Long poem by
Ruben O. | Details |
Can you hear me now? Good!
I can't seem to forget you
I love what you do for me
It must be love
between love and madness lies obsession
Like always. Like never before
At the sign of the cat
have a break, have a Kit-Kat
Tastes so good cats ask for it by name
Schhhh ... You-know-who
I'd rather die of thirst than drink from the cup of mediocrity
Perfect to you
There's a smile in every Bar
Obey your thirst
This Bud's for you
One a day helps you work, rest, and play
More fun than rum
Heineken open your world
... nobody can say no to the honey nut O
a bowl a day keeps the bullies away
Our plans are based on yours
You have my word on it
Be the first to know
Who we are
The "no problem" people
Only smarties have the answer
Making it all make sense
Because that's the kind of mom you are
Sometimes you've got to break the rules
Blow your own bubble
Catch our smile?
Everything we do is driven by you
Driven by what's inside
We'll take more care of you
You asked for it. You got it
We know what it means to serve
On your side
Allied on your side
You're in good hands
We make it happen
We'll be there
Get the feeling
Im lovin' it
You are the controller
Only on Playstation
You are now free to move
Unleash the beast
Is it in you?
Do you dare?
About this poem:
To "write" this poem, I used slogans, short and often memorable phrases
used in advertising campaigns. Below you can find the name of the product
(or the company) in order of appearance.
-Verizon Wireless; Wind Song; Toyota; Honda; Calvin Klein; Saturn
-Mercury; Kit Kat; Meow Mix; Schweppes
-Stella Artois; Wella; Dell; Hershey's; Sprite; Budweiser; Mars; Malibu;
Captain Morgan; Heineken; Rice Krispies; Cheerios; Applejacks Cereal
-Assurant; Isuzu; CNN; Guardian Life Ins; Auto-owners Ins;
-Captain Morgan; Rice Krispies; Buger King; Bubble Yum; Red Hills Inn;
Pacific Southwest Airlines; Ford; Subaru; British Airways; Toyota; USSA;
Nationwide Mutual Ins; Allied Ins
-Allstate; IBM; Chevrolet; Toyota; Mc Donalds; Microsoft Kinect; PS3;
Southwest Airlines; Monster Energy; Gatorade; Curious.
Long poem by
Robert Candler | Details |
Dedicated to the 2000 National College Football Champions, the Oklahoma Sooners
Over fifty years, boy and man, I’ve been a Sooners fan
Watched and reveled in their glories, every one;
But there’s no more glorious “Sooner Magic”
Than the Red October Run.
The new millennium's first football season,
Excited Sooners fans’ hopes did soar.
They had tasted victory in Bob Stoops’ first year;
Now, they wanted - no, expected - even more.
There was a glint of promise in Bob’s eyes,
Strength and confidence in his every word.
“Our Team has shown improvement”, is what he said;
“We’ll win!” is what fans heard.
By September’s end, the Sooners were 4 and O,
A “cupcake schedule” some anxious fans would say;
Twenty-two days in October would rule their destiny.
Texas, K-State, Nebraska, the teams they’d have to play.
“OU’s October is a gauntlet”, said ESPN;
“Play #10 and #2 and #1…and win”?
So, on a rainy Saturday morning in Dallas,
The Red October Run would begin.
The Texas State Fair at the Cotton Bowl,
Fans were welcomed by Big Tex.
They screamed, “Go OU!” and “Hook’em Horns!”;
But none could imagine what happened next.
Heupel was a dominating General;
The Sooners Offense, his relentless troops.
Calmus and the Defense assured a total rout,
The Coach of the Day was Bob Stoops.
Sooners fans were wild, delirious with glee;
But Bob seemed focused and sedate.
“We’ll enjoy this victory Sunday;
Then Monday, we’ll prepare for Kansas State”.
No time to revel in the Glory, #2 was tough.
Better than the Huskers? The possibility was real.
The road to #1 went through Manhattan,
And the Sooners would have to win it on the field.
The sportscasters had a field day.
Last year’s “coaching coup” was news again.
Beasley versus Heupel was “The Match-up”.
Could Heupel evade K-State’s awesome defense
and find a way to win?
Again, Heupel and his troops met the challenge;
And as the Sooners “D” assured a hard fought win,
Every Sooners fan’s heart was stirred.
Could our Sooners be “Big Red” again?
Mighty Nebraska, #1, was coming to Owen Field.
“Biggest OU - Nebraska game in years!” Corso said.
