Best Represented Poems
If I could give you a rose for everyone you touched, you would have a garden
of roses.
If there was a person's name that represented Kindness and Love it would be
yours.
If remembering someone special, that genuinely cared about others and was giving of themselves, you would be the one I think of.
If I had to choose one friend in this world, I would choose you.
If Angels are real, and they were here on this earth, You were one.
" The Mother Tree" you were to all those you loved.
(The Mother Tree was a poem Connie wrote that made 100 best Poems list.)
Your heartache is over Dear friend.
All whom you touched, are thinking of you.
Love and good wishes, We send.
To an Angel, we once knew.
You touched our lives for a while,
and shared your love and your trust.
We will always remember your smile,
and the love you shared with us.
You missed your husband and son.
You wrote of your love for them.
Now the time has come.
When you're reunited with them again..
You will always be part of our lives.
As these tears roll down my face,
as I ask the questions why,
and trust in our Lords Grace.
Rest in Peace Dear Connie.
Your Poetry
Lives
On
Forever
You
Will Never Be Forgotten
By All Who Loved You
My condolences to
Jennifer her daughter,
and the rest of the family.
Michael Tor
POTD 23 Mar 2024
THE PATH WELL TRAVELLED.
Two paths diverged, and I was thrown by doubts I had never known
To my left, thickly overgrown, was a path to dismal dimness prone.
To my right, a lovely sight-fragrant flora flamed in light
Forms so graceful, beauty rare, a wonderous vision beyond compare.
Both seduced with equal right, torn was I between dark and light.
Resisting limits of time and sight, a liminal border of cosmic might.
Hesitancy rapt with fear and doubt, the pondering heart beat aloud.
Tempting was the path so grand, but instinct cautioned of a treacherous hand.
A feathery touch, a breeze stirred, and in its sigh, a voice I heard.
Was it Hecate who whispered?
"Take heed. Beware, for each path leads to a different lair."
Crystal clarity knew what I must do, and with a heart filled with valour true,
Joyously, I strode wild and free down the well-trodden path ahead of me.
The leaves, like frisking lovers, played as I embarked my chosen way.
Future paths ~ So many dreams ~ Each a thread in life's grand scheme.
Though true discovery lay in paths, I'd roam ~
The one well travelled always led back Home.
By Maria Williams ©
Greeks worshipped Hecate as a guardian and gatekeeper who could ward off evil forces. She is often represented carrying a torch and a key and standing on the liminal border between one place and another. She bears three heads and always has a dog by her side.
Inspired by Robert Frost's 'The Road Not Taken', I chose to write an alternative version.
'The Road Not Taken' is one of Robert Frost's most famous poems. It's natural and understandable that many readers take the poem to be Frost's statement of individualism as a poet: he will take 'the road less travelled'.
The metaphor of the road is one that immediately evokes a journey, not just of the local or day-to-day kind, but of the life-defining sort: life as a journey, with many roads which we must travel along, and with many alternative paths which we must choose between.
POTD 23 March 2024
Listen, my dears, and I'll tell you a tale
Of a princess, a pirate, and glory.
There's a shipwreck, a rescue,
A romance, a ransom,
And a handicapped whale in the story.
There once was a princess, fairest of all,
But also quite vain and spoiled rotten.
She had a semi-private
Affair with a pirate
That would be but for me now forgotten.
The pirate, Mad Jack, was bloodthirsty and crude,
When upset, he'd explode, blow his top off.
Merchant vessels he sank,
Made their crews walk the plank,
Or, more rudely, their heads he would lop off.
One day Princess Daphne set out to sea
With her maid, they were bound for Majorca.
But the maid, in a gale,
Was swept over the rail
And inhaled by an asthmatic orca.
Lifeboats were lowered, the crew clambered in
And rowed quickly away, only thinking
Of saving their own necks,
Not the princess below decks
Left alone on a wreck that was sinking.
Then through the storm a ship hove into view,
At first Daphne thought it would dodge her.
