Open mike poetry reading

[studyhound]

I saw there was a poetry comp. on the boards last incarnation, and thought it would be a great idea :idea: to have a spot for people to post poetry of any kind.

I personally wrote a lot of poetry in high school and drop off after I became a Christian, now I am starting to write again. I have been keeping a lot of it under wraps and have only shared it with my wife. I need to a place to be bolder. So here it is, I hope other people drop in with poems of their own.


well the mike is open and the coffe is hot,:cheers: cheers

Studyhound
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A haiku for my daughter;

Stillness, quite your world
noise, pain, fear are in mine
you are hope for the future

[Patroclus]

What is your purpose with your poem? Are you familiar with haiku conventions? Just some quesitons.

[studyhound]

03-07-2003 @ 02:53 PM
Patroclus:

What is your purpose with your poem? Are you familiar with haiku conventions? Just some quesitons.

Well first I am just a rank armature and I am still finding my niche. I wrote this when my daughter was still in my wife’s womb and we were talking about how my wife body protects our daughter and how quite and safe that must feel. As we talked we were watching the news and some report about a horrible violence happened (I don’t remember what it is now) but to me it illustrated the stark contrast.

If by Conventions you mean the meter and rules I am just familiar with the basics.

5
7
5
In the syllables.

And a contrast to the first two lines. Most of what I have learned is from a book or online.

If you have some advice it would be well received.

Studyhound

[bar Jonah]

But, Studyhound, your Haiku's syllables are 5/6/7, not 5/7/5. :) Or did you make it intentionally variant for some reason?

Here are a couple of pieces I love. One more serious, and one just for fun.
---------------------------------------------------

Small Town Flood

Sitting on the porch and watching
shadowed glassy rivers ride the
stone beds of the street curbs in a
little slip-shod town.
This time 'round it's only one of
Mother Nature's little marvels.
Maybe next time it will take us
on to meet our Makers in a
single sweeping motion that will
leave us hidden under Nature's rug.


Family of Drifters

My father saw Montana
from an altitude of 2.
My mother watered Washington,
and then away she blew.
My brother is in Idaho,
just sittin' in one place.
He'll probably let go next week
and rain on someone's face.
My grandpa was a Japanese
tsunami, so I've heard;
a butterfly gave birth to him
with wind of winged word.
I've got some friends in Kansas who
get nasty when they drink,
turning trailers upside down.
Smiling, calm eyes wink.
But I don't like to rain on folks.
I'd rather lend some shade.
And when I get too tired of that,
I'll go ahead and fade.

[Ishmael]

Good stuff RightIdea, I wish I could write poetry like that, good stuff.

[bar Jonah]

Thanks, Calvie! :joy:

[bar Jonah]

[This one's a daily occurance in my life...]

Joyful Defiance

Momentous momentum
gives way to a fit of
an uncontrolled darkness
and violent wet tears.
They ask of my hate and
my sadness of soul but
I stand resolute;
I'm defying the clouds.

Happiness none, and self-
confidence less, so they
seek to destroy people's
days of delight.
They rain on parades as
they darken my doorstep.
I stand resolute;
I'm defying the clouds.


[After this next on was printed in a local newspaper, someone came up to me and actually asked me, "What woman p***ed you off to make you write that?" To this day, I don't understand what the freakin' heck they were talking about...]

Aborted Decision

“Your father’s gone away, my son,”
she said to her unconscious child.
“He wouldn’t be here when you come
in all your splendid pain.
And we’re alone to all the world,
except for faithful family
who do not understand,
but stand by us.
You have not even yet been born,
and I must give you up
to our sweet Lord above.
I have to give you back.”

And when she woke, her belly kicked;
she thought of what she’d dreamed,
of all the pain and guilt to come.
She couldn’t let him go.

[studyhound]

But, Studyhound, your Haiku's syllables are 5/6/7, not 5/7/5. :) Or did you make it intentionally variant for some reason?

I guess it is a varient, I am no English major so I write what works.

Right Idea Nice work. I really enjoyed it!:thumb:

[Patroclus]

Hello Studyhound,

First of all, this is not a quality judgment. Second, a classical haiku is actually rather complex for a short poem. You are right, the syllable count should be 5-7-5. However, it should also include some elements called Kigo, Renso and startling comparison. The Kigo is a seasonal indicator, such as brown grass (for summer) or melting snow (for spring). The renso is the logival stream of thought, and the startlin comparison is often the presence of the grand with the small. Here is a haiku from Basho:

The sea darkens;
the voices of the wild ducks
are faintly white.

Here, the darkening sea is the seasonal indicator (I think for winter). The renso can be seen in the progression from the sea to the voices of the ducks. And the startling comparison is between the darkening sea and the white voice (a synesthesia) of the ducks.

[studyhound]

03-09-2003 @ 12:45 PM
Patroclus:

Hello Studyhound,

First of all, this is not a quality judgment. Second, a classical haiku is actually rather complex for a short poem. You are right, the syllable count should be 5-7-5. However, it should also include some elements called Kigo, Renso and startling comparison. The Kigo is a seasonal indicator, such as brown grass (for summer) or melting snow (for spring). The renso is the logival stream of thought, and the startlin comparison is often the presence of the grand with the small. Here is a haiku from Basho:

The sea darkens;
the voices of the wild ducks
are faintly white.

Here, the darkening sea is the seasonal indicator (I think for winter). The renso can be seen in the progression from the sea to the voices of the ducks. And the startling comparison is between the darkening sea and the white voice (a synesthesia) of the ducks.

Thanks for the advice, I heard many different ways that it should be written. One website I saw said that the 5-7-5 was the Japanese syllable and that the english would be more correct if it was 12-15-12, so I keep trying untill I have it down.

If you can reconed a book on writing Haiku's I would apperciate it.

Thanx

Studyhound

[Patroclus]

I do not know about a how-to book. From my experience, reading is the best method of learning to write. Norton used to make a great anthology of Japanese poetry. The problem is that I have not been able to find it anymore, so will probably have to do some digging around Each section comes with an introduction so you can learn about the conventions and influences. I loaned my copy to a friend of mine, and I have not seen it. I may have to stop by CSU Fresno and pick it up sometime.

[luv1another]

Hi Im pretty new and saw this thread and thought I would add a poem I wrote about 6 months ago.



Friends

many friends have come and gone along the road of life.
most have stayed as a memory in my heart.
each one touching a diffrent part,
teaching me and guiding me within Gods plans.
some have had a special place, a place for such as you.
some friends you know will come and go,
others will stay a while and help you grow.
some are fun and make me laugh,
others offer time, or gifts, or words.
Each new friend is a new adventure waiting to begin,
you never know the places you will go,
maybe you will feel so loved and cherished,
or maybe you will laugh like you havnt done before.
but sometimes someone special comes along,
they reach out for your hand yet touch your heart,
these special few will be as if God sent an angel just for you.


In Christ
Luv1another

[Patroclus]

I wrote this on tuesday as I was looking across at Catalina Island from the MS Ecstasy's mid-deck aft.

I'm waiting for lunch 'cause I never came
To meet you at the bay of that water train.
So I sit upon the aft while my words strain
And you dance about Catalina on a cool day.
From the deck I see the beach over there--
just half a league longer than a stone's throw.
God, I'll never get used to this lonely air
That takes the stuff of life when it blows.

[flipper]

The 5/7/5 convention was often violated. Even Basho was known to write a 35 syllable magnum opus on occasion.

[Patroclus]

That is very true flipper. Actually, it is quite common for poets to violate many rules of poetry in order to make special emphases.