It would be 1 versus 2, a heralded gridiron epic
For the coveted title of…”Big Red”.
It was OU’s biggest home game ever.
The campus was alive with vendors and would-be
Every Sooners Fan’s heart was pounding.
Could the smell of #1 stoke the Sooners' fires?
The Huskers struck so quickly.
At 14 to nothing, Sooners fans were stunned.
It was shaping up to be a long, long day;
And it wasn’t going to be fun.
Quickly tho’, Heupel rallied his Sooners troops.
They scored and scored and scored again.
The Sooners “D” built a Wall at the 50,
And would not let the Huskers in.
Winners, the Sooners ran and jumped with glee.
Fans flooded Owen Field, milling all around,
Praising and hugging their Sooners Heroes.
They even tore the goal post down.
Now #1, the Sooners had won it on the field.
Their preparation had been well taught.
Bob Stoops, all his great coaches and assistants,
Took pride in how the Sooners fought.
Someone once said, “Everyone loves a winner.”
Everywhere you looked confirmed it’s true.
OU flags fluttered. Decals, hats, and clothes abound.
Come November, the Sooners and their Fans
had been renewed,
There’s no slighting the importance of Red October.
The Sooners came together as a Team.
No doubt too, without “The Red October Run”
Their National Championship would still be just a dream.
For the next five games, it was simply unacceptable
For the Sooners to even think that they could fail;
And, tho’ Heupel played injured, they won the Big 12 Championship;
Great Sooners Defense had prevailed.
But no one gave these Big 12 Champs the slightest chance to win
Against the mighty Seminoles of Florida State.
The Heisman Trophy Winner was their quarterback
And their defense was touted to be great.
At the coin toss, Team Captain Torrance Marshall
Said to their quarterback in words most serious and sure,
“You took our boy’s trophy”. Then he smiled,
“Now we’re gonna take yours”.
The Sooners “D” was everywhere and completely shut them down;
And, when Quentin Griffin’s touchdown closed the door,
Their quarterback knew that Marshall’s words rang true;
The not-so-mighty ‘Noles had not been allowed to score.
Yes, Bob Stoops and his Sooners knew the challenge:
To win Each game ‘til Every game’s been won;
Win for Sooners and their Fans the unchallenged right
To revel in the Glory of being #1.
Yes, my Sooners Team goes on and on,
Different faces, different names;
But these Sooners Champions will be well remembered
For the Season they won Every game.
Undefeated National Champions!
Before October, who would have ever dreamed?
Why, just last year, we didn’t even know the players' names;
And now, they’re College Football’s Greatest Team.
To overcome all adversity and rise to every challenge,
The reward for such a feat is being #1;
Their path to Glory born of a Sooners Legend
Called The Red October Run.
Long poem by
Andrew Crisci | Details |
The blind man waited,
at the intersection, for someone
to help him cross the busy boulevard...
and he was accustomed to live in twilight,
fumbling for a hand on his right;
and he finally found mine!
Judge humanly...not pettily,
you could be in that situation
and feel abandoned and helpless,
unless somebody extends compassion
and lends that hand in time of need;
only human love can render a good deed!
The orphan girl recognizes a greed so mundane,
her body has grown, so has her world's view;
that person who abandoned her at the orphanage
when icy rain pelted against the foggy windows,
was her own mother that refused to knock on the front door!
She still feels unwanted, unloved and rejected by who,
for some shameful reason, dropped her off and was gone
into the dreary autumn's night to forget her despair!
Judge the pain...not the circumstance
that impels a misguided heart to err;
beneath an appearance of denial,
there's a certain humanity we can't conceive,
and what prompts us to act in unreasonable and strange ways,
is still not quite understood by all;
all we can perceive is the guilt we can't bear,
and the resentful restlessness which shortens this very existence!
The elderly woman, sitting in an old wheel-chair,
waits at the traffic light as the whisking wind
brushes her frizzy and gray hair;
the sunken-cheeked lady is the regular beggar,
whose life has never been mellow,
but full of tragedy and sorrow!
Her frail voice is not insincere, but thankful and kind...
when I hand her a dollar out of my car's window!
Judge fairly... that could be you standing there,
or someone you love; fate can be changed if we dare...
we assert truths without clarity and condemn unjustly!
Let's take the mendicant's place, at the same corner, and beg all day;
wouldn't we be humiliated, be scorned or even be ignored
by the glances of passerby that regard us not as their friend?