But before she could hail her,
She felt courage fail her,
From its mast flew a vast Jolly Roger.
When Princess Daphne was brought before Jack,
She was haughty but thought he was handsome.
But to his greedy eyes
This fair royal prize
Represented a shipload of ransom.
But Jack was still human, Daphne was too,
And soon they were sharing their privates.
To his quarters she moved
And his crew all approved,
No one loves a love tale more than pirates.
But what of the ransom, yet to be paid?
Well, here the plot gets even deeper.
The stingy king said to Jack,
"No, I don't want her back.
It's cheaper for me if you keep her."
So Princess Daphne became Jack's sea wife,
And though common, but not mandatory,
When they became parents
They stopped being pirates
And passed peacefully out of the story.
For now then, my dears, that's the end of my tale,
An adventurous one hard to equal.
But, if I may be so bold,
And there's more to be told,
It may one day unfold in a sequel.
When Sweet And Soft Morn No Longer Calls Out,
Dedicated to my dear friend, Connie Marcum Wong
When heart is broken, ocean is drained
All becomes sad-blue, all life is stained
Dawn brings epic sorrows, no real relief
Ripped and torn, shattered some beliefs
Midnight moon casts down that terrible blue
Everything sad even shining new.
When heart is broken, ocean is drained
All becomes sad-blue, all life is stained
When sweet and soft morn no longer calls out
And life cries for hope, with dark mourning shout
Hours flow forth like whimpering aches of day
All the green blades of grass seem morbid gray
Hurt promises to let other shoe drop
And mind wonders shall this agony stop.
Robert J, Lindley, 9-14-2022
Sonnet
Born from a poet's heart that has seen too much sorrow and loss.
Dedicated to those lost. And to my dear friend Connie Marcum.
I truly think she would have loved this one.
As she saw the merits in sad, dark and truth in life should be represented in poetry.
*****Anyone who knows my poetry knows how I often use Greek mythology in my works. This poem revolves around the idea of the moon longing to become 'into being' so as to be with Venus, whom is represented in Greek mythology as beauty itself. I found the whole idea appealing and very fitting to romance******
In her sweet palace Venus dreamed a million loves....
....and blew many a kiss from rainbow terraces above,
oft in the jealous gaze of Silver Joy, the 'Elven Moon'
that shines for her employ, and fantasize he ----
How moonlit his face was upon her wanton court;
if only his beams could become as flesh
and feel her love in the high places of the world.....
Thus he would erect her likeness in earth's every corner,
where the roses must grow 'neath her lovely,
and what blooms would bless!
and smite all things unhallowed;
She gazed upon him most fondly in his fullness,
and felt his night-kiss on her lips,
in the soft of summer.....
gentle o'er the mountains,
his lunar eye did confess, a midnight matrimony;
..... the mid-month, as much man as moon
and could but touch her in his witching-hour power;
Through her silken curtains as a moonbeam god,
the gaze of a thousand Lords.....
when Venus strolled her many walks
aerie-dressed in her balmy breezed gowns,
naked with stardust wine;
When none would love her,
not even Aries! ----
but the moonlit night....
his breath upon her brow, (and her feminine lush)
And danced she her little waltz with him
(fair maiden of the moon)
After my father died, I moved to his old house
Donated many large items to charities
As each item was removed, tears streamed down my blouse
But some were not wanted; what would become of these?
