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My beautiful Daughter, walks life’s paths alone,
She does so, by design – not of hers – on her own.
She travels heavily !, from place to empty space,
from space to vacant place – in what kind of race?
A race towards where ?, towards what I do not know,
for, to me – an age and place beyond – she does not show
where it is, - where she wants her future to go
if ?, going anywhere – accomplishing - is a guiding
force in her life, seeking out, chasing after lightening.
There are times, when I hear, in my words
the sounds of need, – empty in their experience –
looking for some of what has been offered.
What has been offered, I see, it is not meant for me.
I keep being dragged back into this nightmare,
a nightmare ?, so I am lead to believe, could it be ?
Within the stories, the tone, I hear, I perceive it to be
but have to wonder ?, is it ?, really but a dream
that can find no reality on this plane , never comes true,
therefore it truly is !, becomes the nightmare.
In the words that tell, I see, I hear, I feel
the sword that plunges deep, with which to defend,
to destroy the foe – the lover – a man not to know
yet not forgotten, not left alone, not let go of.
He - the nightmare – is always there, he doesn’t care,
he is a rotting residue in, a part of life’s moments.
He is your nightmare, in your dreams, in every waking hour!
These sad eyes see, these sensitive ears, in pain, hear the pain,
this old heart feels, but this useless blade, – a knife that hides
within my, closed mouth – seems not able to cut away at the ties
that bind you to life’s strife – to the nightmare.
Could it be unfulfilled desires ?, unrealized dreams ?
What has taken forty nine life times to create,
might be attributed to nature, nurturing or fate,
but may not be digested, accepted, understood or dissipated.
Regardless of the words, the meaning, what else can be stated ?
I know that in forty nine hour days, my thoughts my feeling
will never find a way to reach out and touch a solid ceiling
and so, in my many words, in my actions, I pray
that it all can be set aside, and all can be put away.
A walk from the dark side, into the darkness.
Little, to nothing could this impotent old man / dad offer
his Child, his oldest Daughter, in so much need.
Nothing could he bestow upon his Child, or his lover,
with her insecurities, doubts, his insatiable greed,
and so, escape not, she walks along with his need
as it has been something he has decreed.
Oh !, how remiss to leave them on their own, to agree
to their coarse, a course that could take them on
to complete the journey they started, then gone.
Time, enough !, distance is past
Time to stop !, turn around at last
and face what the outcome will be.
Open eyes, a new beginning to see.
May I leave sun set’s path, face the sun rise
coming through that black velvet screen before me
with it’s spattered, day-glow dots, all aglow
opening inner sanctum doors, allowing me to know.
Thoughts for me, alternative for them flash before my mind.
What will they do ?, am I being so unkind ?
Will one, the other or both be bussed back to Ontario ?
As I walk back to the room, I ponder the scenario ?
Will we ( all three ) carry on with our little adventure
into the canyons and gorges, the city of all nights lights
– the city where angels never sleeps – I cannot be sure ?,
sure if they will end their – for my attention – fights.
Will we see the city ?, where one man built his fantasy,
walk among dreams brought to life, a fun reality
of cartoon characters, animated for the child in us
or in the end, to Ontario on a Greyhound bus ?
Will we see stars ?, stars on a walk, in the city of angels
At this juncture, what will be the story one tells ?
Will the Golden Gate carry us ?, will we ride the hills ?,
on their steel rails, tell tales of all our thrills ?
Will we end these moments in gods country ?,
the city of the British, the salmon run, a hollow tree,
mountains, bays, bears, a Princess, poetess gone to ash,
her rhyme, this forth cousin of mine, they did stash,
hidden from obvious view, in the woods of Stanley park,
where few knew, and for a hundred years, lay in the dark.
Many know not where Native, folk lore doth reside ?
In her books, hand in hand and side by side,
along with as many nationalities as there are nations.
In this place, women brought to life her creations.
Before I leave this bleak walk, in the arms of this black night,
My thoughts are, hope that all will come out all right,
when one of those day glow dots, in that black velvet sky,
all a glow, took off, streaked south, caught my eye
as it crossed the heavens, fast as the speed of light,
in the pattern of a Zed, then disappeared from sight.
