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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...


 

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!
As I stride on the soil of ecstasy
Feeling the winds of serenity
Making peace within my soul
Breathing by every second that I hold

While walking along the sands of gold
I leave behind a story to be told
With a beautiful feeling I’ll never grow old
I walk the miles on the sands of gold

As my feet kiss the cold blue waves
I stretch my arms just to fly away
Closing my eyes with calmness I sway
Loosing track of every second by day

Looking up to the sky I hear the sounds,
The sounds of bees, the sounds of trees,
The sounds of the enthralling orchestral breeze
Hypnotising me with the sound of the deep blue sea

So I sit back and reflect on the soil of ecstasy
The soil of joy, the soil of peace,
The soil where I would love to be
The soil called Goa where my soul meets.


- Sherwin Fernandes
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. 


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

















One morning I awoke to find
 in  soft garden shadows
 mythical, unicorn, hoof prints 

How I imagined its perfect form; 
a magical horse with a spiraled horn
 stepping through a pink mist
 into my garden at dawn 

I decide I will hide
 where the first light
 slants through the trees
 my heart all aflutter, 
 waiting to see this miracle.
 

A rustle of leaves- 
I hold my breath - 
ready to face
 the impossible

Oh! Disbelief!  What do I see?
But two horse shoes attached to sticks
 and father planting mythical hoof prints 


Quiet as a fae I steal away
and later with wonder, I softly say 

"A unicorn has strayed, Pa Pa-
into our garden today."

Written in  June 2003
sub title: a very lousy poem blatant promotion of humorist


For humor read dear Mr. Rigoler ****
for he pens so many a giggle-er
by giving promote
it may well be wrote
I’m being a bit of inveigle-er

****Maurice Rigoler, Soup Poet

please note: pronunciation of and use of words in this tribute are scandalously and outrageously in error…    don’t care!
The things in life that cost me most are the things that came for free.
And what I thought I was,
Was not what I would be.
And what I thought I was looking for
Was not what I could see.
And every time I got close
I threw it all away.
And the price of that keeps going up
It's more than I can pay.
So I keep trading my tomorrows
To forget my yesterdays.
And every time I get close
I throw it all away.
And I know I'm gonna do it
But don't know what makes me this way.
And every time I get close 
I know I've got to pay.
And every time it changes
It always stays the same.
I couldn't wait when I was young
To get away from home
I've spent the rest of my life wishing
That I had never gone.
Chasing my regrets
They're dragging me along.
Willingly unwilling
To forget and just move on.
Driven by the things 
That keep me all alone.
Taking comfort in the pain
Knowing every time that I get close
I'll throw it all away.
And I know I'm gonna do it
But don't know what makes me this way.
Like a secret life has kept from me
To dry me with the rain.
Drinking life like it was whiskey
And chasing it with pain.
And the things that cost the most
Are the things I got for free.
And the ones I need the most 
Are the ones I throw away.
And I know I'm gonna do it
But don't know what makes me this way.
I just keep trading my tomorrows
To forget my yesterdays.
And there's not enough days ahead 
To pay for the days pre-spent.
That prize I've chased in life
I just don't know where it went.
And the things that I've loved most
Are the things that came for free.
And the ones that I need most 
Are the ones I throw away.
And I know I'm gonna do it
But don't know what makes me this way
And the love that cost the most
Is the love I'll throw away
And what was given to me free
Had a price I wouldn't pay. 

Tis the season…
 To be jolly!
To deck the halls,
And dress with holly!

Tis the season…
For ringing bells!
For hot chocolate:
And gingerbread smells!

Tis the season…
For laughing children!
Singing carols,
Just stop and listen!

Tis the season…
To share a gift!
With great hopes:
For it, they wished!

Tis the season….
That brings us hope!
Yet it is sad,
Many can’t cope!

Tis the season…
Of much despair!
Poverty, loneliness:
Takes them there!

Tis the season….
To open our eyes!
See the hurt:
Hear their cries!

Tis the season…
To change a life!
Offer help:
Not shame and strife!

Tis the season…
To seek out God!
See why he came,
And then be awed!

Tis the season..
Of a blessed event!
The greatest present:
From God was sent!

Tis the Season…
To know JESUS’ love!
To receive his grace,
Then share a hug!!!
 
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL MY Poetry soup family and !!
May the glory of Jesus be upon you this season!!

Stacey Brown 12-23-13
What is this period, which illustrates the weak motions 
of dull blades, and misguided swings?

I am an unfortunate imitator, as the fearless edge I once 
owned, has faded prominently among the flock as well. 
It is not the passion which is forever stuck in the quiet
ignorance of sheath, but rather, the unmarked areas of 
unrest that requires a warrior’s decisive cut. 
But we are now scholars of sedentary efforts, 
and our slashes no longer spread deep caution among
our adversaries. 

However, we have not defeated ourselves without the 
cause of Judas. 
We have been disarmed for ages, courtesy of those who
marvel in our jagged failures. The audacity of this 
artificial textbook entitled humanity; to neutralize the 
arsenal of kings: past, present, and future. 
But still , how could one explain the brick and mortar that
is possessed in thy sword?
What is this technique from our natural birth that been 
suppressed until further notice?

Answer: To exist within the greatest offense, and act, 
before the call of reaction, our current foe. 
To stab forethought into brief memory, and thrust 
forward. 
Baring all punishment for blood falsely exposed. 
If no site of fault becomes of this moment, then our
finest cut will never perish. 