Set up a table in the yard; sign said, “Free Stuff”
The old Underwood typewriter wasn’t set out
Parting with memories it evoked was just too rough
It symbolized Dad’s life, without any doubt
The late night hours a CPA spent at his desk
With my cat curled up next to him, evoking grins
As Dad typed away, little Prince looked statuesque
I learned to type on what is now a “has been”
This manual contraption replaced by high tech
Represented a man who worked to provide
Freely offering love, but stretching each pay check
To give us a better life, Dad’s efforts applied
The hours work took away from his family
I used to resent, but I understand more now
A sacrifice he made for my siblings and me
The thought of parting with it I couldn’t allow
The typewriter remains on Dad’s desk in the den
As a reminder of how hard he worked to please
Sometimes I still peck at the letters now and then
When I’m missing Dad most, somehow it brings me peace
smeltering a soveriegnty sent forth from the center of 2 + 2
and branding beliefs with the benefits of interstellar iron,
smoke waving wakefully from flesh feeling fresh from a firefight with Freedom,
unlatching the lock of Liberty with endurance elegant & unabashed,
could Moses manackle my motivations with a burning bias,
would Augustus Caeser cruxify me for minting my own coin,
does the Magna Carta make men Subjects, represented labor,
do government classrooms train Citizens coyly
to kiss the whip of the wealthy, pledge to be collateral,
truth my Tribune, empathy my educator, ability the enabler,
decisions are for me to regret or applaud, keep your mind cuffs away,
I reserve the Right not to consent or comply with a jurisdiction outside of myself,
Right to Acquisition a promise in my purview, might the arbitraitor,
when unable to house the white fire of Spirit
I shall receive the roadway to the great Law of Consequence,
finding friendship in the Unity of immaterial community,
that campfire where sensativity to sadness stokes a heat of healing
an exodus from the conflict of passions,
an entry into natural oblivion, membership to complete comprehension -
J.A.B.
Nyx opened black arms
threading her twilight fingers
and cradled my awe
to turn my hair, white
she filled my eyes with stars
firing a comet to
the core of my heart
my second breathe
carved dragons of fire,
as Aeolus filled each lung,
Terpsikhore sang music
into the life and death
of this epic
~~~~~
I taste a southerly breeze
catching it on the tip of my tongue
rolling it into my lungs
I sing appegio
to throw a shadow of night
the circle of her arms
has tightened,
and the nebula
in my eyes,
threaten to shoot
from their sockets
I have finally
felt the meteor
lodged in my heart,
move in its longing
for one last blaze
of release,
only the breath of God,
holds for revelation
~~~~~
TERPSIKHORE (or Terpsichore) was one of the nine Mousai,
the goddesses of music, song and dance. In late classical times
--when the Muses were assigned specific literary and artistic
spheres--Terpsikhore was named Muse of choral song and
dancing, and represented with a plectrum and lyre.
AIOLOS (or Aeolus) was the king of the winds who kept the
stormy Anemoi Thuellai and Aellai locked away inside the hollow
heart of the floating island of Aiolia. At the command of the gods
he released these to wreck devastating storms. Since the Winds
were often conceived of as horse-shaped spirits, Aiolos was titled
Hippotades, "the reiner of horses," from the Greek hippos ("horse")
and tadên ("reined in tightly").
"Franklin, why do you want such a fat, ugly bird?
Are you getting senile, or just being absurd?"
"Clearly, Mr. Adams, you are not being a friend.
My dove, not the turkey, will win in the end.
Though Franklin's turkey may be our most native bird,
your eagle, as well, will not be the final word.
A sign of Peace is what we need,
to show other nations of what we heed."
"Are you nuts, Thomas, for saying such?
Only my turkey can represent what we need so much!"
"Have both of you gone so daft in the head,
not to see that my eagle should be the one instead?
It has power and majesty that our nation new,
can be ascribed to the birds advocated by you.
We want Peace, but must remember this war,
so how can we petition a dove to complete this chore?
As for the turkey, I know the pride it shows,
but I just can't get over that thing on its nose.
So my Eagle is the one without a ruse,
and the best bird for the Congress to choose.
It can show our intent for Peace with an olive branch,
is native as the turkey, with a prideful stance.
Freedom will come and be represented by
my Eagle's unlimited flight in the sky.
Ever watchful for both Peace and War,
and without the turkey's nasal sore."
"We both know, Thomas, that Adams is correct.
His bird is beyond the circumspect."
"Yes, Franklin, I have always known
that my dove and your turkey would not have flown."
"Then are we agreed, gentlemen, that we three as one,
my Eagle is the bird that has hatched and won?"
