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3/5/2011 2:07:57 PM
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Homeless
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Note the sighing of day's retreat
Color the grey blackness of night
Drunken thievery my feat
Of gleaming lights, beckoning frights
To begin to stir in this sea
Of a waning tumultuous falling
Baptized with his promise to me
Survival his only calling
No white bursting of the stars
In this sea of a fading fading grasp
No redeeming god, no ark
Messed up with each other perhaps
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3/5/2011 6:36:20 PM
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Harvest
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Swollen sky, then lonely drop of rain
Hangs for me onto window pane
Stretching 'til its bottom smacks its top
Plop
Gliding downwards stalk of grass
A mirror to the dew, like polished glass
A sly sinking into fertile soil
Upon which not to tread: life need uncoil
And the westerly wind will blow a sea
Before the evening carries its plea
Of yellow brown around stooping figures
Outwards they will turn, never linger
Toward beckoning rise of moon
And this rising, my dear, never too soon
Will mark the end of their soothing songs
No ending however of which they long
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6/7/2011 6:05:35 PM
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rating a poem
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I hate to ask this, for it seems as simple as it is slightly vain. When one rates a poem, what is the scale? For example, what would be a 7.00? Is it out of 10.00? Thank you.
Jennifer
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11/22/2011 10:11:09 AM
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midwinter pause
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Trees fingering bone
White of winter stand crooked
Under the sunless sky
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8/28/2012 2:36:40 PM
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posting and editing
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this is actually not a response but a question. I seem to be unable to post a new poem on poetrysoup. I have been a member for over a year and had a poem featured, so I do not know why this is the case. If anyone could be of assistance, that would be great. Thank you.
Sincerely,
jennifer
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1/25/2020 12:58:20 PM
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Death, Spirituality
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A sketch of the shades
of midnight, a figure emerges,
her spectre arms reach
like the charcoal bones
of the wild, the webbed trees.
Their silhouette absorbed
into the night clasp
the edge of the curved
slice of moon, cocaine
colored and as potent.
For ancient stories are spun
within its orbit.
It is a black and
white rock that once had oceans,
the orb created
by a long ago
planet colliding with Earth.
A diabolical
world pushes against
our mortal micracosm, molded
flesh within the cloak
shaped to kill, and shed.
Stripped of this armour, we meld
into death, a viscous
void of the sublime
intensity beating, a
puissance, zoetic. Hue
of a collapsed white
dwarf, the distant plum red throb
that emits heat, burns.
To die is like chalk
rubbed into pores; the suck of Black Holes.
Human colors drowned.
edited by jacc123 on 1/25/2020
edited by jacc123 on 1/25/2020
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2/3/2021 12:02:53 PM
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Majestic Colors jacc123 Jennifer Cahill
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I recently published an anthology of poetry, "Majestic Colors" available on Amazon.com. Please check it out? Thank you!
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2/3/2021 12:13:10 PM
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A Response to an Inauguration
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Perhaps the "We" in a poem about young "America" can thread the plural pronoun
into a universal tapestry:
"We" seek the Sunrise- fiery golden streams, threads of expectancy, not simply of hope. Rarely realized.
Almost always recognized,
for we read, we write; we sing, we praise
the "American Dream". Or God(s).
"We" are the intricacies of Belief.
Of Choice(s). Of a trajectory of fading footprints: "We" take our first steps every "Dawn".
"We" are souls who will vanish unless carved into stone. Or become a portrait on a wall, still viewing the World.
Or our words can be bound-a bandaged sky that allows a Star's light to sift through. And we can see a violet-onyx canvas that beckons
with the glisten ofsterling pinpricks
when the sky is dark. For this part of the tapestry: the color is of a petal dipped
into a Harvest palette, blended into a flower of any pigment ever created by Nature, or by Science; a bloom that will turn to the Sun,
that will fold into itself to rest, every twilight.
A tapestry of effulgence: rainbow
to moonbow; radiation to the splitting
of the photon.
The final seams are tat to drape a veil,
many veils, to keep secret our true
countenance;
to create the facade that bouys
while "we" drift..
towards another Sunset..
rubicund golddust that spatters light;
a shiny yolk that bleeds..a burst clot.
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2/23/2021 8:21:19 AM
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Charcoal Spirits
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A lone black crow
sits on a limb of a tree
amongst a crowd of trees
that surround the townhouses.
The trees' silhouettes
are drawn on the brick;
on the shingled roofs;
by the Sun this Late January.
The dark shape of the crow
is starker than the trees' cast
of the night color; it is spectre-like,
within the arms of the spectator-like trees.
The branches are frosted with yesterday's spitting snowflakes.
Their bark is the tint of stones;
or the grains of sand on an Irish shore,
viewed on the one rainy day
of a journey so long ago.
A squirrel scurrying up the tree
is the same color-
of the rough or smooth stone,
bleached by the Sun;
of the wet sand of the shore in Ireland,
whose dunes crouch to watch the tides ebb,
to see the pull of the floating Moon.
