I see your work budding,
like a flower each new day.
Slowly blooming more and more,
bringing color to a time that’s gray.
Your colorful petals are amazing,
the way you reflect the sun.
And your beauty still remains,
after the beauty of the day is done.
For your work radiates,
here on Poetry Soup.
We are all poetic flowers;
part of a big garden group.
I am writing this poem,
to the poetic flower you are.
You glisten each new day,
from way, way, afar.
If life was a big garden,
a flower you would be.
With flourished poetic petals,
named the Rose of Poetry.
For Belinda Parish
a fellow souper for her
Know how to make
The best of what you've got in you
You do it everyday in your life
The work I did was playing with the angels
We read and painted, dressed up for Halloween as rangers
The Universe so close from dry, paper mache
With older kids we even wrote an Etheree
The work I did was traveling to Europe
With twenty of my students and an antelope
We colored windows facing the lights of Paris
and even opened a brasserie "Gateau de Bliss"
So, Carolyn, you made me smile opening this album
When asking "Where the Wild Things Are? " Ka-boom!
Again it's "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs"
...but empty are long gone Elementary School halls...
My sister ate my homework,
Yes, I promise she did.
Her sweet eyes will fool you,
She looks like a cute kid,
But her teeth are sharp as knives,
As her hunger grows,
She wants some tasty geometry,
How she gets it?
No one knows.
It’s there in my bag,
Her eyes are stone,
Staring at my folder,
That homework all alone,
But she will give it a friend,
Maybe invite it for tea,
“I would love to have you for diner.” She’d say,
But she does’t fool me!
So I’m sorry I don’t have my homework today,
My sister’s on an eating streak,
I hope she does’t keep it up,
I might not have homework for the rest of the week.
The Devil sits there playing, he’s as happy as he can be
He has a new game to play, he rubs his fiery hands in glee
Down in the bowels of the earth, the deepest hottest spot
Where white magma burns, he collects it, in his devilish crock.
He keeps all the tortured souls he has collected through the years
Especially the greedy ones, he know how to play on their worst fears
Crucibles of white hot lava, he makes them pound all day
Until their muscles burn and burst, then the devils imps do flay.
The skin they flay from their backs, but still the pounding goes on
And little by little a diamond is formed, each one the bestest one
A pile of diamonds the devil has them make, but still the lava pours
The pounding must continue, piles of diamonds grow on the floor.
The clarity, the excellence, this perfection in clear carats
The devil tells them he wants more, the imps take skin from their backs
More and more diamonds they are looking as cool as ice
He taunts the greedy souls down there he says “Now don’t they look nice.”
When he has a mountain of them, he lets the pounding halt
The lava stops pouring for a while, and then there is a jolt
The poor tired souls are staring at this mountain of ice-like gems
When the Devil pulls a lever the pounding starts again.
This time a floodgate is open and he says they can take their fill
They can cool themselves on the diamonds; they can try it if they will
The clearest of all the diamonds, send shivers down their spines
They try to pocket a few but the devil says …“They’re mine.”
Another gate is open, lava flows through hot, the crucibles refilled
The Devil says now get to work I don’t want to see a single drop spilled
When they can work no more, he lets them have a rest
Then opening up another door he says “I bet you all have guessed.”
“Now you have made more wealth, than the world can ever use
These cool pieces of pounded lava, this ice mountain you are going to lose
Just watch my merry greedy souls, just watch my new display
As a running river of lava washes the ice clear diamonds away…
Now I will show you what we will do with all of them
Just watch how they melt down, so we can start all over again
So pound away my merry soul’s, pound and pound them well
This is what you loved before; you found the love of money was Hell
Competition Entry: Fire and Ice. Sponsored By Carol Sunshine Brown
© Mandy Tams~GG~ 21/11/2012
(3 May 2014; For my son Steven, an ACCOMPLISHED guitarist)
Real musicianship can truly drive you nuts—
There really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Practice, study, memorize, then more practice--
Is this just an obsession or complete madness?
Learning chord inversions, arpeggios, and scales
Is like reaching Heaven by crossing through seven Hells.
It wouldn’t be bad if there were only a dozen majors,
But there’s also those other dozen minors.
What’s worse, it seems we’re never finished
Because there’s also augmented and diminished,
The major/minor/augmented/dominant sevenths.