[Patroclus]

The Ill and Winged Infant Falconer
By Robert Clark
03/13/03

I am he who weaves his words
Like a bird in flight, running
Strings of air along a path pursuant
Of some airy target that is always lost.
I am the one who falls
Upon your faith like a falcon
Descending, like lightning,
Onto a directionless and frenzied bird
Entangled in its careless flight.
I am the man who raises his hand
Against vain discussion,
Like a falconer flinging high his arm
With a call to his minion to strike
Thither and bring hither, dead.
Deadly are my lips and
Contagious is my voice
Like a sick child whose every breath
Is innocently diseased—dead and dying
Are my thoughts, and willingly I speak
Them leaving carcasses and carrion
For crows and cormorants to devour.
My fruit is sweet and ashy,
Touched with knowledge—good and evil—
Soaked with poison—only evil—
Careless and dove-like.

[PRAISE]

I don't have any of my poetry available right at this moment, but when I was backslidden, I wrote some unbelievable stuff. I'll be back later, & let you see some of it-Gotta get ready for work right now, but I WILL BE BACK!:bonk:

PRAISE:thumb:

[PRAISE]

Today @ 08:30 AM
PRAISE:

I don't have any of my poetry available right at this moment, but when I was backslidden, I wrote some unbelievable stuff. I'll be back later, & let you see some of it-Gotta get ready for work right now, but I WILL BE BACK!:bonk:

PRAISE:thumb:

Ok-Found it! Here are just a few. I stress these were written BEFORE I was renewed back into The family of God!

(UNTITLED)

The pain never stops,

it gnaws at you

slowly.

The hurt,

the hurt;

so terrible.

The will to live,

slowly

drains

away.

Sadness;

such great

sadness.

So lonely.

Cry.

"Here's another:"

(a man without love.)

it's so lonely to be a man without love.

never to have someone say "i love you."

never having the courage to say "i love you."

always that fear of rejection.

it's so lonely, being a man without love.


love eludes him, time after time.

a brief moment of happiness, only to be shattered in the memory,

of lonliness & rejection.

to have all your hopes, destroyed, in an eternity of despair.

it's so lonely, being a man without love.


what is a man, who has never been loved?

an empty shell,

a shattered dream,

a speck of dust,

in the well of forever.

it's so lonely, being a man without love.


PRAISE GOD THAT I NOW KNOW THAT THESE POEMS ARE NO LONGER TRUE!

PRAISE

:thumb:

[Patroclus]

So, is the double-spacing format so that we can read between the lines?

[PRAISE]

Yesterday @ 09:05 PM
Patroclus:

So, is the double-spacing format so that we can read between the lines?

Not quite! Actually that's how I wrote. Also-the one thing that kind of bummed me out is the fact that many of my poems are written in the style of e.e.cummings. I can't do that here! The computer automatically evend out my poem!:hrm: Oh, well-what did you think of them?:huh:

PRAISE:thumb:

[Patroclus]

Well, I am very much a symbolist, so I had a hard time paying close attention to your poems because they did not have a lot of images for me to nail them down to. They were a bit more etheral than what I am used to. Also, phrases like:

an empty shell,

a shattered dream,

a speck of dust,

sound a bit cliché in my opinion. It isn't that they are not good metaphors, but they have been used so much that they really do not have a lot of meaning anymore.

[Woman]

Just my two cents worth here. (actually it's worth more like 1 1/2 cents)

StudyHound: "Real" haiku is very difficult to write. It's tightly crafted, has no emotional or personal elements and, as Patroclus said, is generally seasonal and contrasting. But, for fun and also for a good exercise in imagery - using the 5-7-5 format (even to write the silly stuff on the Redneck Haiku thread) is great fun. I'd encourage you to just write and write and not worry about the form in the beginning, especially about things like fatherhood as clearly your heart is there.

PRAISE, I'm interested in why you were more creative while "backslidden" as you put it. Surely you must know there is pain and grief even in the saved heart. :smile: I would say that writing "in the style" of ee cummings, or anyone else for that matter, will eventually just frustrate you. Unless by that you meant only that you like to write without punctuation or conventional line breaks. Using ploys like this can get in the way of what you really want to say unless used with well thought out intent.

I'm no poetry critic and I'm a lousy poet, but I'd say you have a lot of passion, which is good. The standard advice of "show me, don't tell me," is sound advice. And yes, avoid cliches "like the plague." ha ha I liked your phrase "the well of forever." It sounds original.

Right Idea: I love The Family of Drifters. Know who wrote it? Your piece, Joyful Defiance, has curious line breaks. By any chance was is written as lyrics?

Patroclus: I loved this "...this lonely air
That takes the stuff of life when it blows."
Very nice.

Dang, it's great to just sit here and give advice...ha ha. I'll share something I've written soon, so y'all can have a whack at it too. :thumb:

Oh, one more piece of advice. Read poetry. Read more poetry.

[Patroclus]

Very well put W, I am used to critiquing the works of dead authors who don't care what I say. When the author is alive, I get nervous and have a hard time shaking off the coldness.

[luv1another]

here is another poem I wrote... I don't claim I can write at all :) I just like to write my thoughts down sometimes in poem form :)


Fear

scary and dark it ascends from within,
bubbling and rising as it grows bigger and bigger.
It starts out small, hardly anything at all,
but given a small amount of water it grows.
Its almost alive, It seems to take hold,
once you are in its grip its hard to make it let go.
It seems to have a power all of its own.
sometimes you tame it or even get rid of it,
but its always around with a seed ready to grow.
Fear can be good in the right context,
but when you allow it in places it shouldn't be,
thats when it gets out of control.
It breeds in all diffrent colours and kinds,
it will make you scared of everything.
there is fear of failing, aging, people, work,
nearly everything here on earth.
its like a disease, but there is one way,
God will take your fear away,
but you have to give it to him,
ask for his help, and watch him help you.
fear can not stand against God.

[PRAISE]

Yesterday @ 05:14 AM
Woman:

Just my two cents worth here. (actually it's worth more like 1 1/2 cents)

StudyHound: "Real" haiku is very difficult to write. It's tightly crafted, has no emotional or personal elements and, as Patroclus said, is generally seasonal and contrasting. But, for fun and also for a good exercise in imagery - using the 5-7-5 format (even to write the silly stuff on the Redneck Haiku thread) is great fun. I'd encourage you to just write and write and not worry about the form in the beginning, especially about things like fatherhood as clearly your heart is there.

PRAISE, I'm interested in why you were more creative while "backslidden" as you put it. Surely you must know there is pain and grief even in the saved heart. :smile: I would say that writing "in the style" of ee cummings, or anyone else for that matter, will eventually just frustrate you. Unless by that you meant only that you like to write without punctuation or conventional line breaks. Using ploys like this can get in the way of what you really want to say unless used with well thought out intent.

I'm no poetry critic and I'm a lousy poet, but I'd say you have a lot of passion, which is good. The standard advice of "show me, don't tell me," is sound advice. And yes, avoid cliches "like the plague." ha ha I liked your phrase "the well of forever." It sounds original.

Right Idea: I love The Family of Drifters. Know who wrote it? Your piece, Joyful Defiance, has curious line breaks. By any chance was is written as lyrics?

Patroclus: I loved this "...this lonely air
That takes the stuff of life when it blows."
Very nice.

Dang, it's great to just sit here and give advice...ha ha. I'll share something I've written soon, so y'all can have a whack at it too. :thumb:

Oh, one more piece of advice. Read poetry. Read more poetry.

