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The Spring wind buffers the wide shaking windows
A newspaper rustles with useless blues
And the night train rumbles hungrily under a tricky sky
Is it you?
That set these sounds to space?
What's the journey?
man puts his heart and his mind in what he believes
he even risks his live to fight for it
also he’s ready to kill for protection of
his own benefits
and his family
as long as he believes he’s right
he tends to forget his reality is very perceptive
his eyes could be blurred
his ears could be distorted
his tongue could be numb
his nose could be frozen
his skin would be insensitive
he could look at things
from a different angle
at the wrong place
and not at the right time
the hell is man so sure about his absolute belief?
The chill autumn breeze blowing
Leaves across the lawn.
Cuppa tea soothing my heart.
Thinking about Spring
And you, Little Poetess,
Far across the world :))
From a high window
forlorn on the sill
sits a maiden in muslin
fine fabric billowing in the gentle breeze
The screwed window latch rattling
A whisper across the moors
An image for the artist
A challenge for the conceptualist
to reveal the breadth
and strip the poetess bare
An echo to Peony and Thao Chuong's poem Sex, drugs and Street Art.
Be Her Mary Shelley
A cold wife
like a wet fish
on marble slab
needs a bolt of lightening touch
Look beyond your visor,
the sex the drugs
and look more deeply
into street art
her sleeping, tortured heart.
The loose paper flittered through the air
as the poetess looked on in despair
some sailed back and forth
like a feather
and lay to rest
in some strangers nest
others soaked themselves in the lake
the ink left the page and swam with the flow
had no hard drive
and from all the pages lost
recalled just one line
'I heard a whisper ride across the moor
and want to chase it evermore...'
She wrote it quickly once again
and another poem was born not much the same
for time had moved on
and she herself was new
her old self gone!
By body is cold and my bones ache
The darkness out ways the dawn
These narrow roads feel like long halls
The grey sky is holding me down
Reminding me of old wounds that never healed
I miss the big sky with it's high ceiling
The dry air and jagged rocks
The smell of juniper everywhere
Don't forget me dessert sand
I'll be back soon
I can't stay here
I'll spend my winter there
I dare not part my lips
for fear of the wrong words escaping
and rearranging the beautiful chaos
of waves, deserts and night skies
of waiting, of sleeping, of aching
of artists shaping life
wonder and despair
evasive love and life
I notice, I feel
the bird soar
against the wind yet with the solar flow
like my soul
on hearing poets words
as I eat my egg on toast
and the light of day
some things to me.
Is there any such a thing
as synchronicity in everything?
We all were spurned from that first cell
and seem to be always trying to re connect
From the fuzzy land line
to the text lost in the tunnel.
Lost In Space?
XO my favorite video of yours.....there is no ifs if time stands still but then we would also lose the magic of timing
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Does it seem to come in threes,
that knock of Death on legends door?
Are we ever ready to release
those we treasure, though we know
this plane is terminal?
All of the knowledge
and love we gain
seems so futile
as the dark finger scrapes
across our wounded heart.
You sit in silence, the pain burning in your writers
mind. You wonder why, you try to create magesty,
but you're trapped in a horrible bind. The blank
page taunts you, you want to give up. But I will set
you free. The beauty of moonlight oceans, the dark
skies of winter I will help you find.
Tears fall from your beautiful eyes, the world
demands. I will show you emerald skies, the
people will watch you soar from the stands. If
you fall into the abyss, I will pick you up, I will
show you incredible bliss. Those says of sorrow
and wanting, you will not miss.
Feel the love flow through your mind. See the
passion in your dreams. Let go of the anger, be
compassionate and kind. The beautiful forest
calls, hear the owls, touch the leafs, smell the
air, taste the dew, see the old ancient pine.
Smile in happiness as your soul beams.
Feel the deep pain, embrace the burning sorrow.
They broke your heart, they abandoned you to
the cold. Use that passion for your gain, build a
better tomorrow. Let freedom be your start, don't
be afraid of being bold
Look into your child’s eyes, hug the person who
is your tender prize. See your mother, the one
gave you life. Let go of the pain, abandon the
terrible strife. Let the words flow from you, know
they sing, know your beauty is real and true.