The run-away teenager with lots of make-up,
looks like a madam out of a brothel,
who tries to hide her identical age by smiling at strangers...
and her trade is that of an inexperienced gal,
unprotected and exposed to many dangers;
and it might cost her life...that's already a living hell!
Judge not too harshly...when facts aren't known,
and the only assumption rests with our pity;
along the side of the street there are many eyes that weep,
eager to return home, to a home that was so warm and cozy!
And the lucky ones will make until dawn,
others will not open their eyes, but eternally sleep!
THE PLAGUES OF OUR DAY
The blind man with a steel cane stooped and waited
for someone to help him across the busy boulevard;
he felt warm sunlight, and wished his sight back without living in darkness,
then he saw a glimpse of that light when he was touched by my kindness.
The orphan girl wants to escape, but she is afraid to venture in the outside world
still feeling unwanted, unloved and shivering unable to shield herself from the cold.
On many rainy nights, she sits by her barred window recalling her frail mom fleeing
into the Autumn dreary night, and inside she longs for caresses to begin the healing.
Another teenager, hustles in the dangerous streets of night...she barely
can walk on high heels, but she endures pain for gain;
her home was blessed with good parents, but she rebelled and ran away...
she has no choice but sell her body...what will she attain?
Lend a hand to anyone in time of need,
only human love renders a good deed;
How can we help abandoned babies and run-away
and get rid of all the plagues of our day that infest society?
Long poem by
Diane M Quinlan | Details |
Ode To ‘Mother’ Creator ©
Not only is it a marvelous happen chance in being able to have ‘shares’ in Mother Nature’s flora creations 'first hand'---
But, we are then granted to sit before her, these ‘set tables’….
She, as our ‘hostess’ serves ‘up’ an endless canvasing ‘kaleidoscope’ set for our eyes only!
She tempts us again and again, into a fevered ‘hunger-fest’ to (pig-out) by and they are very much ‘ready’ with such ‘food for thought’!
She has intuitively displayed her indulgent ‘realm’ to overrun our 'minds' eye….
We are prearranged to touch, taste/smell and become a convert---
It is; as true, loyal, ‘voyeurs’ we now give our undivided attendance, when we are all invited to her 'seasoning’ assemblies….
Their wholeness is made perfect, even into their ‘finally’ timed performances!
Her uses and gifts work miraculously to brightening 'up' her shadings and tonalities towards her abundant-folding true colours and her 'achievements' are (forever) complemented upon---
Whether, it is in her fauna show of velvety, satin and silky petal-flowers spending titillating fragrances
Or, by use of her seasonally ‘varying’ cycles, in 'all' her weather modes; she always will spend, all her wonderment and excitement--- towards her spectacular works!
Her numerous ‘paint-box’ colours with their different scents and shaded consepts are definitely.... crafted, in alluring us feverishly, into inventive crazed acts---
Just like the moments, when a (newly) box of crayons, first opens up and invitingly nudges the painter and writer forward.binging 'us’, to recreate one's own bountiful displays with worded colour and paints….
Thus, with our 'first hand' wonder/mental experience, “Mother’ has never 'giifted', (a questionable) blank canvas to work upon!
We are a growing world-wide nature loving group, enamoured to (dabble) our time away, 'within’ her 'ecospheres'---
We have also ‘gifted’; as well, to oiur 'public', family an friends many of our exhibited works….
Our own ‘piece-meals’ are proudly admired and profitably ‘feasted’ upon!
Many wonderful invites are sent 'out', for all to come and attend our (tabled smorgasbords) ---
‘Mother’, must be as proud and pleased when taking note, of all the vast, interpretative and varied (personal) worked styles we have made, in her likeness….
she has ‘qualified’us her pupils, in her stead, to such ‘artistry’ freedoms!
We have been ‘branded’ her slaves; as only a true slave driver can do---
We are meant to go through with our own ‘humbling’ efforts willingly.
Our need and desire to please and honour her great gifts, by these, our gifts are surmountable!
Our enthusiasms, to share our ‘Mother Nurtured’ talents among one and all to salivate and savour, is indeed a two-fold 'forever'gift and made much more---
We can only hold her responsible for our inspirational madness every day, days in and days out throughout time….
Mother Nature, we thank you for the power you have given us again, and again and again to learn, create and live in your world.
We are indeed, our own 'self-appointed time keepers and guardians to your ‘star studded 'forevermore''garden!
My writer’s mind speaks ‘never’ enough words to paint your magnificence---
There are not enough means, to ever do you justice….
Our word/plays and colourful paintings are but a ‘stitch’ to your ‘dressed’ canvases!
