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 1      

Your light shines through your pen.
The art you create with word is
exceptional.What is seen on the 
on the written page is like viewing 
Mozart's work for the very first time.
It's like Beethoven is serenading you
and you alone, and the wonderful sound 
embodies your entire being. That's
exactly what you do to your reader.
You fill their soul with awe and wonder.
I'm an admirer of the gift that you posses. 
Young and old poets alike can grow,
If they just watch how you use your
pen and its effortless flow.


7-6-15

More featured poems below...


Shame,
a shroud,
has fabric
woven from the
dark, anguished threads of
self-recriminations
and of inadequacies.
Caught in its twist, the frail weave on,
constraining themselves in self-loathing.
Unravel fibers of despair. . . Unveil!


For Skat's Any Old Poem #7 Poetry Contest
They went in the lap of dreams
Blood! Blood! everywhere..
Cries are so loud; mourn itself is grieving 
Mothers are quiet; longing and holding their bellies 
 Blood! Blood! everywhere..
Humanity is dead; humans are dead
Flowers are dull; colors are fading
Blood! Blood! everywhere..
Stop this war; we demand peace 
You think its for the sake of religion?
Blood! Blood! everywhere..
Denunciate yourself; ask where you stand
You! yourself is a victim ferociousness
 Blood! Blood! everywhere..
And they went.. Innocence is brutality slayed
Blood! Blood! everywhere..
I am a flake of winter snow
on cold and driven wind.
I've been the drops of rain so slow
from darkened clouds unpinned.

I am the sting of frigid sleet
that makes one's skin so raw.
I've been the course of waters fleet
as winter yields to thaw.

I am the face of ice-bound lake
which hides its life beneath.
I've been the tossing waves that break
and tides which time bequeath.

I am the snow in drifted row
piled deep before your door.
I've been a river wide and slow
to live on and explore.

I am the waters flowing still,
through ageless, rolling time.
I've been the earth's unbroken will
still granting life, sublime.

                     I am the Waters
                     11-14
In my maple, the gentle mourning doves nest
The handsome gray male coos outside the window
His feathery nature sounds welcome me to each day
Their nest hides among the leaves, and I survey it

Morning tea time belongs to these pleasant fowl
Silly me, I call them Lucy and Ricky softly
Distinctly, tasks for them simply done...
He, the nest and food---she seclusively sits waiting

Surprisingly, I fancy them, long to touch them
These graceful  birds engage, thus my laughter comes naturally
Female nuzzling grabs the male's attention...he responds
Jumping in a ritualistic dance, they coo together

My male dove thinks a cat’s too close and
Draws the feline away by feigning broken wing…
Just as the cat pounces, he swoops up 
Too close to death, but no one asks me

Musing about my forever mated, beautiful birds
Sharing this nature experience...and their devotion
From now till always, I will embrace the day
Joyfully filled with hope for the time to come
I am quite content with my little mowing machine; it does the job for me.
But not my crazy neighbors whom I used to call my friends, briefly…
Now they’ve become competitive, crazed out, monsters looking for a win.
Competition was breed deep within, and power is a drug therein…
So when one got a riding mower, the other did one more.
But that was not enough, as the escalation carried forth, for sure…
Now one has torn his fence down, to let his monster roar right in.
The poor guys now need ladders to get upon their seats to take a spin.
And the motors are so powerful; they throw grass way down the street.
The noise is so very deafening, that to forget the roar, it takes all week.
And the tires are so very big that they trample the grass, I swear.
But that doesn’t seem to deter them, as they continue planning in their lairs.
It appears speed is now their latest thought, with which they were truly blessed.
And it doesn’t seem to matter that their yards are the size of a mouses' nest.
So I ran away down the street, the last time they launched those baby’s forth.
And I took out more insurance, in case they go beyond their intended mark.
You see my house sits right between them, and I’m worried they’ll land upon my 
roof.
Especially after they were asking my hubby, how fast jet engines can go forth…
And what about nitro burners… will they help give speed and power, too?
In desperation, trying to save my house, I bought front-page newspaper space…
There I declared a place in the city park where safely they could race.
And added: whoever could mow it fast with the best job, would win first place…
And in Hollywood they would find themselves in the new reality show craze.
I found getting someone to film this fiasco wasn’t so very hard to find.
The entire city came out, including the police, ambulances and all, with them in mind
When the competition was over, the mowers were broken and thoroughly spent.
The final declaration was found to be: they’d only simply tied and not won yet…
In the end, one mower was in the city pool and the other on the mayor's car.
The police dispersed the ensuing fight, between those two, not finding it funny at all.
Fortunately, the Doctors said they’d live, their injuries were really rather small.
So they both went home undefeated, to continue the race again once more.
And the only person to truly gain that day was I; you need not have a doubt.
I sold the film to Hollywood… And used the funds to buy a far-a-way, different 
house. 