Thanx for your thoughts, woman. Actually-when I talked about e.e. cummings, I was sayibng that my style of writing is not traditional "lined up writing-it's sort of all over the page! (Makes trying to read it out loud interesting, though!:huh: :huh: ) I never really thought that it ever got in the way. As for sorrow, & grief-sorry, those no longer have any place in my life-courtesy of the awesome power of Jesus Christ+NOTHING!!!:yummy: I post more as time permits! Right now, I have got to get some sleep! See, Ya' Later!

PRAISE! :thumb:

[studyhound]

Man I go away for a few days and miss out on a lot of great prose.: thumb:
Yesterday @ 10:01 PM
luv1another:

here is another poem I wrote... I don't claim I can write at all :) I just like to write my thoughts down sometimes in poem form :)



that’s me, I am not even sure if i would be classified as poetry.

I started this thread and should probably post once in awhile
:brow: If I get a chance I might try to post another poem tomorrow, the problem is most of my poems are not in my computer but in a notebook. So I have to transfer them over to my computer and I am a terribly slow typer and it’s a slow machine:duh:

[luv1another]

Hi Studyhound.
I dont have too many poems that I have written, but here is another one :) I didnt do most of mine on computer I had to type them up to send to friends so now the whole hmm maybe 10 are on my computer :D
I look forward to reading your next poem :)
heres another of mine


friend along the road

along this dusty track of life I travel,
not knowing what tommorrow brings.
I know of course I have to try and not stray
from the narrow way.
For along the wide and winding tracks is trouble
places that will take me far from God.
I do not care to go along those roads,
for when I do the road is longer.
But when I walk the path my Lord has made
my load is lighter and the way more clear.
The path I walk is not always easy,
But my Jesus walks beside me here.
He places friends along my path,
someone like you and others too.
He knows before I ask the things I need,
and places those along the way,
He does not always give me everything,
lots are wants and greedy things,
but everything I need is there .
He knows the friends to help me
the ones that will encourage,support
and help me grow
As I prayed not long ago,
and sought some friends to walk with me,
He knew my needs before I asked,
and you my friend were sent



In Christ
Luv1another

[Woman]

"I know. I am, Mom...I’m gonna clean it up in just a little while”


1957


Her room is a jumble: pink frills on the curtain
and bugs trapped in jars with a future uncertain,
a beautiful bride doll, her dress slightly ripped,
some Superman comics and Tales from the Crypt.

A hat made of coonskin, a heart-shaped gold locket,
the picture inside is of course Davy Crocket.
A rabbit, a monkey, a poodle, all stuffed,
her best pair of blue jeans, the legs rolled and cuffed.

Arithmetic tests with remarks from Miss Harris,
her mother’s old bottle of Evening in Paris,
a bright yellow hula hoop, jacks with no ball,
a picture of Elvis tacked up on the wall.

A piggybank borrowed from...seldom repaid,
a Mickey Mouse nightlight for when she’s afraid.
Eleven glass rectangles, fixed with a label
for microscope peering, are strewn on the table.

A neck-scarf looped over a cat made of plaster,
a dozen old reels for her misplaced View-Master,
a book with the lyrics of all of the tunes
that made last month’s Hit Parade, this one is June’s.

Last winter’s car-coat slipped off of its hook,
a Mad Magazine and an autograph book,
a real A&W glass root beer mug,
some silvery glitter stuff spilled on the rug.

Mr. Potato Head, a ‘catcher for cooties’
a marionette, his head...Howdy Doody’s,
a white training bra (‘til her bosom arrives),
on top of the phonograph, stacked 45’s.

On the dresser sit ribbons, a broken barrette,
and various things from a chemistry set,
some rolls of red caps that you bust with a rock,
a note from her best friend who lives down the block.

A deck of Old Maid cards and one U.S. Ked,
its shoestring all knotted, lies under the bed,
a Community Chest card and one pewter shoe,
some marbles she won from a boy (just a few).

The noisy, starched petticoat every girl needs,
a box with no lid filled with plastic pop-beads.
In the back of a drawer is a Diary that locks
buried and hidden by white bobby sox.

The pages are blank
as they wait for the day,
when she has a boyfriend
and something to say.


:smile:

[Patroclus]

That poem is excellent. I love all the images and the the way it is tied up at the end. Did you write that?

[Woman]

Patroclus - yes, I did! Thank you for the kind words!

[studyhound]

cant find stupid notebook!!!:argh: :argh: :argh: :help:

[Patroclus]

By Robert Clark
3/18/03

Egg, you see an egg?
How can you be sure?
Does your mouth water (water?)
For the sunny-side up with
Black pepper--pepper? Pepper?
Do you use ketchup on
you scrambled eggs? Egg?
Do you keep the shell
for posterity in hell
to admire--a peculiarity?
Peculiarity? A rarity--posterity?
What do you hold on to?
But, you say you seen an egg
When you really see a shell
And you're so sure that behind
That wall so irregular--
Regular? Irregular? What
The Hell is regular?--
You expect a yoke and white,
Or perhaps a "yellow" and placenta.
But, could there be a chick
Inside, or perhaps your
Elusive butterfly? Tell me,
Do you eat the egg or egg?

[Patroclus]

My Psyche
3/03
Robert Clark

I am not a man of canvas
And my palate won’t obey
My brush strokes are just inkblots
While my paper blows away
But, I’ll paint with every color
That my humble pen will bleed
From the scrolls of my endeavors
To the mouth’s I wish to feed
I will write for you a mountain
Then I’ll round it off with age
And I’ll soften if with grasses
Just to pepper it with sage
I will flood the mount with sunlight
Pouring from a golden cup
Lighting every sleeping shadow
‘Til, as springs, the light flows up
Last, I’ll place you on that hilltop
And weave a laurel crown
Stroking every airy rhythm
Write you, wear a heather gown

[The Curtmudgeon]

While dredging through my ex-office boxes for my own collection of poems (dating back to my college daze), I found some others by family members. This one was written by my uncle John W. Turner, sometime pre-1954 by the look of things, but possibly in the early 60s. He didn't title it, and any title I could add would only spoil it--I will, however, offer apologies to E. A. Poe on Uncle John's behalf. :smile:

Trembling hands and trembling finger,
Trembling eye that will not linger
Lest some infin'tesmal error crop up where 'twas not before.
Forcing back suppressed elation
Holding as in supplication
One's initial application,
Feeling perspiration pour.
Is it all? There's nothing more.

Figures tally palpitetic,
Calculations arithmetic,
Chronicle of sad and frightening ailments from forgotten yore,
All is there. 'Tis not a little,
Every jot and every tittle,
One has solved the fearsome riddle!
Riddle vexing us no more
Vexation was, now nothing more.

Gazing now, not so intently,
Smugly now, and confidently
Moving toward epistolary posting of the precious lore.
Rises now a new vexation!
One now stares with odd fixation
At the alien pigmentation.
Blue the ink, forevermore!

Mercy, please, though nothing more.

(Upon discovering that his first insurance application had been completed in the wrong color ink)

[Note: The above postscriptum is original to John's poem; however, to get the full effect, you should know that the poem itself was typed on letterhead stationery from Fidelity Union Life Insurance Company. :lol: ]

[bar Jonah]

Brilliant! LOL:rofl:

[Patroclus]

Quoth the raven: "That is so awesome!":nc:

[Patroclus]

Congratulations, you got my pic of the day!--if you care. (http://www.theologyweb.com/forum/showthread.php?postid=48044#post48044[/url) At any rate, your uncle John was brilliant.

