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Just Be. |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now 
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Hello, pipsters.. I need to write. I mean it: I NEED to.. it`s almost physiological, at times! I know all true writers go through prolific phases and `dryer` spells.. well, er, I happen to be feeling rather prolific these days!  And so:. I wanted to start a scribble pad; a journal.. open to anyone, of course, which will be an outlet for the word-jam and prevent me from overwhelming the boards. My thought is to keep mainly to poetry, though prose and prose-poems are welcome, also. No set topic, no challenge, no forms or styles requested (within the pip guidelines, naturally.).. basically a pressure-release valve, a place to just be. Please join me? And, if not, then please patiently ignore me! lol  . . Best~ Amaryllis . . ps: please no overtly adult material, keep that in the mature forum, where it belongs? Thank you so much! ~A |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
My first entry, late at night: . . Mountains When . . Where were these elevations when you needed, when days were linen khaki, tight sutured, prudent- when monochrome became your portion, when time, diluted pale, etched all you knew? Were they still waiting cirrus haired, shoulders snow-broad in thinnest blue? Did they still nudge as arrogant the timber-bristled horizon, still pull an eagle or a plane for jewelry? When your eye watered, lonely for a vista it never knew? |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Mountains (again) =P .. archaeic redux . . . My spirit swells when I can view a mountain pale and high, against the clouds significant, and changing with the daylight slant, an opera in the sky. So it was when as a youth I found such beauty in the books, till now, in truth, reality is greater on the eye! . ~Amaryllis |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Only I Know . . . Like a wool shirt it itches, crawls, abrades, uncaring irritates the tender skin- like a stomach gnaws and bites when empty, it twists it turns it burns it grates like sin. . .~Amaryllis |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
I crack my knuckles put the plastic keys beneath my finger-pads to release this poem that never ends and I`m remembering a story I once heard of a clairvoyant whose psychic gift first manifested when she sat through a metaphysical seminar and she saw purple and green light shoot from the waving fingertips of the speaker for her it was an aura the beginnings of her gift but for me it was familiar in ways of writings ways of sending streaks of pulsing ideas out and away and into the clear ether where minds might close or sleep a nitrous dream instead of looking for the radiance would miss the auras of our language never read a poem weep or laugh but just exist to get through the existing like the longest Monday or the way you feel at 2:00 on Friday impatient for the weekend that might contain the strobing bright of real-time poetry that will be missed by the drowsy mind |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
This was sparked by one of PassingShadows` great photos: . . My sister is afraid of snakes. we are picking apples on a September afternoon, the air is ripe and gala-sweet the bees too drunk to sting, some of the fall are perfect still, unbruised- others lie half deflated cored by ants and purring yellowjackets. deer have come, in the night and chipmunk, squirrel, and possum- we, too, are drawn to the twisted tree bowing generous to share her heavy yield. another finds this place an eden of gifts- flashing past our toes in smooth pursuit: some rodent succulent, perhaps- the glistening scale the bold-striped yellow beautiful, and quick- such grace in liquid economy of motion- my sister`s scream starts the birds aloft in a drumming thrum- she leaps like a gazelle onto the picnic table, I`m laughing as I chase the parting grass, how can she fear so instant, so instinctive? she says they`re evil, stays upon her perch, shakes her blonde head dismayed: `don`t pick it up!` I won`t.. I only want to watch the supple rope navigate the orchard like a glossy king. |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
The writer`s gift of seeing through the words like an open radiograph seeing bone and structure where ideas germinate in the spongy marrow of the author`s muse every angle captured in monochrome, where the spaces lie where the fracture starts hairline or compound osteo-linguistic transparancy, where the decay hides where the cells divide into growth or to malignancy with the loupes of experience magnifying what may come to light they are internists of the purest sort- dissecting stanzas for the diagnosis |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
there is a fiber so minute so nano-strong so absolute and like arachne`s filament entwines so light without consent so unaware your status prey until you cannot fly away until you doze anesthtitised freedom tight against your sides until you think a gossamer chain all you`ve wanted and the pain recedes so sweet so close your eyes and snuggle in your silken lies. [This message has been edited by Amaryllis (06-14-2010 02:48 PM).] |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Hm hm hmmm....  .  Omigosh! I`m already at 244 posts and it hasn`t even been a month since I joined!!!.  . heh... what can I say... |
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passing shadows Member Empyrean
since 1999-08-26
Posts 45577displaced |
how I LOVE THIS! thanks for sharing and I'm so happy to have inspired you! glossy king...yeah, pretty cool writing here |
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passing shadows Member Empyrean
since 1999-08-26
Posts 45577displaced |
oh and? congrats on the 244 posts...keep on writing! I wonder what number you'll be at in 10 years like me LOL |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Thanks, Passing Shadows! Yeah, I should have wrote about the baby bird but the snake seemed more interesting lol . And oh yeah.. who KNOWS what my posts will be in 10 yrs at this rate~! haha. Thanks for stopping by.. ~Amaryllis |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Love . . What infinity crowds within one word! It should be parceled, broken in myriad facets that catch the sun. is it Love like sighs, 10-yard stares for hours in another`s eyes? Or is it like the heaven of your newborn baby`s head, nestled in your neck so milk-sweet, tender? Or the shoulder of a patient friend letting words and tears alike wash over her without judgement? Is it the trust in fathoms of your retriever`s eye, certain you are god? Or the love of power, money, material things, unholy yet so persuasive- is it like that? Or the love that sits beside the ailing parent, wiping sweat from brows, then kissing there? There are so many more, an eternal list so tumbling but there are not the words.. all in one word? |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
I am confused.. it always was about the poetry, for me. The reading, the writing the sharing, the learning. It never was an online diary, I do not see poetry that way. I know the great confessionalists (Plath, Sexton) would feel differently, but this is a new day, and I`m so naive didn`t even get it didn`t know or comprehend at first that people could use poetry like candy or flowers or text messages or like a disposable hand wipe to use then discard when it`s dirty didn`t see it that eyes may read my poetry may see my words but through an ego filter, accustomed to the poetry being but a mating song a gaudy glinting construct of a bower-bird to attract a mate to hook up to get a rush to nab a small cheap thrill or read the work I sweated over poured my knowlege into revised and polished employing device and form or not, would take and read them narcisissitically all my precious words nothing but a mirror for their own ego saw themselves instead of me or the poem in it`s own right saw that"I was writing to THEM" non. non. I write a poem, it lives- it has it`s own neutrality, able to morph a bit, maybe yet! Not to that, oh that extreme. I will not use my words to write a love note check yes or no. I will write poetry. though universal, directed to anyone and no one. [This message has been edited by Amaryllis (06-18-2010 03:50 PM).] |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Sway with me my love, my love beside the bending sea, dip me in the breaker`s lace where moontides foam and steam, kiss me then when billows rise to phosphoresce the night, let us dance a salty swing before the coming light. |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
this... I found to be quite refreshing for its honesty and insight.... I am confused.. it always was about the poetry, for me. The reading, the writing the sharing, the learning. It never was an online diary, I do not see poetry that way. I know the great confessionalists (Plath, Sexton) would feel differently, but this is a new day, and I`m so naive didn`t even get it didn`t know or comprehend at first that people could use poetry like candy or flowers or text messages or like a disposable hand wipe to use then discard when it`s dirty didn`t see it that eyes may read my poetry may see my words but through an ego filter, accustomed to the poetry being but a mating song a gaudy glinting construct of a bower-bird to attract a mate to hook up to get a rush to nab a small cheap thrill or read the work I sweated over poured my knowlege into revised and polished employing device and form or not, would take and read them narcisissitically all my precious words nothing but a mirror for their own ego saw themselves instead of me or the poem in it`s own right saw that"I was writing to THEM" non. non. I write a poem, it lives- it has it`s own neutrality, able to morph a bit, maybe yet! Not to that, oh that extreme. I will not use my words to write a love note check yes or no. I will write poetry. though universal, directed to anyone and no one. Yet..I see you do write love poems to someone, just not as a way to to find emotional connections to other poets or readers.. all very honest and all a refreshing take on why write... on why you write... I to some degree understand that compelling need to write, and that you write because you have to, not because you are looking for attention or advertising for someone... all you offerings here are enjoyed... and having that scribble space almost tempted me to add my own...