Posts Tagged ‘poetry’
A Story
.
.
A story that waits to be told
unfolds quietly
in the hours made up of days
little things
like the glance that speaks louder than words
the dreariness of the day to day
the outburst
over revelations
of having been violated all along
when the one that was trusted
turns out to be
a spy
.
.
Wading
.
wading
into the water
that is Sunday morning
immersed in blessings
beneath layers of blankets
inside the room looking out
at bright sunshine
on crisp below zero snow
enjoying the transition
of one song into the next
not simply
because we can
although that is true
but because
I simply must
to feel the hope
that lies here with me
feeding my soul
the things I can’t
even though I want to
for the rest of every day
of my life
.
Subtle Silence
.
.
subtlety
of silence
lost
in a moment
unnoticed
amid the glitter
of innumerable things
that demand our attention
beyond one’s capacity
to mindfully deny
begs us to see
the value inherent
in the pause
to be quiet
and listen
to nothing
and actually hear
everything
within
that silence
provides
.
.
A Real Poem
I’m trying to remember why some nights I can’t remember anything that I’ve ever done in my life. It’s as if I just suddenly started existing a few short moments ago. Then all of a sudden it’s snowing 2 inches an hour. That’s not all that special, until it turns out to continue at that rate for hours on end. That leads to a lot of snow. That leads to lots of shoveling.
Sometimes, paint is the only thing that separates me from the wall over there. Regardless, there is a Christmas poem that ranks right up there as one of my favoritest and in a lot of ways probably influences my penchant for writing with a melodic rhythm to establish phrasing of a line. I am particularly impressed by the date it was originally published: 1823. 1823! It is Clement Clarke Moore’s “A Visit From St. Nicholas.” Read it again, and let it remind you of the first time you ever heard it…
A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap—
When out on the lawn there rose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter,
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of mid-day to objects below;
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Dunder and Blitzen—
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With a sleigh full of toys—and St. Nicholas too.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof,
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack;
His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little month was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face, and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump—a right jolly old elf;
And I laughed when I saw him in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
Think
.
.
think about a reason not to think about
the things that for whatever silly reason
remain easier not to talk about
with the people who really matter most
as if the things that transpired
some time in the long ago past
deserve to hold sway
in a negative way
right now today
at the critical time of now
which matters more than any other
regardless how we allow
our silly trepidations
to carry so much weight
when things that did do harm
on a scale far beyond
our ability to comprehend
continue to come back around
and diminish each individual’s worth
for every time hurt befalls one other
all people of the world ultimately suffer
.
.
From the Archives
Deep
feel this
it’s your feelings
reach out with your mental acuity
and wrap your grip
around
with firm yet even pressure
to let it touch
your innermost percepting region
more than touch though
you’ve done that much before
it needs to be as you would with your eyes
when you see past the surface
into the depth of reflection
that ripples in the waves
of your brazen desiring appetite
and your viewing threatens
to consume the molecules
of the vision luminescing
before you acknowledge
the lump rising in your throat
for once beat it to the punch
and deftly wield the glorious
power intangible
to tread in the field
fat for the harvest
feel with the urge
of suppressing a laugh
and with all of your might
your mighty bright might
let go with your best
unabashed best belly laugh
©2003
Editor Letter
when you write down what you think
in a screaming diatribe
about insanity running rampant
like a hurricane of class 5
and you notice people bristle
like the seeds of a prickly pine
it behooves thee to then ponder
if what happens is a sign
bringing you a simple message
is your logic there contained
to further an agenda
with a bellow so sustained
when a calming incantation
earns the pearl that can spell
greater glory and much brilliance
though it’s sometimes hard to tell
waiting for some little signal
of heads cooler that prevail
to prove to all concerned
the better choice will never fail
unless it’s overshadowed
by a craving with such gleam
driving all of your attention
toward some really fine ice cream
Relative Something 