April 1, 20241 yr Oh freddled gruntbuggly, Thy micturations are to me, (with big yawning) As plurdled gabbleblotchits, in midsummer morning On a lurgid bee, That mordiously hath blurted out, Its earted jurtles, grumbling Into a rancid festering confectious organ squealer. [drowned out by moaning and screaming] Now the jurpling slayjid agrocrustles, Are slurping hagrilly up the axlegrurts, And living glupules frart and stipulate, Like jowling meated liverslime, Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes, And hooptiously drangle me, With crinkly bindlewurdles,mashurbitries. Or else I shall rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon, See if I don't!
April 1, 20241 yr Twas brilling and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe. All mimsy were the borogroves and the mome wraths outgrabe Beware the Jabberwock my son, the jaws that bite, the claws that catch Beware the jub jub bird and shun the frumious bandersnatch.
April 1, 20241 yr 4 minutes ago, MoseySusan said: And you've memorized this for entertaining the grandkids, @maddmaxx? I have no grandkids but if some find it entertaining then my task is complete
April 1, 20241 yr 43 minutes ago, shootingstar said: I do miss VAncouver cherry blossom season. Haiku from moi: That is lovely. Thank you for sharing. Here is a delightful selection of haikus. https://www.gluckman.com/harry/Jewish Haiku.htm
April 1, 20241 yr From childhood's hour I have not been As others were — I have not seen As others saw — I could not bring My passions from a common spring — From the same source I have not taken My sorrow — I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone — And all I lov'd — I lov'd alone — Then — in my childhood — in the dawn Of a most stormy life — was drawn From ev'ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still — From the torrent, or the fountain — From the red cliff of the mountain — From the sun that 'round me roll'd In its autumn tint of gold — From the lightning in the sky As it pass'd me flying by — From the thunder, and the storm — And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view — Alone, Edgar Allan Poe
April 2, 20241 yr Because I'm tired Wynken, Blynken and Nod (1889) Eugene Field Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe— Sailed on a river of crystal light, Into a sea of dew. 'Where are you going, and what do you wish?' The old moon asked the three. 'We have come to fish for the herring-fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we!' Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. The old moon laughed and sang a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe, And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew. The little stars were the herring fish That lived in the beautiful sea– 'Now cast your nets wherever you wish— Never afeard are we'; So cried the stars to the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. All night long their nets they threw To the stars in the twinkling foam— Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home; 'Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed As if it could not be, And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea– But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is the wee one's trundle-bed. So shut your eyes while mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock in the misty sea, Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.
April 2, 20241 yr Fitting for today: Through rain drops on a window Into the grey she stares. The world is crying, cloaked in monochrome. The years have passed in silence And she wonders what lies beyond. On the other side, Is there the radiance of dawn Or the pitch of night; A myriad of seemingly endless possibilities. But the window is hidden And the keeper remains. She dreams of the day When the light bursts forth into glorious splendor As the sun warms her face. She'll frolic beneath autumn gold As gentle breezes caress her skin. She imagines diamonds in the eyes of strangers; Crystaline joy at The refrain of her hearts desire. Beauty like sapphires; her opus. She sighs. The rains trickles slowly down; Pools of tears. - May 23, 2013
April 2, 20241 yr Author Today, a poem about endurance. War Widow By Chris Abani The telephone never rings. Still you pick it up, smile into the static, the breath of those you've loved; long dead. The leaf you pick from the fall rises and dips away with every ridge. Fingers stiff from time, you trace. Staring off into a distance limned by cataracts and other collected debris, you have forgotten none of the long-ago joy of an ice-cream truck and its summer song. Between the paving stones; between tea, a cup, and the sound of you pouring; between the time you woke that morning and the time when the letter came, a tired sorrow: like an old flagellant able only to tease with a weak sting. Riding the elevator all day, floor after floor after floor, each stop some small victory whittled from the hard stone of death, you smile. They used to write epics about moments like this. Chris Abani, “War Widow†from Hands Washing Water. Copyright © 2006 by Chris Abani. Reprinted by permission of Copper Canyon Press.