( chuckling) but for now, they are the half thoughts and half finished on my hard drive.. |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Thank you, Cpat Hair! For stopping by and for the comment... heh, I am a little embarrassed over that poem, because it is so raw, and born out of a semi-bitter emotion... not to mention that, in retrospect, it is a bit narrow-minded; of course poetry is/can be a `love note` to another~! I cannot begin to approach the whole `What is poetry?` imbroglio... that has been answered in so many excellent ways, by so many wise voices throughout the years. It was just my little truth at the moment, I suppose. Wrote it some time ago. AND~ the funniest thing is: it`s a `diary entry` poem about how I don`t write diary entry poetry-! Yes, I can admit the irony in that,..! Let me never lose the ability to laugh at myself. (rolling eyes). I`m pleased you took the time to read me; I`d grown rather tired of my own voice on this thread and so I abandoned it. . You can, at least, see why I implore you not to lose your writings! I uphold poetry in all its many incarnations... it is a shame to treat your words like that  . Thanks again, best to you~ Amaryllis |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Half thought ( incomplete and not edited) She liked the knot of silk And the way it lay in the hollow of her throat When she wore her scarf wrapped tight so no one could see The underneath of fingers playing with strands of hair And how when it got dark she could pull it over her eyes To blindfold the wind I liked the way she looked in dressed up all Of words I had to look up sometimes when she spoke Which was nothing like my own slow drawl Or the women I had known who feared more than owned The fact inside all had their own twitch or twists To fairy tales or dreams She told me stories then of time past and ligatures of scene Were bound to paragraphs not shared with others And I fell into weaving dreams that only I could see As I watched the way she looked down and to the left When telling me of something I could only feel As syllables staccato heat upon my lips “Bright colors,” she said “and flowers, and clavicle urges I sometimes can’t contain” “It spills into words” I replied as I watched the small pulse at her throat Slightly quicken and a pale blush of her cheek When she touched the knot of silk letting her eyes take on A distance I did not see into, until a later hour Brought into focus the reflections she always carried Deep within her heart and named In another age |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
When my neighbor Sue takes her young filly out, the dappled one, whose coat shines sleek in morning`s aura, changing with the slant of shadow that one, she`s obedient; what sense of gentle in that soft expression but as she takes the leathern lead that swivels at the tender chin on steel I like to watch her round-pen work and hear the muffled thud of healthy hoof against the sawdust. There is a whip but does not touch the hide; only cracks a warning where she was a moment before to keep the motion smooth. As I rest against the painted rail, I know the day is warming at my back, bringing the field of sweet greens, gamagrasses on the wind to the corral and to the knowing steed whose pointed ear turns now to pastures far whose glittering eye is half-turned from her task not so Sue would know it. But I see where the wild wants to run, her blood remembers a shudder on the skin, a toss of mane she is Beaucephalus, or then again Pegasus in flight across the strand. [This message has been edited by Amaryllis (09-02-2010 09:13 PM).] |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
bringing the field of sweet greens, waving grasses might think of working this line to name the grass... for example.. "Bringing sweet field of gamagrass to wave" you are particular to describe other elements in this piece with precision,, down to the sound of healthy hoof on sawdust, the painted rail... it just seems to fit that you name the grass... specifically. enjoyed.... and since you offered the space to anyone... hope you didn't mind I made my own addition |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Not at all! I loved your addition; as you know I am a fan of your work. And yes, it is indeed open to anyone~! Please feel free to scribble anytime.. Thanks for the idea on the poem... I am always open to ciritique and suggestions... I love to attempt to improve my craft, such as it is. =P . Thanks~ Amaryllis |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Iridescent Blues (fragment to work) Iridescent, I thought as I watched The greens and blues of the dragonfly on my palm Perhaps that is where the secret lies Even bruises heal And same hues need not apply to forever Sometimes the hurts and anger are left behind So even the spirit might learn to fly In its time and within The air they are given to breathe You didn’t try to capture beauty in order to own I paused thinking I was content To watch it pass through A simple dragonfly To revel in the way it flew Adding to my life a moment or two Maybe she too has learned to soar And those colors I abhorred now find Their sheen to be one of pleasing hue If I had closed my fist before it would die And I have never meant to harm This delicate creature of now and musings Or the her I’d come to know Through time and dreams I moved my hand and watched it fly Hoping she too was well and warm Within the colors she now wore Of Home [This message has been edited by Cpat Hair (09-02-2010 10:42 PM).] |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
That... is exquisite... truly. Thank you |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
very kind Ma'am... it needs to be rephrased in a few places, perhaps tightened up since it rambles some.... I wrote the opening few lines and came back to it a few days later... then not satisfied, began to work at editing...and all this, a process I do not normally do. I normally write in one sitting as one thought... so at any rate this one has been a trouble for me and doesn't feel right yet..maybe never will.. it isn't clear why perhaps... |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
I understand... I`ve had that same dilemma before. I almost always edit my work; I enjoy in-depth critique and polishing a piece until it shines. This thread, however, was the antithesis of that idea! I wanted a place to ramble, well & truly. And it`s obvious I did, heh! Stream-of-consciousness, etc. as above, writing it all out as it came. Fun! Your work is even more amazing in the light of that.~S . ps: was writing a long poem and LOST it (accidently erased whole thing)...aaarrgh |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
yes, to write unencumbered is a joy... to stream the thoughts to words and let them go... I suffer from the reading of others and finding when I am moved...or by a phrase..an idea..I rewrite the whole in my mind or am tempted to do offshoots of the original, to even build a backstory or see a series... the one you posted earlier... that for example I could see a whole character stufy built around the experience, how they expanded, the lessons learned, the freedoms gained, the release... much like you describe this thread toss out a subject or a situation... and if you want, we'll both write stream of thought poems.. one moments thoughts or ideas captured... oh as far as being impressed...please don't be.. no need.. truly, what I share in public, is what I feel or have felt..when the words have moved well... they don't always and there is nothing to be impressed with... |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Ah! That sounds fun, and.. no pressure (I typically put too much pressure on myself when writing.) I did this years ago with my brother, and it was great... we`d throw out a topic or idea (challenge? nah.. not so much) and the other would have to write an impromptu poem about it... it was fun, but haven`t done that in quite a while.. Do you find that certain things inspire you at different times... I don`t mean the common themes, or ones we like to return to like old friends. I mean, for instance, like with my carving poem. Now, I have never carved a duck in my life. Nor have I carved my name on pine. The whole account was ficticious. But I had found myself enamored with carving as of late.. the word `carve`... the idea, the implements, techniques, etc etc. So I had to research it a bit to attain a semi-believable poem. Anyhow, what I`m saying is, certain details can just capture us sometimes! . Oh yes... the topic for now... hm, do you want me to just start one & you`ll pull it here and there from that, like taffy? If you don`t have time tonight no big deal; just post whenever. . . They burned the old abandoned Pintner place last week, the one down off 5th and Linden- a practice fire, training the cadets, I guess so we walked out to see it, it wasn`t far, across the barley field a perfect day to do it, grey and wet where last night`s rains had hung around and quite a crowd to watch. . It`s something when that big old house lights up the onlookers all open eyes and mouths upturned faces in the lurid glow tinted magenta. Then the roof surrendered in an ashen crash of heat and smoke and sent the roiling column even higher to mingle with the charcoal lowering sky . Soon the house stood black in silhouette bent cracked ribs against the fire embers smoldered, hissed from water`s kiss it was time to head for home; we turned and linked hands for the journey back. . sorry. i can`t write as well as you impromptu |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
I remember when Hoseys placed burned I'd never seen old logs look like paper dancing in some hell fire he'd brought on no doubt by what the neighbors called his sin I watched as the local volunteers pumped water through the hose till the pumper ran dry and they would disappear run down to Fritz's pond and fill her up then back to fight just so much less of what had been a mans life Cedar shake burns fast and the embers they sent up made me think of fireflies and how on the darkest of nights when the clouds hid moon and the stars weren't strung like barbed wire on the black of sky that they would rise glow bright to the eye and fade I never really knew what Hosey's sin was supposed to have been but I knew the pyre his home became was indeed like I had heard Brother Bill speak of how Hell would be if we didn't repent When I look back I remember that it was just the way of believing and how we were taught the wages of sin are death they say and while I never learned how to rightfully repent what some say are my own wicked ways of asking why or how I know about fire and how it was when when she came into my world and stayed a while and how it was when she left my own walls were like old Hosey's home paper in the wind [This message has been edited by Cpat Hair (09-03-2010 12:04 AM).] |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
