I write a lot of poetry. Started to in earnest at onset of an impending divorce after 37 years...needed something more than painting to do...any way I have about 100 I have written in the last year or so... Wrote this one yesterday once I realized what the date was... Cusp Here it is, The cusp, The dawning Of change. The Mayan sun Lighting Present And past… Here we are On that Unknown cusp Of prophecy. Our transition Has come And work Has begun Let us Look with Hope and Peaceful transition As calendars Unfold To evils Remission.
The Gallery Art is life It seems To me Lines drawn For all to see Memories are dear But is experience Really clear? Our palettes Are created In time From works That rhyme. Our canvas primed at birth To be receptive To the hues And our worth In the gallery Of our living We measure Our lifes work With our giving In retrospect We collect Images And memories unfold To great richness Of stories told We express With our eyes, With our hands through words For all to behold Creative minds Whose heartfelt Ambition Sees the gallery Open before them. Through Their own volition Now is the time To meet and greet And live and create What we need To repeat. Welcome To the gallery And the work People should see.
Jealosy We covet Beyond attraction Find reasons For interaction Yet when time Avails no true words Nothing good Can be heard Why is that? My once true friend Are we so stubborn We just pretend? We covet memory And yet reject In lifes pageant We know not What to expect…
The Mirror The loon cries With echoes Of loss… Mute mist Heaven kissed I see it Soft pillows Reflection Silent billows Refraction The rustle Of sedge Grass on Mirrors edge Lapping against The hull A shell of man The sheen is gone The loon cries With echoes Of loss Observe In awe With conscience We saw The loon cries With echoes Of loss Mournful Silent billows Reflection Love lost.
For James(wrote it for a friend going through a rough time) Fall is coming Late Crocus blooming The air cooler The color crisper The ebb and flow Life moves on Tides of persistence A breeze of acceptance Fall is coming Light quelled By dimming Daylight But comfort Ever present Seems to say Envelop me We live life On the wire And should yield To the inspired Because when Fall comes Gathering hope We should relish All that helps Us cope Friends, love And the beauty The memories Of what we know. Fall is coming By dimming daylight The ebb and flow Life moves on Tides of persistence A breeze of acceptance… A sort of tranquility
Poetry certainly isn't scary but it has fallen from grace. At one time, it was very popular but I can't say that is still the case. The interest has simply faded away.
Halo The shape The outline That surrounds the intent. An aura Of energy An echo Of what Was meant We stamp An approval And seal The imprint. Collecting And defining A ghost Of repent. This hallowed Thought Undefined Yet bought. What does This ideal Trade in Thought? We take Shape and Recycle Unique. Wondering, In conclusion, If it is What the Heart seeks?
Enjoyed the poems! Thanks. Is poetry scary? As a mirror, it can be. Yet, as it is a natural propensity of our species to use poetry to evoke, for whatever reason we need to evoke/express through any of the arts, I suppose we can only define it as necessity. I've seen scary paintings, films, & read scary prose, but that doesn't mean the form is scary. Tiny brown mite Your hackles catch The falling sun What secret do you hold? I lift the rod & Cast you to the dazzling void
some of mine are self searching... Shell I talk, I hear, All echoe. What is With that He said? Some call And response To the psyche? Some irrelevant Buoying self Indulgence? Or perhaps A shout out Seeing if Someone listens? This shell Of self Demands Acceptance. What is With that He said?
Affirmations doing real work for the poet. Why people will never quit writing poetry. Some will read. But it doesn't matter. Nice to have a wall to hang stuff on. Today's haiku: ambiguous spate leafless, supplicant alders rain darkens the stones
I must be some kind of neanderthal or something. Just doesn't do it for me. I think I need a tune with mine.
North Country Greener than green Rolling forest Awe inspiring fertile Trees that go on… Forever evergreen Wild yet managed Can we tell? Stories of the woods? The woods… If we imagine Camp two Camp three A resource boundless That we could see. Well we know It’s a product That is becoming Rarer by the day. Forever evergreen Wild yet managed Can we tell Stories of the woods?
Jeff bandy ...funny you should say that...I collaborated with a rock musician in Pennsylvania...He recorded a song based on my poem "Riverine" http://www.reverbnation.com/open_graph/song/14133459
Want him to interpret more but the poor guy had to get a day job...Have a couple of friends in San Francisco...that threatened to do something with my writing too! It's flattering and purely no money in it for me at all...the music bizz is tough...I heard there were 50,000 self published musicians in the Portland/ Vancouver and outlying areas alone...
Not scary. Nice work. I like poetry, used to write regularly when young. Maybe I should start again...not sure ill be up to share, putting oneself out there and all.
I'm not a fan of open verse, which is ironic because some of my open verse poems were published in the yearly literature book at the college I attended. Upstream Hats well worn crown whitened hair, leaves of oak sail cheek-bite air. Three fisher friends through time have strolled banks of river-creek young to old. Three long rods strung with line and fly, to crest the rapids and write in sky. Rusted zippers on weathered vest pockets, pale wrinkled skin and sunken eye sockets. The kings have returned to the life of the past, upstream they've fought, steady not fast. To conjunct the reason only they know, in the ripples of birth in summer-flow snow. The shadow-trees hush now and whisper the sigh, winter is drifting downstream, old youth goodbye. A salmon corpse floats to shore, a spirit is free, a calm at last ends the upstream battle from sea. The chill of dusk, the last cast of day, reeled in lines, broken-down rods, downstream is their way. Three fishers friends now calm at rest, relive which king was strongest, which salmon the best. The kings spawned and gone, the snow now layed, the long winter night, the slow thaw of spring day. The fishers have returned to the river a new, but one is upstream for now there's just two.