[quetzalphoenix]

I have a website where I post some of my writing and artwork as well as links to Christian (generally Reformed) resources. If you ever want to stop by and browse, please do. I also have a blog I've just begun. I really enjoy it when folks visit and respond to writing and give me links.

http://www.geocities.com/quetzalphoenix

I hope this doesn't fall under the self-promotion clause in the rules? I've noticed some other folks posting similar entries...I'm really interested in building the site to be helpful to Christians interested in the arts. Any good links are appreciated. Thanks.

[The Curtmudgeon]

I've been looking through my own collection of poetry, mostly 25+ years old, and I'm not really sure that any of it is worth the time to enter here. But here's one, anyway, that might not be the worst in the bunch.

REFLECTION
by Curt Marcus, Jr.

He whispers, "I love you."

And with his arms around her,
With the spring rain falling
Outside the porch where they stand,
With the stars silently winking,
He thinks of many nights
When he held her so.
He thinks of all the days
In years to come
When they shall stand so.

When they shall stand so
In years to come,
She thinks of all the days
When he held her so.
She thinks of many nights
With the stars silently winking
Outside the porch where they stand.
With the spring rain falling
And with his arms around her,

She whispers, "I love you, too."

[Note: over(t)ly sentimental, but I was trying to capture a feel of present-and-future in the "perfect" relationship. More fool me; suffice it to say that what she really said, some months after I wrote this, was "I don't love you any more." Sigh. Women--you can't live with 'em, and they won't let you shoot 'em.]

[TheFiveSolas]

Christ Is The Object Of True Faith
by Edward P. Miller

Christ is the object of true faith,
God's only hope for man.
In Him alone new life is found,
The person, not the plan.
It's not the gifts He longs to give,
It's not the way He came.
It's Him! The Giver of the gifts,
The Lover, faith must claim.

The sweetness of the Gospel,
Is surpassed by Him alone.
The blood of our redemption,
By the One who did atone.
Oh what can match the wonder,
Of that great sweet will of His?
The Lord alone! The Lord Himself!
The God whose will it is!

[The Curtmudgeon]

That's great, Solas!!! :thumb:

[The Curtmudgeon]

REMEMBERING ON A WINTER'S DAY
by Curt Marcus, Jr.

Grapevines trellised near the fence,
A peach tree in the yard--
Winter-barren; leaf nor bloom
Nor sweet fruit on the boughs.
'Twas sad to see their nakedness--
Yet sadness that did not hurt,
For with the spring come leaf and bloom,
And summer brings the fruit.

It was Grandfather's favorite tree;
The trellis he'd hand-built--
Although the peaches weren't so big
That he didn't wish for better,
And one grapevine unkindly died,
Though the rest were better natured.
A small boy learned to love those fruits,
And well-worked wood, from him.

Time passes on. Small boys grow big;
One day they're on their own.
And Time brings death as well as age--
Grandfather has gone Home.
I miss him, his lessons, and his smile,
Yet this sadness gives no pain:
For the spring of Resurrection comes--
And the peach will bloom again.

In Memoriam
Archie Carlton Turner
25 February 1893 - 30 August 1974

[Note: this was written about six years after his death, sparked (IIRC) by the fact that Grandmother had had to finally sell their house and (of course) the yard and gardens. Funny, although I love her just as much, I was never able to write a similar elegy for Grandmother that I thought did her any justice.]

[PerhapsItsTruth]

Ode to a Friend

To you, a friend, I give these words
For guiding me in life towards
A peace within a shattered heart,
From all the pains that failed to part
This soul,
And when we walked both hand in hand
To help each one to boldly stand
Upon these grounds of quaking life,
Of when our dreams failed in our strife,
And when our souls were fettered still
Against the broken-hearted will,
Of times we failed to free ourselves,
And fell instead to dusty shelves
Of life,
And to the times of triumphed joy
Of when we yet were not so coy,
To run amongst the dying mass
And tell them of our hardships passed,
And hope, in light, that they might see
The joy that freely flowed through me,
And wait among the fields of gold
For all the truths we once were told
Would come.
But finally, to the fabled thought
That you, my friend, cared of my plot,
And may my God in majesty
Still belly-laugh because of me
And all my wretched foolishness,
That I, in truth, could think on this;
That you, in heart, did care for me
And all that I could truly be.
Yet now, my friend, you joined the rest,
And even now have encompassed
The watchers and the waiting mass
Who come so near but only pass
Away.
And may you last yet come, my friend,
To meet me here upon my end,
This place you left me from the start
And where we shall forever part
Our ways.

To you, my friend, I give my thanks.


Shame

The rolling waves of meadows green
And crashing surfs of oceans seen,
Which watch the bows of rainy skies
Cast brilliant color before my eyes,
Becomes a sketch in memory,
While leaving some to never see
the same.

Yet, in a moment’s breath I take
For granted what the heaven’s make
For us to see with open eyes,
The wonders from the earth to skies
above.

Then sorrows from forgotten pasts
Will surface as the hurting casts
My soul into dejected shame
For all the hurts that sadly came
from me.

But as I wait for brighter days
Of when I’ll bask within the rays
of sun,
I raise my eyes to heaven’s gate
Where in my sad, pathetic state
The grace of God will freely flow
Upon this heart so cast down low
in shame.

And there my peace will come.

-Sean Gunter

[PRAISE]

Here are a few more of my poems. (Again-these were written when I was still backslidden.)

THE LAST CHANCE

The years go by,

the years of lonliness,

of

emptiness.

To never know the

softness

of

a

kiss.

never

to know

the

joy;

of holding a woman

close.

Times passes

much too quickly.

Soon;

all too soon,

the chance to know

the touch of two hands,

the brush of two lips...........

The chance

is

gone.

[PRAISE]

and another poem!

TOO LATE

Too late.

Too late for love.

Too late for joy.

Too late for

happiness.

The love is with the young.

I can

never

know.



To be young again;

to have a second

chance.

The time is past.

The present belongs to the

young.

Too late to be young,

Too late for hope,

Too late for love.

Too late.

Too Late.

[PRAISE]

and one more!

WHAT PRICE-HAPPINESS?

Happiness is such a strange emotion.
It can make all of life worthwhile, but oh, the consequences!

At the moment of happiness,
nothing else in the world matters.
The joy of feeling wanted,
the joy of feeling needed,
the joy of feeling cared for!
Nothing can be compared
to
the
feeling, that you might be a little bit
important to someone.

If only it could continue.
If only it could go on forever!
Why couldn't it last?

The memories make each night
a
living
hell.
The memories haunt you like
nothing else could.
Their claws rip & tear at your very soul,
They torment you
with the knowledge
that you will never
recapture
that feel of being
happy.

The memories torment you
day
and
night.
They make you
long
for
death.

The endless days & nights of crying:
crying so hard that you can't breath;
crying so hard for the happiness that was once yours;
for one
fleeting
moment.

Your hand reach out for that soft touch.
your lips cry out for that soft kiss.
The memories turn these most important touches against you,
and torment you
with the knowledge
that you can
never
know these soft touches
again.

The memories make you long for death;
it would be so welcome.
You can't escape, for these memories torment you
every
second.
And when you see the source of the happiness you once knew,
your very soul is ripped & torn,
until you scream for release.
Your cry is hollow;
no tears come.
You are left,
only being a shell
of what you once were.
Despair is the only thing you know
is
real.
The memories grab you,
& crush your very spirit,
until there
isn't
even
dust
left.