now see...as I said, nothing to be impressed by at all... (chuckling) I have to say you picked what to me was an interesting subject ... and so well done in your own offering that I could hardly add... so took it a different way... now.. I understand about carving.. how an idea or a word can inspire.. carving in particular, I have an affinity for. Took it up myself once upon a time, and for a short while carved faces in tree limbs.. I enjoyed the feel of the wood under tool and the smell... enjoyed the act of seeing in the grain or structure of the limb the face that was going to be. Not saying, I was good.. because I wasn't.. I've written about music..and don't play... written about painting or drawing and can't begin to draw or paint... but am amazed by those that do. so I suppose what at the moment inspires is always fodder for metaphor or subject, or just word play... yeah... I understand how even the sound or look of a word can inspire... now it is off to bed for me.. I'm at least two time zones removed from you.. [This message has been edited by Cpat Hair (09-03-2010 12:03 AM).] |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
The items scattered tagged with bits of paper I chose the solid bakeware, rough to the palm though beside them were fine china plates hand painted with hydrangea or small birds too small to be of service, and besides they hid a chalky chip or fracture underneath, so from the busy table of pity trinkets sweating in the afternoon remains of a life, i knew the stone was strong, and would last overlooked the tarnished legacy of the sweets they`d held within their heat paid my fifty cents and they were mine bowls and pans in butter rum hue dark and stained but smooth with use and age I have them still; a better deal i never have found to match my choice so long ago they feed my children now and will feed me, when they are grown and gone |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Aunt Irmas kitchen was a wonderland when you were 5 and she took you there to play on the floor while she cooked for the crew that was out in the field sweating over sweet smelling alfalfa She didn't have any children of her own and she liked to have me around she said so I would end up in her floor with her stepping over my fort of canned corn on her way to the stove where smells from the battered pots rose to permeate the room with an early hunger Before the men came in she made them dust off the hay and wash under the pump that stood just outside the back door and I would hear them laugh then talk about something real low before filing in to sit at her well worn table When everyone had taken their part of porkchops, greens, potato, gravy corn, she'd build two plates for us and lead me into pantry where we would sit on the floor and let our plates rest on boxes We ate there every summer come haying time on their farm until I was big enough to go afield and learn to work with the sun smiling on me instead of her |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Both of those were fantastic... I liked your burning poem better than my own; yes, I know, apples and oranges! Still, yours was more lividly described, with wonderful pace/voice. . . Waking Up . It was in that early drowsy stillness when morning`s grey begins to register against your sleeping lids and you dream of snow or frosted leaves, and fairy scroll on edges of the glass the warmth beside you solid in his rest, though you know the day is quick and coffee hot in heavy mugs is needed now still you let the paralyzing sweetness take your consciousness again pulled under into luscious licorice or diving in a bin of rabbit silk and twist within the sheets contented smile because you know you still have a while... |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
hmmm.... waking up... ok, but ma'am,it is hard to follow you lead here. what you've written is lovely... as for the fire pieces..yes apples and oranges ma'am. Just as the last ones are... apples and oranges... you took the find of bakeware at a sale and turn it into a treasure of memories being made... I took memories and simply described a scene with poetic license... now..waking up.... let's see... In between time and it always seems to be dark when my eyes finally find open and the luxury of a quiet mind is left behind on rumpled sheet yet there is a moment when the not quite of dream is overtaken by the stream of thought and I can bend the will of what I feel to drift a moment of predawn current that always bring me back to gentler times or the moments when waking up was taken as granted just a measure of dust through curved glass marking time and the flow of days upon youth's metered rhyme I'll rise and take my coffee black watch a bit of news that's never good then clear the web of thoughts as I begin to move through another day setting sleep and dreams aside shower, shave, slide the clean smell of cotton over my head arrange the clothes, tie the shoes then sip again the cup of black brew as I great teh in between of night and morning's razor cut sky bleeding red along the fine edge of dawn "Red sky in morning" "Sailors take warning" running across my mind knowing storms rise here in the east with the sun yuck! LOL |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Lol! Don`t you say yuck..! I hereby proclaim that particular word `banned` from Amaryllis`s thread. I liked that, anyway. especially `and the luxury of a quiet mind is left behind on rumpled sheets`... fabulous. . . Hey I am stuck.... halp! feel free to write another, or throw a topic out there, thanks~! heh ~Sharon |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
ah... you see..I thought it so (edited because the word was banned from this thread) that I went in and changed the ending... LOL stuck huh? Well, let's see.. one of my favorite things to weave into words is rain..... so write rain.. any kind, any way, as metaphor, descriptive, as an element within something else... it simply must contain rain... (chuckling) Ron |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Ah... oh I know all about the rain; (Pacific NW and all)... I love it, also... . . He never seemed to mind the wet and the way it found a way along the nape or ankle, didn`t feel the mist against his lip or if he did, enjoyed it still somehow and the smell of wet concrete the glass reflection of the forest as the pale blue boulevard grew shouldered with the crowd of hunched umbrellas beading with the rain forbid a drop of agua should touch a well-trained strand! But he went his way without a hat and the rain massaged his seat of power . .meh! Hahaaa too funny |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
(chuckling) your ending a surpise bit of humor... and perhaps a bit tongue in cheek... Bunched shoulders of cloud stand in glower along the west waiting to march across sedge filled field and rustle the kilts of pine that stand guard along the border dividing long rows of corn from what is left of wild I stand letting the first few drops of rain touch my face as they are bourn on wind and listen to the low grumbled rumbled growl of thunder as it hits my ears and remember how it was to sit along the hem of blue watching waves form on the flesh of water as the slight chill wind gave shudder to shoulders and I had cradled close your bare arms in mine and we watched the far away flashes grow closer A gust lifted my thoughts as it bent stem and limb with rush of warn reminding again how small and frail the thoughts or love can be when measured against the wind and how storms eventually bring rust to tin |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
"the glass reflection of the forest as the pale blue boulevard grew shouldered with the crowd of hunched umbrellas" lovely passage... with great imagery that reminded me of impressionistic paintings I have seen of street scenes.. |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Ok. That was well-nigh perfect... how can I follow that?? Beautiful. I see my mind does not create with the exuberant pace yours can~ I usually take quite a while to carefully choose my words; picking them up, setting them down, knocking and smelling and checking for ripeness; to find the perfect one. You.. are the tree, I guess- where the words come easily, and fresh. |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
LOL oh come now.... it reuses a theme I have written many times... and this is in no way meant to be a comparison or competition. I greatly respect the work of those who pick and chose their words with care.. who edit and refine.. I scribble... and have little respect for what I do as it is just a flow of mind and recycled emotions or thoughts or views or inspire.... I do not write, I scribble scratch the page and let parts of life bleed now and then to page... the last piece.. out of what 5? is the only one that was at my lead. I took any easy one..one I knew I could scribble about andnot have to stretch myself as I did when following your lead... probably unfair of me... and lazy besides... but I in no way ma'am... intended to seem like I was showing off or trying to out do... Perhaps, I should turn the thread back to you... and simply enjoy the things you may chose to share... I enjoyed the back and forth of pieces..the flow of idea and writes.. so I thank you for indulging me.. and for sharing your space for a while. |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Oh no. Cpat... I only meant to compliment I am not feeling it a competition in the least; I enjoy having someone else`s graffiti on these walls beside my own. Please feel free to continue, as will I~! Also... let each author write what they feel, no rules. Sorry for perhaps sounding petulant ~S |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
petulant? NO ma'am.... I worried more and do still that you or others might think I was showing off in some way or playing some sort of ego game... I find I am often inspired by the thought or essence of what others write and try not to use that inspire too often or too much for fear I become a revisionist in people's eyes... taking away from the true talent of the ones who wrote the original piece... I also find I enjoy a back and forth with other writers, who bring to the table their views, their eyes, their words and in turn expand my own. Free association of sorts... that helps raise me out of the rut of my own thoughts or ideas and lets me see more than my limited view. so..I do not intend to be over zealous when I pursue the back and forth of ideas or to change the way others may write. I simply scribble... while others compose. If scribble thoughts come... I may add them then if you do not mind but I will use restraint. (chuckling) Just so I can live in my own skin and not feel I am being obnoxious or a pest. |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