And symmetrical double-flatted diminished sevenths,
And if this harmonic mess is not enough,
All those dissonant Jazz chords get really tough…
Such as the sustained seconds and fourths,
The sevenths add nines, sixths, blah-blah-blah, elevenths.
And if learning all this isn’t already extraordinary,
There’s music theory and music vocabulary.
Instead of just saying “get louder”, you have to “crescendo”,
Or for “fast” or “slow” you say “allegro” or “lento”.
Then there are names like Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian,
Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian, and Locrian.
(All being modes derived from scale C-major,
Plus each major scale also has a relative minor)
Multiple pattern exercises on guitar fretboards
Are even worse than finger drills on piano keyboards.
Worse, the string tuning on a six-string acoustic guitar
Is not quite the same as on a 4/5/6/7-string bass guitar.
It’s hard to get up on stage and routinely play
That same song, for the umpteenth time, in an inspiring way.
No wonder musicians seem to all suffer manic-depression,
From trying to play a full sets with unique expression.
All the advances in music equipment and technology
Bless and curse musicians like two-edged swords, you see,
Because all this work they do to sound like a maestro or genius
Can be counterfeited on a computer by a musical ignoramus.
But computer geeks won’t ever find that special place,
That fugue-like subtle sacred state of grace,
Which for brief moments is like deep meditation.
No, that’s the forbidden domain of the real musician.
To suggest that musicians all are just “gifted” naturally,
Is the absolute superlative worst insulting irony.
Truly, real musicianship can drive you nuts—
No, there really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Right now, I have an uneasy feeling in my gut.
I want to hold on to my job no matter what.
I blew the save, and we eventually lost the game.
To lose a good lead for any team is a shame.
I have a feeling the management wants to let me go.
They are disenchanted with me. It certainly does show.
The team counts on me to come on in relief.
The hits and runs I give up causes everybody grief.
So what will I do if they want me to go away?
Will I have to try and make up a resume?
I can’t sleep with these worries in my head.
Sorry dear if I am keeping you awake in bed.
Dada was everything to our youth
Our wide faculty was his help
Our recognition was his sooth
Nobody does it than his rep
Many youth he carried up there
Without seeking any penny
Many services he rendered
For free. All of which we did see
He was not a king or a prince
Perhaps he was just a God sent
To his community, king and prince...
He begot not but was begot
Mindful of his predicament
But dare not showed it on earth
Till that Friday night he drove out
Of town and took to a scar oath
The next hour we heard he had died
And left us belated letter
"Don't cry for me, for I had lied.
...I'll die now before later"
*cry for...: Mourn
1 o'clock in the morning the alarm is loudly screamin'
I go wake up my brother who probably is still dreamin'
We jump in the car and the wheels start rollin'
Can't wait to pick up the papers and start strollin'
A smile planted on our face! The day is finally starting
The headlights shine bright! The animals are darting
Ah! Windows down breathing all the fresh air
My brother gathering papers with all of his care
Wheels steadily rollin down the road
Nothing is in sight, not even a toad!
Newspapers start soaring through the air!
Do I want this to end? No! I wouldn't dare
Starting to run out of papers as the sun is rising
Listening to the birds chirping is quite energizing!
I look over towards my brother to see if he is still awake
Bless his heart! He has fallen to sleep, he really needed a break!
I throw the last paper and I began to yawn
The paper lands perfectly on that last lawn
Wheels rollin' as we head back to the beginning
Should this much fun be considered sinning?
Deep within the bowels of the earth
a pressure builds up in intensity
As lava and gases increase in growth
bubbling and seething with angry fury
The pressure continues to build up
directly under the earth's crust
Which finally weakens and blows its top
yielding to the pressure's upward thrust
The action produces a huge crater
through which ferocious flames exit
Painting the sky in a red orange colour
in an awesome fiery exhibit
It's a grand display of fireworks power
generated by Mother Nature
Which reaches out both near and far
in testimony of its grandeur
Clouds of ash and smoke rise up to the sky
spreading for miles and miles around
Obscuring vision both far and nigh
before most of the ash falls to the ground
A thick outpouring of red hot lava
scorches everything that lies in its path
Streaming down the sides of the crater
as it moves on with relentless wrath
Volcanic action has an awesome tale to tell
of what goes on under earth's placid shell
It's where red hot lava and gases dwell
which when released create a fiery hell