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5164. RickNelson - 2/15/2004 12:54:55 AM Feelings Are Intense: 2-15-2004
The one and only complete sentiment
Watch the roses paces to see the leaves
And little places; that slow down
the feeling of where, when, how?
The trickle of sand’s last grain swirl
Spinning into the equation maximus.
Then, run under a giant tree,
Whose giant leaves shield you.
Only then, to realize- stop, drop and roll.
The place where the phoenix burns,
And the sand blown of storm’s wind,
For your clear mind’s eye sees the ripples.
The sand burns no more, the sun no longer burns.
Walk along the place that you are, breathing
The wisps of ashes, flowers and egos.
There the horizon evokes marbleized color.
Sit now together, with whom one would be,
No longer breathless to feel, and the hand
Is there, touching your arm, your hand, your lip.
Sing then, the song, the beat or melody, be happy.
5165. RickNelson - 2/15/2004 1:33:13 AM Poetry friends. In the Cafe I posted about expecting a new member to my family in message 7048.
Also, any comments are welcome toward the poem above in msg. 5164.
5166. justears - 2/15/2004 3:17:21 AM Congratulations rick! I find your poem evocative of joy and rebirth. Reminds me a bit of Blake's famous line about seeing a world in a grain of sand. I like the intimacy at the conclusion. 5167. justears - 2/20/2004 2:59:07 AM This morning the dawn
painted the eastern faces
of the frozen trees
pink.
5168. RickNelson - 2/21/2004 10:57:59 PM Memory Unfaded:
It lacks cake and candles, a solo,
that little boy’s black and white photo.
It’s a cool fall day, overcast gray.
The little boy alone, intent upon play.
Nothing revealed beyond image imagined
And what does that mean?! Emphasis ‘that!’.
I’m that little boy in gray-scale,
standing on a sidewalk, and I know
too much now. How small hands
touch emotion and observe others.
From that photo, my hands grasp
a board, perhaps my sword?
But, I don’t swagger and stab,
and pose for my pirate debut,
I stop, and hold the board up
to cover my left eye.
From there I peer at you-
Why?
5169. uzmakk - 3/2/2004 12:11:28 AM Have you ever heard this one, Ladies and Gentlemen?
Christian science is to science as science fiction is to fiction.
5170. justears - 3/2/2004 11:04:50 PM Outlet Song
At the outlet mall
we are all connoisseurs
on a delectable voyage.
Versace, Cole-Haan, Malo
Saks off 5th, Karan, Lauren
Prices marked down and
down--
the best within reach
for one and all—
20%, 40%, 60%
off---
SOLD1
Every language echoes
Russian, Spanish, Hindi
Korean, Arabic
all in one voice
The thin, the fat,
the swarthy, the young
the old, the hip,
the square, every race
known to man
and perhaps more.
The goods trickle down.
Bruno Magli—
“Aren’t those the shoes O.J. wears?”
Beene, Bass and Brooks,
Hilfiger, Klein--Anne and Calvin.
On the promenade
A big chocolate poodle,
leashed,
well-groomed struts,
much at home.
Cozy as
a colonial village
on a hill,
peace reigns,
gentle rock anthems
sound down the avenue,
babies in strollers,
America is at home.
It’s Christmas every day of the year
at the outlet mall.
Breasts, bellies, biceps, legs and hips
on display.
Voices in awed tones:
“Versace?”
Ears sprout, noses grow
the braying begins.
5171. RickNelson - 3/2/2004 11:38:06 PM There's enough humour that the subject matter of malls is transcended. I am cajoled to think of a world view while I read this.
The ending made me grin 'braying begins' gives those images of harassed shoppers vieing for the deal they just want too much.
This is a good job with a subject that I wouldn't particularly want to write myself. I live in the land of 10,000 malls, Minnesota. We've got malls per capita here, and the world's largest mall to boot. I'm pretty sick of malls.
You've taken a higher point of view justears. Good job. 5172. justears - 3/3/2004 12:05:08 AM Thanks Rick. It is an odd subject, unexpected for me too. This particular mall is on I-95 between NYC and Boston and perhaps because of its location, draws a lot of different types of people. 5173. NuPlanetOne - 3/11/2004 3:04:25 AM
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Snow Piles
The dirty snow is almost gone
A few piles sit where the plows
Pushed it. They bleed little trails
Of water like the tracks of snails
Or like the pattern in bloodshot eyes
The rivulets sparkling in the late march
Air, glistening as they make their way
To seep into things and awaken flies
And foliage and begin the burst of Spring
An odd sign of Spring, I suppose
But in the city listening for more subtle
Underpinnings is lost in the traffic horns
And the scorns of pedestrians and scowls
And ungodly howls from bustling shoppers
Yet, the dead dying dirty snow mounds
Shrinking steadily amidst these sounds
Hardly go unnoticed. Here and there some
Do stop or lean complacently for a second
Or two and let the sun hit them. They do
Look up at the sky and acknowledge the
New angle the light is taking. A few coats
Over arms and the smiles they had been
Faking, seem sincere as if hope had descended
And a battle had ended and now they might
Begin again. And even though a slight bite
Rides on the breeze and drafts around the edges
And byways of buildings, there is no freeze
No bracing or placing your hands deep in their
Holes. It has begun and soon they will sweep
Away the sand and soot where the snow piles
Once stood. It will get warm again. And that is good.
5174. wonkers2 - 3/14/2004 5:41:04 AM Both Bush, a mendacious bewitcher
And sly Cheney, his policy pitcher,
Scheme for taxes and oil
And will let nothing foil
Their sick plot for the rich to get richer.
Jack Kevorkian, from prison, 2004. 5175. anomie - 3/20/2004 7:09:13 AM A timely poem by e.e. cummings
Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere) arranging
a window, into which people look (while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here) and
changing everything carefully
spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things, while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there) and
without breaking anything. 5176. Linnea - 3/20/2004 7:19:03 AM Hey, my favorite spring poem is also by e.e. cummings:
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it's
spring
and
the
goat-footed
balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
5177. arkymalarky - 3/20/2004 7:39:05 AM I love those, and I like this one (I hate when I brain-fart a well-known name):
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with snow along the bough
And stands across the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now of my three-score years and ten
Twenty will not come again;
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to see the trees in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodland I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
5178. arkymalarky - 3/20/2004 7:44:41 AM AE Housman 5179. anomie - 3/20/2004 7:49:04 AM I always see cummings' little lame balloon man from behind for some reason, a tilted walk toward the dark.
I hope I live three score and ten! 5180. wonkers2 - 3/20/2004 7:49:38 AM Spring is sprung
The grass is riz
I wonder where the birdies is!
Anon. 5181. anomie - 3/20/2004 7:53:33 AM I swear they're all outside my bedroom window. I live on the third floor and must always have my windows open and there musty be ten nests outside, built under the eves.
It may sound strange to some but the bird cacaphony can be quite irritating. Good thing I'm an earlybird (so to speak - Ha!), cause they start sqawking at 4 AM 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.
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