April 2, 20241 yr Wrote this haiku few yrs. ago for Christmas blog post. However works for Easter too: Rain dew lit tree boughs, Hang lightly fragile poised– Star turn to daylight.
April 2, 20241 yr TS Elliot, the beginning of the Waste Land April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers.
April 2, 20241 yr He took his vorpal sword in hand longtime the manx foe he sought Then rested he neath the tum tum tree and stood a while in thought Then somehow the jaberwock comes throught the tulgy wood and burpled as it came, but I cannot remember that part One two one two and trrough and through the vorpal sword went snicker snack He left it dead and with it's head he went gallumping back And hast thou slain the jabberwock my boy and something about chortling in joy I used to know the whole poem by memory. Reciting it was my party trick.
April 2, 20241 yr I had to use the googles. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. “Beware the Jabberwock, my son The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!†He took his vorpal sword in hand; Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!†He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
April 2, 20241 yr Author “O frabjous day!†my brother would say. I'd reply, “Callooh! Callay!†That was many and many a year ago. He used to read to me from a set of books, poetry and stories, that my dad got from Readers Digest. “Jaberwocky†was on heavy rotation. I liked the illustration on the opposite page, too.
April 2, 20241 yr 18 minutes ago, MoseySusan said: “O frabjous day!†my brother would say. I'd reply, “Callooh! Callay!†That was many and many a year ago. He used to read to me from a set of books, poetry and stories, that my dad got from Readers Digest. “Jaberwocky†was on heavy rotation. I liked the illustration on the opposite page, too. I knew CAllooh CAllay oh Frabjous day but forgot to type it.
April 3, 20241 yr The poem that describes my life's choices: The Road Not Taken Robert Frost 1874 – 1963 Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
April 3, 20241 yr Author I've often returned to “The road not taken†as clear storytelling in verse. Today's poem, though, is storytelling by snapshots of moments. Golden Hour by Kimberly Casey When you caught one to keep, we took it home and I asked you to teach me. You showed me how to spike the brain— I thanked the fish, looked away, pressed down. We bled it, shaved away the scales, severed meat from bone. I'm afraid of leaving my loved ones alone. Flying into an endless sunset the next day, a soft glow through the window, and every passenger is glazed a smooth bronze. Every other seat empty, each face masked, some with simple fabric, others medical-grade filtration set beneath serious eyes. No one here talks much. Bodies pull away from the aisle each time a passenger scurries by. If a plane crashes in the middle of a pandemic, would the world make a sound? How do we grieve one loss among so many? Yesterday the breeze caught the water making waves beneath the boat, and you swayed staring out toward the setting sun. Your skin slick with sweat bronzed in the light bouncing under the bridge where you waited for something to bite— I told you I didn't understand the need to maim something just to send it swimming back below with a taste of blood. You said we are all violent. It's about finding the way out that does the least damage. Source: Poetry (July 2021)
April 3, 20241 yr From Ulysses - Tennyson “It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.†From To Hope - Keats “When by my solitary hearth I sit, When no fair dreams before my ‘mind's eye' flit, And the bare heath of life presents no bloom; Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head …â€
April 4, 20241 yr Author Except, it's not really snow that he remembers. Spring Snow by Arthur Sze A spring snow coincides with plum blossoms. In a month, you will forget, then remember when nine ravens perched in the elm sway in wind. I will remember when I brake to a stop, and a hubcap rolls through the intersection. An angry man grinds pepper onto his salad; it is how you nail a tin amulet ear into the lintel. If, in deep emotion, we are possessed by the idea of possession, we can never lose to recover what is ours. Sounds of an abacus are amplified and condensed to resemble sounds of hail on a tin roof, but mind opens to the smell of lightening. Bodies were vaporized to shadows by intense heat; in memory people outline bodies on walls. Arthur Sze, "Spring Snow" from The Redshifting Web: Poems. Copyright © 1998 by Arthur Sze. Reprinted
April 6, 20241 yr The Charge of the Light Brigade BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. “Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!†he said. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. “Forward, the Light Brigade!†Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew Someone had blundered. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of hell Rode the six hundred. Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered. Plunged in the battery-smoke Right through the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre stroke Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell. They that had fought so well Came through the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!
