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5646. Seamus - 4/11/2006 3:58:11 PM dada, Mac. Faic úr.
You? 5647. Macnas - 4/11/2006 4:14:42 PM Go measartha, buiochas le Dia.
5648. Macnas - 4/11/2006 4:18:00 PM But, faic-all happening anseo freisin. 5649. Macnas - 4/11/2006 4:18:47 PM I had to laugh, I hadn't heard "dada" in so many years! 5650. Seamus - 4/11/2006 4:32:34 PM Sea, Mac, buíochas le Dia! (Much may she care to hear from me.)
So, is that a "fair to middlin" measartha, a "your daddy's rich and your mama's good lookin'" one, or is it "when I woke, I reached up and didn't feel the lid of a coffin, so it's a good day"? Just asking.
Because my "measartha's" vary. 5651. Macnas - 4/11/2006 4:35:04 PM Well, considering the drink taken last night, fair to middling just about covers it. 5652. NuPlanetOne - 4/12/2006 9:51:53 PM
…thanks Jen. But that I were soft and warm or understood talent. Yet, I understand your affection. And that is nice!
5653. NuPlanetOne - 4/12/2006 9:52:36 PM Seamus..
I suppose haphazard more reflects my mood during a half hearted attempt to conform or transform, as it were, some of my things. Now and then I confuse my pile of poems with the notion of academic or scholarly significance. An association better officiated by people with diplomas and such, perhaps. It’s just that sometimes I scribble off something I really feel and later admire, and then later on I question why it happens so fast and easily. It just seems like it should be more difficult. The only difficulty is the missing urge. But I count that as the most excruciating part of writing. And if the ladies will excuse the analogy, false no doubt, that is, trying to conjure inspiration out of a vacuum must be like faking an orgasm. Convincing at best, obvious at worst. Eh, old friend?
And having somewhat aroused feelings of mortality by mentioning our beloved ghosts, I too love the notion put up by Judith that ‘hell is loss of memory.’ I have written so often on chords in that melody. The afterlife is only a source of dread and foreboding, if, as an adherent, you confuse right and wrong according to the accumulated and codified tenets of your specific faith bureaucracy. But like the dog that waits days by the corpse of its dead master, if you aren’t a member, you become that dog.
Anyway, the ‘burial blues’ discussion reminded me of my poem for my brother and the obligation of his burial.
HILLS AND VALLEYS
The air that the sun touches
Pushes the cool autumn breeze
Aside, down under the trees
And shady reaches below the hill
This hill, the burial ground
Faces the hill with the white church
Where numerous ministers have made
Their case for eternal splendor
They carried you down then up
And buried you here, solemnly
Yet smiling and resolute knowing
Your soul would not perish
They did not know you, my brother
You big jolly bear of a man
Who wore his gold crucifix on
The same chain with the red horn
Vengeance was yours also, you said
But to harm a stranger was the act
Of a coward. You knew the Stations
Of The Cross. Greed was unforgivable
Hills and valleys, you always said
That is what life is. And in your way
You had a faith that was as pure and
Uncomplicated as such a thing could be
It is not your church, over there
And you cannot smell the candles
Wafting through St. Anthony’s vaulted
Basilica. But forgive me Vitorio,
I found you a hill.
5654. Ulgine Barrows - 4/13/2006 6:39:57 AM "love love love thud of the old plunger"
that's a great line, tell ya what 5655. Ulgine Barrows - 4/13/2006 6:41:26 AM "love love love thud of the old plunger"
that's a great line, tell ya what 5656. Ulgine Barrows - 4/13/2006 6:41:29 AM "love love love thud of the old plunger"
that's a great line, tell ya what 5657. Ulgine Barrows - 4/13/2006 6:53:52 AM hah! it's so important it got posted thrice! 5658. Ulgine Barrows - 4/13/2006 8:16:47 AM Writing poems in the corner booth
No one can save us
But Kim the waitress
No one can save us
But Kim the waitress
Nobody can save us
But Kim the waitress
Always turns me on
!The Green Pajamas 5659. RIckNelson - 4/13/2006 2:59:50 PM Hopes and aspirations, without
contingent controversy.
The whiles of a clear mind.
Set into pattern, complimentary
attitudes; whilst delaying dissatisfactions.
There is vast expanse there,
tillable, rich soil.
Sagacity plays distant tunes,
and distracts-
A form of sheer raiment billows,
unsettles and floats away;
as compelling a gesture
of flung articulation
that's loosed to trundle,
leaving a close and detectable scent.
This guise to lay companion
and guest at ease.
Where confounded conundrum and
cacophonous comparison,
create confusion?
5660. RIckNelson - 4/13/2006 3:07:07 PM Way to go Kim!
I like your corner booth Ulgine.
I'm also happy to see Seamus and so many around. My meager showing is starting to turn. I'm supposing Spring and the time elapsed since my dear aunt passed are quietly working their balm. 5661. RIckNelson - 4/13/2006 3:10:08 PM Nu,
Somewhere no long past you either mentioned or discussed aliteration. That got me going on the one poem I've actually tried for months and months.
I've now actually looked at it, and taken a bit more time to set it down for the sounds it can make.
You've also touched upon writing in a way I can relate.
5662. Macnas - 4/13/2006 3:53:25 PM Idle hour
Shirtsleeves rolled to elbows
Staring at the yellowed ceiling.
Boots untied, a cigarette,
Thinking, smoking, dreaming.
hot tea in a china mug
bitter black and steaming.
hands on my thighs, chair tilted back,
balancing, rocking, leaning.
Shadows leaking in the window
Noises outside, not what I’m hearing.
Nobody knows, or can suppose
My thoughts or what I’m feeling.
5663. RickNelson - 4/14/2006 1:36:16 PM Macnas,
Such a picture you create!
When I consider that last line, there's a strong inclination to relate an empathic astro plane. From this I consider much of the world and we creatures inhabiting it. 5664. Seamus - 4/24/2006 8:50:26 PM Nice ones here by Nu, Macnas and Rick. Each one affecting and moving in different ways. And hello to ulgine in the corner booth. 5665. Seamus - 4/24/2006 8:52:35 PM View from the other side
Through neon I see
the brook-rounded moon
flecked with marble
and speckled sun
crossing the meridian
of a hard, shadowed iris
The world is right
side down
or am I no
one is so light
or I am no
one is this heavy as
this shadow moon tries
to stand up the sun crosses
O over O
over the highest
hard gaze
I am only
this world
is not
one of us
must fall
off the other
Seamus
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