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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. 5161. RickNelson - 2/13/2004 8:13:04 AM
It had to be a Nova
If there's a car you work on
sweat, tear flesh and bleed upon,
and hope will make it, it's
a Nova. That Chevy 350, 4 door
which was the fifth beater in
in seven years to get the stereo.
That piece-meal tape deck, I added
speakers to, boxes in the end.
There in the basement, thirteen
years now. That Nova had to make
it, I would graduate soon and home
was 14 hours away. A damn long drive
in a beater.
When I made it home, I was jubilant
I drove that Nova with pride.
It had made it, and it would
make it, until I drove up to
the end of the drive, and the
crank slipped off. If you've
never heard that, you are lucky.
Rickster
5162. RickNelson - 2/13/2004 8:23:45 AM justears,
I'm into these stories at present. That is, I like your poems. I'm reading a few more of these than I thought or is it that I think is usual?
For me, I'm paying little attention to meter, it's the word I want to break a line that catches me. I don't mess with it, I go with it. How about you? 5163. justears - 2/13/2004 8:39:38 AM Rick, Good question...I'm not sure how i find line breaks. I think there are several ways i could write them. Somehow my mind seems to work in staccato(sp?) phrases and that's where i find the rhythm. I don't worry about meter..which is just the way I have tried to construct poems. On the other hand, i like little narratives. Maybe I should really be trying to write short stories rather than poems.
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