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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.
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.
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