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Posted on 01/02/2006 7:52:08 AM PST by Soaring Feather
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I have to admit, I have read the book Tipping Points, and the concept is so very good, that it just seemed natural. Everything that goes through my head seems to become fuel for the poetic furnace.
This morning I have written a long religious poem:
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-religion/1566131/posts
and a funny political satire take off on the three witches in Macbeth:
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-chat/1566011/posts?page=43#43
Aftereffects of brushes with eternity?
Interesting reads. Thanks for the links.
LOL! So cute. Hello Connie, thanks for stopping round.
A friend, helping me to collate my poems for a book due out in April on E-Publishing, asked me how do I write poetry. I handed her this poem in answer, and post it here, if only to illustrate another's viewpoint.
How To Do Poetry?
How does one create a poem, a loving artwork of entwined words that sing,
and keep it all so relevant, with not a nugatory phrase along the way?
Open your senses, and see the world from every angle, let its nuances ring,
and let each find its place inside your own mind, until they say what they will say.
Love each word for its quiet majesty, its unique place under the sun,
holding to one place, with which you will struggle to find another to entwine.
To capture a feeling, an ideal, a bit of memory on parade, sad or fun,
and bind it into a story as it were, to share with anyone who reads those lines.
Let the words fill you, find your center, and they will write the poem with your pen,
and along the way you will discover their magic growing softly in you.
Don’t I say write for others, but only for yourself, for that is what a poets been,
a vessel holding the magic, and as surprised and in wonder as the reader in review.
Be not afraid to try, for along the way, they will rise in you and flow,
into forms and shape your thoughts with gentle care, sweet partnership.
Open your heart and soul, and let the words so softly take control and go,
and along the way, you will discover that you too have authorship.
It is your heart, your trials and tribulations, your life that make the words,
and it is your soul that will shape them into the poems, a part of you.
Let them fly as they will like to heights you can not reach, your verbal birds,
flying across the sky of a world only you have ever seen or know as you do!
How To Do Poetry?
This is great. Thanks so much for sharing it with the Lair.
WOO HOO, good news and good luck on the book.
Good morning everyone.
This morning,
a snow palace sits in my back yard,
roofed with finest grey leaded clouds,
columned with white capped spruce,
the lacy white adorned fingers
of walnut branches
reaching upward.
White, pristine, the snow carpet,
piled up high,
well over the top of my boot.
Music provided by the orchestra
of Juncos, Finches, Pinesiskens
waiting for their sunflowery pay.
Ah, Winter!
In these moments before I have to face
the roads and the ice
I can appreciate your loveliness.
I must confess, I know of Juncos,
and Finches, but Pinesiskens
I had to guess.
I did a Google just to see
what a Pinesisken is you see
They have a crossed beak
like a Cardinal, but drab in color
I discover
I don't think this bird lives here
but in the pines somewhere out there.
bentfeather
Pinesiskens only come down in the winter,
when the mountain snows are heavy,
eat up all my seed,
then summer in the mountains where they are happy,
like the juncos,
pretty winter guests.
The finches, though,
are not snow weather friends,
and will stay with me
until the house sparrows bully them out.
Then the feeding station closes
until the snows.
unwelcome changes
longtime Canteen freeper's gone
you're missed Miss Betsy
rim 1/29/06©
unwelcome changes
longtime Canteen freeper's gone
you'll be missed Betsy
:]
See, it is no wonder that a lady like you raised a hero..
Night Winds
Soft it is,
can you hear it?
Just there,
on the edge of the breeze.
Chill it is,
sure as stars are lit.
cold and fair,
to make a heart seize.
Whispering there,
tales it tells so bloody old.
Ancient and new,
all the same in the bitter end.
Listen with care,
their stories so bloody bold.
What they did, and do,
how they lived and sinned.
History about you,
if you listen with an open heart.
Glory and shame.
mixed in odd proportions human.
Harken if you do,
for their tales is of you a part.
Echoes within you,
where lives the inner man.
Tempest
The dark, dark waves pound the inner shore,
slowly carving shapes bizarre and tortured so.
Etching this night clad shore in ebb and flow,
taking their time measured in ages evermore.
I stand upon that lonely bitter shore and cry,
my anger and my angst from deep within.
Challenging all the weight of my own sin,
and knowing I must strive on until I die.
Seeking something I know I will not grant,
and seeking still in reverent hopes I will find it.
Mortal shell chaining an immortal soul that doesn’t fit,
and so the long hard struggle, so the silent rant.
Strong the waves of the sea of memory,
and weak the soil of this mortal land.
Weary is my heart in this war out of hand,
seeking some solace in an unfound hidden lee.
Roller Coaster
F
a
l
l
i
n
g
through space, to slam into a tight turn
that pulls you up into a spinning
spiral that tosses you around
your own core
as you suddenly
f
a
l
l
again amid screams of joy, fear and surprise!
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