Long On writing and Poems
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...inspired by 'Poem In October' by Dylan Thomas
The morning rings with skylarks singing,
o'er the greening meadow and the pliant pasture,
the ocean sighing, gulls aloft on wings of prayer.
A sudden shower would see me running
fancy free between the rain drops,
I cried 'Excelsior!' and set the hills alive;
I skittered, happy crisp and clear,
like God's first measure of a holy hymn.
The air alive with songs of praise,
the gentle winds a sacred message,
His grand prescription like a dream
that streamed out from the pillows of the heavens.
I liked to wander by the sea shore
skipping stones, disobeying laws of gravity,
as a lamb on shaky legs and tumbled freely without care,
'til gasping, I would stop to catch my breath.
The halcyon days of youth came true,
when I would race forever 'neath the tawny sun,
bedaubed in Autumn's blood, the flame
a blend of hues the likes of which
would make a young boy doubly blind,
and lead him into kingdoms where the battlefields
would blister scarlet, happy times
that made me see my childhood clearly.
The weather turned again, and shanties
high atop the hillside loomed like castles drifting
in the sea-blown mist, the noise of boats,
their nets pulled, nudging at the jetty.
From the sand the village was a hazy spectre,
the chapel steeple peeking like Rapunzel's lair,
her hair a daydream falling soft,
O fanciful imagination!
I thought to when my mother took my hand.
We skipped the cobblestones and shopped for wishes,
(toys which we could ill-afford;
a Batman cape, a red fire engine.)
The lanes were thick with merchants and the joy of life,
haggling, chattering like crazy seabirds,
loud, and mouthing their wants and wares,
and then we wandered home exhausted.
I never lost my youthfulness,
my joy at seeing herons gloating, eagles floating
high on zephyr'd breezes free as spring;
hallowed times, in Jesus' presence.
I measure now my moments as the hours shift by,
thirty years and blissful, regrets are slight and few,
I count my blessings, feel content
that tribulation never came to trouble me.
A birthday cake is waiting for me,
candles flicker, frosting beckons, hope eternal;
my wish the same, for peace on earth
to all men, greetings and goodwill!
I lie down in the close and holy quiet
while the village sleeps, and slips toward a new adventure,
safe in His keeping, perfect day
with promise of a bright tomorrow.
I am but an ordinary woman resting in my easy chair after a long day of work.
However I am about to transform myself into a great explorer.
I travel through the many realms of space and time all from the safety of home.
My journeys cost me nothing but time spent in their enjoyment.
I close my eyes tightly to contemplate whom I shall visit this night.
Shall I sup with King Arthur and the knights of the table round as bards entertain,
Or feast on nectar and ambrosia with Zeus and Hera on Mount Olympus?
I could feel the angst of Cyrano’s unconfessed love for Lady Roxanne,
Or that of souls from Poe’s pen with his mocking raven quote it “nevermore.”
Choose to learn the life cycle of the bee, lion, or bear through a scientific work,
Or fly through space on a star ship with the creator of a masterpiece of science fiction.
I can recapture the whimsy of childhood while chasing cars with Clifford the big red dog,
Or take a brisk run with Pooh and Tigger through the hundred-acre wood.
I may celebrate glorious new beginnings with Mother Mary and Baby Jesus,
This holy birth portrayed forever within our sacred Bible.
I might also choose to contemplate death along with Caesar during his last moments.
Only the playwright Shakespeare could portray these with such tragic effect.
I may discover the secrets of gourmet recipes from master chefs,
Or learn how to sew a patchwork quilt of old fashion.
Vicariously visit the culture and religion of various peoples,
Or study the history of my fellow Americans.
Maybe I should check the financial reports to see how the stock market is doing,
Or it might be pertinent to examine the latest advances in law.
Let me discover the origins of favorite words in a volume of etymology,
Or distinguish quartz from quartzite whilst leafing through a book of gemology.
Books, yes volumes hold the secret keys to my voyage,
It is they that conduct me each night worldwide exploring.
I need not to plan ahead pack luggage or gather tickets,
Fore when I wish to escape this world a book is always close at hand.
I may travel safe and undisturbed through numerous times and places,
And leap out of one adventure headlong into the next without moving a limb.
When I am weary from the road or have chased enough beasts as warier fine,
I simply mark my place, fold the pages together gently, and retire to sweet sleep.
