, then to know- finally finally finally know- each little thing that's left to know) ("remember him poor dreaming thing- didn't know, from one to next wherefore to think or go or be- he was swallowed up, finally, in his goddamn poetry pass the potatoes won't you please?") (nick)

this is interesting (especially the last verse) so what have you been up to lately? it's nice to see your face around here again.

pretty eventful, last few months actually... (paula jane and i were married, 2 weeks ago) been busy concluding business here, moving up northwest fulltime ('til she finishes this year's school, maybe next... she wants to finish at UT, so we'll be back then, maybe)... how bout you? how's work and stuff? kids? etc?

you're not gonna believe what i just did... (shit) (and not to change the subject or anything cause i still wanta know what's up with you and all)- -but i was vandalizing a couple of message boards randomly (very randomly, from the search at insidetheweb.com), posting something i wrote earlier today... and completely without realizing what in the hell i was doing, i posted at the planet (shit) (i mean, i just go there, paste and i'm out... don't even think about it till i'm done)... anyway, how's that for stupid?

congratulations on your marriage, hope you are happy! me and the kids are doing great. can't believe how big they are. the hubby and i will be celebrating out tenth thursday. woohoo!!!

nick, you actually got a comment over there at the planet. gypsy wants to know if you want that piece placed on the board. (oh, and my husband and i will be celebrating OUR not out-oh, well, maybe we WILL be celebrating out-haha)

I. M. Going With ee cumings serial enounters with life Beef - It's What's For Dinner - - - as freedom is a breakfastfood So Power is Uneven Tide or truth can live with right and wrong And Falsehood Dies with Yes and No or molehills are from mountains made And Moles Build Burrows Underground -- long enough and just so long Small Enough and Just that Hidden will being pay the rent of seem Won't Become Earns the Wages of Sin and genius please the talentgang Or Ignorance Annoy the Foolish One and water most encourage flame Or Darkness Snuff thy Tears of Joy -- ee cummings (1940) --I. M. Going (1999)

Peter Pan Poetry Slam | Solomonic Verse DeadLines | LifeLines --------- = --------- Oh, the Tick, Tick, Tock Of the Hungry Clock o Dial Fills My Churning Tummy With a Sick, Sick, Sock Of a Bitter Crock o Bile Up Against the RockWall | Salt Peanut Envy ----------------------- = ---------------- Hempathy Dempathy Sat on a Rock Hempathy Dempathy Sucked on a Sock Hempathy Dempathy Ate a Salt Peanut Hempathy Dempathy Jazzed Up Again

Mouna Kashama is hearing and speech impaired. She teaches mathematics and logic. Her name means "silent forgiveness" in Sanskrit. Here is her poem... silent forgiveness i forgive the mother i never knew for borning me with muffled ears i forgive the gods who tie my tongue and curse me with twisty uterus i thank the spirits who give me eyes to see and a nose to smell, and fingers to touch i thank my mentors who teach me to sign i thank my stars for numbers and books to all these angels i sing my praise... ...and to all my devils i sign my name mouna k'shama

A poem Dan Raphael wrote and posted at another site. NATO Expresses Its Regrets In the search through the ruins Sifting through the debris Stepping over the bodies Of those now made free You can find the card calling The appearance of jets The laser-wired message, "NATO expresses regrets" It is a real-life riddle A question writ in the sky-- To guard innocent people Innocent people must die And we never connect here With there in our sighs At-home killing with killing In the field NATO plies If this is the way out Of crisis chosen by rule Then why can't we see, then, This was taught us in school The classroom is our lives And to learn, our desire So why shock or surprise felt When kids open fire? Hospitals, refugees, embassies, Journalists, homes... NATO expresses our message Where the buffalo roam It is our mirror, our faces true This carnage carnival death Where we babble of peace And hand out bombs with one breath Those who live by it gather The same that they sow Why can't we just see it Why is it so hard to know Meantime, tell the parents Holding the parts of their child A story of protection Of all that is mild Weave them a fantasy world Sing a lovely, sweet song And console them with this thought: It shows we are *strong*

This poem is in the form of a Word Ladder for Autodidactics. Autotutor : Tooterado --------- . --------- Rock Rock : Rock Tock Tick Tock : Rock Sock Awe Toe : Two Tor Too Tor : Awe Toe Rock Tock : Tock Rock Tick Tock : Rock Sock Awe Toe : Two Tor Too Tor : Awe Doe Awe Toe : Too Tor Awe Toe : Two Tor Too Tor : Awe Toe Two Tor : Awe Doe Rock Rock : Tock Talk Talk Tock : Tick Tock Awe Toe : Two Tor Two Tor : Awe Doe .

