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Nepalese Poem |
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Poet's Pre-Notes: A poem from my 8th week in a Stanford continuing education class offered on the internet, a study of free verse and structure. The poem writing technique is to write as unconsciously as you can for 5 minutes, then after an hour or so to attempt to pull material of interest from what you have written to compose a free verse poem. What follows immediately is my source material for the poem that follows below it. I hope you will enjoy both.
Source Material:
A harvest moon like a pumpkin with a somewhat lewd, lascivious grin, an orange life jacket floating in perfectly clear inescapably blue water (even in this orange colored poem), a buoyant orange bikinied girl floating free in orange flowered blue cap, hair of in-determinant color, unencumbered by life jacket or much else, colored coral with traces of yellow and red (orange in the making), firmly fixed and shining not so far beneath her, framed by the bleached canvas of ancestral remains, with the almost invisible fish that like to hide in their branches, anti-green coral leaves that mock photosynthesis, sway in their oceanic groves like wind-tickled wheat, softly glowing with the light of a sinking sun.
Orange you glad you are here with me, fruit scented suntan lotion blocking harmful rays as we sip our still bubbling mimosas and taste each other’s colored kisses, orange between our toes as we dangle feet from our floating sanctuary in the tropical water, nibbled on by tiny fish hoping perhaps to steal our genetic code for a future lifetime, blinded by the incredible orange flash of a light drizzle’s rainbow as we orange our way as softly as marmalade jellyfish toward an approaching quilt of dusk-colored fog, orange as the meteor that sparks star ash one last time against the nearly empty sky above as night finally falls as well, leaving only the harvest moon to watch the emotional tides rise and fall within us.
Softly Off-Colored Poem - 2
Orange-Aid for Nepalese earthquake survivors, America rocks
Homeless people around the globe.
Orange rafts with paddles pop open loaded with victims of a forced water landing,
Like bags of hot spice seasoned potato chips.
Half-naked islanders wearing orange lays
Weave their canoes through schools of rainbow colored fish
To welcome tourists to island hot tubs
Chockfull of tubers, carrots and onions
Sure to soften skin.
No American in island colored shirt will be rejected.
Orange ancient customs so interesting?
Orange papaya orchards mark more populated, less primitive isles,
Close to where a stand of beach grown resorts flourishes..
A buoyant, orange bikinied girl floats free of care,
Unencumbered by life jacket or much else
In perfectly clear inescapable blue waters
(Even in this orange colored poem).
Wearing blue cap with orange flowers, hair color indeterminate,
She is a visual feast to some, to others simply delicious,
What some islanders would call snack food, ready to eat,
Almost no peeling necessary.
Orange colored coral glows from not so far beneath her,
Yellow and red (orange in the making) firmly fixed,
Framed by the bleached canvas of ancestral remains.
Camouflaged fish blend perfectly with the
Anti-green coral leaves that mock photosynthesis,
Leaves that sway in their oceanic groves like wind-tickled wheat
Passively reflecting the light of a sinking sun.
Orange you glad that you are here with me?
Fruit scented suntan oil blocks harmful rays
As we sip our still bubbling mimosas
And taste each other’s intoxicating kisses
Reflected orange shines between our toes too as feet dangle
From our floating sanctuary in warmly tropical water,
Nibbled on by tiny fish cannibalizing
Our genetic code for some future lifetime.
Now we are blinded by the incredible orange flash
Of a light drizzle’s rainbow….
We orange our way as softly as marmalade jellyfish
Toward an approaching quilt
Of dusk-colored fog.
Orange as the twilight meteor that sparks star ash one last time,
A colored contrail against the nearly empty sky above
As night too falls,
Leaving only a pumpkin faced harvest moon
With a lewd, lascivious grin and tea stained teeth
To watch phosphorescent tides come and go
In our passionate cove.
Brian Johnston
May 9, 2015
Copyright © Brian Johnston | Year Posted 2015
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Nepalese Poem |
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I wish I had time for poetry and plays
My mind allowed
As I watched the same aged, bespectacled monk
For about the fifteenth time this month
Patter his bare feet
Upon the pavement
Of the dust filled lane.
Leaving me again
To contemplate
Broken shards of yesterday
In a faraway land that reminds me of
Secret Pacts made
To myself
In the time when
Getting too busy was never an option.
These the promises
Made in Nepalese skies
below the Lost Horizon
Of the Dalai Lama
Where,
I could not see
The coming years that would
Tumble earthwards
Like over ripe plums.
Nor the red Lama
Perched on an Annapurnan cliff
Chanting
Melodic verses
Centuries old
Tying a
Red ribbon round my
Wrist and soul.
There they lay.
Meditations that never were,
Given by Siddhartha, Confucius and, even a carpenter, from
Somewhere
Around
The Middle East.
Additionally,
They have even appeared
In soiled books,
Ashrams on the Ganges,
Scribbled on bar room napkins and
Occasionally
Confessed to
Unsuspecting passersby.
Where are these ruminations now
As the pages stick
Like books rarely read
In villages unseen
By streams only heard?
When all I want
Is a little respite from the traffic that
Hums next to the
Lane that is just beside my
Patio where that same monk will
Rise up
Early, don a saffron
Robe and greet dawn both eyes
Smiling.
Jeff Troyer
2006 (Chiang Mai, Thailand)
Copyright © Jeff Troyer | Year Posted 2010
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Nepalese Poem |
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As the bus rode
through the molting pine forest and
the crumbling ochre rock formations;
bits of colorful cellophane litter brought the only relief to the eye.
Inside, behind a profusion of people,
boxes, backpacks and assorted baggage
babies slept.
The bus creaked, shook and groaned
its way down the serpentine,
asphalt, mountain track.
Passengers chattered away in Indian, Nepalese, Danish and English,
abrasively punctuating
a Universal discourse;
As the vehicle draped from roof to bumper,
careened from rock walls
to sheer ledges, beeping.
Stray pets and wayward cyclist dodged its downward flight
Into the valleys maw.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2009
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