I wonder today
As I sift through the sands
And peer through the depths of other peoples verbalized talents
Works of intricate emotion and stanzas of hyperboles oxymoron’s and similes
and metaphor
When I refuse to welcome you to my world
When you stumbled all this way
And I show you how to clip an angel’s wings
and you relate to the angel
Even though you have soo many inner demons
I’m not sure you know what to say
So I sit here in the silence
And stutter to myself
I lay in bed at night and talk to myself
I hang pictures on the wall to inspire me to push me
and listen to things that will drive me to become another
But when you open this chapter of the metaphor I will upon your sleeve
When you walk through that open door
And are not too sure of what I mean to my soul mate when I say
that one day in heaven his experience will be a love note from me
I'm not sure you know what to say
Soo many of you are of few words
and soo few of you are of many
The angels are soo far away
And the four demons, my invisible enemies
are always on this merry go round
too busy to stop the roller caster where I find myself
Dizzy I am
Confused I am
Abstract and bizarre
Creatively thrown away by my fairytale godmother I dream
To remind me
I am a man of some higher power god
And instant gratification isn’t necessarily what I need
from the race of a reflection that doesn’t understand why it cowers
Instead of receives
While I clip the angels and fool the demons with the thoughts
and words of the wise and how I hate more than you
You become my poetry with hearts on your sleeve
a valentine I cant send demanding healthcare
for Christmas before all we get is Halloween
But when your eyes roll back into your head
and you try to resurrect what I express and bring me to life
through twisting my words that cut like a knife and carve marble stone
into gargoyles that guard castle gates
In this royal palace where no compass will help you find your way
and my thought seem soo far away
The feathers fall to the floor
The soldiers look down at their weapons realizing they are still little boys
but intoxicated now and forced to the realization
This is how we raised them to be men with awards for serial killing
Of stars and stripes
I'm not sure you know what to say
A night, again, in waking sleep,
Unuttered words that write the wall
From depths of darkness figures creep
Beneath the million fathom fall
Unspeakable the dreams that fright
The squinted eyes belie the wake
Beneath the sheets to flee the fight
And unformed lies the voices make
A promise, bargain, deal to death
Felled on ears that will deny
Ushered to betray in breath
The truth that sleep is but a lie
In the day's too honest light
The facts that once obscured are bare
The fears evaded in the night
Remain and quest the soul to tear
A wish, once made, can only die
The worst of all desires untold
Anything that grows to try
Will wither in the winter's cold
The waking brings the banishment
The sleeping can't afford
But the whisper's vanishment
Is undone by will's accord
Though too sweet the words once spun
And the price too great to say
Life's a game not easily won
Until the dice are thrown away
A night, again, in waking sleep,
Forgotten words exposed to swear
The oath he oaths to wholly keep
In the Game, there's none unfair
Be it love, or hope, or lust
That drives the mind to needs of want
So badly that one would entrust
Such evil with the heart's one haunt
Impossible, the logic cries
The truest evil's the mind of man
Projecting those traits we so despise
Is but the brain's self-loathing plan
Impossible, the hearts dictates
And truly wrong, but be it so
Then what's the price? The soul berrates
For the secrets that heart does stow?
Unsleeping, so the one returns
Whose promises resound through thought
And name and words to the flesh he burns
So that his offer not be forgot
If but a touch of lunacy already exists
What is the matter of spreading the rot
When a ticking clock is what resists
The selling is hardly worth the thought
In another night of waking daze
To make one last oath he may,
"Just sacrifice your mind to craze,
And I will take your pain away"
The deal once struck cannot revoke
The sacrifice is in the smile
The delivery of pays bespoke
Cements the access to freely while
With every day, the sleeping's less
And words will flow from wall to hand
Building to the mind's egress
The hourglass killing shards of sand
When the time has run and no hours will flow
He will come to me to find
Into the madness I'll gladly go
For, unto him, I sold my mind.
Interpretivity is a measure of a person’s rate of understanding. A person’s rate of
interpretation shows the individual’s ability to unlock, identify, simplify, solve,
measure accurately, try to understand, restore, think, re-think, unveil, transcribe,
translate and hence it has a role to play in an individual’s creativity. Since the rate of
understanding is directly proportional to creativity, an individual’s level of
interpretivity is a measure of an individual's understanding i.e. ability to read,
receive, interpret(internalize-explore-externalize). Intuitivity and inquisitivity play
important roles with this parameter. It is the link that bridges receptivity and
reproductivity.
Narrativity ability to read and give back – reproduce without necessarily understanding
what is read. A very high level of receptivity, low interpretivity and expressivity
exhibit narrativity.
Reproductivity – ability to give back exactly what has been given, read, thought e.t.c.
without any sort of addition, creativity, subtraction, alteration e.t.c. It is totally
different from re-creativity. A high level of understanding is needed for reproductivity.