As you wish; I can respect that. As for any others reading these~ they know they are invited to scrawl these walls as much as anyone else =p. Be well~ Amaryllis |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Smile! I am simply very self conscious... and realize that I can come across in ways I do not intend... yes, be well~ Ron |
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Ron
Administrator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-05-19
Posts 8669Michigan, US |
You worry too much, Ron, about what others might think when it is far more important that they DO think. Your presence always helps kindle the latter. |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Agreed! No harm, no foul... (hope I didn`t come off too harsh?!) I just love poetry... the reading, writing, sharing & learning... all of it. Especially with fellow writers Best~ Amaryllis |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
Grinning....See, C? Told ya so. Even Ron agrees with me. chuckling here... |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Ron, Yes sir I am here by the grace you show wandering souls to leave, return, and be accepted. I realize that the many who have welcomed me back time and time again deserve the respect and care I not let my own zealous nature when it comes to words become an irritant. So, I do worry about how I come across and that I not take over someone's thread or poem or in any way make them feel I am being arrogant. I appreciate you words.... understand the generosity with which they are offered and thank you. |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Amaryllis, ma'am, thank you. |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Sunshine.. stop gloating... it doesn't become you :-) |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
I gather still these forgotten bones And carve upon the ribs such poems as might Fit them back to cage where along the vertebrae I pause Three syllables to inscribe as bees now dance within the hollow That was once the marrow of each day And in consecrated vowels lay to rest the soft of O With mumbled prayers I found beneath the mica flakes A glitter they were As was the dawn upon fresh dew Before the sun became too warm and left dry Wood sorrel as it stood along the edge of copse a glimmer of words scribed on wind to rise with fading moon in search of meanings still not written in dust or on this stripped joint of finger left to point towards divinity yet defined blah blah blah.... LOL it wants to go too many ways and is lost to me now...so perhaps I'll come back to it later.. I gather still these forgotten bones And carve upon the ribs such poems as might Fit them back to cage where along the vertebrae I pause Three syllables to inscribe as bees now dance within the hollow That was once the marrow of each day And in consecrated vowels lay to rest the soft of O With mumbled prayers I found beneath the mica flakes A glitter they were As was the dawn upon fresh dew Before the sun became too warm and left dry Wood sorrel as it stood along the edge of copse where in the fade of moon I found cast off the tibia of dreams as it lay un-worded and but a fey outline of what once stood amid the shattered glass of stars Along its length I pressed glyphs as one might in wet clay and listened to wind as it rose to scatter these the early leaves of fall into a rain of premature yellows and brown trying as I was to capture the ends of an in between time as comes when on waking we see both moon and sun Within its narrows lay honey now abandoned but such sweetness I denied blah blah blah.... (chuckling) yes I came back to it... but do not think I did it any favors.... so it will rest again and so will I I gather still scattered forgotten bones cast by turning earth from passing days And carve upon the ribs such poems as might Fit them back to cage where along the vertebrae I pause Three syllables to inscribe as bees now dance within the hollow That was once the marrow of each hour And in consecrated vowels lay to rest the soft of O With mumbled prayers I found beneath mica flakes and clay A glitter they were As was the dawn upon fresh dew Before the sun became too warm and left dry Wood sorrel as it stood along the edge of copse where in the fade of moon I found cast off the tibia of dreams as it was left un-worded and but a fey outline of what once stood amid the shattered glass of stars Along its length I pressed glyphs as one might in wet clay with fingertips and listened to wind as it rose carrying the scatter of early leaves that fall into a rain of premature yellows and brown trying as I was to capture the ends of an in between as comes when on waking we see both moon and sun Within its narrows lay honey now abandoned but such sweetness I denied to taste letting instead the consonants hit back of teeth and swallowed what was left of warmth when in aggregate they spelled faith So little in the lines on mandable of June Did I carve runes to remember ancient spell knowing well it had no hold on time and could not stop the passing days or return the heart of sly starred nights to sigh the tender comma marks on glass in rain that now the meaning's lost to all except in scry of suites when deck is raised then cut and cut again to deal a fotune told Incoplete these fine bones of hand do not span the distance need to hold again the feel of love beneath fingertips yeah, yeah yeah... indeed this one nags at me... and still wants to go too many ways... in part I think because I am reluctant to let it become some cynical rant or say too much of what it might. so again..I will leaveit alone, knowing I have spent more time on it than I would normally consider...and am finding this practice of editing and writing only in moments in spurts so different that I know if it were not done here, I would simply erase and be done.. I gather still these forgotten bones And carve upon the ribs such poems as might Fit them back to cage where along the vertebrae I pause Three syllables to inscribe as bees now dance within the hollow That was once the marrow of each day And in consecrated vowels lay to rest the soft of O With mumbled prayers I found beneath the mica flakes A glitter they were As was the dawn upon fresh dew Before the sun became too warm and left dry Wood sorrel as it stood along the edge of copse where in the fade of moon I found cast off the tibia of dreams as it lay un-worded and but a fey outline of what once stood amid the shattered glass of stars Along its length I pressed glyphs as one might in wet clay and listened to wind as it rose to scatter these the early leaves of fall into a rain of premature yellows and brown trying as I was to capture the ends of an in between time as comes when on waking we see both moon and sun Within its narrows lay honey now abandoned but such sweetness I denied blah blah blah.... (chuckling) yes I came back to it... but do not think I did it any favors.... so it will rest again and so will I I gather still scatter of forgotten bones cast by turning earth from passing days And carve upon the ribs such poems as might Fit them back to cage where along the vertebrae I pause Three syllables to inscribe as bees now dance within the hollow That was once the marrow of each hour And in consecrated vowels lay to rest the soft of O With mumbled prayers I found beneath mica flakes and clay A glitter they were As was the dawn upon fresh dew Before the sun became too warm and left dry Wood sorrel where it stood along the edge of copse and in the fade of moon I had found cast off the tibia of dreams as it was left un-worded Images drawn but a fey outline of what once stood amid the shattered glass of stars Along its length I pressed glyphs as one might in wet clay with fingertips and listened to wind as it rose carrying the scatter of early leaves that fall into a rain of premature yellows and brown trying as I was to capture the ends of an in between as comes when on waking we see both moon and sun Within its narrows lay honey now abandoned but such sweetness I denied to taste letting instead the consonants hit back of teeth and swallowed what was left of warmth when in aggregate they spelled faith So little in the lines on mandable of June Did I carve runes to remember ancient spell knowing well it had no hold on time and could not stop the passing days or return heart of sly starred nights to sigh the tender comma marks on glass in rain so now the meaning's lost to all except in scry of suites when deck is raised then cut and cut again to deal a fotune told Incoplete these fine bones of hand do not span the distance need to hold again the feel of love beneath fingertips or wear a brush of skin along the cheek turned towards now fading sun I gather still these bones and mark them all with passing time ok... note to self... use of repeated theme in opening and begining is not an easy thing to pull off, and often seems to weaken rather than re-enforce the intent... come back yet again and edit the ending and last few lines as they wander off without tie into most of what goes before... Ideas..add references above.... take out completely and sum up the piece with seasonal reference to winter's laying white flesh on the skelaton that remains... forget entirely..lol.. which might indeed be best. OK.... I am with the compromise of this ending content to leave it be... if I still find I am content with it later, I will post it, if a title comes to me... I gather still scatter of forgotten bones cast by turning earth from passing days And carve upon the ribs such poems as might Fit them back to cage where along the vertebrae I pause Three syllables to inscribe as bees now dance within the hollow That was once the marrow of each hour And in consecrated vowels lay to rest the soft of O With mumbled prayers I found beneath mica flakes and clay A glitter they were As was the dawn upon fresh dew Before the sun became too warm and left dry Wood sorrel where it stood along the edge of copse and in the fade of moon I had found cast off the tibia of dreams as it was left un-worded Images drawn but a fey outline of what once stood amid the shattered glass of stars Along its length I pressed glyphs as one might in wet clay with fingertips and listened to wind as it rose carrying the scatter of early leaves that fall into a rain of premature yellows and brown trying as I was to capture the ends of an in between as comes when on waking we see both moon and sun Within its narrows lay honey now abandoned but such sweetness I denied to taste letting instead the consonants hit back of teeth and swallowed what was left of warmth when in aggregate they spelled faith So little in the lines on mandible of June Did I carve runes to remember ancient spell knowing well it had no hold on time and could not stop the passing days or return heart of sly starred nights to sigh the tender comma marks on glass in rain so now the meaning's lost to all except in scry of suites when deck is raised then cut and cut again to deal a fortune told Incomplete these fine bones of hand do not span the distanced need to hold again the feel of love beneath fingertips or wear a brush of skin along the cheek turned towards now fading sun I gather still scatter of forgotten bones Knowing soon that winter comes and all will wear A gown of white that chills My own |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