As the blade plays aggressive with the follow through, 
one may notice the innocent silhouettes that are favored
behind it’s whisper. 
These are the gentle foundations that cause us to guard 
without asking. As worshippers of security, we slice away 
those inches of influence, that could bring illogical charm 
into reason. 
Thus, our steel diminishes when imbalances come into 
fruition. There is no better worry than our silent stance. 
There was a time when our subjective follow through 
never wavered, and our swords denied the flirtatious 
flinch. 
Opinions along the straight edges of debate, were once
a warrior’s first and last identity. 

Such times are now recorded as a fairy tale of 
masculinity. 
Those wounds that once had no apprehension or fear, 
now hesitate to slash the fallacies of others. 
We are now the soft beggars of war, without our 
extended bass to culminate polarity yet again. 

As this battle extends itself to another sphere, 
I pray that prayer becomes obsolete in the realm of 
necessities’, and that these statues of war rediscover 
their purposeful precision, 
Referencing themselves back to their original title: Men.
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!!   
   




Waiting silently by the phone was all he had.

Grasping the bottle he drank greedily.

The waiting was all he had at the moment.

He roared,"arrrrrgh!"And the sound comforted him.

He dialed his son to wish him Happy Holiday.

The son had no father but he waited too.

Like a cast away he scanned the bottle searching for a note.

The two went back to the waiting and it helped.

It was something to do to kill time and it was honest.

The sea was deep and danger waited there too.

So all three gathered together in silence.

The father sent memories on the ferry to the son.

"Arrrrrgh," helped and it comforted the man.

He was in the navy so he loved the sea and the sea returned it.

The father watched and scanned the waves with hope.

And the gulls screaming words that only gulls understand.

What will become of me after the message is delivered?

Will I ever cross and grasping the bottle.


I loved you and The Sea.

The following promises were given of the Blessed Mother to Saint Dominic and Blessed Alan in the twelfth century
These promises are fifteen in number
and are for Christians who recite the Rosary.  
The Blessed Mother promises:

1.	Whoever shall faithfully serve me by the recitation of the Rosary, shall receive signal graces.

2.	I promise my special protection
d the greatest graces to all those who shall recite the Rosary

3.	The Rosary shall be powerful armor against hell

It will destroy vice, decrease sin and defeat heresies.

4.	It will cause virtue and good works to flourish
 It will obtain for souls the abundant mercy of God
It will withdraw the hearts of men from the love of the world and its vanities (valuelessness), and will lift them to the desire of eternal things.
Oh, those souls would sanctify themselves by this means.

5.	The soul which recommends itself to me by the recitation of the Rosary, should not perish (die, expire, pass away).

6.	Who ever shall recite the Rosary devoutly (sincerely) applying himself to the consideration of its sacred mysteries, shall never be conquered (under enemy control) by misfortune. 
God will not chastise him in His justice
He shall not perish by an unprovided death.
If he be just, he should remain in the grace of God and become worthy of eternal life.
7.	Whoever will have a true devotion for the Rosary will not die without the sacraments of the Church.
8.	Those who are faithful to recite the Rosary shall have, during their life and at their death, the light of God and the plentitude of His graces. 
At the moment of death, they shall participate in the merits of she saints UN paradise.
9.	I will deliver from purgatory those who have been devoted to the Rosary.
10.	The faithful children of the Rosary will merit a high degree of glory in heaven.
11.	You will obtain all you ask of me by the recitation of the Rosary.
12.	All those who propagate the holy Rosary shall be aided by me in their necessities.
13.	I have obtained from my Divine Son that all the advocates of the Rosary will have for intercessors the entire celestial court during their life and at the hour of death.
14.	All who recite the Rosary are my sons and brothers of my only Son, Jesus Christ.
15.	Devotion of my Rosary is a great sign of predestination.
Please help spread the “Promises of Praying the Rosary”

Love & Mercy Publications PO Box 1160, Hampstead, NC 28443
www.LoveandMercy.org
We love those who don’t love us
And we don’t love those who do
We long for the unfaithful
And neglect those who are true

We give to those who have no need
And withhold from those who do
We run after those who run away
And run away from ones who pursue

We flirt with those who are aloof
And are aloof with those who flirt
We treat like gold the worthless
And the worthy we treat like dirt

We die for those who’re indifferent
And are indifferent to those who die
Tis the state of our foolish hearts
Will someone please to tell me why?

He says I am his heart and soul
You’re indifferent to my needs
He vows he’d die without my love
Yet it’s for you my heart bleeds

He claims I’m his oxygen
Carbon dioxide I am to you
His eyes want to eat me up
YOU’RE my honey through and through

My foolish heart has lost its wits
The world has gone crazy too
I love him who loves me not
Tell me, is this true for you?

So blissful is the morning
when in my ears are heard
the songs

The songs which are sung
by angels, as they awaken
with the dawn

Going on their appointed
duties to make a day
become alive

With the love of the
eternal One who dwells
above in heavenly
skies

The flowers open wide
this day, and with their
beauty give Him praise

The birds majestically 
spread their wings in
prayer dancing as they 
fly on their way

And the sun so bright
mightily awakens, and 
truly shines his very best

For he knows the Lord
is deserving of praise,
and he will never deliver
anything less 

And so blissful is this
wondrous day, which
is alive with our Gods
great love

That I find myself like
all the others, for it is
he alone my heart
thinks of.
                                                     


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