The stones on the patio are weathered
and ground, and the door that creeks
welcomes. The ceiling was measured
for other times, other heights,
and the floor is used to heedful steps.
Old tables and chairs disarm fashion,
have a style of their own:
haute couture of past culture,
their vogue is vintage.
I can live with the broken vase
which was worth repairing.
It knows the meaning of longevity
and in it the cut chrysanthemum
refuses to fade.
Those pans were new once,
they knew once the taste of mint,
but since have aged and mellowed.
Noblest of all are those objects in wood
whose handles have felt
the favour of oft-use.
Their polish reflects the palm.
I favour the works of the past,
the time-worn customs and lore of folk
whose venerable hearts
know the meaning of bosom.
I am a collector of dents in copper,
of meaningful scratches in tin;
grooves, furrows and notches
that count the years;
and faint wounds
that objects keep hidden within.
the witches creed was “to no creature do harm”
jealous men were annoyed by their confidence
Brothers Grimm used witches as storybook villains
attempting to take them down a couple of notches
witches were always for the greater good
they were gardeners, nurturers, and healers
Their balms and remedies were created to help others
jealous men twisted their cauldrons into evil instruments
I hope that men do know the difference between right and wrong.
My life’s creed depends on it; it is “be yourself always”.
I imagine the witch-tormentors must have figured it out.
If they had not, the Salem Witch trials would be happening today.
I like to think that they were horrified when the innocent drowned.
Proof they were not witches.
I like to think we shun away from evil.
My mantra “be yourself always” is not meant for serial killers.
His scrunch snout looks me in the eye
His deathly ritual is nigh
They wait and wait for the prey
And I am his, today
As walk with him
Down the path, so dim
He stops before it can end
And says hello to his friend
The melancholy Crow sits away
On a tree branch, to stay
She watches and watches
And the earth, it has notches
The Jackal wants me
The Jackal can’t have me
He wants to lead me
He can’t lead me
The Crow says it’s not time
The distance up comes daytime
The Jackal argues with the light:
“She should be in the night!”
And in the end,
That’s when I met the Jackal and his friend
I searched 'ere the dawn, where could it have gone,
for now, it possesses me, as a mystery, till dawn met me.
I've no rhyme or reason that a loved entity goes awry,
having to comb with despair and melancholy choking air,
hence, I must cease or I will be deceased. I choose to
be, than not to be, mid the numbers of worth--counting.
Now that I've deduced the severance of said company,
to be amiss, or, lost as in unrecoverable. So, I will forge
ahead, much like this climbing star training its new day
as it's backpacking a whole quarter welcoming--it's Fall.
Oh my, much ado has gone awry, high and low, 'neath a
crooked sky. My thorough efforts abandoned my fruit of
labor, with harvest ripening fields, and the forests crispy
hues. I have forsaken a driven entity that proposes life.
A ray of hope, beaming from a drifting star hovering over
the lost, now found. There is still a sliver of time enough.
I must tighten the notches so that its stretch will be of
favor to the distant ones who'll all rise across the seven
seas, for I am the soloist. The powers that made me, an
Indian, task Summer to stay awhile to hear my drumbeat.
Jim was suave, sophisticated, two notches above debonair
his appreciative entourage band followed his lead;
bevy of giggling ladies followed him from town to town
trying to grab his saxophone
p a u s e s
spaces in your words like notches on wood
endearing stillness
till a sprawl of irregular "I love you's" spill truth like a stream
run full
a tear-choked gaze in a sighing-room
tugging us to earthy touching
our commitment
inhabiting green-garden parts of a world
tireless in its defining
pushing past preconceptions
snared by the peace of pressing one to one
fluorescent part of gifted chemistry,
claimed
no soft need to nudge it
no drift to sullen limbs
a saga of expansion
like a coal mine burning underground
where we live
an intimacy even in small tallk
truthfulness finding its bounce, prized like existence
still shaping days in words we share
and heed
in words that pull r e c o v e r y
Poem composed May 10/2023
I take this cane with me
everywhere I go
It travels with me
from bike path to the open road
With my knife I add a notch
at each milestone
It is quite adorned now
for ways of only I would know
My cane knows that I travel
with the sorrowful blues
I strum it like a guitar
and belt out some notes, a few
You could say this walking cane
define me
But I say it's my friend
from what I can see
As for the notches...
