CONVERSATION
Tell me Polly, what does it say?
Well, I’m not sure I wish to share
Please, I never receive letters
Ah, I’m sorry for you, Leila
Oh, Polly, is it from – him?
Yes, it is from Edmund Stanton
Ah, that man from the party last week?
You remember him then?
Alas, the merest introduction
Yes, for me too – but we talked some
Go on, read it to me, I must know
Well, it alludes to an opera we saw
During your visit to Aunt Elspeth?
Yes, in London, last Spring
And you met him at the theatre?
A most memorable production
So what is the connection, Polly?
We were seated next to each other
You never told me this before
I know, but this letter shares our secret
Stanton Macdonald-Wright
synchronised abstract was his light
Colours of the fragmented rainbow
of his work not many know
There once lived a lady in Scranton
Named Elizabeth Cady Stanton
She dared to promote
Women’s right to vote,
‘Tis said she threw many a tantrum.
written January 14, 2022
Spring Lingers
Winter’s long rage is quiet now
And Spring, once again clothes herself
With the promise of Summer’s warmth.
Yet, she lingers, and listens for
The soft and familiar tread
Of one who joys in her pathways.
But life, pregnant and impatient
Calls for new beginnings and birth,
And heeding; Spring fades into life
That sings and dances anew with
The soft and familiar tread
Of one who joys in her pathways.
Contest - Nature Poetry Contest
James Stanton 3-5-21
Oars and jars in place,
sails ready to blossom,
map drawn as a moon.
Chinese character, rhythm of life,
painted on the hull.
It is strange that I see.
On every mornings breeze.
That there’s always a doorway.
To you.
It is strange every time.
It is always on the line.
And the door.
It is open.
For you.
Come morning,
Come morning,
we set sail.
All tidy and neat, smelling apple sweet
Life pranced forward in an amazingly great way
Then there was a hiccup, a screech, a slap
Or something else that changed it into a foggy mean thing
For a second but most did not hold a grudge,
Reverting back to the happy joyful way it used to be
Before the event
Not all
Some held onto the hiccup and screech
Wailing and keening
Tearing their eyes out of their faces
To prove the horribleness of the slap
To retain its power
To stop living
And it all happened
Secretly in a subconscious world
Where no one else could go
No longer tidy or neat on
Stanton Street.
Give me that old time religion
Give me that old time religion
Give me that old time religion
It’s good enough for me
Songwriters: Ford/Fascinato
With age comes the inner, the higher life.
Who would be forever young,
to dwell always in externals?
Elizabeth Cady Stanton
COMMUNION OF SAINTS
tabled
fellowship
grand men and dames
can’t see nor hear the word —
God-blest
9/9/2019
Pulp fiction had nothing on him. He was a man’s man. A protagonist
of his own making, self-reliant, and self-assured. Marlow kept his wisecracks
to the bare minimum when meeting a new client. Dames were not as compliant as they used to be, and they carried their own derringers now.
More dangerous than ten years ago. He leaned back in his chair, enjoying a swallow of nicotine from his favorite cigarette. He had heard this woman was stacked. Mrs. What? He reached for his paper. Mrs. Stanton. She sounded stacked, a real femme fatale. A harsh knock came on his outside door.
not a woman’s knock, and yet, there she was.
“she’s a murderess
This mattered not to him now
Private eye smitten”
Written 4-29-2019
Contest: Pick a title, volume 4 – Haibun
Prompt #2: The private eye and the femme fatale
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Mrs. Stanton
In a little adobe bungalow
On the back of a lot in old El Paso,
Behind cacti and sand in s fantasy land,
Lived Mrs. Stanton, a writer.
Her days were spent among papers and books,
Dressed in calico and pinned white hair,
She hummed and expressed smile and frown,
As she imagined what stories might sell.
A curious next door nine year old
Timidly knocked, hearing her typewriter.
“Hello, dear, will you have tea with me?”
Little Nine stands straight, a “grown-up”
For Mrs. Stanton.