Just thinking about this conversation made me weak,
especially when I had to give it a tweak.
But the Eagle has represented us well,
both in Peace and War, as history will tell.
I have obviously voted with Adams on his choice,
It has given our country a singular voice.
It is strong, majestic, and watchful to be sure,
and stood the test of time with great enure.
One more thing I'll say about the symbol we branded,
What would we have thought if Armstrong had said, " The Turkey has landed"?
A symbol of respect, pride, and strength,
not to be ruffled, wadded, or soiled,
to be folded, unfurled, raised for all to see,
as in going into battle resounding victory.
Not to be tattered, torn, or burned in effigy,
rather a symbol of hope to those in bondage,
of hate for those who seek to enslave,
of patriotism to those who guard fiercely,
enshrined with those who died for liberty,
entrusted to each generation to decide its fate,
to be the most loved or most hated,
to be seen in every city, state, and on foreign soil,
wherever seen, America is found.
No other symbol rises above or would be allowed,
representing freedom, recognized the world round,
a powerful adversary to an enemy
a gentle giant to those who are represented.
A symbol of red and white,
with fifty shining stars on a field of blue,
call it a flag,
in reality it is you.
Dear Poets,
I know for certain that I can never thank all of you enough for the supportive comments and messages you've written over the last 16 days. Each one represented a 'Get Out of Jail" card, letting me know your thoughts were with me.
With admiration and affection, please know that I respect each of you who took the time to write poems and/or inquire about me with kind sentiments. I could not read them in my own soup mail, but I did learn about your encouraging words through the kindness of friends that you contacted. I will do my best to catch up on reading and replying to all comments left for me but beg your patience in my doing so.
I was able to read all of your beautiful poems written to honor Milt. I can tell that he was respected and loved in the community. How could he not be, considering the fine qualities he had and instilled in many of us? He was my mentor, urging me to start entering contests again, after I'd quit for many months. He wanted me to get past him on that ladder, and I made it to the 2nd rung from the top before we lost him. I don't think I'll continue entering, so Constance, because of your humility and talent, I hope you remain on top. Caren sent soup mail about how sad it is to watch his picture moving spaces down on the home page until it will disappear. He will be gone from view, but not from our thoughts.
Tom, your news of Milton Creek would have made him very happy. You've honored him in such a special way by renaming our town. Thank you for being my voice on the site when I could not speak for myself.
With sincere thanks to all of you who I fondly call my poetic friends... it's long past time for me to write. Jenna's Saloon in Milton Creek is open for business. First round is on the house!
PS: Sheriff, it's time I get my Winchester back.
One individual called "she" stepped into the sheets of a life story
Sheets that used to be occupied
She walked back and stopped at a chapter which tell the story of an obsolete chamber
A space which stands for behalf of the memory and wounds
A diorama played by shadow
A story with no beginning nor end
They've been there with decent backgrounds and decent light spectrum but called gray
The view was frozen, the chatter was muted, and that feels fell into the melancholy
Those with the outstretched hands which too high to be reached
Those with the self existence but too blind to be seen
They abandoned as a figure of reserves without knowing the essence of a solace
And that individual creature went on her way back to the labyrinth of time
This time someone seized by the story of a root baste
Those roots were heart in shape and the hue carved a warmth, but once howled a bitterness
This chapter tells the story of a lush tree with the fruit of love
Fruits that contain the complexity of love, passion and a place to berth
And the fruit of love revealed its story to someone
Those who hide behind their false mannerism had carved their name on her shoulder
Those who have offered their hearts and bent on their knees
Those who play fire in a lust, fell into a seek
But the love that she wants still unable to cover the part of this story
From the fruit of love to the sheet's of light
This chapter tells the story of an old house with extensive bed of flowers
This house represented the aesthetics, peace and harmony
A house which brings relief, spaciousness and joy
In that house she knelt, release all her mess
To the house the journey was anchored
In every sketches that have been through
None could live without the presence of others too
Obsolete chamber, lush love tree, beautiful bed flowered old house
Those who were involved in each story of the bulkhead of life
Those who were crawling along and came from different angles of infinity
Those who were instantly filled the pieces of shoot and became the shoot
They are the perfect gift for the imperfect souls
Not as a complement nor as a reserves
Yet as the major part of the heartwarming life story
In little towns the big events are locally presented,
and every family in the town is usually represented.