"Oh Death; you would be so welcome!
Enfold me in your icy grip;
remove me from the memories
that say
that I will
never be able to
capture that moment of happiness
again.
For I have nothing to live for,
nothing to hold on to,
nothing that can make life
worthwhile.
Oh, Death, why do you wait?"

PRAISE:thumb:

[The Curtmudgeon]

We're getting some great poetry on this thread, and I'm enjoying it a lot. Thanx, StudyHound, for starting this thread!

I've only got a couple more I'll inflict on you out of my ancient corpus. This one, like the majority of my poetry from my college daze, is about failed love ("What, again?" I hear you sigh :lol: ).


SEASCAPE: TWO VIEWS
by Curt Marcus, Jr.

1978

Can a man exist in solitude?
Once I thought John Donne in error wrote
Regarding men and islands. Sans a boat,
No one approached my isle of mist and woods.
Ever a loner was I, when I could,
Locked within my island by a moat
Ink-black, of five score dozen books. I wrote
And read; let the rest do what they would.

Like the sun, a-rising after night,
A friendship grew, and burned the mists away.
Grew in brightness, until at last I too
Existed in love's golden-glowing light.
Now my isle is bridged across the bay,
To the mainland joined. My lady, I love you.

1980

A sonnet wrote I once, in younger days,
Addressed it to a maiden fair to see;
Told how love for her had changed my ways,
And broke the barrier I had built 'round me.

Like "Terence", reached my two-and-twentieth year
To find the old wise man had spoken true:
My love for her produced no love in her--
Our hearts and minds not one, but stayed as two.

My island stands; the tide has washed away
The bridge that love with time and labour built.
No swimmer I, who fear to cross the bay--
No reason, since I found love's gold but gilt.

I blame not her--what blame for one who'd not
With thought or deed requested Cupid's shot?

[Note: the reference to "Terence" is not to the Latin poet, but to A. E. Housman who adopted it as, not quite a pen-name, but his name for himself within his poetry, such as in "Terence, This is Stupid Stuff" (one of my most favourite poems). The specific poem referenced, however, is his "When I Was One-and-Twenty", another great downer of a poem. Housman and Thomas Hardy are the greatest depressive (and depressing!) poets in the English language, I think. I'll assume that anyone on this forum will recognise the reference to Donne's "No man is an island."]

[Patroclus]

I like you seascape poems. Those are quite good.

[The Curtmudgeon]

Okay, this needs a bit of explanation ("you got some 'splainin' to do, Loocy!"). La Rubia started a thread here in the Library on "What would you read if you could?", and Patroclus, Woman and I sort of minorly hijacked it for a short bit to discuss Beowulf. I mentioned to them that for a university Anglo-Saxon class, I had written an original poem in the Beowulf (really, standard A/S) poetic style and metre, complete with alliterations (well, somewhat anyway--not as much as real A/S poetry) and kennings (A/S wordplay) but in modern English, along lines similar to (or inspired by) the Danish story of Hrolf Kraki (nevermind if you don't know what that is, it's not really all that important to know).

Anyway, that inspired me to go search my library for that old poem, and I found it, so in case Pat and/or Woman (and/or anyone else, of course) was interested, I thought I'd post it, but it didn't belong in La Rubia's thread so I'm posting it here. Although the poem is unfinished (the class had a deadline, after all :smile: ), I did also write complete plot notes for it, plus a prose introduction and an appendix with family trees of the prominent figures (shades of LotR!). I won't bother with the plot notes, or the family trees, but I'll start with the intro as written.

One note about the format: Properly speaking, all A/S poetry is written in half-lines, where the division in each line is actually an important point in getting the rhythm and alliteration correct. I don't know how to show that properly here, and get the second half-lines to line up like a second left margin, so I won't try, I'll just write each line complete. But if you're at all familiar with Beowulf or other A/S poetry, know that I really did write it in half-lines.

Last (tenditious) note: A scop is an Anglo-Saxon bard. Okay, now on with the poetry reading:

- - - - - - - - - -

GOLDENHAIR
by Curt Marcus, Jr.

The scop had come into the hall, as the custom was, to play and sing for his supper. The guards at the great doors had admitted him, but had traded remarks with each other at the expense of his lankiness, his threadbare clothes, and the old weather-beaten harp he carried lovingly and protectively in his left arm. Of course, they hadn't said anything disrespectful to him, or indeed while he was within hearing, for no one wants to be the object of a scop's satirical wit, which could ill-wish a man from health or wealth. All 'primitive' races know what we have half-forgotten: the magical power of a poet's verse, for 'scop' meant 'shaper' to our Anglo-Saxon forefathers, and even the Greeks called verse 'poeta', or 'making'.

Indeed the scop did not look like a great creator. Tall and thin, a beanpole of a man, he wore old rags and cast-offs, and his boots had certainly been through too many rains and marshes. And his hair! A frightful, unruly tangle of red gold, it stuck out in every direction, like trailmarkers pointing to the places he'd been. His harp was as woe-begone as himself, with chips in the frame and knots in the strings. But he was a scop, and as such had the right to whatever kind of meal his host thought his music was worth. And besides, thought the earl as the harper approached him, does not Odin Allfather himself wander the world in rags occasionally? It's always best to treat guests generously, unless they prove themselves more worthy of swords than steaks for supper.

"Hail, o mighty earl! I have wandered far, but it is long since I have seen the equal of the army of golden corn that stands guard before your hall, and many miles have I tramped since seeing the like of your cattle. Of such a great bounty, can you spare one meal?"

The earl smiled inwardly at the flattery, but kept his face straight as he replied. "Hail to thee, son of Kvasir, the first scop. I see you have indeed tasted Odin's mead of word-wisdom. If your songs can but match your greeting, it will be long ere you hunger again."

"My lord the earl is kind. Desire you to hear a particular song?"

"Only that it be a story of warriors, not a love rhyme or fable. The details I leave to your choice."

"Then with my lord the earl's permission, I will relate the tale of Magni Goldenhair of the Donvings, in the long gone days when our forefathers were on the continent."

LO, come words to us wonder-laden
of the great-hearted Donving Goldenhair,
how he of the people a prince became,
of many kindreds a kingdom forged.
In days of yore Donv of the Ax,
the famed ring-giver, a fortress raised high,
tall Axcastle, the eagle's nest-home,
the lord great-hearted. Generations it lasted,
till with fear and death the foeman came.
Wisely ruled then Donv, dear to the people,
fought for the field-crop, the foe repulsed.
A good king he was. A child was then born,
pride of his age, a prince well-loved.
He grew to be lanky, learned and war-wise,
until came the day when Death came for Donv.
His people him carried to the castle-crowned hill,
laid him on the grey stone, layered over him treasures,
gemstones and true-silver and gold the Sun's child.
Then Dansog the ax of the down-smitten one held
heat-bright in the sunlight, stood over the howe,
called on the Old Ones, Odin and Balder
and Thor Giant-Smiter. Then good Earth-mother
covered the body, buried the brave one.