Re-creativity – this is the ability to re-modify, re-adjust, re-define, re-alter,
re-model, re-shape e.t.c. an already existing-created-discovered altered creativity. For
re-creativity to be achieved, some absolute understanding about the substance in question
i.e. to be re-created must have been undergone. It is an alteration to creativity. It is
correctional adjustment to creativity.
Correctivity is the process of re-mending-mending, re-molding-molding, re-fixing-fixing of
an altered creativity-substance. It requires absolute-ultimate not only mastery but total
understanding of the altered creativity in order to perform this process.
Understanding is having an absolute knowledge and wisdom about something. It is the
interpretation i.e. (pure-total reception, highly active intuitivity-individual
perception-inquisitivity and maximal expressivity) that eventually must lead to
creativity. When understanding is at its peak creativity is inevitable whether by
derivations from the original-truth or copies of the-from the original-truth. If
understanding is directly proportional to the vividness of imagination then the rate of
creativity will-must vary from one person to another.
Form:
Late night summons madmen,
madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours clothe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, just circumstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metals magnified
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned building, hollow-eyed
and squinting in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamps spot
the cats a'creeping worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day.'
Begone, O Bride of Midnight!
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our daily dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room,
feathered and be-furbelowed
and plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with her entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
At twenty past I'm home at last,
the brass plate spells my name;
come inside!
familiar and gratifying,
slippers by my bed still lying,
dressing gown and cap are crying,
here abide!
The sheets are turned and ready.
I leave the night and take a final bow,
grateful for the here and now.
From the epic poem, EOS; verse, 7308-7350
by Sir Titus Llewellyn, unpublished
Book ii - Bouquet with Love
Enter Asha - Junior Psychiatric Nurse
& William - Sufferer of schizophrenia
William speaks to Asha as she reads the book
he has written for her........, as you are doing.
William
How dusk has drawn suspicion from your eyes
these visits have become the long lost friend
who writes without reply - that's no surprise
the way I am adoring you, so don't pretend.
hesitates.......
I find that from a patients point of view
ideas are being listened with fondness for
returning, makes believe this has an end
I cannot help but trust you anymore.
gives her the book...
Pursue the words I've left with you in my will
a token of my love in words I cherish,
following the realms that often still
believe in you and care as much until..........
Asha
I have no time to listen - indeed read
the ridicules of someone you'll replace
who disappears tomorrow without trace.
silent pause...
Another cryptic message I'll not need.
William
Just read the words and feel it with your heart.
Decipher what you can without the pledge,
my writing has preferred and having had
a hope in hells chance pulling it apart,
gliding worse, the fate along a knife-edge.
Asha
I'll treasure what appears to be much work,
the task that your imprisonments have purged
preventing ways and means the seethings urged
a while back knowing often, how berserk
your actions were and how this book immerged.
Cannot a tear sufficient to your need
be borrowed like the journey of lost cause,
another real life story, feelings plead
when giving back the care my feeling was?
Tries to kiss her!
I have to go - how dare you do such things
my care, and least devotions are disgraced
the length of duty caring for you placed!
GET REAL!-
needing my mother is a fear I can do without,
Not you! I miss her so much!
Asha exits
William, (bringer of bad news?)
I know - I have bad news and this you'll find,
in time, when superstitions fill with hate
a sentinel of words - what sounder mind,
could echo truth when all that I create
is gifted not a curse but mere sedate.
Slumber from which all our dreams debate.... (pause)
It lingers while this love sustains as time
And sleeps while we awake no time at all.
Why Do I Write?
I was born in an era when Shakespeare, Shelley and Wordsworth were kings. Reading them was like hearing beautiful music and after all these years…it still is. Then I fell in love with Emily Dickenson and the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam…what wonderful words of wisdom they imparted!
I write because it allows me to express myself…my thoughts, my compassion, my soul… much as my singing has done all my life. Now that that part of my life is waning, I can still be a “diva” in my own eyes! lol
I write, because my heart tells me to in the wee hours of the morning when sleep eludes me. I write because these thoughts and words which are choking me...screaming to be free...must be released.
I write for those who mourn, or who suffer illness, to console them and say I understand. I write for the lonely, for those who have no hope. whose stories tug at my heart. Since I can't hold them close to me, I try through my poems to convince them there is hope and tomorrow will be better.
I write to be heard...to show I am still relevant and have viable thoughts and opinions to share with the world. Experience is still the best teacher. I write to protest injustice wherever I find it. To be silent would be cowardly.
I write humorously about inconsequential, everyday situations, to bring a laugh or two into our lives. I wrote my memoirs for my grandchild, to preserve the past for future generations. I wrote poetry to release grief and sorrow when death came to call, to help me find peace and acceptance.