Shopkeepers shut their doors when a pioneer curls his toes,
and if someone’s up to mischief, then everybody knows.
Every sporting club is well supported, right down to the wire,
they are the social hubs of towns to set the youth on fire,
through footy clubs and netball clubs combining into one
to sing and dance the night away, promoting local fun.
Of course when youth is mixed with party love can fill the air,
so Cupid’s firing arrows through the hearts of those who care.
This sometimes leads to earnestness when love gets in the way;
the town is now preparing for there’ll be a wedding day.
There’s heaps of preparation from the family of the bride;
flower girls and pretty maids to stand right by her side.
There’s the minister and invitations; the caterers are right.
All the groom must think about - “Are you coming to the bucks night?”
It’s half past five and dawn is breaking; we’re coming back to town.
God knows who is driving but their foot is going down.
There’s nugget, sauce and butter, smeared over everything;
the bucks party is over now - it’s ten hours ‘til the wedding.
And now coming up behind us is a mass of flashing light,
when a siren started blaring; we thought it better to take flight.
We shot around some back streets trying to lose this cop,
then someone with a drunken slur, said “I think we better stop.”
Popularity is not the word that I would say is spoken next.
This angry cop took any plea completely out of context.
He wouldn’t listen to a word that’s said, repeating “That’s enough!”
before I heard the second click of a closing set of handcuffs.”
In a cell back at the station there’s a pall of doom and gloom.
And there’s a hint of panic when it’s mentioned in the room,
by the cop who indicated strongly that by giving him some flack,
we’re gunna stay locked up until his Sergeant arrives back.
I made every kind of plea I could, but this cop avoids my dreading.
He said “Young lad you’re lucky; my Sergeants at his daughters wedding,
so he’ll be in a good mood when he greets you in this room.”
“Don’t bloody count on it” I said - “Because I’m the flamin’ groom!”
Herein lies the identity of their enemy
Herein lies the description of the abuses
Herein lies the claims against their tyrant
Herein lies the picture of their fixed intolerance
Herein lies their 'no recourse' and plan of action
Herein lie the rhyme and the reason, their right, and their duty
The Americans who led the way, and the people whom they represented, made it very clear that the abuses suffered at the hands of the King of England had become intolerable and the time had come for total separation. No one could have expressed it better than what we now read in in a short portion of the text: ***************************************************************
"But, when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object, evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security. Such has been the patient sufferance of these colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former systems of government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over these states. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world." What follows this paragraph is a long list of grievances.
***************************************************************
I counted 18 instances in which the pronoun "HE" was used to initiate an accusation against the King of England. The signers of the declaration left no doubt as to "The Who" of their enemy and "Why" he was so rendered.
In the closing lines of the text, with their backs against the wall and their faces staring in the face of God, it is no wonder that they could say with confidence and faith, "And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor." As we celebrate the 4th of July in 2020, may we, the descendants(Red, Yellow, Black, Brown, and White) of the brave Americans of 1776 think no different and do no less.
062120PS
True that Man is a philosopher but should Sophia consider Man a philos of hers?*
------
True, Man is a friend of wisdom, but should Wisdom consider Man a friend of hers?
© Demetrios Trifiatis
03 July 2018
* Philosopher is a compound Greek word that means friend ( philos) of wisdom (Sophia).
Sophia is represented by Athena ( Minerva) daughter of Zeus ( Jupiter). Sophia is called " Tritogeniti" the "thrice born" for to be wise means to think correctly, to speak correctly, and to act correctly. By correctly we mean: According to Zeus' ( God's) commands.)