Know they will call your name, they won't ask who.
I do not lie, I am here, stare deeply into my eyes
so blue. Thanks,
Tears are all the empty spaces
falling from windows on people's faces
Laughter, sorrow, beginning, end
tears come calling like a sweetheart's best friend
Fathers,mothers,daughters and sons
a river of tears cried for every one
80 percent of us water
a pinch of stardust to make our mortar
We stand fragile,we stand proud
Racing vessels with sails crying out loud
Tears cross the lines that time creates
to bring out the light and sorrow erase
Love it when I come back from being busy with other things to read posts, and emails from people reading posts but maybe not adding to the posts.
Karen great stuff I think you are inspiring newcomers!:))
I apologise for my hefty foot
my sharp heel,
But, maybe after work,
if the rain stops, quenches your thirst,
I will strutt softly shoeless
along the green hairs of your skin
make them stand on end
as we connect,
skim in the sandiness of your dropped shellac scales
left in the sink of your watery craters,
Roll down your backboned, hilly curves
and around your bends and corners swerve...
breathe with me earth!
There'sbeen no wide berth
from beginning to end,
You're all I have,
You carry us all,
and everything we then carry,
I've dug large holes and grown magnolias in your pores
and bridged your parted lips, even rolled hot tar across your hips,
and thought no more of it.
But its your Birthday, Earth day,
My feet, with which you are best accustomed to
meet you now with, softness and silence, and gratitude and suppliance.
It’s also St George’s Day, Patron Saint of England.
Now you have to be brave and bold, and asking for it, to post a poem on this doubly auspicious occasion…
So all u readers, go for it! lol
For the glory of St George…
A herald to triumph the new music of Spring!
I do love huge rivers of daffodils, especially as they emerge from all the floods and cold of Winter
The Herald of Spring - The Daffodil
Oh golden cloak, this wondrous flower
The Winter slain, the cold devoured…
Gold with green, flowers rise, flowers waiting to be seen…
Upon this boisterous blowing day, this early budding Spring
In fields of grass, bellowed winds of stirring March
The swaying falters into calm, as rested colours hymn
Daffodils trumpet!! On parks and graveyards by the church
As breezes gust, the stirring stems again now sway and lurch
A song was heard, calling pilgrims into fields
Daffodils upon this puddled lawn, riverbanks and wettest grass
An overspill from flooded Spring, washed in vast and unconcealed
The Daffodil, Prince of Spring, heralds trumpets blast!!
A Spring time court stands proud, with true Majestic cast
A wonder of the grandest Spring-time making
Full bloom in March upon the parks and lawns of green
Triumph so mild and bold, grandeur in no mistaking
For just a week or two, golden- yellows daffodils, flower to be seen
Colours homage grandest Spring, flowers rise for Summer’s Queen
We honour this Herald, oh golden-yellow Daffodils
Upon the lawns and parks, amongst the Spring-time green
This time of Homage, made bold, this golden cloak, most serene!!
The snow is gone, now the rain showers.
Bees are back, they arrive with flowers.
Bees all busy from blossom to hive.
Their only purpose to survive.
Heavenly bodies on a galactic merry-go-round
sent a spark of light bright and profound.
This light ignites the flame of life
that illuminates our joy and strife
Bees at work care not for such things
Planets in space are not their imaginings
The universe the Bees behold
is a meadow of flowers with petals exposed
Laden with pollen they lift to the sky
So give them room when they fly by
Little Lotharios with a magic touch
They bring forth the seeds
we need so much
O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
'The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.
'The spirits of the air live in the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,
Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.
to the rain hit
on the roof of my car.
Great gully washing gusts
blowing across the land.
The electric, illumination of lightning
strikes shocks through my driving senses.