The squirrel blends into the mourning dove
tinctures as if he were a captive
of the Winter day..
or brushstroked into an oil painting.
The crow, hue of a cold desert night,
lifts to fly away.
The shadows become new shapes
in the shifting sunlight..
they become charcoal spirits
in her sketch of an agued morn'.
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2/25/2021 7:53:15 AM
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Love Songs with No Endings
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A bottle slightly submerged in the Sea
has within its light glass a scrap of paper-
on which are the words
"Do you know me?"
"I am on other shores, perhaps
exactly opposite Yours."
The roasting orange-red
of the hovering sun colors the ripples-
like the wrinkles of a silk slip- a dusky effulsence of an evening.
The sun's deep searing sienna
seen through the glass is a slightly
undercooked bloody yolk, seeping
and spreading through the enveloping visceral
white-
the solitary thin cloud passing the Sun's
fire. The sunlight is the gleam on the vessel,
under a Mayan Sky..
flushed with their Belief..Faith...of an ocean
that covers the entire Earth; tranquil,
at peace for eons; before the Mayan "Heart of Sky" that drapes Earth's mottled tints,
creates the creatures- crawling, rising
to stand, walk on the newly born lands.
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3/2/2021 11:05:47 AM
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A Canadian Goose Landed in My Throat
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Today, I feel her-
she alerts her soul-mates, their storm-
colored bodies. She..cries,
her wings contracted,
a honk mingled with a " I am
amongst you", and chimes
so dampened, they toll
like Hemingway's Bell. A Goose,
Canadian- a wife-
is in my dried throat
this morning, within the drops
of the shower; a peal,
but a high note "oppressed".
The fat, so off-key with the song
of my being, folds
into pastel wings.
They are light, like an American
shore bleached by the Suns.
My wet, soft blonde arms
reach for Irish sea-tints: a bar,
and a rainforest (shampoo).
To cleanse coffee oils.
My hands rub against the porousness.
The bouying scents,
like the sparks of incense,
sink into my entity.
And the shrine could flood.
My hair twists like rope,
enshrouds my loosened countenance
that is a burnt rose.
The sheen of this skin
shines in the yellow watt's glow.
I sing; I lift the grass-
green towel to dry.
I grab the faded face cloth,
the hue of a weary
field, barren but for the gold
butter-cup weeds of the longest
days. I toss the tough
machine-threaded cotton,
to FLY..off of my body.
My damp hair is night
colored; blonde wings clipped
at birth. Yet, within the misty
brushstrokes of morning,
beneath a gentle
wedding-white sky with lilac
lace, she may feast, hushed.
Today, I feel her-
she alerts her soul-mates, their storm-
colored bodies. She..cries,
her wings contracted,
a honk mingled with a " I am
amongst you", and chimes
so dampened, they toll
like Hemingway's Bell. A Goose,
Canadian- a wife-
is in my dried throat
this morning, within the drops
of the shower; a peal,
but a high note "oppressed".
The fat, so off-key with the song
of my being, folds
into pastel wings.
They are light, like an American
shore bleached by the Suns.
My wet, soft blonde arms
reach for Irish sea-tints: a bar,
and a rainforest (shampoo).
To cleanse coffee oils.
My hands rub against the porousness.
The bouying scents,
like the sparks of incense,
sink into my entity.
And the shrine could flood.
My hair twists like rope,
enshrouds my loosened countenance
that is a burnt rose.
The sheen of this skin
shines in the yellow watt's glow.
I sing; I lift the grass-
green towel to dry.
I grab the faded face cloth,
the hue of a weary
field, barren but for the gold
butter-cup weeds of the longest
days. I toss the tough
machine-threaded cotton,
to FLY..off of my body.
My damp hair is night
colored; blonde wings clipped
at birth. Yet, within the misty
brushstrokes of morning,
beneath a gentle
wedding-white sky with lilac
lace, she may feast, hushed.
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3/5/2021 3:13:23 PM
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A River Song
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A canal, far away,
was built many years ago
for the ships' passage
between two oceans.
A river, near me, slowly
flows, floats the barges.
And, years ago,
this dove- colored river
was open for the wars.
Today, distant lights
on the river are a moon's
glow, and one or two
are stars, that poke the dusk
through the hush of falling snow,
to the Summer warmth
of a shelter, where
onyx tinctured mares have wings,
to fly through at night.
Their snow-white wings
are soft as flour, and their hooves
are as magical
as the Ruby Shoes
in the dream.They tear through, weave
tatters into fear.
They tat a net,
with the silky gleam of tinsel,
to catch the diamonds
that prick the sky, cut
into an artist's canvas,
who paints this nightmare..
the very edge of 'morn
spills cream hues, lifts up a gold
rose. The river sparkles.
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3/5/2021 3:16:54 PM
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A Wishful Morn'
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My book of poems, "A Wishful Morn'" is available at Amazon.com. The poetry is the content of my anthology "Majestic Colors", also available on Amazon.com, plus an additional ten to fifteen poems. Please check it out! Thank you!
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