~The Dragon Flies' Lair Thread XI~

April 17, 2004 | bentfeather, and poets of the Dragon Flies' Lair

[Soaring Feather]

My Dragon Fly and Me

If I could be a Dragon Fly
and wing my way through the sky
I would never be shy
just me and my Dragon Fly!

By moonlight we ride the wind
chase the comets tail for fun
by day we would hide from the sun
our fragile wings would come undone

On darkest nights we would use
fireflies as our guides
we would dip and we would glide
through the heavens open wide
and scatter diamonds in the night sky
my Dragon Fly and I...

And we would wing past our lovers
silent in the night...
to kiss their face in our flight
much to their surprise and delight
my Dragon Fly and me in sight...

Such a view do we share
away up here in the air
of breezes soft through our hair
my Dragon Fly and me a pair...

bentfeather©

[SAMWolf]

I looked up "Love" Revenge" based on your Tennyson Poem. :-)

[SAMWolf]

Muse comes and goes
she is a fickle lover

In my case she's just an aquaintance. :-)

[Soaring Feather]

LOL!!!!!!

[NicknamedBob]

Still Morning!!

Good Morning, Bentfeather,
-- It may be a little late for that peanut, but I hope the little lady doesn't get hurt today...


Paincolor

“Why does it hurt so, Mommy?” The child asks in dismay,
Looking at the redness that has brought an end to play.
“It is a lovely blessing. Try not to take too much.
For pain has ways to keep you safe, with just a gentle touch.”

“You won’t do this again, I think. You’ve learned something today,
But do you think you’d care as much, if it just went away?”
This is the way we learn in this, a harsh and jagged world,
As we try to take it for a spin, and end up counter-twirled.

Pain is a mixed-up blessing, we’ve learned without a doubt,
But it is not the main thing that I’m here to talk about.
There are some pains that hurt our minds and do not leave a sign,
Except the subtle, sneering smile as we work to undermine.

We need to stop embracing hurt, and picking at our scabs,
And picking over wounded foes like offal-eating crabs.
Let’s give our minds the sunshine, and fresh air we’d give the child,
And when we’d rather blast our foe, let’s keep the answer mild.

NicknamedBob . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . May 13, 2004

[Soaring Feather]

Okay, if you are so moved please add or remove and words from this drivel cause it's not to civil....

LOL
The politicians
yak and yammer
John Kerry thinks he has
a hammer
to flatten our man Bush
Kerry will land on his tush..

[Colonel_Flagg]

LOL .. when I have to think about it, I find that I'm really not all that mad anyway. :)

[Colonel_Flagg]

I admire your skill, Bob. Well done.

[Colonel_Flagg]

The politicians
yak and yammer
John Kerry thinks he has
a hammer
to flatten our man Bush
Kerry will land on his tush..

The left's recourse,
To whine and cry
And turn our pain
Into partisan lie

Has found its sneer
In Kerry's face
Their hate for us
Renews apace

At Valley Forge
Chosan, Bastogne
We held the line
We made it known

To crush our will
Requires more
Than Hillary,
F'n and Gore

Here we stand
And here we fight
Till victory
Has blessed the Right.

[Darksheare]

LOL!
At 3 in the morning, it tends to get annoying when you have a voice singing lyrics to a song that doesn't exist.
Or worse, poetry verses popping in an out of existence before you can track down paper or pencil..

[Colonel_Flagg]

I must admit, you have an unusual muse. Mine at least waits for me to become conscious in the morning (well, at least most of the time!)

[Darksheare]

LOL!
Uh oh.

[Old Sarge]

A Fickle Muse?

Muse, as a teasing lover? Hardly that,
dear friends, from one who has sat
among you, and wove the quilt of
dreams and words, hear me out!

My muse is always with me.
Oh, She might not be at my side,
but never leaves me stranded and alone.

I may see Her, as a bird,
moving me to written word,
take my eyes off, for a blink,
and She's gone when I return - you think?

Hardly! For there She is,
the stormcloud passing by,
dark and lovely against the sky,
and more words come to me.

In a flash of lightning, She goes again!
I dart inside, to grab a pen,
and She's already there, singing on the stove,
a pot of Darjeeling, warm as love.

So nay, Dear Ones, my Muse is here,
loving me with words I hear,
She can be star at twilight,
or mist at dawn,
but My Muse? She's never gone for long.

(c) 05-13-04 by JSR

[Darksheare]

*UGH*
Tell me about it.
It's the absolute worst when I'm dreaming and hear a song in my dreams, and the song doesn't exist in reality.

Other times, I'll be listening to music that DOES exist, but I'm hearing 'alternate lyrics'.
Unusual describes my muse ot a 'T', I swear it's out to drive me nuts.

[Soaring Feather]

Afternoon Bob.

Good work as usual.

Here's my response.

---

There are some sores
that so so deep
that scaring over
doesn't keep the hurt
at bay or far away

'Tis from this source
a poet sings
a song of love
its cost and pain
laid out it
beautiful refrain...

Yes, some folks say
oh move on leave it there
for the dawn
but opposites to attract
and time moves on
to heal some wounds
enough to move beyond
the hurt and open up
to a new love song
every hopeful to belong

bentfeather
05/13/04

[Soaring Feather]

Oh my, EXQUISITE!!!!!

[Darksheare]

More than fickle Muse.
Massively sadistic with the choice of time for the inspiration.

[Conspiracy Guy]

Hey Sam, Bentfeather, and everybody else. What's been going on. I have been so busy that it's making me mad. Can someone loan me a few extra hours each day. I'll pay you back when I can.

[Soaring Feather]

Hi CG!!! Nice to see you.

Life is busy at its best
and we poets have to wrest
a little time to feed the muse
and hope we can amuse a few
with our heartfelt words each day

bentfeather

[Old Sarge]

Pain and poets walk
arm in arm, Lady Dear,
but is that the only song
the bard must always hear?

HA! For if we choose to stay,
in the same village all our days,
and never travel beyond that hill,
our hearts, though content, are only ever still.

I will take your arm, and march you
over that forbidding rise,
and such things that you've
forgotten
will remind your starting eyes!

Love is gladness, o'er that hill,
pine-song in breezes, and rippling rill,
swaying grasses, birds in bowers,
Here: a small gift of words and flowers,
all for you.

[Conspiracy Guy]

4002\31\50 yuG ycaripsnoC

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,ti daer neht nips dna pilf tsuJ
.nac uoy taht wonk I tuB
,elihw elttil a sekat ti daer oT
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,nosaer on rof siht did I
.oot sdrawkcab s’ti skcik roF
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