Axcastle the high had Dansog then.
The Baerings he conquered, bold horse-archers,
his lands throve and grew. Three sons had he,
and good daughters twain; Graford and Gamil,
warriors to gladden heart, and Gleming Thorsman,
the god's holy priest prayers and gifts offering;
the fair Agthursa to Ofertrol was given,
the East-Baerings' lord, united their families.
Fairer yet was the younger, overshadowing the first;
in all beneath Asgard her beauty was spoken,
most fair in the home-yard, and many were the warriors
who came Agfriesa seeking, old kings and heroes.
The terrible one there came, tyrant over his people,
Aethelgorm Heorotbane, a hunter and mighty.
Long had his kingdom his cruelty cried out against,
hardships suffering; he was not well-loved.
A king should not be so, but kind to his people,
overwatch them as a father, as Allfather does mankind,
rewards and chastises. Rich was proud Aethelgorm,
held over many people the power of death;
impressed he Dansog, daring words speaking:
"Donv of the Ax a great dynasty founded
of warriors strong and beautiful women.
My father also fame-seekers ruled,
which now are mine, the men of the Habbelings,
bold sword-swingers. To both our houses
would this a blessing be, that we bind our families
in marriage sacred, strengthened in alliance.
Strong men make enemies, envy smites their neighbors;
in the hour of fate friends are not too many."
Dansog then spoke, shepherd of the people:
"Enemies are legion in this life of woe;
true are your thoughts. Though a generous king
has friends always, another is welcome
to strengthen his arm. The ornament of my heart,
for the sake of friendship, fares to your meadhall."
Gleming Thor's priest the pair united,
the ceremony performed. He sorrowed his sister
to this man to join in joyless wedlock and fateful.
Yet he of his overlord the order obeyed,
called for Thor's blessing and of Brisingamen's wearer,
Freyja of the hearth, home-happiness requested.
Hands they then joined, and the Hammer's sign
the priest made for them, protection of Thor asking.
Then a marvel occurred, mysterious portent:
the rumble of Thor's chariot thundered and roared--
the sky held no clouds--clashed and clanged.
A thrall then came running, requested the Thing-lord 1
his account to hear tell of, how the ax of great Donv
in the victory-hall hanging vanished from sight!
Then would Gleming gladly have ceased,
appeased the god who omens sent.
But Aethelgorm Heorotbane angrily spoke up--
of bride nor dowry bereft would he be:
"Thor has his blessing thundered aloud,
to your prayer responding; retract it would you?
Donv's mighty ax disappeared from the hall
foretelling the future. Frodhi the Good
laws so just laid on the land
that a maiden might walk wearing bright jewels,
gold-adorned rings, robbers not daring
to rob nor molest her. Many are the songs
of Frodhi's Peace sung, prayers ever offered
for its speedy return. A sign is now given
that again will be peace, prosperous and welcome.
By Dansog's mandates and the might of Aethelgorm
a new peace will be forged, a peace like Frodhi's."
Dansog in his heart deemed these words good,
ignoring his son; already the Norns
his doom had decreed, the Donvings' battle-death.
So was Agfriesa given to Aethelgorm Heorotbane,
which should not have been; sorrow would come
to brave shield-warriors because of this day.
Of the marriage festivities few have seen greater;
Dansog gave lavishly for his daughter's bride-feast,
almost as lavishly as the AEsir gave Skadi,
the snow-hunting maid, in marriage to Njord
the friend of sailors, Frey's mighty father.
Thus did the folk-guard fuel Aethelgorm's lust,
the sight of rich treasure--silver-chased drink-horns,
gem-covered sword-hilts, and gold-threaded gowns--
made the tyrant greedy more such to own.
Therefore to friendship to fool the Donvings
he pretended in words; wicked thoughts and plans
passed through his mind to procure the lord's gold.
After a se'ennight the son-in-law left,
with bride and retainers, returning to home.

Six months hastened by. A-hunting went Aethelgorm,
invited the Donvings deer and boar to chase.
Dansog and Graford, Gamil and Ofertrol,
came to Habbeling-land; hunting they enjoyed.
Ofertrol left at home Agthursa his wife,
body-swollen with child, to birth lacking one month.
To slay animals for fun forbidden was Gleming--
in hunger or defense dare he slay only,
so he stayed at Axcastle, Agthursa cheering.
Of guards only a few fared with Dansog,
trusting Aethelgorm, the tyrant black-hearted.
The woeful day dawned; in the woods was a clearing,
where gathered the hunters, halting for rest.
They laid down their spears, laid down their arrows,
then Aethelgorm's guards gripped swords in hand,
hewed down the Donvings--Dansog, sons and guards
all fell, blood-covered, except only two.
In fleetness of foot Fingol and Modin
had always excelled--in anger and fear
they now ran from the woods, ran their last race
to Axcastle hall. To Agthursa the news
of slaughter gasped out, then slain by the running
they died at her feet. Death claimed Agthursa,
her lord she joined, lay down heart-broken.
Gleming Thorsman thrust into her womb,
ripped free the child, called for a nurse.
The child was a girl--Gleming called her Sifa,
for Thor's glorious wife, golden-haired Sif.
To the captain he spoke, the castle's defender:
"Of warfare and siege witless am I;
Graford and Gamil of garrisons knew,
while I in my priest-craft pleasure received.
A hindrance am I, no help as a warrior,
and for Agthursa's child care must provide.
Of the royal family rich Aethelgorm
no survivor will suffer; slain does he want me,
yet common warriors may chance to escape.
Flee must I now to the forest in fear,
yet hope that this child a champion will bear
who in future years fear will inspire
in the treacherous lord, long-awaited revenge."
He departed the castle, with child and with nurse,
praying to Thor for protection and vengeance.

1 The Thing was the Scandinavian council, attended by all the nobles of the area. The reference here is to Dansog.

- - - - - - - - - -

Bozhe moi, I'm tired of typing it, and I'm fairly certain you're tired of reading it by this point. I've covered now 153 lines of the 223 that I originally wrote (not counting the intro), and we've only covered the destruction of Magni Goldenhair's grandfather Dansog and family. By line 223, I had only gotten to Sifa pregnant, anyway, so there's really not much to say about Magni (except in the plot notes). Suffice it to relate, that Sifa will eventually bear a son, Magni Goldenhair, who will grow up to be his family's avenger; he will be befriended in his youth by two of the magical friends of Hrolf Kraki, Elk-Frodhi and Thori Hound's-foot, and eventually slay Aethelgorm & Agfriesa's son Aethellok and reclaim his rightful position at Axcastle. Further deponent sayeth not.

It was a lot of fun to write back in uni, although not quite as much fun to re-hash now. And it may not interest or impress anyone, but I had mentioned it, so thought maybe I should post at least a part of it for Pat and Woman (and, of course, anyone else with the stamina for it!).

The (scops didn't have to type their poems, lucky for them) Curtmudgeon

[Light_Seeker]

You guys are writing some awesome poetry! Here's one of mine from a couple weeks ago. It might be kinda melodramatic, but I'm like that. :shrug: I titled it "Untitled."

A calm resentment builds inside of me
A reassuring fire that scorches and burns
Dire hatred surrounds my mind
I'm over taken by feelings that yearn

Subtle messages blur my vision
With a keen desire to ignore the past
I can't see where my path is hidden
I want to leave you in the dust of my tracks

I feel you holding on to my spirit
And my longing for you tears me in two
And now I also am divided
I am ripped apart by knowing you

This isn't love I know for sure
The stabbing pain that kills
Couldn't be something good
Now my heart is closed and sealed

So what is this I am feeling?
A dark and trechorous thought
It builds up walls against the world
So that no one can enter and I can't be bought

Now wish I never knew you
You haunt me at every instant that you find
Like a plague infecting my soul
You are constantly there to torture my mind

But my hatred isn't for you
Nor is it for these dying flames of red
The turmoil inside of me has caused this pain
It's for your memory that isn't dead

[semmie]

seeker....uhm....wow. beautiful. do you write a lot?

i don't write a lot of poetry anymore....i've focused my attention more on prose and songwriting. :rockon:

[Light_Seeker]

Today @ 02:42 PM post located here (http://www.theologyweb.com/forum/showthread.php?s=&postid=73901#post73901)
semmie:

seeker....uhm....wow. beautiful. do you write a lot?

i don't write a lot of poetry anymore....i've focused my attention more on prose and songwriting. :rockon:


Hey, thanks!! Yeah, I write constantly. I've written a couple of songs, but they never get put to music so I stick to poetry, for the most part.