April 6, 20241 yr Author Not sure why copy and paste now requires center margin setting, but it does. It's springtime! That means lambs. This one's for @Digital_photog and @sheep_herder and anyone else who likes a nice walk in the fields. Young Spring Lambs by John Clare The spring is coming by many signs; The trays are up, the hedges broken down, That fenced the haystack, and the remnant shines Like some old antique fragment weathered brown. And where suns peep, in every sheltered place, The little early buttercups unfold A glittering star or two—till many trace The edges of the blackthorn clumps in gold. And then a little lamb bolts up behind The hill and wags his tail to meet the yoe, And then another, sheltered from the wind, Lies all his length as dead—and lets me go Close bye and never stirs but baking lies, With legs stretched out as though he could not rise.
April 6, 20241 yr Author 3 minutes ago, F_in Ray Of Sunshine said: No love for The Man From Nantucket? ….and you call this a poetry thread. You're free to add any verse to the discussion.
April 6, 20241 yr Author 1 hour ago, F_in Ray Of Sunshine said: No love for The Man From Nantucket? Spoiler Speaking of… I remember this scene from an 8th grade class. Two friends had learned the verbs puse (I put…pronounced, well, you can figure it out) and chupe (suck, like a lollipop, but also…you'll see) in Spanish class earlier that day. So, during the time for seat work one of the friends kept calling the other Chupé and the other would respond Lupé which is a common Spanish name. They both kept saying “Yo puse.†I told them to tone it down. They stopped with the “yo puse,†but kept up with Chupé and Lupé in whispers. Finally, another student in the class, a Hispanic boy with very deep Spanish speaking roots, chimed in with “cállete pendejos.†I told him that's enough. And he replied, “you let that guy get away with saying cocksucker, why are you telling me to stop?†We both laughed. I told him it's also lollipop and sometimes hummingbird, which he already knew, and I don't know what goes on in Spanish class. Anyway, the two friends quit with the verb practice and we all got back to work. NSFW content, unless you work with 14 year olds, in which case the language is probably no thing.
April 6, 20241 yr 38 minutes ago, MoseySusan said: You're free to add any verse to the discussion. I'm juvenile enough to allude to it, but not juvenile enough to post it.
April 6, 20241 yr Author 4 minutes ago, F_in Ray Of Sunshine said: I'm juvenile enough to allude to it, but not juvenile enough to post it. And you call yourself a F_in Ray of Sunshine?
April 6, 20241 yr 22 minutes ago, MoseySusan said: Speaking of… I remember this scene from an 8th grade class… There was a music venue we used to hang out at and one of the regulars had the last name “Bocchinoâ€. I'm not sure how aware he was of the slang connotations of the diminutive of bocca…
April 7, 20241 yr Author This morning, a reminder that there is no us or them. The Legend By Garrett Hongo In Chicago, it is snowing softly and a man has just done his wash for the week. He steps into the twilight of early evening, carrying a wrinkled shopping bag full of neatly folded clothes, and, for a moment, enjoys the feel of warm laundry and crinkled paper, flannellike against his gloveless hands. There's a Rembrandt glow on his face, a triangle of orange in the hollow of his cheek as a last flash of sunset blazes the storefronts and lit windows of the street. He is Asian, Thai or Vietnamese, and very skinny, dressed as one of the poor in rumpled suit pants and a plaid mackinaw, dingy and too large. He negotiates the slick of ice on the sidewalk by his car, opens the Fairlane's back door, leans to place the laundry in, and turns, for an instant, toward the flurry of footsteps and cries of pedestrians as a boy—that's all he was— backs from the corner package store shooting a pistol, firing it, once, at the dumbfounded man who falls forward, grabbing at his chest. A few sounds escape from his mouth, a babbling no one understands as people surround him bewildered at his speech. The noises he makes are nothing to them. The boy has gone, lost in the light array of foot traffic dappling the snow with fresh prints. Tonight, I read about Descartes' grand courage to doubt everything except his own miraculous existence and I feel so distinct from the wounded man lying on the concrete I am ashamed. Let the night sky cover him as he dies. Let the weaver girl cross the bridge of heaven and take up his cold hands. IN MEMORY OF JAY KASHIWAMURA Garret Hongo, “The Legend†from The River of Heaven (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1987). Copyright © 1988 by Garret Hongo.
