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5182. arkymalarky - 3/20/2004 9:03:25 AM That Anon is a great poet. My dad used to say that one (ret'd lit professor).
He also taught me the shortest poem in the world, entitled "Fleas."
Adam
Had 'em.
I have a funny birds-singing-in-nature story I'll tell in The Good Life. I think I posted it before. 5183. RickNelson - 3/24/2004 12:27:56 AM Blessing these eyes and mind, the words meaning and song plays on and on.
-Rick Nelson 2004.
The Meaning of Touch.
That call last night;
I let it ring, ring, ring
but the echo in my head
bested me, yet buoyed
me like lead ballast.
I desired the fall
the quiet solitude
of quitting faith
and the irony of following
the road less traveled.
Sensing lies, my pleading
thoughts break silencing
waves around each rock
I’ve placed along shoreline,
side upon side upon side.
The heart that I throw
out; too exposed and easily,
maddeningly pyrophoric
proves crosses I bear are
the love cravings of youth.
Their fear snaps the chords
I’ve strung and longed to
Pluck. Melodic strumming
while each sense feels sunlight,
fresh breeze, and light grassy touch.
But sitting there, anywhere,
I must think I have knowledge
of love. That I can believe
it. That’s the faith to quit or not?
Your one touch means all the more.
5184. anomie - 3/28/2004 10:19:38 AM Who knew?
There's a web site called poetry.com. I have a deceased aunt who has some stuff posted there. I'll post some here.
Perhaps we could link this site?
5185. anomie - 3/28/2004 10:20:27 AM I Love You Because
You're the best father in this whole world.
I know because I'm your oldest girl.
You watched over me from the day I was born,
From dark of night, 'til early morn.
Then you would go to work and work all day,
I remember now, it was the W.P.A.
You would come home at night, all frozen and wet,
So tired but you would never fret.
You'd see that we were clothed and fed,
Then you'd tell us a story, and go off to bed.
You raised us in church and taught us to pray,
I thank you Dad more than words can say.
May God be with you on this Father's Day,
And I know he'll watch over you all the way.
We'll, I've grown up now Dad, with my children you see,
I always teach them the things you taught me.
How to be good kids and never stray,
And never, never forget to pray.
You see Dad, hold your head in the air,
And remember we hold you up in prayer.
Letha Ladwig
Copyright ©2004 Letha Ladwig
5186. anomie - 3/28/2004 10:21:45 AM Seasons
It's cold outside and really snowing.
From the looks of the trees, the wind sure is blowing.
It looks like it will last all day.
I hope it will soon be on it's way.
We just have to except what the weather brings.
In hope's that it will soon be spring.
Then the bees will be buzzing, flowers in bloom.
The birds will be singing again real soon.
The green grass will grow long and tall.
We'll have to mow it until fall.
Then the leaves will turn colors and fall to the ground.
Then just start blowing all around.
Then comes winter once again.
Just as it was last year when
It was so cold, wet, and snowy,
Again the wind has begun blowing.
If you wonder where summer was,
It got lost in between cause
The winter, spring, and fall, were so long,
It just stayed where it belonged.
Letha Ladwig
5187. anomie - 3/28/2004 10:23:32 AM Happy Mother's Day
"Mom I love you with all my heart."
I have you know, from the very start.
With skin so soft and silky hair,
Wherever I went you were always there.
You made my dresses out of flour sack,
It didn't matter which was front or back,
I wore them with pride for all to see,
Because you made them with love, for me.
From tin cans and rags, you made with care,
Little rollers for my hair. And for all your care
when I was ill, my wishes and dreams you tried to fulfill.
I would never hurt you as long as I live,
But if I do, I pray you'll forgive. I wish I could be with you on this
special day, but as you know I'll just have to pray.
That someday soon we'll be together,
Come rain, snow, or any weather.
So Mom, today hold your head up high,
And its okay if you want to cry,
Just remember I love you, and it's so true,
I'm really lucky to have a mother like you.
Letha Ladwig
5188. RickNelson - 3/29/2004 12:35:39 AM I see Poetry.com in the butterscotch bar of poetry resources. I may have put it there long ago, or one of our friends helped us out. Either way that's a contribution.
Thanks for sharing this closeness with me and all. There's a thread of heartfelt connections so many of us strive for or have and hold dearly.
I feel like mentioning the wisdom of pain, it's like the tearing of something intangible, yet so real. Therein, to me, is a whole of kindredness, compassion, and powerful knowledge to feel and know the feelings.
These are wonderful times where expression and depth are both bound close and let free by cyber lines. 5189. arkymalarky - 3/31/2004 6:34:13 AM Two poems Mose (my daughter, for those who aren't familiar) just sent me in email:
“Creation”
Am I wrong for giving all of myself,
then begging for you?
Am I strong for standing tall to cover
my weakness that doesn’t allow me to leave?
Am I free because I choose to stay,
Trying to protect the chains that keep me bound?
Am I you,
For being all you have desired of me?
Am I the mistake
That all have sworn I would suffer?
I am myself.
I am who I have allowed you
To invision.
To claim.
To mold.
“Hidden”
I wade through the river,
barefoot,
unsafe.
Tip-toeing over the jagged rocks that line the edges,
Praying
That I will safely reach the gentle pebbles further in.
Will the current pull me under?
Sweep me away?
I still scrape away the rust;
Temporarily ease the pain.
Are you strong enough to not be overcome?
My faith is gone.
Will the sun peek through the clouds
today?
Teasing me
for my naive ways,
pushed back behind
the clouds
after only a brief “hello,”
reminding me
that it still shines.
Everywhere but here. Everywhere I’ll never escape to.
She's been writing poetry ever since she was very little. She wrote the first when she was four or five. I'll dig it up and post it sometime. I'll have to type it since I don't have it on the computer.
