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5141. NuPlanetOne - 1/14/2004 6:50:14 AM
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Greeting all…..
There are some nice things posted here…….. angel-five…*phoebus in december* is just marvelous. Powerful. Damn good ready for publication poetry. Very nice.
Anyway…..hope to get in here more often and post and read. So nice to see some of you still at it…..rick…..good read on angel’s poem…….and justears……….just wonderful! I’m reading back to see what else I have missed. I think I have been associated with this forum in it’s various guises now for at least 8 yrs……wow! Spanning 2 centuries……….ha! Ciao for now.
5142. justears - 1/18/2004 11:22:36 AM Thanks for the notes of appreciation Nu, Rick and Sin. W.S.Merwin is a favorite of mine. A5 your poems are exceptionally honest and evocative. 5143. justears - 1/20/2004 11:28:47 PM The Beaver and the Flyfisherman
It’s a standoff
And the Beaver is Pissed off.
The Flyfisherman sees
a likely deep pool
behind the lodge but
The Beaver sees
an Intruder.
The war begins with a sudden
loud splash behind
the Flyfisherman
which makes him think
a Savage on shore must
be throwing big rocks.
Spooked but undeterred, he
fishes on while the Beaver
tries to make himself even clearer,
patrolling the full extent of his domain
up and down the river.
Downwind, he treads water and
histrionically sniffs the air
as if to say—“Who is this obtuse asshole in my pool?”
Back and forth, back and forth
not ten feet from the Fisherman.
And now come Four Gorgeous Ducks
who cruise in peacefully
but intent upon
their business,
they won’t choose sides.
At last
the Flyfisherman,
unlucky in his original mission,
switches to plan two.
5144. uzmakk - 1/21/2004 12:27:27 AM justears:
I just posted your poem elsewhere. Your moniker is attached. I hope you don't mind if it travels a little. 5145. uzmakk - 1/21/2004 12:29:08 AM The chap I sent it to is an avid flyfisherman. 5146. justears - 1/21/2004 2:35:40 AM UZ, Glad you thought well enough of it to pass it on. 5147. wonkers2 - 1/21/2004 2:44:25 AM Nice poem. JE. Did you catch any? 5148. justears - 1/26/2004 10:55:29 PM Six cock and two hen pheasants
block the gravel road
like Robin Hood’s highwaymen,
they are a proud band
unintimidated by the grumbling
metal monster which grinds up
demanding passage.
All in good time,
All in good time,
we will let you pass
when our due in dignity
has been paid.
Our feathers are beautiful,
well groomed and ready,
our eyes are keen,
our posture alert.
But, just now, we prefer
to walk, our road, thank you.
5149. wonkers2 - 1/27/2004 1:20:32 AM Nice pome! 5150. justears - 1/27/2004 2:40:51 AM Thanks Wonk, Here's another written about the same time:
Fishing with streamers down the Boneyard,
I notice a tree just felled by a beaver,
its pencil-sharpened trunk points to the river.
Approaching it seems a Christmas tree
bedizened with red globes
Hoping perhaps for cherries
Instead I find only crabapples
But the wet fall air is redolent
Of dark, red perfume.
5151. wonkers2 - 1/27/2004 8:11:28 AM Another vivid moment captured in poetry. 5152. HCaulfield - 2/4/2004 5:33:56 PM Sheesh, remind me to not pass through y'all's biosphere w/o some kind of defensive weapon.
I remember when I was a kid, and a bat got in the house.
Pa whacked it with a handy tennis racket.
15-love. 5153. alistairConnor - 2/4/2004 6:13:55 PM hc, welcome. 5154. alistairConnor - 2/4/2004 6:15:15 PM A porcelain woman with a secret smile
Do you embrace the day or only
Remember yesterday's joys
A flower's perfume a blue sky 5155. RickNelson - 2/5/2004 12:34:16 PM hmmmm....
yup.
The day, for sure the day. 5156. ScreamingSin - 2/6/2004 3:15:30 PM The night's not mentioned.
I suppose some of them are implicit in "yesterdays's joys". 5157. justears - 2/9/2004 10:53:59 PM Here's another in the nature-poetry vein. I have never particularly been drawn to such poetry, but here I am writing it. So there.
The Forest
The loggers leave a path:
mud streaks, hewn branches, stumps,
scarred trees, boulders askew—
marks left as if a titan has been dragged
screaming through the forest,
rape and mayhem.
The formerly peaceful walk
through the worshiping trees is now
a tormented vision as of a battlefield done,
the leavings of Grendel’s feast
strewn about.
And next year they will be marked
again with circles of paint
like numbers tattooed on wrists
waiting for the train.
The conversation of the trees
is now stunted--
a stricken, amazed
silence echoes.
The caretakers count
their 40 pieces of silver.
The loggers count their
board-feet and drink another beer.
5158. RickNelson - 2/10/2004 12:07:41 AM That's a very good poem justears. It has a gripping tale to tell, with good line ideas, good sound, and a glib ending that disarms.
I think it would gain strides with the Earth First set, and aid in calling to action.
It's important to me though, that we know context.
The line above is a disclaimer, it's surreal that so much of nature is destroyed for progress and we leave little bits for parks. These parks get management and often look so trodden that it's hard to imagine that this kind of environment once supported life for larger animals. The nuisance deer, the scary cats (and they are), the beaver or muskrat, etc.
5159. RickNelson - 2/10/2004 12:09:49 AM I've been looking around at Black History Month sites. There are a lot of good poems now on the net.
Six poems byJessie Redmon Fauset
(1882-1961)
Famous Black Americans 5160. justears - 2/13/2004 2:34:41 AM Untitled.
A bottle of Yellowstone
out by the windmill, another
concealed in the tack room,
one by the cattle-gate to the pasture.
“Hold on here Tommy”
the gentle uncle pulls the pickup
over at the corner of two fences.
He dismounts and searches the grass,
returns with a bottle of whiskey.
“Here take a nip” passing the bottle,
the amber fire
burns his throat and lights
it all the way down
coating everything with
warmth.
The cold prairie and aching,
bouncing bones
able again.
Kind, wrinkled eyes
survey the treeless sea of grass,
watching for strays
or down fences,
salt blocks needing replacement,
windmills pumping properly.
Once we came upon
six dead cows
struck by lightening.
Dropped where they stood,
bodies randomly arrayed
in a shallow hollow.
Uncle Paul betrayed little feeling
but a quiet dismay,
noting he would call the renderer
when he got back to the house.
The bottle is passed once more.
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