As the dawn breaks
dappled, grey upon grey,
the green has raced across the ground
and the bones of the trees turned bushy
Hi all... Karen's "Morning Commute" reminded me of...
same bus ride
day in day out
felt like that movie Groundhog Day
only i didn't get to learn something
and when i resurrected each day
i was that much older
so no fringe benefits
i was one of the five passengers
who rode this line every morning
never saw their faces
or even knew they had one
the lighting in the bus sucked too
florescent with that sickly green tint
look like ambulatory corpses
especially at that time of the morning
when we're all half dead anyway
made bone crushing sounds
as they rolled
over the icy snow
littering our path
the bitter frozen wind
forced it's way inside
causing the plastic seats
and metal grab rails
to be even colder than cold
it felt like riding in a refrigerator
and i paid two bucks for this
coming from the vents
was just that
my toes began to complain
so i wrote a poem...
and titled it:
"4 AM Bus Ride, an Observation ":
Round brown graying bald man with tufts of black hair sprouting from his ears awakened long enough to yawn and look out the window of the speeding bus to see the gated shops too early for their keepers to open
His heavy lidded eyes return blank and close as he nestled deep into his scarf and oversized coat against the cold... slipping back into his comfortable sleep
A shrill whistle echo of wonderful words above. Karen although yours was not about trains it was amazing! Today is Anzac Day in Australia and so I can't help but imagine all the partings and welcomings of soldiers and families, not just in Australia but my hometown of Liverpool and Limestreet station. A soldier is a soldier.
Racing down the subway, laughing, echoes getting tangled in my hair
Aware, of the mystery of the night before
as odd abandonments lean against the drumming walls
a shoe, some cigarette stubs, a lone bottle
which suddenly decides to fall and spin at my feet.
There's two worlds happening
my girlish chatter, and the collage of the endless echoing subway
sucking us through to the light at the end of the capsuled walkway
the reverabations of soles on concrete, running through the scared world
but at once, excitement flaring in our words, our inexperienced language, while running for the train.
Like genies in a bottle, the air whispering with images of things we didn't know, but only heard
and then we spill out onto the station's stairs, another world again, where steel glinting wheels were waiting.
Impatient were trains, confident in their early sojourns, refusing to wait, 'no excuses for lateness' its huge round clock says ruthlessley.
Yet everyone was rushing.
Their tracks were like maths, patterns that could switch without warning, destinations seemed tentative, had me nervous as we were shook around like double sixes.
If there hadn't been such covert watching, passing of quick glances, mind reading from ghostly window reflections,I could have written about the characters but I didn't.
The window lenses gave me images in bursts of black and white, fast flashes, fleeting sketches of glass ghost faces from other passengers in other trains.
And at last the garbled voice that seemed to echo the sign that read 'Limestreet' on the foggy, busy platform through the vignette window.
The carriages emptied us, cargoed us, with no ties, the separation was cold, bold, I remember thinking as I got caught up among the million feet.
'Limestreet' another station with a history, and ghosts that smoked across your calves, another world, of comings and goings, of meetings, of leavings, in peace time, in war time, in all seasons, of endings and beginnings.
Keep revisiting this poem of Philip's. 'Tied to the land', that line is so solid, and yet the poem allows release, and yet in that release, whether through death, loss or the recycling of life, we are reminded of how everything is tied to the land. There is no undoing. 'Time is not immortal'...I feel that you point out that it is in fact very short lived, from seed to maturity; whatever that is,different things to different people, and then back to the beginning to begin again. Then that very personal touch.....'you once said you are........again' Obviously I have no idea of your reference to 183 times, but yes, I can see how the numbers add to the solidity. I'm left with the feeling that nothing gets lost as everything is too connected to the land that we need not fear loss, even though time is not immortal everything else is in some way. I think I have said this before but your poems are like puzzles, its good to look at all the pieces and find the best fit for me! And let it go if some pieces are missing! :)
Tied to the land
the seeds all grown
and dead again
Time is not immortal,
you once said you are:
183 times from now
Your dress unworn
and red again
The dog barks in the sunlight chorus of passing cars, and burr of motorbikes,
from behind the gate.
Upstairs the sounds through a house's glass, subconciously measures as,
40 feet maybe, well, it feels four tall men deep.
This midday music fraily slivers, finally filters through trees, glass and gauze to an ear.
It takes time for the image to be delivered, distracting minds from word specifics.
The dog intervenes, wriggles through the gaps in my mind, where there was thought none, where no one looked.
and like the opening and flattening of the page's spine, revealed, another world not mine.
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