Today I feel a little goofy
Hair wild and is all poofy

I made oatmeal it is so sloppy
Have to drink it with my coffee

Can not walk as my feet are going flip floppy
No swimming either the water is to choppy

Ding dong no nothings wrong
My clock just went bing bong

If this poem to your face brought a smile
Or maybe you just laughed for awhile

Then please know that I am happy as well
As I am locked back up in my padded cell
by Rachel Dunkerque AKA Carolyn V. Crawford
(lyric and melody)

I took the time to scratch your hair
I took the time to clip your nails
And I even picked the pimples from the velvet of you face
Ironed your socks, your underwear
Kept them looking close to new
Till you turned and left me on the stairs before she took two tens and two
I worked two jobs and sometimes three
Held not a distant thought of me
I would have sold newspapers on the side just to keep you loving me
Trusting in all the things I tried
Not one could keep you satisfied
But I forgive myself 'cause I know I loved you right.

I took the time to hear your dreams
Crossed every line to work your schemes
To get you driving all your fancy cars decked out in silk and diamond rings
Wore out the floor when you were gone
And begged that HE would bring you home
Till you came one Sunday cleaner than you left, ordered me to leave you alone
Clocked extra time to make your bed
Softer than clouds beneath your head
And I would have walked 'cross burning coal just to keep you and me wed
Trusting in all the things I tried
Not one could keep you satisfied
But I forgive myself 'cause I know I loved you right.

I loved you right, gave you my all
Still you walked away without a glance
To see how hard, how far I would fall
I loved you right, gave again and again
But I forgive myself 'cause I know I loved you right.
And I forgive myself 'cause I know I loved you right.
It was late at night, and softly said...Fred begged again, "Dear, come to bed"
Her answer...one,  he had heard before, ..."Soon after the paper is read".., she said

Night after night, he would try again,..."Please, come to bed".., Fred said
She answered each night with a new excuse, ..."The cat must be fed", she said

He dangles by a single thread,..."I'll wait for you in bed", Fred said
She replied, each time with a different line, "There's office work instead"...she said

"My dear, I miss you in our bed.  Come join me, soon, oh please?"... he said..
"When the Letterman show' is finally done, but then comes 'Mr. Ed'  ", ...she said

One night she finally came to bed
But that's the night she found Fred dead

Her dreaded days were sorrow fed....now nights were long, and filled with dread...
She crawled in bed alone, instead, and drenched in pillows, tears were shed

The news was spread, she hangs her head, 
                                           Her heart is torn in two,...in shreds!
 
What she really meant........ instead ..........instead

             She should have said "I Love You Fred"

    Too late, 'cause Fred is dead

           AS A DOOR NAIL !!

           (If I've walked you down this path, misled, 
                you are getting mad,  your face is red
                  and you'd like to strangle..., then behead me...
                     just because you read this poem,
                                               about the tragic death of Fred...

                       
                  
              Well...........I pondered that, and planned ahead...
                                    I've Fled!!   
   




Death to the mockingbird with one shot to the heart,
Crushing wings with desperation sings sorrow worlds apart.
Concrete tears from wasted eyes fall on a mossy burial ground,
Taste the regret as it is yet to expel a gasping sound.
And rise oh symphonic sun in my mourning put rest to the moon,
Dehydrate this skin from deep within that I may die at noon.
Searching for stars to blanket this despairs shroud of living,
Pinpricks of celestial poison judgmental eyes are giving.
Blood upon my hands stains jealousy in deep wrinkled crease,
Saliva soiled dirt leaves an after taste that will never cease.

Breaking the joints of folded frozen wings opening like a book,
Laid before the novel ends I search for the heart that I took.
Oh mockingbird you brought this battle a war I inhale victory,
Would the devil rise with golden stained eyes celebrating with me.
With weighted flesh, holding her heart, he examines my deed,
Silently I beg come with me, success demands fulfilling my greed.

The devil he does make his choice, strong cradled hands receive
Welcoming the mockingbird, even in death does she deceive.
Breathing to life from lips I longed to love, the mockingbird awakes,
Flapping wings, resentment it stings, the ground under me shakes.

The mockingbird laughs for she mocks me no longer,
She has taken everything from me, and now she is stronger.