That`s pretty, with so much texture. . . Along the ragged selvage of the Lewis fir and cedar punctuate steep banks where storm felled trunks lie in velvet wearing moss and lichen green creeps inexorable upon anything stationary if you stand still you think it will trail carpet against your skin. Down the rushing corridor of blue, wet rock and softened bark where the foliage dares to dip a toe, in the secret crevasses and hollows slick with years, you`ll find him intent there, pan in hand filtering the river with swirling sway the gravel oscillates, sparking black and promising of gold . . |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
very nice... blck sands often being gold sands, the lush green of the northwest well captured... I am more than a little impressed... |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Thanks... me hubbins is a gold panner/prospector/sluicer(?)/dredger lol I am always inspired to write of his hobby, but whenever I try it comes out trite; I don`t know why! hah ~Sharon |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
I didn't think this trite... I did think it could have gone on to describe his hands, the wayshoulders bent, the shirt or the close scrutiny of eyes... to add more of his person into the write and maybe explore the "why" inside his search..other than of course the $.. I warned you..I often see back stories to pieces and or series from a single piece where none are intended or planned... you took me so well to the place..your descriptions of green the lushness time worn stone, it all made me see the place, and I then just got a glimpse of the man and wondered what the tie was to him and the green... the tie to the black sand and his search..... |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Ohh am laughing... because of course you caught that.. that`s the same thing that bothers me bout it! Truly I wanted to write more, bring in the man and all about him but my kids needed me lol so... yup, just wrapped it up too quick! lol. I like that your mind sees `series`, continuations, details, etc. when reading. . Thanks for the feedback! Gotta run... fam needs me! Ciao, my good man... ~Sharon |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Ciao m'friend.... perhaps you'll come back to it and flesh it out or think of doing a series on your husband and his prospecting. I think it would make a wonderful treasure for him and your children, perhaps not now, but in time. I can think of no better way to capture who he is who you two are and what family is than to write it through the words of a poet |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Oh I agree! That would be divine... if I ever have the patience, lol! No, truly, I do think that would be a special gift. And I would like to come back & 'finish' that one, above, soon.... *whew, busyyyy weekend!* Best to ya~ Sharon |
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rwood Member Elite
since 2000-02-29
Posts 3793Tennessee |
What a wonderful thread. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed reading you, Amaryllis. Your detail of imagery, texture, sound, color, etc. unbridles the senses/psyche with nature—which you take action with and create emotion, or vice versa, expressed emotions make your surroundings come alive and take flight. And the presences of your human subjects project tenderness but solid honesty—they seem to possess a dreamy quality but they are altogether real, to me. Great reads, all the way. I connect with your need. My need to write is inherent, but it vies heavily with my need to read. There’s just not enough hours in the day!! Thank you, and thank you, too, Ron, for your deeply talented insightful inciting of inspiration. You are both a gift to me today. I’ll be back to add something that Ron stirred in me. He captured me with his poem “Iridescent Blues.” The dragonfly is supposed to be my totem. I’ll see if I can share something when I have more time. Until then, please do keep writing. I’m happy to read. |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Rwood... eager to see what my meager words might have inspired. Knowing the poetess you are, I am certain that they will take the images or words much further than my scribble... |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Thank you so much, rwood... I`m pleased you stopped by to read, and would be thrilled if you added your pen~! And thanks for the kind words about my writing, also Best~ Amaryllis |
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Mysteria
since 2001-03-07
Posts 18328British Columbia, Canada |
When you get Regina to come out and play, you have succeeded in stirring the muses, both of you. I can't wait to see how the dragonfly takes flight. I am also enjoying this thread, and like Regina, I can not find enough hours in my days anymore, so the balance of reading and writing is often out quite a bit. Have fun, ~ Sharon ~ ((*^)) |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Thanks, Sharon~ yes, reading is also a passion of mine! I find I go in streaks; reading almost exclusively, then so with writing, etc. Also, painting will crop up now & then, between times Never a dull moment...!. . Wanted to scrawl a bit here, tonight, again... . . Here you have the grand entrance; the solid door inlaid with leaded glass, framed by boxwood, bougainvilla- and artfully arranged topiary. Step in, onto hand-rubbed brazilian cherry, shining in the natural light, follow now the lush pile of the mashad runner along the soaring hall where the white moulding crowns by ten foot ceilings. Enter the great room, with many windows and where snapping flames fan in the hand-hewn fireplace. Shelves of books and down stuffed armchairs await your leisure. But who sits here, already? See the woman curled within the velvet sofa, in her pearls and prada; ash blonde head now bent within her arms, why do her shoulders; slim as coat hangers, shudder; why the sounds that echo now off paneled walls, hung with oil originals framed in gilt? As if a wounded animal had somehow found it`s way to paradise? . . .ps: This poem NOT autobiographical! Poetic license ok [This message has been edited by Amaryllis (09-06-2010 12:59 PM).] |
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rwood Member Elite
since 2000-02-29
Posts 3793Tennessee |
To the Order of Totem Odonata Somewhere, within the pearl of your wings my name is instinctively written in veins You like to needle me with your neon flit & shimmer, lighting just long enough to show off Did you follow me to Le Rouge? Hovering warm cobblestones, waiting for me to reappear outside the bistro, so you could sense the fresh mint through my skin. How did you find me in the village? Where for a thousand years people have sold their wares, and my eyes told too much as I spied-home one more pair of red shoes. How do you pick me out of a crowd? I—among a roving mass that was moving past The White Places where stone, so plentifully, told of rare polished men. I touched you once, as a girl, among the cattails & reeds of the creek I sat in mud, and felt its coolness speak to me between my fingers. I must have made a pact with you, there on the first day of summer when I fell in love with the sparkle of the sun that was caught in a prism-web of mist across the waters. I knew; moss was to my youth as Emily was--when she penned of death and tombs Lie not, I, too still enough for spore to steal my voice. Aye, You are my wing-quill messenger who is fond of the freckles on my shoulder and the birthmark on my arm. When the days drag on and I seek adventure you are with me, Gypsy-fish, between the sheers of realms and lands unknown. Nymph at heart, naiad perhaps, Arethusa--at times, between the springs and salts, we are of wind & watered earth Pathways, do change. I wear your likeness in silver, when we winter
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Mysteria
since 2001-03-07
Posts 18328British Columbia, Canada |
Boy I don't even know where to start to sing your praises on this one Regina. LOVED IT! As you know, In legend, the dragonfly was a real dragon who offended the gods and was turned into an insect. Despite this apparent setback, the dragonfly transformed herself into a gorgeous and highly capable creature. She is the only flying insect that can hover and make rapid sharp angle turns. Thus, she has become a symbol of tenacity and beauty. I always thought the dragonfly was a perfect symbol for women period! Our family wear our dragonflies with pride, and the older girls all have tattoos on their outside ankle, and some of us chose places only we know where it is. This is a necklace we all have and thought I would show you what a Celtic dragonfly looks like: I can SO relate to this poem, as one or another of us has always commented when we are together and see one, that there goes Nana and Poppy! (Grandparents) I swear those dragonflies will show up when you actually need a sign you are making the right decision. Do you find that? I too wear one all winter and when troubled I touch that thing, and whamo - answer comes! I can not pick out certain passages from this poem, as I love it in its entirety, and wow do I miss your writing. Put that book down once in awhile won't you?  Take care of that brood of yours. Happy Labour Day! |
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Mysteria
since 2001-03-07
Posts 18328British Columbia, Canada |