Oh, here's one I wrote this morning. It's not the best, but oh well. Hope y'all like it.

A puddle of blood collects with the tears
Each falling drop of red forgiving
A hundred thousand sins
Piled up over darkened years

Each stroke of the hammer
Drives the nails deeper
Intensifies the pain
Makes His love flow freer

Every cloud separates Him from the Father
The innocence of my Savior
Dirtied by my stubborn pride
My disregard for His care
Just like Peter's lies

Every sound of weeping
At the thought of what was done
Every word on His cross spoken
Part of a perfect plan

God's Son, pierced by nails and hate
Flogged with whips and anger
Stabbed with a sword and deceit
Betrayed by a kiss and greed
Crowned with thorns and scowls
Was mocked by those
He was dying to save

Buried in a tomb
Sealed by my own wrong
He gave his life
So that I could live another day
So that I might breath another breathe
So now I can sing another song

For three dead days
Counted out in fear
He lay wrapped in a cloth
Then conquered death
He lived again

He is risen
He is risen, indeed

And then descended into heaven
But he's not gone
His home is now my heart
His loved prevailed
Defeated evil
He lives again in me
-----------------------------

Happy Easter!! Have a blessed day!

~Light_Seeker

[mrsnacks]

Great poems . Check out my thread . I could use some help .

[Lizbeth]

Thought I'd add to the stream...:shy:

Wrought Iron

Softly, it curls
about the gates.
Pattern of thought
frozen in place.
Forged by toil
in hammered heat.
Singing on anvil
by image and beat.
Breath of billow
Fire of white
Glow of red longing:

Blacksmith's delight.

[The Curtmudgeon]

Very nice, Lizbeth! And welcome to TWeb and The Library!

:yipee:

The (roaming through the stacks again) Curtmudgeon

[Lizbeth]

Thank you, Curtmudgeon. :smile:

[Patroclus]

Liz, I am very impressed.

[Lizbeth]

My dear sir, Patroclus....

Thank you, sincerely...Having read your posts (both in this thread and others), I do take your post in the highest regard.

And for your (and others') reading pleasure...

Gray Matters

You've become the breath I breathe;
the easing of my mind;
The smile upon my lips;
the ticking of my time.

I know the game you play with me,
I've memorized the rules;
First, I fall in love with you,
then I become your fool.

White and Black mix together
in all our lover's chatter.
You hypnotize my every thought
in the game of gray matters.

Gray matters, gray matters
What is wrong from right?
Talkers flatter; endless chatter
In my mind, gray matters.

You are all the world to me;
the pleasing of my mind;
The beating of my heart;
the weaving of unwind.

I know the game; I play it well,
I've broken all the rules;
First, I fell in love with you,
Then I became your fool.

Black and White come together
in the hope of rose madder.
I turned my head; I've shown my hand,
I've lost this game of gray matters.
:shy:

[Lizbeth]

Poetry Lovers.....

I know that you all can identify....for it seems that some are born with the ability to 'feel' more than others.... *smile* I like to think of us as "keepers of civilization", as without us, those who could not tolerate such deep emotional pulls, would either eliminate themselves..........or others...

Rage

Clouds come sliding in
Sitting on the sky,
Rumbled threats of charged swords
Flash before my eyes.

Brazen stance defy the wind;
Clothing tattered, torn.
Demands the sword take this life
that nobody would mourn.

I've grieved my living all my life
And lived it most alone,
A sheet of rain covers me
As swords of light are honed

I close my eyes to welcome death
Upon this cold, dark earth,
Such courage, storms have seen before
They leave me with my dearth.
:shy:

[HemofHisGarment]

Yesterday @ 09:20 PM post located here (http://www.theologyweb.com/forum/showthread.php?s=&postid=78064#post78064)
Lizbeth:

Thought I'd add to the stream...:shy:

Wrought Iron

Softly, it curls
about the gates.
Pattern of thought
frozen in place.
Forged by toil
in hammered heat.
Singing on anvil
by image and beat.
Breath of billow
Fire of white
Glow of red longing:

Blacksmith's delight.

Love it!!!

[Lizbeth]

HemofHisGarment: I humbly thank you.

[Patroclus]

some are born with the ability to 'feel' more than others

I don't know. For me, it is about a process. I can't say that most of my poetry has any basis of inspiration. Most of the time, I just force myself to develop a metaphor or a similie. I don't think that it is bad if poetry comes from people's feelings. That is just not the way I work.

[Lizbeth]

Do forgive me the grand assumption that I made. I do know, understand, and accept that not all poets "feel" what they write. I don't always have to "feel" it either. Thank you for the correction. *smile*

[Patroclus]

No problem. Don't think that there is no feeling in what I write either. It is just that the feeling is not the source of what I write. I am a process writer.

[mrsnacks]

Hi : I'm enjoying the poems. I am currently out on tour but will return home in about 2 weeks. Check out my thread here in the library titled "Poets and Lyricists Where Are You."

Lizbeth; I enjoyed reading your poem " Gray Matters. " It's rhythm fits well in one of my music compositions. Please check out the thread I started and I would be interested in working with you on a CD project . I am looking for poems to be put to my music compositions (spoken word ) and lyrics to my songs. I desire the lyrics to be more philosophical then what I am hearing in the mainstream in christian and secular music.

Patroclus , Semmie and others. Are you interested ??

[Lizbeth]

Today @ 07:13 PM post located here (http://www.theologyweb.com/forum/showthread.php?s=&postid=79497#post79497)
mrsnacks:

Lizbeth; I enjoyed reading your poem " Gray Matters. " It's rhythm fits well in one of my music compositions. Please check out the thread I started and I would be interested in working with you on a CD project .

While my interest is piqued, I must admit that I know nothing of the music industry. I'm pleased that you enjoyed my little bit of thought...however, I need for you to explain to me how all this works. I shall await your email. ---Thanks----Liz

[Patroclus]

Patroclus , Semmie and others. Are you interested ??

From what I have seen you say, I am not sure you would want what I am interested in writing.

[HemofHisGarment]

WAKING UP (Stanza 2)

Little baby crocus, in his earthy bed,
With the warm sun drawing him, popped out his tiny head;
Just as he was stirring underneath the ground,
Other little crocuses were looking all around.

~ Anonymous

[HemofHisGarment]

...she dressed her mind
as others do their bodies, and refined
that better part with care, and still did wear
more jewels in her manners than her hair...

~William Cartwright

[HemofHisGarment]

...a light rain, as tranquil as an apple...

~Anne Sexton

[HemofHisGarment]

"Metaphors"

I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.

~Sylvia Plath

[Patroclus]

"The weight of this sad time we must obey,
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say:
The oldest hat borne most; we that are young
Shall never see so much, nor live so long" -King Lear (V.iii).

[HemofHisGarment]

As the Ruin Falls


All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you.
I never had a selfless thought since I was born.
I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through:
I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn.

Peace, re-assurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek,
I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin:
I talk of love --a scholar's parrot may talk Greek--
But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.

Only that now you have taught me (but how late) my lack.
I see the chasm. And everything you are was making
My heart into a bridge by which I might get back
From exile, and grow man. And now the bridge is breaking.