A true lover of Mother Nature’s works.
Artist and poet writing with ink and paint!
Long poem by
Carrie Richards | Details |
In a lovely corner of her garden,
a trellis was curled with rose climbing vines,
and something enchanting, had been designed,
from an ordinary day on a warm afternoon.
Tea would be served, with her large knuckled hands,
to a bouquet of her friends, and some neighbors of mine,
by the most gentile’ lady, I have ever known…
She made it seem like days of old, when decorum was in fashion,
before composure, and poise,.. had become scorned and cold
where propriety still mattered, as precious as gold.
Lilting voices would chatter like the birds on the wing.
Ringing with laughter, across fragrant grass,
Flower frocked ladies, around a few scattered tables.
Linens and laces, under ashes and maples.
Silver coifed hairdos, with apple cheeked faces,
And me? There I'd sip.... quite out of my place...
watching it all, from the cool dappled shade.
There were delightful surprises to meet the eye…
Delicate confections, cucumber sandwiches,
made by her hand, just for the occasion.
Fragrant branches, covering the veranda.…
Rose petal blossoms, painted on china.
The most beautiful tea set, oh, how divine it was!
Envious eyes, covetously pined for it!
She wore a floppy garden hat, a dress of mauve, and there she sat.
Her weathered skin, her cheeks of rouge... a smile to love,...you would have too,...
She had lived a war, and more than one.....iron strong, a generous heart
Knowing eyes, and sparkling wit,
She would hold your hand in hers and smile,... listen well, of that I'm sure
and then would sip and chat awhile, of this and that…
and you would learn of love somehow
I sipped my tea, and watched it all, and never thought of future things. ~
For now I sit here all alone…the chatter gone, the birds have flown.
Where once her charm, her love of life
the grand old ways, have slipped away…gone are those days, she loved so well.
Soon after, in the autumn chill…when word soon spread that she was ill
I was away, and never knew.….I hope, oh Lord, she was not alone ….
And looking back …I think of that….. and how strange the fact….. how odd it is…..
that something owned by someone grand, a china cup, so delicate,
so fragile in the hand,
can last beyond the grave...intact,….
although a dear, enchanting friend, her life would have to end…..
For Contest Sponsored by Just Archaic Poet: Song choice- "Tea For Two"
Long poem by
Terry Trainor | Details |
One fine blustering autumn day an old man puts on his boots pulls up his trousers off he goes,
If anyone wondered where he was going it was to a forest a good long walk it was a fine day,
The old man walked at a leisurely pace stopping every now and again pulling up his trousers,
Looking over fences just to see what the farmer’s men were up to and who was ploughing today.
In his days, the prime of his life, he and his old horse would plough the fields from early morning,
Working through the day stopping for a bottle of cold tea a loaf of bread and a large lump of cheese,
The horse had a nosebag and while they rested, eating, the clapper of the bird boy could be heard,
He would work on until the sun went down on a blue horizon and shadows disappeared with the day.
As he paused he took pleasure at the sight of fat cattle and poultry roaming around the farmhouse,
Duck and geese and turkeys busying themselves beside the big barn doors pecking out the chaff,
And he could hear the flail, or the swipple, knocking the corn, as the bails piled high in the barn,
Happy that all was well he carried on walking, smiling and made his way up to the brow of a hill.
As a young farmer he leaped over stiles and ran in the corn, the land was his workplace and home,
There was no job he could not do or did not enjoy doing, whatever needed doing it had to be done,
His arms were so thick, strong, the farm girls giggled but could not get their hands all the way round,
He used to blush as each girl tried, he was a bit shy, but it made him feel good to be so very strong.
He also stopped at stiles, or a rustic bridge casting its arch over water, fish swam in the shallows
Breathing in deeply through his nose, sampling the fresh autumnal air, a bonfire in the distance,
After looking all around he wished he had brought some tackle to catch some for his late dinner,
Never mind he thought it’s another day tomorrow I will be up here to fish at the crack of the dawn.
In his young days he was not allowed to fish the river, so in the moonless nights he would poach,
Beautiful brown trout as fresh as a berry from a tree eaten with warm bread a feast fit for a king,
It would not be long before he stopped again getting his breath resting for a few short minutes,
As his lungs filled with the purest of pure air he restarted his country walk and relived his life.