She enters that cluttered paper-filled room
And Mrs. Stanton notes her expressions,
As she bounces a plot or two to little Nine,
Observing her child’s reaction.
Happy days passed as the little girl asked
A million questions of the lady,
Someday she a writer would be
For the love of Mrs. Stanton.
Hoss, Hell Ain't Full Yet!
Dark deeds done in dead of night
Eventually, all come to the Light
Watch your step, hedge your bet
Careful, Hell ain't full yet!
Set your excuses completely aside
Evil takes you on a deadly ride
Think, grab all that you can get
Careful, Hell ain't full yet!
Badly mistreat an innocent child
Think, such is nothing but mild
Hoss, that desert just ain't wet
Careful, Hell ain't full yet!
Force a woman to give when she won't
Think, you skate but Hoss, you don't
You'll face a judge you have not met
Careful , Hell ain't full yet!
Steal from others to satisfy greed
Destroy all around like a nasty weed
Think, you get by, your life all set
Careful, Hell ain't full yet!
You murder, take any innocent life
Spread misery, evil seeds of strife
Think, no damn time for any regret
Careful, Hell ain't full yet!
If you murder, steal, lie or rape
Think, a path exists for your escape
A fool's errand , a darkened mindset
Careful, Hell ain't full yet!
Robert J. Lindley, 08-18-2014
note: Inspired by a poem I read long ago
authored by Frank L. Stanton ...
This my original reply to that great poet's
message and poetry form .
DRAWN BY THE NOSE
In a twinkling
Warm kitchen baking smell carries me
Back small for a second sparkling Christmas
For a second
Tomato sandwich’s tang in the fresh air’s sweet
Wafts thoughts adrift to strand castles in Stanton
In an instant
Fresh polish scent on oft-matt floors makes
Wax coffin-face mementos of grandma
For a moment - - - -
To gallery pictures by aromas
I’m led by the nose.
A puppet’s nostrils’ tender tendrils
Drawn fast, wind-entwined.
...............................................................................
Entered in Debbie Guzzi's Contest Come to Your Senses
She asked me if I had a goal
She asked me if I had
Fantasized
Being the
Hunter
Or
The
Hunted
For
Four
Years
I had crossed and re crossed the big cats tracks
Across a
Riverbed
Always measuring the pace
Speed
Weight
And
Distance of he and i
She said
He has dismissed you
So far
When
He is hungry enough
He will eat you
For four years
I have been doing what I thought was
a
Dance with
The
Lion
She said
No
He
Was only pissing
On your
Footprints
When I reviewed my films
Of the prints over
The years
His over
Mine
Mine
Over
His
I noticed
That there was a slight
Wet line
Over all the
Prints
a
Car
On the road
Somewhere
Ahead of you
Recently
There
But now unseen
Laying
Down
a
Thin
Dark
Fresh
Line
Of
Oil
Just ahead of you
And you know that the engine is dying.
MY GALLERY
In a twinkling
Quiet kitchen baking smell carries me
Back small for a second sparkling Christmas
For a second
Tomato sandwich’s tang in the swish of air’s sweet
Wafts thoughts adrift to strand castles in Stanton
In an instant
Fresh polish scent on oft-matt floors makes
Wax coffin-face mementos of grandma
For a moment - - - -
To gallery pictures by aromas
I’m led by ears and nose.
A puppet’s nostrils’ tender tendrils
Drawn fast, wind-entwined.
Do you know
about the U.F.O. ?
Have you ever seen
a strange flying machine?
Questions to ask.
Answers that mask
the unknown, the mystery
of otherworld history.
Man cannot fly
was once the cry.
The world is flat.
Now ... imagine that!
Truth you must face
of an alien race
may mean
man is not supreme.
Project Bluebook did not deny
that many strange things over earth can fly.
It only said that none were a threat.
So, after forty years we get
perfect resistance
to explain their existence.
Thanks to Betty and Barney Hill
and Stanton Friedman who still
with thousands of other sighters
remain government fighters
that someday we may all know
the true reality of a U.F.O.
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.