((((Moulton))))))) We get to do poetry in a poetry Topic finally. Yahoooooooo!

Quantum Leap Who am I? I am... atomic particles, molecules... evolution1s tools which scatter in seeming chaos... second by second, hither and thither, in random projection... rock to fish, table to air, insect to rainbow, entity to non-entity... endless assimilation of form. I am...new meaning...a being one with the universe, composed of atoms, which make up clay and mountains air and space encompassed in one minuscule grain of sand on the farthest star. A part of cloud, raindrop, lightening and wind. I am...sacred text, written with a drop of ink, in which I am...but a dwarf of it's essence. I am...the essential part of steel tempered to make complaint new form... in the tear drop of the new born babe, as I was in the fluid of its mother1s womb or in the water flushed down toilets and sinks. Manifest in life or death1s decay... I am...the molecule that exists in the tip of a finger, claw, hoof, or fin. I travel the universe and beyond, existing as everything or nothing perceived by humans. "I am..you and you are me, the walrus, the eggman cu cu ca choo..." existing in a quantum reality of which you know little.. but through my existence you exist... creating all that is , and was, and ever shall be AMEN. I am... the universal blood which flows and binds the creator to the created... incarnate in the petty thief, holy man, perpetrator and victim alike. Partaking in the role of sage and fool... neither race, creed. nor philosophy create a boundary to the I am..I choose as my interim domicile. I blithely "go where no humans have gone" and yet where all humans are destined to have come from and return. Simply put... I am.

that was quite a ride, thank you

Oops, I guess I blew it -- posted a poem in the Intro topic instead of here.

don't worry about it!

No sweatinski.

you can post anywhere you want. there are topics if you feel a piece belongs there.

thanks! :)

(((((Moonbeam))))) (Big Hug) Haven't the time to do more than say Hello. Great to see you in here. Has Pampee come in yet? I haven't slept in two nights so I will read everything when my brain clears up.

sleep deprivation is the best condition to post in!!!

Yes perhaps, but sleep deprivation and crisis combined, do not make for a lucid state from which to post. (sad grin)

okay, I'll give you that one! and here's to hoping your crisis resolves quickly and beneficially!!

This is a poem I wrote some time back, but I would like to dedicate it to Moulton. Playgrounds Whatever happened to the playgrounds... filled with fantasy and dreams? Where all the neighborhood children from across the street and down the block met to play kick-the-can and hide-n-seek. Sidewalks...the boundaries, to Never Never Land, the Wild West, palaces, jungles or Mars, limited only by imagination. The playgrounds... forbidden to grownups, who appeared only as villains and witches come to drag home unwilling spacemen and princesses. The playgrounds still ring with gunshots... but today....children fall shattered like Humpty Dumpty never to be put together again. Pirate ships no longer sail the jewels buried are children. Playgrounds mark boundaries, speeding cars sail by spitting bullets followed by black cars filled with eyes that wail and moan. Childhood fantasies buried by children who never heard of Winnie or Owl never dreamed of Oz Their heroines and heroes peddle dreams in paper and cellophane. Blood feuds and boundaries defined by city blocks and playgrounds in cities of lost souls...lost dreams...lost stories.

very sad.....

Here are some Creation Poems from an Organizational Consultant... The Flaring Forth Scientists say the universe "flared forth" From a single particle, That popped out of the nothingness And exploded into the everything, Like a good idea whose time had come. And each of us comes forth From a single cell, Made from stuff left over from That first particle from nowhere. We, too, flare from there, That primordial blast, To see and celebrate our own creation story; Each of us a good idea whose time has come. ©1997 Chuck McVinney __________________________ Expanding Universe The work of the universe is never done, Consider the evidence: First a dot from nowhere becomes everything, Then keeps changing, changing, and changing, Each change more dramatic than the last, Until complexity simply reigns. Transformation is the pastime of Creation, Creation is creation's business, From lava to rock to life to thought; "What next?" the emerging spirit asks: "Stay tuned" the universe responds, "The best is yet to come." __________________________   And Now The Dawn First light we hear, was said not made, a work of art from a word; Words are work, too, when they create a city, or a whole universe. Why not believe in that primordial moment when thought became; No other reason, not one other sound, can ever call its name. ________________________   Light of the Mist Out of the mist came the morning As if it was hiding there all along, Mist - keeping the sun safe from the night, Single handedly protecting the secret of the light. Showers of photons everywhere, so many, Bouncing and streaking like some crazy barrage of bullets Multiplying, or so it seems, as they cascade one over the other Through the foggy banks that billow tall in the early, wet sky. To catch such a photon, with lens and eye, is like Touching a moment in the history of time. The soul, too, stirs at the touching, its memory kindled That it too is light. Trapped, though lovingly, in matters cage, The soul responds with its eternal gaze; After all, gravity, too, is matters memory it once was light. The lifting soul rejoices in the promise of the mist; That it, too, will escape from the darkness brought on by night. __________________________ A Question of Prosperity What tells the value of these raindrops in the trees? Or of the light thats dancing in the leaves? Are they measured in their abundance? Or by their scarcities? Is this just God playing with his toys? Or, was all of it meant from the very beginning Just for you, and just for me?