He passed by clusters of rich, jetty blackberries hanging from a hedge and took time to pick a few,
And clusters of nuts hanging by the wayside through the copse on his way along a little old lane,
And in all this natural beauty the old man seemed to have enjoyment of a child one more time,
The world moved around but this time backwards he saw the things he used to see as a young boy
Long poem by
William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |
On it’s final journey – destination – a coma –
realization, a stagnant pool of reflections,
images on fun house mirrors –
upon the walls of times passing,
it’s life diminishing, slowly, upon wings
of a sorrowful, soulful, agonizing flight
into the realms of death’s domain.
Dreams come to the midnight hour – hovering above.
Dreams fade - in quiet desperation – in twilight’s dust.
Rainbows mist, slowly blanketing, dark oceans deep.
Dreams of – depths of love, of joy, of a relationship,
all lost inside the vessel of heartache,
heartache’s pain washes over this sinking ship,
the ship of this fool and fools in love.
The dream shattered, fragmented – as is the love, lost
at the hand of indifference, of prejudiced perceptions,
of judgmental criticisms, of a belief of unworthiness
that is displayed upon the screens of a mind hiding,
avoiding – a lifetime of pain, disappointment,
shattered dreams, unattainable expectations –
the monster – created, influenced, became the food
for control, critical. judgmental indifference,
the façade of such pride, superiority, aggression.
The dreams, the love,–into Davie Jones’s locker deep-
there lay the skeletons of memories’ hope, life’s desire,
- for no other entity, no essence, no energy source
of such beauty will come along to extricate, validate,
bestow vitality, resurrect, breath life back into
that which was dead and now drowning.
Oh, if it could only be shown, there is more than one,
shown that two can be as one in their separateness.
If only the deep, dark, shadows would give up, give in,
relinquish their control, release the anchor,
the chains that bind, that weigh you down.
The lungs of this Love, are filled with dew drops.
Suffocating from an unloving, uncaring, uninterested.
indifferent body, ( water the mother of this life, influence long gone ) oxygen it’s name - it’s father -rusting it’s hinges, doors no longer open
for this child loved, for the spirit,
the soul of dream’s destine - to love – seem not
to be able to bring life to this dead soul – adrift.
Shun the dreams essence and life drowns.
Shun love’s embrace – energy becomes less then static,
static becomes loves death - death by electrocution -
a shock that stills the heart that loves.
Love is dying at the hands of “ I do not want ! ”
Soon the day approaches when Love, will not want
what the hands of, reach out for – emptiness
will be all that fills the world of superficiality.
In the end, the aesthetic pictures, points of view
will be nothing more then dust in the winds
howling through the empty spaces
- once beautiful Autumn Green Eyes.
B. J. “A” 2
May 27th 2008
Long poem by
Roy Jerden | Details |
Out in small town Texas, a handshake is a deal.
Folks go to church on Sunday, say grace at every meal.
Men open doors for ladies, kids say sir and ma'am.
Boys can't wait to join the Corps, and serve their Uncle Sam.
But if you were to go there, come autumn Friday nights
the place might be deserted, when the whole darn town unites,
upon a spread of hallowed ground, a grassy green expanse,
to celebrate their civic pride and watch the six man dance.
Now this dance is not for sissies, and I think you would agree
if you knew a bit about a man by the name of Jack Pardee.
Yep, they call it six man football, and they don’t get much acclaim.
They don't play for scholarships; but for the glory of the game.
Three up front and three in back, any lad can be the man
to pass or catch or run the ball, and kick it if he can.
A first down costs you fifteen yards; a field goal gets you four.
You’ll hardly wait two minutes there before another score.
Because for those without some speed, this game is not contrived,
and if one team can't keep it up, they might get forty-fived.
That's what they call the mercy rule, 'cause scoring is so fast.
No point in running up the tab when one team is outclassed.
So if you want a taste of life the way it used to be,
where folks can trust each other and kids can still run free,
and there’s a game where little fellers surely stand a chance,
drive out to small town Texas, and watch the six man dance.
© December 9, 2012
As a teenager, Jack Pardee moved to Christoval, Texas where he excelled as a member of the six-man football team. Pardee is the only six-man player to later have played or coached in the NFL. He was an All-American linebacker at Texas A&M University and a two-time All-Pro with the Los Angeles Rams (1963) and the Washington Redskins (1971).
He is the only head coach to helm a team in college football, the National Football League, the United States Football League, the World Football League, and the Canadian Football League. Pardee was inducted into the College Football Hall of Fame as a player in 1986.
In the 2008–2009 season the state of Texas had 183 six-man football teams, more than all the other states combined. The number of schools opting for six-man football is expected to increase due to declining population in small West Texas towns, and newer private schools opting for six-man football.