P.S. Ron good to read you again too, when I get time later will start over on this thread and read the entire thing. |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Regina... that is lovely... truly what I have come to expect from your pen and talent... you should not hide it here but offer it to others..I urge you to post it ma'am. |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
That poem was lovely; dreamy and magical... I enjoyed every word, thanks so much for sharing it! Especially liked being taken into the memory of touching the dragonfly years ago, in the reeds... and your descriptive wing... well, there`s so many places, really, that I loved Fabulous writing.. Sharon, I adore that necklace! Beautiful . Best~ Amaryllis (Sharon2) |
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rwood Member Elite
since 2000-02-29
Posts 3793Tennessee |
Sharon~ Wow...yes, we definitely relate. The odd thing for me is that the dragonflies show up in places they shouldn't be, even unseasonably, at times. And yes, they seem to be messengers of change & clarity to me. I've had them light on me in crowds of people, etc. I've been collecting their likeness for many years and have dragonfly everything, all except for the tattoo. LOL. I'm still waiting for them to come out with non-fading iridescent ink! Haha. Gorgeous silver charm. I have one that's very similar! My hubby just gifted me with a silver & resin dragonfly necklace & earrings. He couldn't have picked a more "Me" set. So, yeah, I'm pretty easy to shop for. Books and dragonflies. Lol. Thanks so much for sharing with me and I'm really happy that the poem connects us. It's an honor to be a "sister of the dragonfly" with you Ron~ Smiles. But this is such a good hideout! Lol. I'm truly happy you approve because I honestly feel my poetic inkwell is rust bucket. But You and Amaryllis inspired me and that's something I cherish. As you wish, poet friend. I'll flit to the open. Much gratitude Sharon2 Your words are gracefully encouraging to me. |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Yes, it is a good hideout... and nice to see the comments as well as see the offerings here... as for inspire... ma'am, the words are in you or you could not find them and write. If in any way the scribbles of mine helped you find them, or them find you..I'm honored. |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Lunch Counter Geography Angela moves like a worried ferret As she pushes pie and 64 trying to hustle tips While wasting nervous motions in back and forth Between orders and knowing nods to the regulars Who come with folded papers and begin to talk To anyone with an ear about how it has all gone downhill And even the crooks we elected can’t be trusted To fix the favors handed out the way they used to I always leave 20% or more on the counter for Angela Because I remember how she told me on a slow day How she lost her husband a few years back and now gives her daughter Who lives next door a part of what she makes, ‘cause single moms Just can’t make it when they work and pay For the babysitting and rent In return, when I walk in, she always has a glass of water waiting And a copy of the local for me to read then recites the specials to me Even though she knows I’ll probably just have soup Last Tuesday she dropped my bowl in front of me And instead of retreating back to fidget with wrapping silverware Up in paper napkins and lining them up like so many rows Of white three part sardines She asked me where I was from, and waited tentatively to see If I was going to scowl or mumble some answer that she wouldn’t understand I laughed And told her in general terms that I was from further south than here Then turned the question back and asked if she was from “here” She smiled and began to talk, Ignoring and forgetting for a few moments the nervous tic of doing nothing As she told me how she came from further east and only settled here When her husband who was Navy bound brought her back To be closer to his family, but she had missed something then Of the way elbows got jostled in crowds on the train And how she remembered hats Such wonderful hats she’d worn back when she’d turned the eyes Of those young men who in their own fedoras were playing grown up With their pipes and ties as they waited to shuffle onto Their clerical paid holiday by the shore I smiled and listened as I touched the spoon to broth And wondered why she chose to tell me She finished talking about the same time I finished my soup So I grinned at her with a nod of head and told her I was sure She had turned a lot of heads in her day And put enough on the counter to cover the meal and her tip She smiled as she picked up the money And said as she turned “You’re not from around here” [This message has been edited by Cpat Hair (09-09-2010 04:13 PM).] |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Loved that, Ron... so genuine; a piquant observation, and we are able to see through the eyes of both Angela and the N. Love the colloquial voice, also. . I`ve tried to write twice now, in the past two days... my muse seems to be MIA but she will return, I`m sure of it . Best~ Sharon |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
I see you found your muse...and your offering was indeed one of merit.. my own muse seems at present to be watching the fern turn yellow and the clouds slump their shoulders and stay still as it rains.. |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Yet, I hear her still, in your words, Ron . . . Oh, I know you want the boy to leap into the chain mail of young adulthood, yes but why the wild river where bedrock hides the bones of presumptuousness turning bisque within the olive silt why the granite mandible jutting 20 feet into the day where these browned and glistening acolytes of manhood jump and shove and bandy about the filthy slang of fear; why the silver`d eye of competition, why the leap into the shocking air? While the indifferent river rushes to the Columbia and on into the sea? |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
ah... indeed that is lovely.. in language and imagery as well as the content.. the river..oh how she has been mistress and ghost that seems to haunt.... This finger of water grasps the edges of the Blue carressing the margins of her bed then mixing the silt of limestone upland with the darker valley loam when the rains come and she in her lower voice moans against the sandstone taking for her own the wear of grain to polish smooth sharpest edge but when the calm of summer finds her languid she takes introspect and those who might court the favor of warm wet nights and dew she graces with the touch of whisper telling tales so made of words that lie beneath the sand descrbing how the calf and thigh of time stepped deep within eroded pools she left behind |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
oops* be right back.. i`m such a luddite; heh. Trying to mess with my profile , agh lol . Will try one more thing. ~A |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Agh! never mind. Sorry `bout all this rambling... ~A [This message has been edited by Amaryllis (09-13-2010 01:48 PM).] |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
(chuckling) this thread was for rambling wasn't it? so why apologize? |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Petr cried wolf too often And the tale brought to word by Brother Grimm Borrowed from the steppes a cautionary swirl of snow Adding drama to the forest of Black where darkness lies at noon But for the few clearings an axe man may have made Dodging scattered bones left long ago from Rome A hovel and her voice of aged wine Brought warmth to a colder night when fire was welcome sight To tired eyes and weary legs having trampled far to find Her story told without rhyme or metered pause But the same ablaze within wizened eyes Wilhelm made his notes upon the page Scribbling in the parts of other tales he had been told Knowing that the snow outside was not deep enough yet to hide The path that led deeper still into the side of life he thought In time upon the once to own as his write But lost within the space of vowels when the beauty Had slept too long and left only the thin notes Of a pipers song to lead such mice and children To another end of pantheon The hag made swift the sign of cutting throat And Wilhelm felt his own constrict as caught up in her verbs He forgot the scribe and took to heart the terms used Describing doom as the cackled laughter from her lips Relished in his small squirm “Would you stay the night good sir?” She asked as she poured another glass “Or would you venture out this night upon the path that leads Through such dark and weathered woods?" He listened to the howl of wind against the limbs And shuddered at his walk to come and answered her with small coin “I must venture on” to which she simply shrugged and sipped her wine then offered up to him with sly of eye "There was a time..." and so another story began amid the flicker of warmth hearth gave and the guttered flame of candles till dawn |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Ah, a cautionary tale; how we can become lost even while indoors... loved it, Ron~ . *putting together another little work; will post when kids are off on bus . ~S |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Fable, Myth and Fairy Tale These bones are but the silt that collects in crevices of stone And flesh is long decomposed to feed the worms Yet we danced as demi-gods among the pantheons Letting hearts and souls be joined to cautionary tales Of heroic deed or the fail that came When wax might melt against the sun Or too often the cry of wolf ran round Filial they are now told these fables old But lust and flesh had hold and now lies reflected In still pool below the rush of falls Where iris and cat tail mix against the edge as home For red wing song in entreat “where’s the mate my love” “what tales they told when we were young” It’s sung to sun, then whispered upon the calm To lie still upon the skin of water for those who hear The clavicle bears weight of verbs as parted from the sinew of words It is bleached an antiseptic white upon the page Then folded as one would for child into a craft That bobs upon ripples formed in times when sighs Or the touch of skin was fire to be stolen from the gods As jealous eyes made storms to rage upon the sea Or batter top of hill with trilled streaks of lightening Followed by a rumbled growl, green for all in envy of owning more Smooth this eroded silt of song lays deep within the stone For the few and lucky ones to sieve through in search of some golden hue That might dust the wings of hope’s angel or dress the shoulders bared In some intimate command of love Shared in Fairy Tale Such Myth is born among the raucous sound of what was When carried down to settle slow within the spaces left as we were gone |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Acta Est Fabula it was always disappointing to wrench your hand from the parent`s grip patter down the heliotrope hallways past the stink and sweat and sawdust and peer from behind some sparkled hanging leotards to where the clowns, exhausted, lounged having smokes and taking turns at the chipped mirror removing the greasepaint from wrinkled skin how hollow their eyes would look, how yellow in the teeth and how feral the expression once the smile washed away. Once you looked behind the puppeteer`s drapes moved the heavy claret velvet aside with one tiny hand and saw the prop, the sullen stagehands work the strings and levers; saw the lights that if the angle worked, could make you cry or scream with laughter; oh you were angry then for the manipulations, easy as breathing and for what never could be the same; you grew and changed, but still that snicking sound of the marionette following its constant grin a terminal reminder how the fantasy always supercedes and reality a dip in stagnant water cold, and rearranging to the senses |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