they are my angels and my demons
speaking to my walking cane
over all the past seasons
Sunday, May 7, 2023
Poem inspired by Joe Bonamassa's song Notches
Can you name the President of Guatemala
How 'bout the islands off the coast of Sahara
Would you happen to know the currency of Iceland
And what about the most popular beverage in Spiceland
I myself have forgotten last year's Super Bowl Winner
Not to mention what I ate last night for dinner
As for my wife's birthday and our anniversary
I quickly mumble something far too cursory
So now that I've been relocated from the frying pan to the fire
My odds of living 'til sundown ~ two notches below dire
My current level is ceaseless worry
Unflinching doubt occupied state of mind
Wonders and what ifs whipped in a flurry
My current level
Features disheveled with nose to the grind
Nowhere to be in the biggest hurry
Just to get there and wish I could rewind
If my own view were a bit less blurry
If common kindness were a common kind
I'd dial back few notches from worry
My current level
When a wise person speaks, just listen
don't waste candles while the sun is shining
inspiration we seek is already within
Pondering complete stillness
blackness in the ears
Aloneness no longer eased worries.
Embedded into our stud essence
reasons are being sought
away from the awful silence
weary, thoughtful
eyes gaze into the calm reflection
stillness soothes mental turmoil
soul shores are bathed in peace.
Alone in quiet awareness,
all blunders are forgiven.
In pursuit of greater consciousness
to unravel the untied truth.
When outward turmoil has subsided
echoes fade into quiet
resound with harmony
melodies create a peaceful symphony
Into the deep, deep woods
marks, notches, and scars
so many rings
and connected vines
a ripple of silence
still not a rustle of trees,
skewed the sound of the wind
where it used to be warm and satiated
now there is only stillness.
Hush is a faithful mate who never betrays,
in an inexplicable lightness
reaching the desired goal at last
touching souls requires stillness.
Written: February 15, 2023
You Select Again Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Someone has tinkered with the 100 Community List
And it appears that you are still at number thirty-four,
Down a few notches, I have not booed or hissed
‘Cos I’ve been much lower on lots of lists before!
In fact, it’s delightful not to have the pressure, you see,
Let others get “put down” for their success for a while,
For I get no thrill from checking where on the list I’ll be,
But seeing you haven’t come up a notch makes me smile.
Written October 28, 2022
The notches on a butt of a gun
Sometimes make peace difficult to find
For some take it as a credit
To take the lives of a hundred
When will all mean realize
It's not an honor to take life?
We live no more in the wild west
Nor in the ways of the ancients
Better it is to make peace thrive
And receive our compensation
When our children will make a life
That is free from subjugation
For he who wields peace
Will live without fears
But he who seeks mess
Will die without relief
waiting in the silence
for the energy to run aground
yet what flotsam the surf gives up
it will have to keep
i always jetsom, i never lagan
Humpty Dumty, friends with superglue
are not always reality
reality does not always adhere
reality does not care
your freedom, illusions of the amaranth
i have no simpleton delusions, imagoes
i am afraid death the anodyne
eventually, every star consumes itself
Nemesis, my knowing smile
Ate, your mentor
she is behind the mirror waiting
as all ephemerals, you bore me
i enjoy the diestrus
remembering the notches, using other's vanities
every Blackwidow deserves a prince
the Prince of Pandemonium
San Blas 92 The Patient Stones
Circled days
hide their faces
on the far side of the fridge.
Dates and reminders
clog the cyclic notches
on my prayer wheel.
Calendar dreams
wake up far too late.
Ducks fly across a fridge magnet.
I hear the distant quacking
of a missed anniversary
disappearing
over a dimming horizon.
It is time for the circled days
to hide their faces
on the far side of the fridge.
Dates and red letter reminders
clog the cyclic notches
on my prayer wheel.
The calendar dreams
always waking up too late
I recall how fish in a bowl
forget every seven seconds.
It helps, but date sharks
still hunt me down
when I mess up.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.