Dawnis tells me that the Word Latter Poetry I introduced in is a new poetic form that she had not seen before. So perhaps I should say more about it. There is a kind of puzzle called a Word Ladder in which you start with a given word, and produce a sequence of words by changing one letter at a time, until you come to a final word that is in some sense the opposite of the starting word. I've liberalized the rigid rules of word ladders puzzles and adapted it to poetry so that one starts with some simple sing-song phrase and gradually morphs it to something interesting. In the word latter poem, Autotutor Tooterado, there was an added wrinkle that to the left and right of the "reflector" the phrases are mirrored in some interesting (if vague) way. I sent this puzzle to Wil Shortz, the NY Times and NPR Puzzlemeister, suggesting it as a challenge. If you look up the bio page on Wil Shortz on the NPR site, it says he lives in a Tudor style house and drives a sports car. So I proposed he take Autotutor : Tooterado and morph it into a 3-syllable word ladder reflector poem that ended with OddOldTudor : TwoDoorAudi

hmm...word ladders, interesting....have worked them in puzzle books but haven't seen any used for poetry before....

Ring Ding : Ding Dong Sing Song : Ping Pong Bomp Romp : Camp Lamp Home Dome : Long Bong Word Bird : Herd Gird Nerd Furd : Chez Curd Bump Rump : Hump Dump Rink Dink : Tank Sank Nite Nite : Wink Wink Frog Clog : Camp Sink

is it me? i don't get it *grinning*

It is brain gym for dyslexics. (giggle)

This was shared by Jane StarWalker.......felt a need to pass it on! Love to All..... Valerie Eagle Heart ~~~~~~~~ Why Rocks Do Not Sing Alone If you hold a blue rock to your ear. you will hear the ancient river that kept it as its heart. The dry wind that used it for its tongue, and the earth that promised it a mouth of fire. A speckled rock is from the dream of a galloping appaloosa. The herd sings its Ceremony of Grass and their dream-Stones fly from their hooves into the spattered sky. A black rock has the Bear's spirit caught in its last sleep. The song circles the stone, giving it the illusion of fur. All yellow rocks keep the secret of Owls, All green rocks are the breaths of plants singing in nightly joy. A red fist-sized rock is two lovers as their bodies sing on the grass. A gray stone naturally honors our ancestors. It is a word from the common language of the dead. Keep the rocks. Someday you will understand. Rocks do not sing alone. Author Unknown (unless we count Creator!!)

beautiful...

Moonbeam, Thank you for hangin on to the gray stone for me.

i just want to say that it's great to find folks in here again! thank you so much for coming!!

Brain Gym : Train Him Blue Rock : Wind Sock Speckled Clod : Clip Clop Black Stone : Smokey Groan Yellow Pebble : Wisdom Gavel Green Mound : Lichen Bound Red Clay : Lovers Play Gray Tablet : Spirit Inhabit Color Lesson : Rainbow Gladden

A Clear Midnight by Walt Whitman This is thy hour, O soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, Night, sleep, death and the stars.

Mouton like your Poetry for Autistics and Dyslexics. Wolf we are so glad to be here.