 
What Fire Ignites the Day?
Whether to stay atop of things,
Or get to the bottom?
Each day offers circus rings,
The center one is Autumn:
Top fame but premature ending.
Side rings more discretely hum,
Contrasting the center ring crowd’s singing.
Side rings hold inner desires dumb,
Often hidden is pregnant Spring,
Steer to your inner line of rhumb,
Desire is the bottom kindling,
That builds the day’s fire-bon. 
Poet—Your words,
Like garments of
Gold and silver thread,
Shimmering in sunlight
Or bathed by moonlit glow,
When shed—
Leave me breathless,
Caught up in their naked truth
And timeless flow—
And I become aware
Of nothing else.



What is this soul of
which we speak,
are we a vessel from
which it leaks,
separate from body a
divine spark
born infused and
timed to depart.
A glass peered
through distant
divine,
separate and alone,
never aligned.

Is the cosmos
actually aware,
inclusive of all,
nothing to spare,
and if our form is
part of that
what a chance to
have a chat,
no more the lion but
the dove,
living life now
shared by love.

Do I have
to..understand,
I a footprint in the
sand,
aware of this
accepting that,
thoughts go by arata
tat tat,
eyes to see ears to
listen,
connecting
heart,tears to
glisten.
 

As I spoke of being walluntorspearsed*,
He farlossteeled and I stumbled. 
Can’t words return to their nest?

Whispers I’ve heard of his moogsmoorwood* flight,
Though from him I receive little but those looks
that churn my loreeleame until I am soft.
And yet, I am no different than he,
Keeping tales tucked in a vault,
My skirmish with the Wartanwusters*
Who easily pried my closed carriage wide,
And left me empty of sight and thought.

Twice I have not spoken but lied,
He thinks I’m like the fruit of the Kalamyreeno,
Sweet and layered and unseeded inside,
So I bury all those salty secrets deep ~
My battles with the Grimm-gloommers*,
And my resurrection in the Valley of Forgetrampt.

I’m like my mother and her mother before,
The blade in my blackarath belt is tinged,
And my soulcleave shield is singed by war.
The taste of salt and fury urges me forward.

How can he not see me,
When I stand in his highleaven light?
Does he not recognize the truth in himself?
When will he tear open the door
and cross the abyss to my armored side?
He is teeming with answers,
So refuses to meet me halfway!

Yet, I carefully, quietly follow,
Slaying Grimm-gloommers* and others,
The Narkavenomites he hasn’t noticed
watching his drawn curtains at night,
And I will guard him, though the world drops,
For I will never stop walluntorspearsing* about him.

…If he knew of my strength and the power I yield,
He’d turn from me. For what is man without pride? 





*the words thus marked are the sole creation of Chris Aechtner and used (gratefully)with his permission.

About this poem

This a reply to Chris's brillant poem On the Wings of Moogsmoorwood. His poem was so gripping that I wanted to 'answer' it, as other poets of old have done to works they found inspiring. It is difficult to try to recapture a feel a poem has, keep its style, and yet still inject your own voice and nuances. I thank Chris for his encouragement and suggestions in this attempt. I really enjoyed trying his pen on for size!


Before there was a world or a word 
there was unfathomable loneliness
in the gaseous expanse of pin pricked night
an infinite course of vibrations, sound
nascent, coalescing,  gestating,
until planets ripening birthed with souls.

There was only the orb, the throbbing soul
and an unknown longing for word,
conduits formed synapses gestating
to wavelengths of crystalline loneliness,
the aching white noise, static, lack of sound,
and the wanderers of celestial night.

Man was born to such a daunting midnight
aqueous eyes and conical ears for soul
to shattering din’s discordant sound,
no bird song, no harmony, no words,
just an aging, aching, aloneness,
of random thoughts thus wordless gestating.

A rhythm of circular gestation
formed the day and lingering became night
and thus weakened, warmed the loneliness
with woman kind He brought her soul.
Ether resounded with sheet lightening, words
for those sounds were to souls, the God sound.

Strong, silibant streams of understood sound
released from the oval egg of gestation
songs formed as man combined the God like words
croonings of passion fill the nubile night
as joinings rolled-tidal of mated souls.
Word all powerful had freed loneliness.

Each creature gifted an end to loneliness
earth, water, fire ,wind, all given sound,
all graced beloved with shimmering souls,
hatched from the dragon’s egg, life gestates
into the bountiful passage of night.
Cherish the ever present presence of the Word.

No longer alone, a sound vibrating within  
each atom relates to the soul, gestation continues 
in the night's never-ending cycle of the Word's life.


*My PASSION is SONG
* Many lines have internal RHYME as well as 
  the end rhyme achieved by the use of the same words.
*Dedicated to inspiration achieved 
 through the writings of L'Nass Shango & David Smalling


















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