I write my religious poetry…not to flaunt my religion…but to praise God and thank him for his sacrifice for me and for the peace his presence brings to me.
I also ask his blessings for my friends and loved ones and for the heavy in heart, so that they might find peace and deliverance from the evils of this world.
I do not expect my work to be published…I have no illusions about my talent…I write for everyman, most of whom would shy away from the literary world and consider it elitist in the extreme, but when tragedy befalls them, they take comfort in simple words of encouragement and consolation.
But most of all, I write for the sheer joy of it and because my soul requires it!
Copyright©2008 Beatrice Boyle
(All rights reserved)
For Frank's "What turns you on" contest
My name is Gary Fields
And I am at the Poetry Convention
Their are a myriad of Poet's
They are all in contention
There are so many that I may
Want to mention'
So, pay attention
Fore they must do this
In abstention
At my table there are three
Their are four including me
The second choice in my contention
IS Dr. Ram Mehta
He is such an easy catch
He is a voice/a reflection
He shares' so much love and affection
Being one of so few words
His disposition is the best
And his Human Psyche will
Never rest'
Could this be some sort of test
That his deepest guarded secret's
Are guarded close to his chest
Being a doctor and all
It is unlikely that he will ever confess
Third at the table is the X DESTROYER X POET
Due to the lack of word's
She always' have something for ya
And will certainly destroy ya
If not, then simply ignore ya
Fore she deserves' to seat here
And not just on the foyer
It is a main bone of contention
There is no reason why I can't enjoy ya
Or at least releave the tension
With her advanced degree
her suplituding pensoin for Poetry
It seems' that her messages' are
Aimed straight for me
She give's to this her all
She never seem to miss a call
And to past the test
One may think that
She seem's to be a little obsessed
Most of all
She keeps' her secret
Buried so close to her breast
And what wonderful breast they
Might be
Only saving for us
The one's she profess to be the best
But never the less
She rises' among the rest
Fouth at the table is Ms. Sweetheart of Poetry
Wish she will spend more Poetry with me
And plain not just ignore me
Because I'm a fan of her now
She introduced me to this race
She is all ways' on the case
She is fully comfortable in her space
I just hope that she won't have to use
All of her mace,
She composes' herself with grace
Fore this is so much an adventure
And not just some silly old Snail Race
If I haven't said enough by now
Then it is because I am running
Out of space, or being run out of town
But, there is always one next year
Same time, manybe not
The same old place
GF
Gary Fields
Dr. Ram Mehta
X DESTROYER X POET
LINDA Marie/Sweetheart of Poetry
Carol (Next on Deck)
*******For the Contets "Tt The Convention
JUNE 2011
SUN-BLOCK
Your sunset-sanctioned skin ignite melody to boredom world
Your gently pearling smile charm the attention of morning sun.
Your charmed souls burn in nuclear passion
To absorb the bombardment of your ink
You are the unsolved mystery of existence
By pd
The sunrises 10 feet off the ground
This place carried the eternal light I need for my soul to soar.
Like the clouds every poet brush away my blues with one simple smile
Writing ignited my heartbeat to flicker like a candlewick non-stop.
I hold that piece of puzzle that makes my existence complete
Elegantly you walk, Venus-like
Printing glory-of-gods on excited earth
Holding hostage your admirers' eyes
With your Gabriel-censored attire
You are truly the mystery of existence
By pd
My eyes I keep holding on tight.
Gathering dangerous looks, from every poets eyes.
Striking like a speed of thunder bolt,
I fell weak like an addict to my admires streak of rays'
I'm the piece of puzzle that makes my own existence complete
Oh beautiful empress of poetry soup.
Wake thy muse and shake off the dust of block
Your fans are in inferno hunger of your welded words
Feed us again, your poetic meal that somersault the arrows of critic
For you are the unsolved mystery of existence
By pd
A great source to gather the best light here on the soup.
I found my heart beating like a rush~ spontaneous
Imaging every poem that helps me get lost in the moment
I wrote against and among the best to be like the rest
For I'm that unsolved piece of puzzle that makes my existence complete
You are kinder than nature, more hospitable than mother earth
Man and woman scramble for shelter in your cheerful hearts
For your contest, all thoughts erect pines of words
With rush of the sea storm
P.D. (( Linda )) is the unsolved mystery of existence
By pd
Losing myself to reality, this is not like me to fall into deep.
Times maybe hard, not even a simple song to poet my mind.
The truth is, the sun has blinded me with love, and I have no SUN-BLOCK
Until my instincts tells me otherwise, I will find my way back to all my fans * true or not
I (IRMA~LINDA) am responsible for the happiness of my mysterious existence.
BY : JOSEPH & LINDA
For Pd's collab with me contest