April 7, 20241 yr I tried writing pomes many many years ago.. I was pretty alright at it.. but have no idea where any of them went.
April 8, 20241 yr Haunted Houses Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807 –1882 All houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the floors. We meet them at the door-way, on the stair, Along the passages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air, A sense of something moving to and fro. There are more guests at table than the hosts Invited; the illuminated hall Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, As silent as the pictures on the wall. The stranger at my fireside cannot see The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear; He but perceives what is; while unto me All that has been is visible and clear. We have no title-deeds to house or lands; Owners and occupants of earlier dates From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands, And hold in mortmain still their old estates. The spirit-world around this world of sense Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense A vital breath of more ethereal air. Our little lives are kept in equipoise By opposite attractions and desires; The struggle of the instinct that enjoys, And the more noble instinct that aspires. These perturbations, this perpetual jar Of earthly wants and aspirations high, Come from the influence of an unseen star An undiscovered planet in our sky. And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd Into the realm of mystery and night,— So from the world of spirits there descends A bridge of light, connecting it with this, O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends, Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.
April 8, 20241 yr Author And when pleasure reminds us of suffering, we share a poet's heart. Lines Written in Early Spring by William Wordsworth I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:— But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? Source: The Longman Anthology of Poetry (Pearson, 2006)
April 10, 20241 yr Author Difference By Stephen Vincent Benét My mind's a map. A mad sea-captain drew it Under a flowing moon until he knew it; Winds with brass trumpets, puffy-cheeked as jugs, And states bright-patterned like Arabian rugs. “Here there be tygers.†“Here we buried Jim.†Here is the strait where eyeless fishes swim About their buried idol, drowned so cold He weeps away his eyes in salt and gold. A country like the dark side of the moon, A cider-apple country, harsh and boon, A country savage as a chestnut-rind, A land of hungry sorcerers. Your mind? —Your mind is water through an April night, A cherry-branch, plume-feathery with its white, A lavender as fragrant as your words, A room where Peace and Honor talk like birds, Sewing bright coins upon the tragic cloth Of heavy Fate, and Mockery, like a moth, Flutters and beats about those lovely things. You are the soul, enchanted with its wings, The single voice that raises up the dead To shake the pride of angels. I have said I like to think my mind is the second one, but “a land of hungry sorcerers†sure feels about right at times.
April 10, 20241 yr Author Here's a fun memory. The Pull Toy By A.E. Stallings You squeezed its leash in your fist, It followed where you led: Tick, tock, tick, tock, Nodding its wooden head. Wagging a tail on a spring, Its wheels gearing lackety-clack, Dogging your heels the length of the house, Though you seldom glanced back. It didn't mind being dragged When it toppled on its side Scraping its coat of primary colors: Love has no pride. But now that you run and climb And leap, it has no hope Of keeping up, so it sits, hunched At the end of its short rope And dreams of a rummage sale Where it's snapped up for a song, And of somebody—somebody just like you— Stringing it along. Poem copyright ©2012 by A. E. Stallings
April 10, 20241 yr Ode to Dawn Today the sun rose The morning air warmed quickly to its brilliance. Birds sang. Flora and fauna heeding the daily call; The heartbeat to which all creation moves. Today the sun rose Streaks of vibrant color pass along asphalt arteries Ferrying corpulent passengers, Like corpuscles, To destinations preordained and prosaic; Life blood for society's construct. Today the sun rose A call from the distant past assumed Consciousness; Pandora's temptation. And again she beckoned Amid sequestered existence. Today the sun rose A crimson tear fell from a heart As rivers of sadness washed over fields of desire; A proclivity to suffering- Inexorable, edacious. Today the sun rose Today, The sun rose. - July, 2013
April 10, 20241 yr Spring Watching Pavilion by Ho Xuan Huong A gentle spring evening arrives airily, unclouded by worldly dust. Three times the bell tolls echoes like a wave. We see heaven upside-down in sad puddles. Love's vast sea cannot be emptied. 5 And springs of grace flow easily everywhere. Where is nirvana? Nirvana is here, nine times out of ten.