( Strange !!!, this speck of star light, it’s unusual flight
as it star-ts out from nothing, speeds south on a
horizontal plane, pauses a split second, reverses direction,
drops down vertically, on an angle northward, towards a point
where it started out, again paused for a split second, then,
on a horizontal plan, zipped south before disappearing into star,
in the starry back drop from whence it took life, for a moment. )
This story, – twenty five years old – in rhyme, comes to life,
for a brief moment, from a memories hoard, rife
with so many stories hidden from sight
coming from rhyme - into light.
B. J.“A ” 2
May 30th 2002
One Halloween night, I woke up screaming,
There were many zombies around me, all furiously staring;
With their burning red eyes, they were ready to smash my head;
When they pulled my arms and legs, I squirmed and jumped out of bed.
I ran to take my bike and drove it as fast as I could,
I knew they all wanted to eat me, so I thought of hiding in the wood,
While I was driving on the way, all I heard were growling sounds,
With disco music, it looked like a big celebration outside the grave grounds.
“Did they ruin the whole city?” that was a query in my mind,
How can I get back to take my shoes and see if my friends are still around?
On my way, I saw some female zombies walking with their arms stretched,
I tried to avoid them, so scared to see their faces that had been wrecked.
I’d finally arrived at the wood but with some bruises,
I got off my bike to relieve them with hoarfrosts on leaves and branches;
Suddenly, I heard strange sounds not far from the back,
I saw group of male zombies… so prepared to attack!
I stood, turned around and I could see them everywhere,
In morass, I convinced myself to stay alert… losing my poise…I didn’t care;
I ran to a long tangled vines and swung myself up to the tree,
Once I landed on a big branch, a large snake hissed at me.
“I would rather die being eaten and joined with those zombies.” I thought,
Than to be poisoned and strangled by a snake, I tried not to be caught;
I swiftly took branches to defend myself through an Arnis and Taekwondo,
Then, I jumped down back to the zombies with a messed up hairdo.
Everyone was coming towards me but I kept calm,
With my two crooked branches, I did my best not to be harmed;
Profusely perspiring… I courageously prepared myself,
When they were approaching, I wondered why a zombie behind was left.
As the darkest cloud revealed its full moon and the wolves howled,
I recognized the zombie at the back and I cried out, “It’s my Dad!”
All the zombies turned around and looked at him,
At the snap of my dad’s finger, they went away with him as one team.
“Wait for me, Dad, please wait for me!” I was then crying,
But they never looked back anymore, all their bodies started melting;
I realized that in a Halloween Night, even if it’s so scary it’s also amazing,
In the darkest of its night, an angel is still there for us--protecting.
Oct. 20, 2013 8.2o am
• Arnis Sport/Jendo Arnis is one kind of a martial art sport similar to a karate and taekwondo which is also called stick-fighting sport. To know more about this sport and its origin, you can google it. ;)))) Thank you so much.
Contest: Halloween Only
Sponsor: Poetess Skat
Contest: Latest Poem
Sponsor: Poetess Linda/PD
Eleven – “Novelism: The-Newness-of-the-Old”
(for: Deborah Guzzi, my poetess-commentator)
… & the argument continues
… That nothing new exists of itself in Nature is now a widely reputed view. Nothing is new
but for the very thought of its novelty! Yet, the Newness-of-the-Old, an idea which I call
Novelism, permeates the entire horizon of the anti-novel ferment of our Age of Fashion.
It is true that Nature is full of repetitions; Creative Repetitions, of course! If not
History would have died repeating the same tales. However, it isn’t true that Nature is so
reluctant in giving us new things. We would rather contend that through her seeming
change-less fixtures, Nature shows her constant dynamism. Yes, all these fixtures, the
endemic sufferings of her staticism, celebrate her novelty in endless forms.