On Awakening By Debra Tenney Hot Java early morning crisis caught between sunny side up, and scrambled egg imperatives. Yesterday's burnt toast dressed in lumpy oatmeal has found its way into a trash can, over-full with coupon madness, milk cartons, unpaid bills and Tuesday's moldy eggplant on a suicide mission. The tube chants Regis and Cathy Lee mantras, garbage disposal humor grinding its way through the early morning chill. Pop Tart commercials and Barry Manalow render their greatest hits, assaulting the mind like a Waring Blender set on puree. As from the trash Tuesday's egg plant, finds new meaning to life, slithering to the floor as if to change its ways. In the laundry room, the washing machine kick boxes it1s way past boxes of classic Tee shirts, posters espousing 19701s rhetoric, and Tuesday's egg plant spills out its soul on the kitchen floor with soap opera abandon. In flip flops and oversized sweatshirt cracking eggs onto a cast iron skillet... I flip the eggplant back into the trash, flip the last egg, and flip off the tube... shooting a raspberry at the harmonic duo as they pixelate back to Never-Never Land delivering morning's manna to a bleary eyed brood. With eggplant resolve, pour myself another cup of hot Java midmorning mania

There is Purple Prose, and there is Eggplant Poetry. I like Eggplant Poetry better.

I feel intimidated here, but want to say it's nice to read you who are not.

I'm too naive to be intimidated. Everybody knows I've never tried my hand at poetry before, so anything I do is a net gain. Now if I had a reputation to live up, that would be a different story.

or epic poem...

Epic? Sort of like this? Psychi�s Reply � Hard core feminist, HA! What do you know of� passive aggressive terrorism? Boy child, Breast explodes out of Cupid mouth like a hot-air balloon. Infant body, gondola like, clings to life source. I watch you suckle and years of denied understanding... illuminated. Joy...wonder felt� for the first time at peace with my bosom. NO! Incensed with realization that all humanity was nurtured at this woman�s hearth.... cornucopia of life giving nectar: Gods and mortals alike take sustenance here. Full grown...you stand before me,� impale my psyche with vile words.... tits, boobs, hooters, knockers. Labels spit out by the same lips� that once tenuously clung to life, abundance given freely at woman's breast. You attach obscenity to the very act that brought you forth. Pornographic implication adorns the womb into which� you cast your seed, as if the sacred nursery from which you emerge� were the inquisitor�s dungeon you cast my sisters into as you tried to erase the knowing.... It was Woman who wiped� your fevered brow and vomit when your youth had not yet equipped you for such tasks. We cradled you in loving arms,� wishing only to take your suffering unto ourselves. It was Woman who aided your first step, gave your babble meaning and� taught you to hold your head high when cruel words from peers sent you sobbing into our arms; for non knew better those poisoned barbs which leak their venom deep into virgin souls, leaving spider web fissures; microscopic death traps of spirit� that lay seemingly dormant until one becomes entangled in a cocoon of doubt and misconception a slave to every bully puppeteer who will not desist� until who you are...is rent asunder... laid to rest in a graveyard of inconsequence. Today, youth gone,� the Cupid mouth stern and righteous, you call me hard-core feminist. A tough old bird, armored in iron and steel. Tears of frustration long dried up,� cemented into resolve... encased in shallow graves,� hastily dug while dodging snipers� in an undeclared holy-war of �might is right.� Because i refuse to bow my head,� acquiesce and titter glibly� at obscene jokes about my womaness� or put on chains and submit� to comatose servitude... a �damsel in distress.� When i refuse to remain silent� before your rationalizations of male �manifest destiny,� which you brandish like a� crucifix to ward off evil, or claim my right to respect.... for this, you declare me your nemesis, gather up kindling, burn me at the stake,=...or� upon your funeral pyres of inequality, so that I may not shine and illuminate the fallacy of your faux paux kingdom,� which binds both our realities into separate dungeons... and you come no longer unfettered to my breast. ���� By Debra Tenney �

All right, DEBRA!!!! * applause *

Thank you sweet one,

Angel Construction Kit 1. Build a Flying Machine 2. Practice the Healing Arts This has been a public service message of the Orenda Flying Machine and Healing Arts Society.

((((((((Moulton)))))))))) (Big Hug)

Welcome to NeverNever Land, Wendy.

Why Peter you really must grow up you know. (chuckle)

The Bridge Builder --by Will Allen Dromgoole An old man, going a lone highway, Came at the evening, cold and gray, To a chasm, vast and deep and wide, Through which was flowing a sullen tide. The old man crossed in the twilight dim; The sullen stream had no fears for him; But he turned when safe on the other side and built a bridge to span the tide. "Old man," said a fellow pilgrim near, "You are wasting strength with building here; Your journey will end with the ending day; You never again must pass this way; You have crossed the chasm, deep and wide -- Why build you the bridge at the eventide?" The builder lifted his old gray head; "Good friend, in the path I have come," he said, There followeth after me today A youth whose feet must pass this way, This chasm that has been naught to me To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be. He, too, must cross in the twilight dim; Good friend, I am building the bridge for him!" --Will Allen Dromgoole

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?!