For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains
You give me are more precious than all other gains

~C. S. Lewis

[semmie]

Today @ 02:11 AM post located here (http://www.theologyweb.com/forum/showthread.php?s=&postid=79911#post79911)
HemofHisGarment:

As the Ruin Falls


All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you.
I never had a selfless thought since I was born.
I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through:
I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn.

Peace, re-assurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek,
I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin:
I talk of love --a scholar's parrot may talk Greek--
But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.

Only that now you have taught me (but how late) my lack.
I see the chasm. And everything you are was making
My heart into a bridge by which I might get back
From exile, and grow man. And now the bridge is breaking.

For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains
You give me are more precious than all other gains

~C. S. Lewis

aaaaaah....tis beautiful. leave it to lewis, eh? personally, i'd like to see someone put THIS to music!

[djnoz]

A meadow of glass and concrete waits
Under the pale orb of nature's
Life. Soon the second sun rises.
In the new dawn the flames consume.

edit: that's a start. I plan to write a few more verses or something.

[Lizbeth]

04-27-2003 @ 09:50 PM post located here (http://www.theologyweb.com/forum/showthread.php?s=&postid=80234#post80234)
djnoz:

A meadow of glass and concrete waits
Under the pale orb of nature's
Life. Soon the second sun rises.
In the new dawn the flames consume.

I love your excellent "line" technique....keeps the reader interested. ---Liz

[Lizbeth]

04-27-2003 @ 09:50 PM post located here (http://www.theologyweb.com/forum/showthread.php?s=&postid=80234#post80234)
djnoz:

A meadow of glass and concrete waits
Under the pale orb of nature's
Life. Soon the second sun rises.
In the new dawn the flames consume.

I love your excellent "line" technique....keeps the reader interested. ---Liz

[HemofHisGarment]

Today @ 07:52 PM post located here (http://www.theologyweb.com/forum/showthread.php?s=&postid=81418#post81418)
Lizbeth:



I love your excellent "line" technique....keeps the reader interested. ---Liz
I agree; great poem and awesome technique!!

[Lizbeth]

Heartspeak

The awe with which my eyes feast
Upon the words your fingers speak.
Swim and swirl; they quell
the drought within this well.

Allow my portion of thy heart,
Feed me always with thy thoughts.
Fill this void, this empty cup,
give thy soul to me to sup.

Kiss my lips with thy pure wine,
Burn my flesh with tome's divine.
Fill my thoughts, my heart, my mind
Take and love me in thy lines.
-----Lizbeth
:shy:

[djnoz]

Heartspeak

The awe with which my eyes feast
Upon the words your fingers speak.
Swim and swirl; they quell
the drought within this well.

Allow my portion of thy heart,
Feed me always with thy thoughts.
Fill this void, this empty cup,
give thy soul to me to sup.

Kiss my lips with thy pure wine,
Burn my flesh with tome's divine.
Fill my thoughts, my heart, my mind
Take and love me in thy lines.
-----Lizbeth


Hey Lizbeth, the rythm in that poem flows really well, beautiful poem. I like. :smile:

Re. this:

A meadow of glass and concrete waits
Under the pale orb of nature's
Life. Soon the second sun rises.
In the new dawn the flames consume.

The subject is left ambiguous, leaving the reader guessing. I plan to add some extra stuff to the above. I'm using nature as a metaphor to describe something else.

Not today though - it's about 2:20 in the morning and I need to get some sleep. :teeth:

djnoz is now officially addicted to this thread, it is superb reading during the early hours of the morning :rofl:

[Light_Seeker]

Something I wrote this morning while doing math. It was one of those :idea: moments. Well, sort of.

I try to say something beautiful
Where are those words I used to know?
I thought that emotions gave me something to write
But then why is writing something I forego?

Feelings to complex
For me to hear their tune
The melody, does it rhyme?
But I'm still listening to you

What was it that you said?
Or did you say nothing at all?
Was it your eyes that spoke to me?
What was it that caused me to fall?

Too full, too empty
Too sad, too joyful
Not seeing, am I feeling?
I gave to you what wasn't yours

I bared my soul
All my thoughts you now own
I gave my sorrow
You took my joy

Why do I search for something?
Why do I stare at empty tombs?
Intoxicating nothingness
To me but all consumes

I'm afraid, I'm broken
I'm relieved, I'm scared
Fulfilling days that tire me
But in darkness I'm ensnared

Peaceful colors beckon to me
But maniac avidity drives
Steering towards that fateful cliff
I was living dead before now

But now I'm too alive
-------------------------

~Light_Seeker :bunny:

[PRAISE]

Here is a poem that was given to me by a brother in Christ at where I work:

Thank-you Jesus, for loving me so,
For all the wonderful Truth Your Word has shown.
You love me so much more than I deserve,
My heart is filled, I long to serve.


I need Your strength, or my heart will break,
If I am not able to live for Your sake.
I pray for Your confidence,
and your kingdom come,
I am Yours, let Your will be done.


Praise you, Jesus, I love you so,
Where you desire, help me to go.

PRAISE:thumb:

[Lizbeth]

Pearl Necklace

Upon the stranded string
lies his prized pearls;
the hearts of all his girls.

With words of affection and love,
as with finger and thumb,
he caresses each one,
Yet prizes he none.

For one doth not bedeck
the vastness of this lover's neck.
He desires all the more--
and 'round his neck he keeps the score.

[Lizbeth]

Romance

My heart is made to soar
by thy hand that
lifts me o'er
the black mist!
O, the edification thy
words apply to me
tenderly!
Love is thy salve;
affection thy dressings;
words thy softest touch.
Adorn my neck with
thy tender intellection
Embrace me with
thy diction;
assail me with
thy sentiment until
thine heart I have stolen.

[Lizbeth]

Cornered

His rage leans against
the wall, cradled in the corner.
The stock and barrel of thunderous
threats unspoken, understood.

Across the table
Facination binds her,
For the brutal hands
Tenderly hold a slice
Of bread.

That mouth of sneers
and curses
gently kiss the
coffee's cup,

As his rage rests against
the wall, cradled in the corner.

[Light_Seeker]

A child sleeps peacefully
With a content aspect
In a field of slumbering dreams

A lulling melody dances on the air
Touches down to take away
All the little children
To a land where they go each night

A sullen, sleepy head
Rests on a pillow
And two brown eyes
Slowly close as children drift away...

...Drift away...

[Lizbeth]

There are times when I read another's poetry and yearn, "O, I wish I had written that.".....Yours is one of those. Thank you for posting that.----Lizbeth

[Lizbeth]

The Courtier

Never to gaze
Into her eyes;
He dries the tears
Her heart cries.

To never taste
of her full lips,
He knows the passion
In her kiss.

Never to hold, nor have
against his own,
yet he knows the
giver of the groan.

Daydream's court
within her mind
Transcends matter,
space, and time.

[Light_Seeker]

Lizbeth: Thank you so much for your encouraging words!

The sounds of your voice
Are faint on the wind
Echoes of an angel
Who won't return again

The scent of your love
Drifts placidly on by
Like a sparrow's call after sunset
It lingers sorrowfully, amplified

In the stillness I see you,
Standing like an illusion
In the desert, a mirage
I’m entranced by you, in captivation

Of the wetness on my cheeks
I taste my salty tears
My skin tingles as I brush them away
Remembering the taste of hidden cares

I close my eyes and lean into the wind
So harsh on my face it burns
In my pride, I refuse to bend
But in my heart, I ignore what I’ve learned