April 11, 20241 yr Author “Throw it in the river,†he says. “But the ducks!†I say. WONDERBREAD By Alfred Corn Loaf after loaf, in several sizes, and never does it not look fresh, as though its insides weren't moist or warm crust not the kind that spices a room with the plump aroma of toast. Found on the table; among shadows next to the kitchen phone; dispatched FedEx (without return address, though). Someone, possibly more than one person, loves me. Well then, who? Amazing that bread should be so weightless, down-light when handled, as a me dying to taste it takes a slice. Which lasts just long enough to reach my mouth, but then, at the first bite, Nothing! Nothing but air, thin air …. Oh. One more loaf of wonderbread, only a pun for bread, seductive visually, but you could starve. Get rid of it, throw it in the river— Beyond which, grain fields. Future food for the just and the unjust, those who love, and do not love.
April 11, 20241 yr Wonder Bread “Hocus pocus:†corruption of “Hoc est enim corpus meum†One teasing April day the mad priest approached a bakery truck and prayed the words of consecration. The driver, a parishioner, called the bishop to buy every biscuit, loaf, and bun; the whole cargo, the Body of Christ. If that priest is still loose changing substantially everything he knows how, what if no one overhears? Kids will eat those sweetrolls and stop their breakfast fight; a man slipping the sandwich from his sack will find his union dues; the student over midnight toast sees life and major work; imagine the flap and chatter aloft, full of breadcrumbs, the birds. –Jeanine Hathaway
April 12, 20241 yr Author Anne Sexton Admonitions To A Special Person Watch out for power, for its avalanche can bury you, snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain. Watch out for hate, it can open its mouth and you'll fling yourself out to eat off your leg, an instant leper. Watch out for friends, because when you betray them, as you will, they will bury their heads in the toilet and flush themselves away. Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth. Watch out for games, the actor's part, the speech planned, known, given, for they will give you away and you will stand like a naked little boy, pissing on your own child-bed. Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will end. Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief. Special person, if I were you I'd pay no attention to admonitions from me, made somewhat out of your words and somewhat out of mine. A collaboration. I do not believe a word I have said, except some, except I think of you like a young tree with pasted-on leaves and know you'll root and the real green thing will come. Let go. Let go. Oh special person, possible leaves, this typewriter likes you on the way to them, but wants to break crystal glasses in celebration, for you, when the dark crust is thrown off and you float all around like a happened balloon
April 12, 20241 yr Genius, like gold and precious stones, is chiefly prized because of its rarity. Geniuses are people who dash of weird, wild, incomprehensible poems with astonishing facility, and get booming drunk and sleep in the gutter. Genius elevates its possessor to ineffable spheres far above the vulgar world and fills his soul with regal contempt for the gross and sordid things of earth. It is probably on account of this that people who have genius do not pay their board, as a general thing. Geniuses are very singular. If you see a young man who has frowsy hair and distraught look, and affects eccentricity in dress, you may set him down for a genius. If he sings about the degeneracy of a world which courts vulgar opulence and neglects brains, he is undoubtedly a genius. If he is too proud to accept assistance, and spurns it with a lordly air at the very same time that he knows he can't make a living to save his life, he is most certainly a genius. If he hangs on and sticks to poetry, notwithstanding sawing wood comes handier to him, he is a true genius. If he throws away every opportunity in life and crushes the affection and the patience of his friends and then protests in sickly rhymes of his hard lot, and finally persists, in spite of the sound advice of persons who have got sense but not any genius, persists in going up some infamous back alley dying in rags and dirt, he is beyond all question a genius. But above all things, to deftly throw the incoherent ravings of insanity into verse and then rush off and get booming drunk, is the surest of all the different signs of genius. - Mark Twain