oh~~~ indeed intense and speaks to disallusioned ideal or ideas ..perhaps of coming to age...or the betrayal of the illusions that are intent... very very nicely done ma'am.... one worthy a share to broader audiance and keeping for your own.... very nice writing...indeed |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Thank you~ I find myself surprised sometimes at the dark undernote that comes up through some of my work; as I`m not overtly feeling that way; as you said... `it comes out in words...` . Best~ S |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Life is full of undertones..grey or darker, compromise and realities seem to always shade the "ideals" to a different hue. For children, growing up and becoming aware that life has its pain and dissapointments is in and of itself a darker tone...a loss of innocence and to some degree a belief perhaps in magic. NOthing says those tones won't come out...they should in fact come out if we are aware of the reality around us... the words find us, and sometimes the things we aren't thinking about find their way to the fabric of what ever we weave.... the piece is powerful..and very well done ma'am... and it is not overly dark, but to me paints a very real metaphor for a lot of things. |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Thanks Ron, that means lot, since I worry so over too much `telling not showing` in my poetry, but then don`t want to make it too abstract, either... May I ask a favor? Do you often like to revise/receive critique on your works? I do... and was hoping if there were any glaring or jarring parts to my poems, that you feel free to mention them. I`m always willing to look at my poem objectively; and never become hurt or angered. I value anothers` eyes; often they will catch things that I miss. Maybe I could just mention `critique, plz?` on the ones I wish help with? If you would want to, that is. Thanks a bundle! Best~ Sharon |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
I'm happy to offer what I can.... I'm not sure how to explain, but here goes... so often to me a piece is written with the sound of it in my head. Maybe not the words to begin with, but the sound of it, the tone, the rythm, the pauses... changing lines in a piece is often hard for me unless I preserve that intended sound. For others, and I'll include myself sometimes....the intent of the piece has to be understood to know if the language or imagery is effective. I say all that simply to try and explain, that if I offer something to you for thought, understand that it is just that, for thought... I tend to write one way, while others write differently...and I never want to impose the way I hear or read on others.. so yes... I would be happy to offer what I can...but it helps if you also let me know what it is that you aren't happy with if... and it is always an if... you know. :-) |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Grimm Tale: Catching Moths “When” Wilhelm thought without malice “Did it all begin?” This gathering of tales and putting to scribe Such cautions with their underlying hide of love or lust Told since dust became the currency of time and all the beauties Had found beasts to haunt night’s bed of calla While children in an innocent greed became the meal For outcasts personified in real “Sort them out” his habits said as with pen in hand He wrote fine script upon the page to blend archaic with new Then sip the brew as descriptions grew grotesquely raw To be scratched out of drafted tome and softened With terms vague “ To close my eyes and return” his heart sighed To once upon a time when the princess eyed a bard Unsettling the hymns he would sing of piety and grace As he eyed the lace beneath her gown and knew Underneath it all her chest rose and fell with breath Drawn not to threaten buttons close or in offer of a view As comes in candle light and the moan of pleasure spent “I must pause” he spoke to the shadowed room And looked upon the hearth at embers fallen from the log As she came back to him once more And he felt for just a little while the warmth of then “Once upon a time, in a land far away” he began as the pen again slipped over white “There was a young princess with great beauty Who was courted by a frog” He smiled to no one As he snatched quickly at a passing moth |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
How fascinating... you write/compose your work in such a total departure from what I am familiar with! Kind of like synesthesia~? `Hearing` the poem before you even choose words... wow. Myself, it goes something like this: (and maybe much more boring, but it works): 1, I am smitten with an idea, be it a word, an image, a concept, whatever. Poem begins to rattle around upstairs. 2, I work a rough draft~ using the first words that come, get the poem out & on to paper. 3, revision~ here I begin to play with sonics, word choice, language, line-break, etc... usually spending the most time here in this process (and, for me, it`s the most fun.) If I hit upon a better metaphor, or a way to condense & tighten the piece, more interseting word choice; it will all be done at this phase. Here I will choose a title, too. Occasionally I like to ask for help and critique at this stage, also. If I don`t plan to submit it to a print magazine, I may put it up on the internet at this phase, also. (Am starting a blog, to compile my web poetry.) And 4, polishing... making sure spelling, grammar, syntax, and punctuation are all in place. Well, that`s it in a nutshell! . Anyhow, I really adore the poem you shared above: it is wistful, tender,.. you truly do have a gift, unique to yourself, Ron. Thanks for sharing it. . Best to you~ Sharon |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
How fascinating... you write/compose your work in such a total departure from what I am familiar with! Kind of like synesthesia~? `Hearing` the poem before you even choose words... wow. Myself, it goes something like this: (and maybe much more boring, but it works): 1, I am smitten with an idea, be it a word, an image, a concept, whatever. Poem begins to rattle around upstairs. 2, I work a rough draft~ using the first words that come, get the poem out & on to paper. 3, revision~ here I begin to play with sonics, word choice, language, line-break, etc... usually spending the most time here in this process (and, for me, it`s the most fun.) If I hit upon a better metaphor, or a way to condense & tighten the piece, more interseting word choice; it will all be done at this phase. Here I will choose a title, too. Occasionally I like to ask for help and critique at this stage, also. If I don`t plan to submit it to a print magazine, I may put it up on the internet at this phase, also. (Am starting a blog, to compile my web poetry.) And 4, polishing... making sure spelling, grammar, syntax, and punctuation are all in place. Well, that`s it in a nutshell! . Anyhow, I really adore the poem you shared above: it is wistful, tender,.. you truly do have a gift, unique to yourself, Ron. Thanks for sharing it. . Best to you~ Sharon |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Yes, I`ve put the poem up on Open Poetry, will see if it`s too gritty for the public tastes or not! . See you~ Sharon [This message has been edited by Ron (09-16-2010 10:51 AM).] |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
I have comments to add..in reply to what you said in your message , but another oddity of mine is that there are times I like to think about what I am going to say... :-) as for your poem being too gritty..LOL if it is, then it is time they skins got a bit thicker and people read better... it is in fine taste for the public, even if they don't et know it... LOL I know..I have read much darker on the board... |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Thank you... I know, life is not all sweetness and light~! :p lol . And no worries; I never expect a reply, much less expect it instantly ... most of us need time to gather our thoughts.. There is a showing on our home today; I have to get off the internet and get this place gleaming. Fun, since I`m still feeling under the weather. Ah well, maybe this will be the buyer~? That would make it all worth it!. Best~ Sharon . ps: thank you, RonC, for helping clear up my mess-up on this thread! Much appreciated.~S |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