5190. arkymalarky - 3/31/2004 6:35:25 AM BTW, she's also been writing songs for the "rock" band she sings and plays keyboard in. 5191. RickNelson - 4/5/2004 11:20:07 PM Mose,
When you've time, post some more poems, comment on poets you like. Arky has shared these and they show you've been around poetic thought for some time.
5192. RickNelson - 4/5/2004 11:25:21 PM Poetry Month!
Another year, another month. But, here's a month to give a little more.
I'll try, you try, we'll all try.
Any style welcome!
I personally want more of Marj's grandfather's poems.
NuPlanetOne, AngelFive, Seamus, Anomie and Toenails could pop up and plant one? I hope?
Linnea I hope will give more?
But, no Motie is off the hook. I'm in the mood to read your stuff.
5193. NuPlanetOne - 4/6/2004 4:18:11 AM ..ok Rick….I will celebrate the month with some new and serious scribbles……but I’m giving away my baby girl this summer…so just color me sappy and sweet with this one…….
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One Tear For My Shirley Temple
Why don’t the stars fall out of the sky?
My little girl asked in that childlike why
The poles that hold them are solid and strong
And they should last forever unless I am wrong
Oh no daddy! I am sure you are right
Yet sometimes they fall and land clear out of sight!
Well that is because when they are put on the poles
The nuts and the bolts are in the wrong holes
But who is in charge of screwing them in?
Couldn’t they check before they begin?
Yes sweetheart but anyone can make a mistake
No matter how hard we try anything can break
Oh daddy! You should be the man in charge of the sky
She said with conviction and a twinkle in her eye
Oh pumpkin I am so busy being a daddy for you
There is nothing in this world I would rather much do!
It’s ok, mommy can be the one in charge of the sky
She does so many things and she even makes pie!
..cont….
5194. NuPlanetOne - 4/6/2004 4:18:31 AM I smiled and told her that her mommy was the best
That she did all the hard things and I did the rest
Oh daddy, you do some hard things too!
Don’t you remember when you found my lost shoe?
Mommy couldn’t find it she yawned as she spoke
Hey! What if she can’t fix stars if they become broke?
Oh no princess she will make them like new
With a little help from me she even made you!
Made me! Yes! She nodded then said with a frown
Then we will help her and those stars won’t fall down!
Good! It’s settled! Mommy’s in charge of the sky
She will fix them real easy and still bake a pie!
Oh daddy! When I grow up I will marry you too!
And I will learn to fix stars and make them like new!
She hugged my neck and made a gleeful wince
But I assured her one day she would marry a prince
Oh no, don’t be silly, that just won’t do
I could never find one as perfect as you!
I smiled and nodded and said that would be fine
That no matter what happens, she would always be mine
And now looking back as we approach her June wedding
I taste a sad tear in the happy ones I’m shedding.
5195. arkymalarky - 4/6/2004 6:22:39 AM Ohhhh, that poem captures a lot. The first time Bob ever cried in front of Mose was when we said goodbye to her at her college dorm this fall.
Congratulations to your daughter, Nu. 5196. RickNelson - 4/6/2004 11:59:00 PM Thanks Nu, as with Arky's Bob I know the seperation tear of leaving my daughter at the dorm. We're sharing a parallel set of feelings. I think you've set your poem to reflect your feelings in a way that will transcend the actual experience. The story of stars can be related to so that the conclusion fits your expression.
I read something by Wei T'ai today, the 11th century Chinese poet, who states "Poetry presents the thing in order to convey the feeling.".
I like the personality of poems created close to the heart. 5197. Jenerator - 4/7/2004 5:16:05 AM Oh Nu, what a wonderful poem. Congratulations to all of you. You should give your daughter a framed copy of this poem. 5198. justears - 4/11/2004 1:46:00 AM
You would return at dusk
with dead ducks
knit together with leather thongs
around necks stretched, heads askew,
soft feathers matted and disarrayed.
Shotguns in cases.
You would open your tripod stool,
sit down, unlace your boots
and peel back your pant-legs
to reveal leeches, like tiny livers
still attached, to your pale calves.
You would light your cigar
and puff until the embers glowed red
and then carefully point the lit end
at the creatures clinging,
which would loosen their hold
and shrivel leaving little bloody wounds.
You would pluck the ducks
stripping them to their nakedness
and then, with a sharp knife, of
their entrails tossed into
buckets.
You would empty your ammunition
belts of red and green shells, store
them neatly back into boxes
labeled Remington or Winchester
on the shelf,
and then wipe the shotguns
with a lightly oiled rag,
storing them back in their
fleeced cases.
You would pick
up your boots, unlace them
and wipe them with neet’s foot oil
until they were soft, deep-brown
and waterproof, ready for
the next trip to the swamp.
Finally, I suppose, you showered
while I ruffled and smoothed feathers
and played with the dog until dinner.
5199. wonkers2 - 4/11/2004 2:20:16 AM Sounds like Hemingway! 5200. justears - 4/12/2004 3:18:58 AM
Beneath the snow-glossed volcano,
fuchsia blossoms float
With scarlet sails
On the jade-green lake.
Trout and salmon
cruise the depths.
Morning clouds hang
low
streaking the horizon between water
and peaks.
5201. RickNelson - 4/25/2004 11:48:21 PM justears,
You've reminded me of my Grandfather's bag of pheasant when I was a kid. Southern Minnesota used to be a great place for pheasant hunting. I suppose private farms still have it. I'm not a hunter, but others in my family are.
I wonder how many of us have been to cabins for fishing trips? That was the best kind of life when I was a kid. Still is, though fishing isn't something I've much time for. I've had few free minutes to enjoy poetry also. I'm sorry for that.
I like your short poem for msg 5200.
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