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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. 5202. RickNelson - 4/25/2004 11:55:50 PM Poetry Daily: 2 poems by Nicholas Christopher
This is the one I like. In St.Paul Minnesota there is a Como Lake, that's why I like this one. There's a Como Park and a Como Zoo too. These are 3 great places.
Lake Como
The searchlight of a February moon
at the end of the street
bare trees black railing
an eastern star set like a pearl atop a steeple
that shadows the doorway
where the one-armed card sharp squats
shuffling his deck on a milk crate
waiting for the No.6 bus to discharge
the off-duty cop the seamstress
the drunken mechanic and the clerk on crutches
who pauses before his building to watch
the mechanic lose three dollars at blackjack
and then stiffly ascends the five flights
to his two rooms on a shaftway
hanging his coat on a hook
and sitting down at the table
on which this morning he placed
a soup bowl and spoon
a tin of crackers and the crossword
puzzle he had been laboring over
beneath the gaze of his late wife
her color photograph propped up in a small frame
a young woman in a boxy dress and felt cap
waving shyly by the edge of a lake
where over her shoulder beneath a clear sky
a sailboat rides the wind
passengers on the polished deck
gazing at the glowing mountain peaks
the cypresses lining the shore
and the pink palazzi with ancient gardens
these men and women in white
who seem to live upon the water
gliding among themselves oblivious to strife
and all else that wears a body down
some sipping from crystal goblets
others just drinking in the light
5203. Macnas - 4/26/2004 7:15:25 PM Rick, its good to see you.
We were on the beach over Easter, looking at the kids playing by the waters edge put me in mind of some poems:
Dance there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water's roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool's triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind!
5204. Macnas - 4/26/2004 7:21:04 PM And of course, put me in mind of my own youth and mortality:
Only last week, walking the hushed fields
Of our most lovely Meath, now thinned by November,
I came to where the road from Laracor leads
To the Boyne river--that seems more lake than river,
Stretched in uneasy light and stript of reeds.
And walking longside an old weir
Of my people's, where nothing stirs--only the shadowed
Leaden flight of a heron up the lean air--
I went unmanly with grief, knowing how my father,
Happy though captive in years, walked last with me there.
Yes, happy in Meath with me for a day
He walked, taking stock of herds hid in their own breathing;
And naming colts, gusty as wind, once steered by his hand,
Lightnings winked in the eyes that were half shy in greeting
Old friends--the wild blades, when he gallivanted the land.
For that proud, wayward man now my heart breaks--
Breaks for that man whose mind was a secret eyrie,
Whose kind hand was sole signet of his race,
Who curbed me, scorned my green ways, yet increasingly loved me
Till Death drew its grey blind down his face.
And yet I am pleased that even my reckless ways
Are living shades of his rich calms and passions--
Witnesses for him and for those faint namesakes
With whom now he is one, under yew branches,
Yes, one in a graven silence no bird breaks.
5205. RickNelson - 4/27/2004 10:15:41 PM Thanks Macnas, your poems are very good. I'm thinking that second offering will repeatedly be a good read.
From Slate's Poem offering, I found it a good topic.
"#883" by Emily Dickinson
Read by Robert Pinsky
Posted Tuesday, April 27, 2004, at 6:26 AM PT
"Slate has observed Poetry Month for the last three weeks by publishing poems that are not part of the usual repertoire of poetry celebrating poetry. Here is the final (and most celebratory) installment, Emily Dickinson's proposition that the poet is mortal, while the poem is not, if it is vital. She also seems to say that each age widens or disseminates the light of a poem in a different way."
Listen to Robert Pinsky reading Emily Dickinson's #883
#883
The Poets light but Lamps—
Themselves—go out—
The Wicks they stimulate—
If vital Light
Inhere as do the Suns—
Each age a Lens
Disseminating their
Circumference—
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