O, think of them: of all the activities of the Mortal star, Man; of his crafts: those
apparent webs of his genial faculties that applaud him as the Genius of Creation – what is
so old & traditional but our ordinances of Sleep & Wake, Work & Feed, & other vigilant
demands of our cultures? & what isn’t tempered with our spirit of fashionism in such
Nature may, then, be afraid of innovation & be accused of abject conservatism, only by
those who are lazy to follow her rhythmic changes. Everywhere these rhythmic drums beat so
When we think of the joyous travails of the Sun; of the virginous reputation of the Moon;
of the crudity of the beast; of the swift & endless voyage of moving waters into Seas &
Oceans; of the swift slippery driving styles of the Fish; of the Sky laughing at the
endurant soils of our Earth; of the Seasons in their equilibrium songs; of the ever-happy
& singing Birds – what notes of dynamisms we hear! & in neglecting such notes, aren’t we
heading for a dance of the heroic pessimism?
While we consciously neglect the novelties in a society by demanding for a kind of
novelty, aren’t we adding to the Crises of Nature? – but, Nature’s personality can’t be
forced to possess unnatural garments that we extend! Then, let Ideas possess the Society,
not Individuals! Ideas lead to newness, although, ideas are created by men; men go out of
the Stage more swiftly than their ideas. If the Idea rules the Setting rather than the
Voice of Man, then Novelism, the-Newness-of-the-Old, would thrive; & thriving, she could
bear her drivers, the men of ideas, along the paths of Innovation!
(… & the argument continues)
long before i met April
i was a poet true
i had a heart of love
but no one to give it to
so i put my words on paper
posted them to the net
and got someones attention
that i will never forget
her name is Carolyn Devonshire
and she's quite the poet too
she had so much that i admired
a true friend through and through
some mornings i'm up early
before the sun can shine
i picture Sara Kindrick
with her caffine and my rhymes
my secret girlfriend Linda
i might see any time
she must be writing poetry
because she writes all the time
then there's Phillis Babcock
she's my biggest fan
she read my each and every poem
ever since i can't remember when
and who is Anne Lise Andresen
she's quite detremined we see
she comments on so many poems
it's my guess she speed reads
i love Catie Lindsey
we met so long ago
her pretty eye's and smile
matches her poetry flow
pray for Linda Marie
the sweetheart of us all
i asked for her to pray for me
all i had to do was call
how long have i known Andrea
she's been so sweet to me
she always comes by
to see what she can read
i have a lot of fans
that i have deeply touched
Gwendolen Rix is one of those
who tells me this so much
the plight of Joy Wellington
has us all up in arms
her and David Smallings
only lasted yae long
Yasmin Khan is special
she once called me over the hill
folks won't know how special
until i hit her with the bill
one day i found a writer
who reminded me of me
her words possesed true meaning
her names Elizabeth Wesley
not long after April died
while tears still wet i cried
then came Charolotte Puddifoot
and with her i was surely took
Vie Bombardieri sponsored a contest
and i must admit i did my very best
my brain worked over time on what i submited
but as far as the contest it was hardly complimented
Lisa Cooper the Dark Poetess
Has a talent not many posses
With words and fantasies she weaves
Bards that are sure to please
Charma sweet Charma
You still cross my mind
But with the new baby
You probably don't have time
And about the two Carols
That keep comming around
Carol Eastman and Carol Brown
They say Carol Eastman lives in my town
Natalie Rhymer, is she still on?
She's so riske I thought she'd be gone
I read her one day and she touched my heart
Her poem called "My Affiction" tore me apart
Now if there are two guys
That i'd like to mintion
Sometimes I think their one in the same
But Carolyn says they're different
I give them respect
Because they are the best
On the soup besides me
Sydney Beck or John Heck slay me
I could not hold on to you
But oh...how hard I tried
Excavated each forgotten chamber
Of my heart
To find some charm
To cast a spell
And make you mine
Some magic potion
That would make your every night
A “midsummer night’s dream”
Where all is not what it seems
And you are in love with ME
Hanging onto my every word
Infatuated with my every look
Making love with your eyes
I wake from the dream
I could not hold on to you…
I transformed myself daily
Taking on different roles
To find favor in your eyes
To make you love me
To make you make love to me
I couldn't hold on….
