If I had a pretentious brain
which acts faster than my heart
Maybe then,I would abhore this soul
which spreads freely through each verse
Maybe then I would impress you
with my intellectual grammar
and sophisticated words
I would scrutunize
each and every coma
dot and exclamationmark
believing I know best
But I would never let that happen
I'd rather stay at bay
Writing firstly with my mind
and not my heart
leads only to an asylium
within the being of myself
Poetry is my voice,my shadow
The sacred shrine of great escape
Each stored emotion processed
within a yesterday
Poetry is the inner of my existence
breathing softly,bleeding deeply
exploding in death,love
passion and romance
In every verse a whisper
a thought that I would scribe of
a silent cry expressed
Maybe in a tomorrow
you might pass by me
Tread your footstep on my ink
and spit saliva in my face
But maybe in a today
a broken -hearted fool stops by
to find comfort in my world
Maybe a prisoner,a tramp
an insane soul or outcast
would pick these scattered scribbles
and gather them as whole
Maybe through each criss-crossed puzzle
finds a narrow passage
which leads his faith to home
Maybe a little child
whose blissful giggles
depends on little words
would turn the dusty pages
of silly rhymes I penned
Rhymes which know the moons
stars,faries,and the magic land
Rhymes which know each fantasy
and how to be a friend
And maybe He would smile
Maybe He would laugh
Maybe He would dream
Maybe He would grow up to write
the most eloquent sonnet
there has ever been
Or maybe He would grow up
to write simple words
just like me
about daises or dandelions
and expressions to be free
I had waited for you seemingly forever
So long did it take before you were to come into my life
But in so many ways you had always been there
Your hair so white more than once people
Said that you glowed
Your eyes blue gray
Soft but piercing.
In the spring we’d plant flowers and you quite the digger
Would never tire of ‘replanting’ oh the control God blessed
Me with that summer
On the porch we would swing and sing until my throat would be sore
And still Id manage one more
Lavender Blue, You Are My Sunshine, Red River Valley
I can still hear the wee small voice
In the summer under the big maple the front walk
Would flood and we’d run back and forth barefooted and splashing
Your face, pure joy, your eyes animated, your smile so wide
And those cheeks I could tweak them right now
Is there any better sound than giggles and splashes
Autumn we would take long walks and picnics down in the woods
And sit on a fallen tree. We’d find ants and worms and spiders and rescue the most
Precious of treasures. Feathers, milkweed fuzz, acorns, so much
Bounty for the taking. We’d bring them home and glue them
On paper or cardboard or make touch books
Winter oh please let’s have snow for winter. Snowmen
And snow forts, snow balls and mmmm snow cream.
I remember the look on your face at your first bite as
If you had just made magic.
We read books by the fire, books and more books
Then you would touch my lips and ask me to
Read one with my mouth, which meant to make
Up one just for you.
You have been blessed with intelligence
You have an uncanny ability to fix things
You’ve never seen before
Your sense of humor can put me away
Until I beg you to stop
You have a sense of logic beyond your years
You will sit on the floor for hours and build block towers for babies
Most importantly my son
You have been blessed for an unquenchable thirst for God’s own heart
At eighteen our time together will be changing but sitting here
I remember the words from a book we used to sing to each other
“I’ll love you forever
I’ll like you for always
As long as I’m living
My baby you’ll be"
From between pages
the forgotten petal falls
on an empty shelf
settled dust is today's mud
where the priest smells a smudged rose
Inspired by Chris'tanka contest ~Now, for the contest :)
Seraphic, turbid waves in turgid waters; turning
Amid my spindrift Soul wherein loves tumult rages....
Crashing through this pulsing heart that knowingly craves her ~
Aneath these turquoise tides, which tear burnt pages?!
Washed upon the shore to feed the pyramids pyre
Torn from destined books carving ancient time....
Spirits chanting dreams while dancing in the fire
Captured by the flames of oranges burning; loves sublime ~
Sunrise, now gathering blue horizons to kiss the wrested nights
Waning heavens waving a million reflections left, glittering deep inside....
Astringent embers touching tranquility while as floating through the rougish sky
Seraphic, turbid waves in turgid waters still, only to subside!?
Torn from destined books carving ancient time; this
My own Aphrodite....
