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5109. ScreamingSin - 11/21/2003 2:58:15 PM Whiskey River - Willie Nelson
Whiskey River, take my mind
Don't let a memory talk to me
Whiskey River, don't run dry
You're all I got, take care of me
I'm drowning in a Whiskey River
Bathing my memory's mind in the wetness of its soul
Feeling the amber current flowing from my mind
To warm an empty heart you left so cold 5110. RickNelson - 11/21/2003 9:29:00 PM Good ol' Willie.
What might you compare SS? The quality of sound? Willie's good, I like his timbre. 5111. ScreamingSin - 11/25/2003 4:34:22 PM Loyalty's a funny thing
It gets you in trouble
Loyalty gets you in a bed
Where you get tangled in the sheets
Loyalty has a limit
And there's a time when its repaid
Loyalty 5112. RickNelson - 11/27/2003 1:49:38 AM "This is the Minneapolis Police,
The party is over." and no solice
Which stinks, when you sit in the sink,
of this cold life. It's easy to think
there may be a link, inpired of our fascinating
streets, and the prospect of reminiscing.
A replacement may not be your cure, but I contend,
a picture of you proves I'm a regular to the end. 5113. Macnas - 11/27/2003 4:47:50 PM The wagrant wind's awalt'zaround the piltdowns and on every blasted knollyrock (if you can spot fifty I spy four more) there's that gnarlybird ygathering, a runalittle, doalittle, preealittle, pouralittle,wipealittle, kicksalittle, severalittle, eatalittle, whinealittle, kenalittle, helfalittle, pelfalittle gnarlybird. A verytableland of bleakbardfields! Under his seven wrothschields lies one, Lumproar. His glav toside
him. Skud ontorsed. Our pigeons pair are flewn for northcliffs.
You know, I think Joyce was having a laugh.
5114. Macnas - 11/30/2003 4:45:17 PM A bit of a poem, from Yeats:
When her soul flies to the predestined dancing-place
(I have no speech but symbol, the pagan speech I made
Amid the dreams of youth) let her come face to face,
Amid that first astonishment, with Grania's shade,
All but the terrors of the woodland flight forgot
That made her Diarmuid dear, and some old cardinal
Pacing with half-closed eyelids in a sunny spot
Who had murmured of Giorgione at his latest breath --
Aye, and Achilles, Timor, Babar, Barhaim, all
Who have lived in joy and laughed into the face of Death.
5115. RickNelson - 12/11/2003 11:07:25 PM Macnas,
I've meant to thank you for the excerpt of Joyce's Finnegans Wake and the Yeats. 5116. justears - 12/20/2003 9:05:20 AM I've always liked this poem by Emily Dickinson and use it as a reference when I think about pseudo-justifications for war.
SUCCESS is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple host 5
Who took the flag to-day
Can tell the definition,
So clear, of victory,
As he, defeated, dying,
On whose forbidden ear 10
The distant strains of triumph
Break, agonized and clear.
5117. RickNelson - 12/20/2003 9:43:54 AM Good to read a post justears.
I've been reading various poems this week.
A few I ponder
and here I wonder
if n'er blue
then what hue?
Robert Frost:
A LATE WALK-
When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.
And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words
A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.
I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.
5118. NuPlanetOne - 1/1/2004 6:06:24 AM Resolution: New Levis and a Carton of Marlboros
New Year’s day two thousand four
Has arrived on time at least I’m sure
Today’s Thursday. I had some dreams
On Wednesday it seems and I swore
To the Gods and the Devil once more
I will change. Set goals. Beat the odds
Re-arrange my priorities. Complete and get
Some direction. But now it is three and
I can already see that resolutions made
Are like jeans that fade with washing
And look better with time. Easy to wear
Put on year after year until it is clear
You need new ones. Desires are the same
Some wishes fit well and no one can tell
You’ve had them before. My dreams
Have faded, torn and frazzled. But they
Fit! A hole at the knee. Busted zipper
Yet they keep me going. Keep me dazzled
Tried and trusted. As if a new sudden hope
Could alter me in an instant. Nope!
I like the old ones. So my new wishes
And dreams will just be different looking
Schemes. Unfaded. And as the years go by
With the washing and the wearing, like my
Jeans, these promises will fit. And no one
Will notice come Sunday, I really didn’t quit
Smoking.
5119. arkymalarky - 1/1/2004 6:29:43 AM Hey, a Nu Year's poem! It must be a harbinger of a great 2004! 5120. wonkers2 - 1/1/2004 9:07:31 AM Justears, why don't you post some of your own poems? 5121. justears - 1/2/2004 11:09:58 AM OK Wonkers, Thanks for asking. Here's a short one:
High View
Stone other self, you watch on high view,
Solemn, indifferent, adamantine
While I alternately rage and whine,
Search rubble and slime
For any clue. 5122. wonkers2 - 1/2/2004 1:35:11 PM Not bad! I think I understand what you're saying and have similar feelings from time to time. 5123. ScreamingSin - 1/2/2004 2:59:41 PM Happy New Year, Motie Poties. I like this one lotsa
ONE IS ONE by Marie Ponsot
Heart, you bully, you punk, I'm wrecked, I'm shocked
stiff. You? you still try to rule the world - though
I've got you: identified, starving, locked
in a cage you will not leave alive, no
matter how you hate it, pound its walls
& thrill its corridors with messages.
Brute. Spy. I trusted you. Now you reel & brawl
in your cell but I'm deaf to your rages,
your greed to go solo, your eloquent
threats of worse things you (knowing me) could do.
You scare me, bragging you're a double agent
since jailers are prisoners' prisoners too.
Think! Reform! Make us one. Join the rest of us,
and joy may come, and make its test of us. 5124. angel-five - 1/2/2004 3:23:16 PM the heavens are in autumn,
and spring will never come again
as ours does writhing up from snow
awakening the death of trees
within the blooming kernel seed,
all that comes once comes again
except in heaven
where the center can no longer hold
and summer's fire no longer burns the blood
and thrills the mind. Such things burn down
to coals, cinders that in their heart
remember when they were growing green.
They know their season's call,
at last to sleep, but not to dream.
The City on the Hill comes bleak,
our best intentions brick on brick
unfinished jagged against the sky,
the high water mark of our rising
receding back to lap within the well
with quiet voices answering each turn,
not loud, barely discerned.
Our prayers blow down the streets
like drifting leaves long turning brown,
scentless but for air, mounding
at the gates of town. Leave a candle
to burn before you go, these places
deserve better than to fall away
into their own unmade dreams.
Heaven's in the autumn, child,
and with winter comes the end. 5125. ScreamingSin - 1/2/2004 3:31:11 PM to sleep, but not to dream
hmmm 5127. ScreamingSin - 1/2/2004 4:27:20 PM - 5128. arkymalarky - 1/3/2004 1:26:25 AM Wonderful revival of the Poetry thread! PLEASE keep it up! 5129. justears - 1/3/2004 6:04:25 AM A recent effort:
I hadn’t realized just how much I hated it,
That monstrous Bavarian Tower
Easily a fascist’s last redoubt,
Across the valley on top of the line of hills
Which separate us from Twain and Steven’s city,
Heublein erected his erection signifying
His passion for his wife,
A magnate’s hubris:
Why not interrupt the horizon
To declare my love?
Until one day,
Gazing across our feminist fields
On a snowy day,
It disappeared in the gray mist and white snow.
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