Wispy as a dream
Captivating as the Northern Lights
You dance across my darkest night
Coloring the fibers of my soul
With hues of paradise
Your beauty disrobes me
And I lie down and gaze in awe
Pressed against the ground
I look up at you
Imploring with my eyes
Wishing you’d flash down
And caress every part
With the rainbow colored fingers
Of your fantasy
Unleased on me
Celestial loving making
My senses etherealized
By your other world eyes
But the heavenly flirtation ends
And I can’t comprehend
Why I couldn't hold on to you…
You...my North Star
My desires guided by the light
But she's reflected in your starry eyes
And you start to fall
Become her shooting star
Crashing into the stratosphere
You burn as you enter
Blazing your way through
Friction bursting into flame
You don’t stop
Till you impact her body
Fill her emptiness
With the stardust
Of your soul
I could not hold on to you….
Through my fingers
Through the cracks in my heart
Sliding carefully through
Taking with you
The best sentiments in me
Drunk on my idolatry
The nectar of my love consumed
Yet still glistening on your lips
The sweetest I could provide
It made you stay for a while
Every tomorrow’s dream
And my every lover’s scheme
Slipped with you through my fingers
I could not hold on to you...
I smile, my pondering through
Refreshed by memory's drops of dew
You’ll come back…You always do
No one else knows how to pleasure you
How to baby you, how to feed
How to give you what you need
Who hears your unspoken requests
And answers before you speak
No one can tempt like I do
Make you a man all brand new
I know it’s true
But when you do
Oh sweet dream, sweet fantasy
When you return...
Will you be able to hold on to me?
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Doth it not thrill thee, Poet
Dead and dust though thy art,
To feel how I press thy singing
Close to my heart?
~By Richard Le Gallienne~
(The Passionate Reader to His Poet)
Lady, passionate lady, what should I call you?
The title wordsmith is brassy and dully clangs,
And poetess only mocks, is meant to subdue,
Though lovely all of your works, they often bared fangs.
As a child they christened you, Poet Laureate,
You had penned your first verse when you were only six,
Your father owned slaves, to his ways you’d not submit,
The poem, ‘Curse for a Nation’, true justice depicts.
Robert read your book ‘Poems’ and became smitten,
Long letters were exchanged, for two souls felt like one,
“Sonnets of the Portuguese” is love’s famish written,
Not one word rings false, not a line comes undone.
Beauty mingles with anguish in supplicant verse,
You prove from the sour of life, sweet can emerse.
*By Cyndi MacMillan, October 26, 2011
**For Constance’s “The Passionate Reader” Contest
ABOUT THIS POEM
I was twelve when I fell head over heels for Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poetry. My own copy of “Sonnets of the Portuguese” had a black velvet cover. The velvet has developed severe worn spots through the years… it is that cherished.
Due to an illness she had her entire adult life, Elizabeth suffered such great physical pain that she took opium. Some say that the drugs made her more creative. I disagree. Elizabeth suffered many losses in her life: a younger brother when she was only 8, her mother when she was just 22, and two brothers (one of whom she was very close to) when she was 34. It was at 35, when she became somewhat of a hermit, she was the most prolific. Writing is an outlet for deep emotions (don’t we know it!), and I believe her poetry is born of pain, not painkillers.
The union of two highly regarded poets is one of the most beautiful love stories I’ve ever heard. Their mutual admiration is, to me, what true romance is about.
And Elizabeth, here on Poetry Soup, reminds me very much of E.B.B. I dedicate this poem to her.
MY DREAMER HE WEAVES THE WESTERN TUNE, WHILE MY HEART SINGS IN ORIENTAL MONSOON.
so far away, she eagerly awaits me, from such a distance, easily captivates me.
HE IS A BIRD FOR EVERY SEASON, I HAVE MY WINGS CLIPPED IMPRISON, HE IS THE RESCUER TO MY PRISONER.
her eyes i've seen on a computer screen, indulgent Brown, inducing rapturous dream.
MY DREAMERS READY TO HYPNOTIZE, WITH CARIBBEAN BLUE EYES, OH HOW THEY PROBE FROM ACROSS THE GLOBE.