...."My, Beautiful *Star Light" ~
I tried balancing a bowl of hot oatmeal on my lap and reading his poems in my tired and
worn, green chair.
On the back cover of a collection, a reviewer wrote “Simic may end a poem with a kiss
or a bludgeon. “
The reader will never know.
Blackjack Fresno Johnny sent me a big box of books of Simic’s poems. The books were sent
in a cardboard box inside of another cardboard box, thoughtfully packed. The address label
To Tom Pitre, Poet.
It is my first affirmation as a poet.
I am always surprised when I read his work. Sometimes I think I have my finger on his
secrets, and then it slips away when I read another one. They are simple. He can write
about an earthworm in the mud, and you will be enchanted.
In the land where children play.
A boy named Roy would sleep all day.
No matter what his friends all said.
The boy would not get out of bed.
For he was very bored with toys.
The ones for little girls and boys.
He said that they were all the same.
The cars and trucks and every game.
But then one day Roy got a book.
He figured he would take a look.
And when he opened up the cover.
Of books he soon became a lover.
He read the book from front to back.
He read about a boy named Jack.
And all about a silver train.
And then about a place called Spain.
He read about each moon and star.
And just how far away they are
He learned of ancient histories.
And many science mysteries.
Soon he had a big collection.
Of which the boy had great affection.
His favorite thing to do was read.
He learned to do it with great speed.
One afternoon a friend came by.
And asked if he could also try.
To read a book instead of play.
Immediately, Roy said, ‘You may.’
Soon his books were being read.
By Sue and John and little Ted.
That’s how the land of toys became.
The land of books instead of games.
For Francine Roberts' Children in Rhyme contest, by Samia Arroyo
You lifted me from the shelf
Looked at my cover
Made a judgment on what was inside
Decided to spend some time
You explored my thoughts
Flipped through my pages
Bent my corners
Underlined my words
Dampened my paper with your tears
Laughed along my lines
I felt loved
I heard you sigh
Oh how I enjoyed our time together
The smell of your coffee
The rhythmic sound of your breathing
The feel of your hand caressing my pages
You closed my protective cover
Placed me on your coffee table
Close at hand
I gladly wait
To spend more time
With you my friend.
I have always thought the books I have read have felt like friends.
I have a hard time discarding books, I am even more loyal with friends.
Being here at the soup has blessed me with many new friends, I thank
you all for removing me from the shelf and taking time to read my pages.
A spider traipsed onto my knee
While I was reading in the bath
Though most might jump and scream and flee,
I just gave a little laugh
A baby Daddy Long-Legs!
(Though really, 'twas just a son)
I shooed him back onto his web,
And continued reading on...
*title is a spin on "Strange Bedfellows" ;)
*Lessons in life are funny contest entry
Wisdom can’t be taught
I used to read the whole day long
I read so many book
My house was filled with literature
And everywhere you’d look
These books were there in mountains
That’s all I yearned to do
Fill my head with useless words
And all non-fiction too.
Mythology, I would read
I’d read the stuff by holy men
It seemed to fill a need
I filled my mind with so much stuff
And then one day I thought
What be the use of all of this
The truth it can’t be taught.
And so I gave my books away
And I learned to meditate
I learned to look within my self
I loved it, it was great
I learned the things I need to know
Without those ancient books
Cause in the end the truth will come
By taking just one look.
So now I have no need to read
I feel the peace in me
As I walk with nature each new day
And feel the harmony
And all the answers come to me
All questions be for naught
One only has to stop the mind
For wisdom can’t be taught.
Thirty one days, now December is done,
But that also closes out two-thousand-and-one.
As we consign this year into history,
We should be sure to give God all the Glory'
This year began like almost every other,
But it didn't end the same.
A day in September changed lives all over;
God was still faithful- Praise his dear name'
We mourn and we pray, and share our grief,
Yet these events didn't take God by surprise.
He has met us and blessed us and given relief;
Love and compassion shown to the world's eyes.
But His mercies are new every morning;
Through Him we have no fear.
In a few short hours there will be dawning,
A fresh clean new year'
Praise more and worship more.
He knows what is best.
And we can trust Him to keep us,
Healthy, happy, and blessed'
As we turn another calendar page,
My prayer is for you.
To anticipate His returning,
Perhaps in two-thousand-and-two'
Arthur Ball (H.S.L.P.)
December 30, 2001