April 12, 20241 yr “Acolyte†or “I must be a genius…†Consider the bottle Deceptive, ephemeral; Enticing Inviting redemption. Who haunts the sanctuary of the shamed? Who visits the tabernacle of the tormented? Or hears the dirge of the depraved? In aqueous requiem I sang the psalm of the inebriated And offered approbation at the gilded altar of Neon. Now in corpulent seclusion I contemplate And proffer penance for the iniquity of the inane And lifting the chalice of the profane I seal my discipleship... - May 23, 2003
April 13, 20241 yr Author As the neighbor roars away on his Harley, I'm reminded of a favorite poem by William Stafford. Fifteen, by William Stafford South of the bridge on Seventeenth I found back of the willows one summer day a motorcycle with engine running as it lay on its side, ticking over slowly in the high grass. I was fifteen. I admired all that pulsing gleam, the shiny flanks, the demure headlights fringed where it lay; I led it gently to the road, and stood with that companion, ready and friendly. I was fifteen. We could find the end of a road, meet the sky on out Seventeenth. I thought about hills, and patting the handle got back a confident opinion. On the bridge we indulged a forward feeling, a tremble. I was fifteen. Thinking, back farther in the grass I found the owner, just coming to, where he had flipped over the rail. He had blood on his hand, was pale- I helped him walk to his machine. He ran his hand over it, called me good man, roared away. I stood there, fifteen
April 13, 20241 yr 1 hour ago, MoseySusan said: As the neighbor roars away on his Harley, I'm reminded of a favorite poem by William Stafford. Fifteen, by William Stafford South of the bridge on Seventeenth I found back of the willows one summer day a motorcycle with engine running as it lay on its side, ticking over slowly in the high grass. I was fifteen. I admired all that pulsing gleam, the shiny flanks, the demure headlights fringed where it lay; I led it gently to the road, and stood with that companion, ready and friendly. I was fifteen. We could find the end of a road, meet the sky on out Seventeenth. I thought about hills, and patting the handle got back a confident opinion. On the bridge we indulged a forward feeling, a tremble. I was fifteen. Thinking, back farther in the grass I found the owner, just coming to, where he had flipped over the rail. He had blood on his hand, was pale- I helped him walk to his machine. He ran his hand over it, called me good man, roared away. I stood there, fifteen OK. I get poetry is an art. I think we agree some poetry is better than others. This stanza does nothing for me.
April 13, 20241 yr Delusion I know their form Fugacious, elusive Flitting about on the edge of perception Importuning scrutiny I hear her call Succinct, imperative In the obscurity of nocturnal wakefulness Demanding indulgence I watch them move Patulous, menacing Silently enveloping trace effulgence Portending malice I pray in darkness Pondering, enjoining Entreating the feminal divine Flames rekindling I make the shift Unbidden, transcendent Existing simultaneously though ages Reliving eons I descend the staircase Shimmering, brilliant Radiating joy amidst spiral opulence Envisaged metamorphosis I dream in twilight Apprehensive, awakening Being a possibility of compulsion Lucidity returns I sit in red Longing, contemplating Existing in a moment of acceptance Preferring delusion - April 7, 2024 This is my April edition.
April 13, 20241 yr Listen to each piano note drop, A life melts away, silent Quiver and now still. A long life composition dribbles away in blast. Raining in tears. --Apr. 13, 2024 My thoughts on today's attacks.
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