I RETIRE TO BED WITH COOLING AIR-CON, HE LAY FREEZING WITH HEATERS ON.
the gulf of time and distance between, when i'm gettin' dirty, she's gettin' clean, to live a life of such flip-side, same planet just different stops on the ride, almost comparable to a soul alive, or one who died, eating healthily or food that's fried, such is our difference, a bit like free or tied.
HE OWNS THE PATIENCE AND CALMNESS OF A RIVER, WHILE MY MIND IS FURIOUS AND AGITATED LIKE A TAXI DRIVER, HE'S A TOP CLASS CHEF, WHILE I MERELY GET CHINESE DELIVER, HE DRINKS THE STRONGEST RUM, WHILE I DON'T IMBIBE A DROP, NO NONE.
she's like heads an' i resemble tails, or a winner against someone who fails, she's a plane flying free to my train that needs the rails.
HOT AND COLD, YOUNG OR OLD, SHY VERSUS BOLD, TO TELL OR BE TOLD, I am silver, she pure gold.
she's the surf and i'm the sand, always reach for each others hand.
i am a ghostly shade of white, while she shimmers dark cinnamon glow, i'm the creature of the night, she an angel, replete with halo, i am madness and all out fight, she prefers hugs and holding tight.
maybe it's as simple as peanut butter or jello, or you say goodbye and i say hello. beatles or stones, rags and bones, beanbag or throne, like a right handed person, or a left handed clone.
LIFT ME FROM THE DARK, SILENCE CERBERUS' BARK, ENLIGHTEN MY DREAMS, ALL THAT HE DREAMS.
RATHER A SONG FROM A LARK, SANG TIL WE CARK', I WISH TO HOLD HIM 'TIL DEATH DO US PART.
she' a cat and i'm a dog, a beautiful princess to an ugly frog.
i'm like the ying and she's my yang, my words only written while hers is sang, her songs soothe me like nurses, stop me falling apart, HIS PURE VERSES BREAK THE CURSES INFLICTING ON MY HEART.....
.....The good old saying,'that opposites attract'
The pull between the two, they're bound to contract
Then two parts can become a whole intact!
written in conjunction with Red Fiery Poetess, who wrote the pieces in capital letters.
©John-Ovan.P.Hull and Red Fiery Poetess.
Dedicated to my darling Mystic Rose...
For my everlasting rose,
for my darling Mystic Rose,
Charished deep in my heart,
for generations to last lifetimes,
on this Beautiful gift,
we all call Mother Earth.
Oh now my dear
come now and do not fear,
I shall take you by your sweet and loving hand,
as we set out in a band,
of two lonely hearts
that both need to be loved.
At first when I came
to this desolate Wasteland;
I was a lonely heart
with poetry that was my art.
You were the first to come to me,
with a smile and a hug.
You read my work,
I won your heart
and you praised me,
looked at me in anew
and treated me diffrently than any other.
My darling Mystic,
Oh how you make me feel;
so grand, so new, so happy.
As I lay my head to rest
I reminisce on your loving words,
that spoke such truth to my soul.
As you praised me through my heights,
and weaped with me through my sorrow,
as I uplifted your soul with the arrangement of words
I wrote from deep down in my weak and weary soul;
You were there always to touch my heart
and cure me of sorrowed tears.
It is impossible to express my love for you,
but see me, to feel my love,
for you my darling Mystic
it tears me apart to not
see your face, to hear your voice,
only to read your loving words
comments on a poem
that was written on a page;
It tears me apart.
Oh, my sweet and everlasting rose,
Blooming in every season,
at every hour,
a beautiful poetess at her midst of an evening twilight
as the nightingales sing outside your window,
I come and show you love and compassion.
Let us go, you and I,
I take you by your hand
and we sail off,
two poets writing of beauty
both in ink upon a blank piece of paper.
To write of love,
My compassion for you
my beautiful rose,
my darlin Mystic.
We shall part seas,
bloom in gardens of beauty,
roses and violets grow tall
reminding us of our everlasting friendship.
Lilacs and tulups stray long away,
to show my love to a stranger,
but you are no stranger to me.