The rules are slightly different than the 11-man version as explained in the poem. The "Mercy Rule" will end a game when one team is ahead 45 points or more at half-time or any time in the second half, hence the expression "getting forty-fived".
Long poem by
Ingrid Showalter Swift | Details |
Why We Will Never Say Hello or Good-bye
By Ingrid Showalter Swift
Rake your fine fingers across my tender lips...
waiting with the hunger that years have made.
...Do you still hear me?
I am off in a land of daisies and flowers, of many colors.
I walk down sandy paths of pale soft skin... that I imagine
The water-butter beneath my finger tips
is your skin as well
and I look out across a far away horizon and know
you live there
breathing on, in unison with arms open to the sky
You beam as the sun... I weep as the waves.
I ache and bend and cry out in labor pain
There is no separation... but the heart still seems to seep
I can see your eyes
and in my eyes still dark and far away
...you drift quietly on a raft bobbing in a safe cove
The night still shifts to the wetted calm of us from time to time
and I know the trees and dogs can feel us moving
beneath the surface, like mermaids
Our tails are webbed jewels of gold and myrrh
Our fingers are intermingled... our cells combined...
Our torsos are sleek and clean
We separate... dip and dive like porpoises...
They know... I know they know... and hear our ever calls
and dive for us
in the still of twilight’s dancing diamonds
Why not? I cry... but know all too well the answers
Because there are flowers on our paths
and children playing in the skin of the sand
and we are one in our purpose
and one in the words and one as they fly over head - wing to wing...
As autumn climbs the hill to winter...
we will be in the flickering light of fire side
and the warmth of the soups that brew
and are handed one to the other
and we will ever be in the sawdust
and in the creation of anything new
and in time as it flows back and forth with the tide
Nothing can ever sever us from the ants
and the shells
and the mail that arrives in the mail box
Do you know that we are only a car ride away from forever?
Do you know that we are nothing more than one phone call apart?
...just seven numbers apart!
and it will remain the distance of forever because we know
how fine the sand feels between our toes
how smooth the wind blows over our wet torsos and white sails
and how water splashes into tiny beads of light at the bow
and how the tree grows
and how the stone feels from the inside
We will remain alone and surrounded by love
...because grass is green
God! How I love you!
Tell me again that you know... tell me... call me... tell me
...that it is real... that you can hear me
that I am the same as the child beneath your palm
loved ever, unconditionally
and you are proud of who I am and who I am becoming
Long poem by
Kristin Reynolds | Details |
how many lives;
how many have fallen
your magical spell?
If it may be so,
let each star be named
For your beauty transpires
into all shine and sheen cast out
from the darkness and starkness
of infinite space –
(as they were intended to be seen)
as if even the light shining forth
the pervading clouds of life’s
perpetual storm –
(day to day to day,
recognizes your poetic touch,
stopping, halting, driving
the wedge of night out
of our very hearts,
as if just being here, seeing them
really seeing the stars
(through your eyes we see –
you are clear, you are
like dew on leaves – with us being
as leaves) opens up
our every pour;
pouring forth what may never
have been seen
without your dewy light’s reflection,
how else can the green of leaves
that they are also
made of stars,
if not first being shown
the point of green?
Yes, if it be so,
let the stars be named
Let each one bare their own weight
(light is weightless - don’t you see?)
before it’s too late,
and all the leaves (our leaves –
start to twist
into autumn - a lazy
to nowhere –
dry and cracked
to the desperate open mouth
left to writhe amongst the yellowing mulch,
like ornately colored
for the cold of winter
You are like stars.
A multiplicity of the exponential
magnifying each one who sees;
(recognizing our own in you)
light touching light through the heart
of our own.
You are our spectacle, Miss. Weimer –
our looking glass into
the night sky,
reminding our hearts
how to shine.
And for this I say, Thankee-Sai –
Thankee Big big
(a kindred thank you – you see, I see)
and for touching us with the ends
(and beginnings) of your lit up
shattering our stormy skies
How many ways do we love you?
Too many ways to count –
There are so many stars.
***I'm sure this poem is going to end up being redundant, as many will write about our
lovely, Sharon Weimer, but I felt I must, simply because - and that's all the excuse I
needed. She's been a good friend, in more ways than I can count :) We love you, Shar -
keep shining, and never forget what you're made of.
For another of our beloved poets, Miss. Christie's P.S Member Dedication Contest. :)