Posted on 11/24/2003 9:52:48 AM PST by January24th
This is a thread for readers and writers of poetry. You are welcome to join in this quiet room, but please respect a few rules that will assure that this thread is easy to read, loads quickly, and maintains the confidence of the poets and readers.
1. Only original poetry, please. All poems are the property of the posting poet. Please do not copy or reproduce in another area.
2. Shhhh! Please keep chat or comments to a minimum.
3. No huge graphics, blinking smiley faces, etc. Just words, please. Let your words paint the image! (Plus, it's easier for dial-up friends to browse.)
That's it. Now, get busy and write!
Auld Lang Syne
Shouldering the should
of old acquaintences
and non-sequitur rhetoric
I resolve a New Years' answer...
Yes.
Ok, trying a cinquain, but i had to cheat on frozen rain, cause it has three syllables.
Cold rain
veils streetlights, drapes
black paisley Persian nights
puddles freeze frame our reflection
breaking.
Breaking
New year’s resolve
the day of its making
more honored in breach than keeping
like friends
Like friends
pepper trees grow
in unpromising soil
distill spice for drought dusted tongues
piquant.
Piquant
memories shift
from pain to pleasure
each to each adds measure in time
recalled
Happy New Year!
Beyond the fairy ring
beyond the edge of time
standing in star dust land
free of rime
dressed in blackest velvet
looking to Aurora Waves
covering me in colors, gold
magenta, cyan, and red
shaken loose from her robes
splashed upon my head
grayed with time
and solemn walks
in early morning hours
riding the dawn to day break
slipping into the dusk
with a fling of her hand
sparkling dust.
bentfeather
12/31/05
most cool, bf, Happy New Year!
Stuck
fire in my veins
trying to swim to air
from bottom of rivers of snot
flu.
I am trying to drink some tea. And keep my fever images out of poetry, but I am weak, and the fever is strong. But its nice to see your triumphant poem. I have hope. LOL.
Sorry you are ill.
Chicken soup hot and steamy
makes ones' eyes weepy
Tissues at the ready
for a flood of relief
and
opens the nostrils for
deep breathing.
;)
Not to mention the benefits of a hot toddy! Thanks, dear I'll be fine, (if I don't post something stupid in my delirium. Yikes) Better go take a nap.
A Neruda for your thoughts?...
You will remember that leaping stream
where sweet aromas rose and trembled,
and sometimes a bird, wearing water
and slowness, its winter feathers.
You will remember those gifts from the earth:
indelible scents, gold clay,
weeds in the thicket and crazy roots,
magical thorns like swords.
You'll remember the bouquet you picked,
shadows and silent water,
bouquet like a foam-covered stone.
That time was like never, and like always.
So we go there, where nothing is waiting;
we find everything waiting there.
Exquisite!
Lovely. A beautifully done Neruda sonnet.
coating
Every year at this time
I try to paint winter pears
but it’s still an effort not realized,
quite. Near ripe, a cut on one
that will turn interestingly brown
and spread tomorrow, now just
weeps. My Morning Jacket
is singing One In The Same.
It sounds sadder than it is.
The pear with a ripped sleeve
begins to glaze itself
in the sweetness of its wound,
wraps its soft shoulders in the dun coat
of decay-before-ripeness as quickly
as the winter wind finds its way
into every un-stanched crack.
To the poet
The walls don’t talk
anymore than the mirror
records every face it reflects.
Beyond the words that bleed
from the walls steamed to peel
the paper that I pasted
to make a decorator’s statement
there is a blank that waits
for explanations
If nice guys finish last
then the paper hangers
get the loudest laugh.
he turned
to shutter
his eyes
following
an empty passage
out of
the mirror
There
is nor was
just this gray
brave dawn
At her casement, a love song
Sometimes the song becomes
counter-weighted with the secrets
it must hold back, swallows its
own tongue like the lead that keeps
the double hung sash positioned securely
in its track. Pretty panes will always
be cradled in the frame, slide upon invisible
ropes and pulleys, cushioned from the fall.
Laced with the delicate web that traces
shadows upon walls and tiles; the glass
admits the light as if its innocence is sufficient
dispensation. Its fragile clarity adds nothing
to the view, but rings it all with the simulacrum of truth
while unsung weights keep faith, with silence like a lay.
who designed
this simplicity
of silence
Global warming
The earthworms casting
their benediction, have come
at last to this bed amended
for so many seasons
sand, mulch, compost, and waiting,
wanting flowers this year.
The squirrels, have aerated
everything again, turning earth
and flowers under- destructive
buck toothed trowels breaking
up the plantings, burying
hope for next year.
I dig without the gloves I
left in the rain; there are
slimy things, fruiting bodies
a melting pantry, where some
things sprout, some things rot
some things soften, some things, not.
There are stones,
my nails are short,
I bury my fingers in the dirt,
raise palms.
Disclaimer: Opinions posted on Free Republic are those of the individual posters and do not necessarily represent the opinion of Free Republic or its management. All materials posted herein are protected by copyright law and the exemption for fair use of copyrighted works.