You are an everlasting rose,
which blooms evertime at the stroke of nine,
and there you stay,
growing in a large and beautiful garden,
that is located deep in my heart.
Now take me, my darling Mystic
and charish this beautiful write
Charish it at all times,
every hour of the days!
In honour of your beauty and inspiration
I am a fool in love,
intoxicated with your beauty at heart.
Lightning flashes across the chilly midnight sky.
A warrior rises from the ashes to be a Poetic Samurai.
Metaphorically his blazing Katanna blade is just a mere black pen.
His poetry is like an explosion from a grenade leaving poets in ruin!
He scribbles out names of poets he's slain, and ponders who is next.
The rain beats against the window pane, and he wonders of the last poetess he sexed.
He made passionate love to her mind, and did things no other man had done.
The pen was a sweet taste of sin when he ate her from behind just for fun!
After awhile with a smile he discarded her like a rag doll, and focused solely on her boyfriend.
The Samurai was determined to poetically kill this slime ball after he was done with his girl
for a weekend.
But the boyfriend was jealous and shaking with rage, and he challenged the Poetic Samurai.
Poetry Soup would be the main stage, for it was do-or-die, and this battle begin to intensify.
The Poetic Samurai dominated the poetesses boy toy by placing him in a casket and burying
This demonic poetic warrior was determined to destroy, and he wanted no one to survive!
The Samurai battled the poetess and her whole click, spreading terror like the swine flu!
The boyfriend got poetically sick, and the samurai beat their cheerleaders black and blue!
The poetess, her boyfriend and their soup friends were furious, because of the Samurai's
So the boyfriend got personal and serious, because the samurai ate the boyfriends green
eggs and ham!
The boyfriend could not stomach the samurai's poetic food, so he ran and pulled up the
Samurai's criminal background.
But the Samurai is a poetic warrior and he continued to smash the dude into the ground
leaving his girlfriend spellbound!
It is said the boyfriend is poetically dead, he eventually committed suicide!
The Samurai left a trail of bloodshed across the soup and worldwide.
It is said the poetess ran away, she could not take it anymore.
I guess being sliced and diced by poetic swordplay was hard to ignore!
So the Poetic Samurai begins to retire, but he keeps his pen ready for a challenger.
He patiently waits to wrap another poet in barbed wire and swing the Excaliber!!!
Lost my kids once just for a minute or so in the fair: needle in haystack.
Busy and purposeful Sunday morning. Fascinating bee hive but I wanted my kids back
Thought they were next to the glass beads jostling and rattling on a necklace chain,
Or near the polished fossils, and bags clinking their sea-shell collections from Spain.
I squinted for their faces in the crowd,as rows of cheap eyeglasses looked invitingly
Over at the gaudily-decorated casual shoes, just arrived breathless from Turkey;
And stalls overflowing with flame-coloured dresses - Moroccan, from Agadir -
Trying to inch down to the ground like wriggling children. But not my children dear.
Toy insects buzzing joyfully and plastic windmills whirring playfully in the breeze
And serious-minded compasses busy seeking north didn’t fill my search with ease.
Carousels with ponies and dinosaurs, birds and elephants?
Maybe they had fulfilled my wandering kids’ secret wants?
Noisy price-haggling. African traders switching from language of Germany to Wales,
Or even to Arabic, as they sensed customers's different interests and possible sales.
Chinese and Vietnamese comparing views in French, their only common tongue.
No doubt, my three had slipped their leash and were hiding: they were young.
The swish of the decorative paper garlands in the breeze was near-lost in the crowd;
And the conflict between Welsh folk-music and American heavy-metal rock so loud.
And I listened to the colourful chatter pulsate
Of traders trying to persuade money to leave your wallet.
Girls in sandals and sunglasses. Old ladies in floral patterns and blue-rinsed hair.
Young men eyeing girls trying on dresses ……but my three were not there.
Ah - but then! At the ice cream stall I saw three hungry mouths, kept
Pressed to the glass. Three money-less urchins all glad to see dad. I swept
Them up in my arms and started to relax and enjoy the fair-market.
I’d lost my kids for just about one minute.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Entered in Lisa Cooper ~Dark Poetess's Contest County Fair