I think .. my explanation is somewhat incomplete.. LOL you listed the steps, and for me...it may be an image or a word or an emotion that rattles around inside my head for a while....but not really the words to the piece.. when the "sound" or "tone" of the piece has gelled inside, then the words are just there to fit... still not a good explanation.... but, when a piece seems choppy to me or forced..it may get written, but it doesn't feel right and I am rarely satisfied. I have ot hear the tone almost as if it were a color or a musical note and what ever the idea or word or emotion or even tie to a story line has to fit that, or it isn't right... hmmmm...... perhaps I should hush...I think I am sounding more and more crazy as I try to make it sound more and more sane.. LOL |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Itinerate Thoughts ( Grimm Tale) Wilhelm looked down the dusty road Letting his eyes lose focus as he thought of her And felt within some small part curled up inside that cherished Brought to mind the epiphany he’d had when all the children’s tales Had gelled within the life he lived and sparked that part of soul Connected to his heart “How many nights?” he wondered as he walked “Have I sat upon the hearth to listen to the whispered words Seeing threads connect the then to now and felt them tug At rabbit holed dreams or the fairy tale yet born?” The sun had no worried eyes or sweat upon its brow And each wisp of dust that rose from path cared not If it settled where it was or somewhere on the wind it found That thorns grew ripe on brambles protected crown Guarding young virtue or the fates yet found In some woman’s heart So foot follows foot along the trail and minutes to days To moons month passing found one flute played To be much the same as the symphony of warning That rumbled as a low curse in the throat of crone or vowel As it hissed the cautionary tale or the way the drums When played strong shook marrow in the bone “Oh, breathe in me” he whispered to the wind “and let some movement of this heat find rest within What I have packed in careful folds and the words as syntax begat When I was cold” “The shade… and pause…” “For I must capture in a moments scribe just how when hope resides Beneath the ink and yet within the verbs turned noun When I remember how it felt As once upon a time the arc of her in meld met the map of me” Two trails where wheels have formed the bare And eyes a focus on another tale to tell For children who may never hear the all of why it’s told While in the distance still unseen Bells toll the hours spent On dusty roads and in the thoughts Of her |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Lovely... your series are an endless fascination! Are these all prior works? (Jealous if you are writing them off the cuff lol) . And don`t worry, you sound quite sane, in my view! lol I suppose it`s like a magician... never explain the trick behind the magic... it just- is. . Showing went well yesterday, thankfully. Haven`t had time to write until now. My hubby`s truck went on the fritz so he took the fam. rig...am home today... is quiet here, perfect time for a poem to be born, I hope... . Best~ S |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
no they aren't prior works... not composed on the page, but on the laptop then put in here.. and nothing to be jealous of. Some would say I am.... intense when I grab hold of an idea or series and they often come one after the other then they will dry up and i may or may not pick it up later... the Grimm series, is one I have visited before, but in a more abstract and explicit way... these come from the idea of how the stories might have been inspired if Wilhelm had written them as metaphor for what was going on around him and stories he had heard... I hope the showing turns into an offer on your house.... of course I wish for you and yours the best ma'am. |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Edits to a Tale ( Grimm Tale) “ What monsters are these?” Wilhelm asked the wind While it turned the loose pages into a disorder he had just undone As the fading hues of sky gave way to the blacker ink That held pinpricked bits of light too dim to think in sum That they held more of day than day itself but too far they stood And were relegated to the night and eyes that might see If they braved the road or forest path “I don’t know where to begin” He mused and stretched a hand In reach of one not there but in the dream of other land Knowing that to feel the fingertips upon his own Would help him conjugate the verbs colored warm And perhaps he’d find the pen “How cruel the story line” he whispered as his shoulders bunched In the lift of words from memory to lay them heavy on the white With thick long strokes of indigo to mar page As the wind rustled sheaves by the edges yet dry To rearrange the beginning and the middle end with colder eyes Upon the limbs left exposed to early chill that threatened frost In untimely kill of green to birth the grey that comes With winter’s chill “Redemption lies in faith?” he queried to the one not there “Or is it a delusion to believe in more than the logic of real?” Weighted against the open windows breathe Manuscript in ordered pieces sat stacked on polished wood While in a flourish of quill he began the story line again “Once upon a time there was a young girl who lived in a far away land” He paused and laid down the pen then whispered to the flickered light “What monsters these indeed, Are distance and time, contrived to keep apart the hearts so bound” “I am lost it seems within the maze of wind And these thoughts I have Of her” |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Six months after surgery, the scar still twists his smile, though he does not feel it anymore . . he wants, for his birthday a bike, (bright red), and legos, comics, games and candy, wants a party . . I hear the rest, silent: he wants friends at the party boys to wrestle and be loud, wants to be as cool, as cool- wants a day without restraint and classmates without eyes |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
touching piece....and even if factual speaaks to the way we all may want something behind what we say we want... a broader need for acceptance needed by all of us to some degree or other, and how as people we can't help but notice differences... being different isn't always easy.... whether by choice or by circumstances. Often the thing we want most...is for thingss to be as they once were or the way we imagine them to be.... always a pleasure ma'am... to read your offerings |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
It has come by this tilt of axis To late September and the clouds have changed Too the sky and its blue a hue cleared some how Of June’s haze and the heavy heat that was July Trees once grand green in shades cool Ignite upon the ends with false warmth to fool the eyes While morning cool pretends it is middle day November And should be relished as kind Yet wind begins to carry the errant early orange In warning of the coming grey dawns But it is the light that is truest Being neither judgmental in harsh glare That finds no mercy nor wan and near sighted To show only the outlines of arcs drifted white That blends the senses into a terminus focused Within the flicker of flame Late September and I see How lies the paths through once green not yet Absolved of footsteps and the deceptions hearts bring To the journey possessed within stories told as fable Of once upon a time or ever afters I see clear the color and hue once tender green Survive in tangled winds begin To release their grip On dreams |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
I am enamored with that poem, above... it is so beautiful... I want to re-read and digest it when I have more time, as you probably read on the Poetry board, I am so busy and distracted (death in the family.) Cannot wait to get back to poetry! Thanks for understanding... and for this poem, too. It brightens my day! Best to you~ Amaryllis |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
I am truly sorry to hear about the death in your family... my condolances and prayers to you and yours ma'am.... |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Let lay the leavened dreams For fear if disturbed they fall In times of fairy tale the tailor took 7 in one blow And hemmed himself into a corner where the cuff of hand Would destroy small pride if not the bones beneath While a baker down the road sold his wares on street With calls of hot crossed delight I rumpled pillow and tried to close my eyes But Grimm tales and one darker still mixed within my mind As I thought how concise the woe described befell 2 AM Yet smothered the dim light of moon with pregnant cloud As sounds of the runnelled rain played its hiss on panes Bread rises in fragile form Capturing the exhale of living air and when it rains Is slow to breathe 4 AM and I doze To thoughts of tailors and loaves as jumbled dreams Knowing dawn will be hidden by cloud And rain |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
The leftover puddle in the parking lot Looks like a fat “L” and when I looked in it as I passed I saw it dissected the sky within its shallows Laying open the veins of clouds that carried rain Just a few hours ago The morning had already bled across the horizon And crimson had touched to tops of hills As the sun gave up reluctance for resentment But in truth I couldn’t tell if the colors came from the top of maple Now wearing the bright ball dress it prepares each year To greet the eve of all hallows Or if the reflection of lingering rain in the distance Was bending light to low lengths As if blood shot the rise was simply staring After too many days of grey I stepped around the puddle Taking care not to disturb the quiet skin Out of fear that like so many things I might drown in its depths Or be caught upon the broken parts Left behind |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Days tumble by, now on the arctic breath of summer's slow demise black linen against paling skin and flax-wheat hair held still by silken black but clear the tear on its chinward journey. |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
IN victorian times, when there was a death, the mirrors were covered and the clocks stopped... your piece here reminded me of that.... and of this... W. H. Auden Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good. |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Perfect reply, Cpat... Auden said it much better than I... And thank you for your offerings here, they are fascinating reads and oh I wish I had more time lately~! So much out-of-town company, etc. Hoping all is well with you... cannot wait to get back to poetry.Best~ Amaryllis |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
The span between thumb and tip of little finger for my hand can not cover the distance between the soft round sound of vowels and the gap as exists from one precipice of reality to the dreams of fairy tale yet It fits well on the clavicle and if it would soothe the raw day then it might rest contently as connection between your thoughts so hidden within the parsecs of time and the now I see you struggle to hold in delicate balance Perhaps no divine spark is pictured and all that exists beyond the moment is the one to follow but I believe in touch and how it can heal the hole left in us all when as leaves we turned shades of winter and fell from some grace or the fingertips of broken ends Would I that the distance were not so great and the fall so filled with cold |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Birch grow here Covering the scars and what remains of ravaged hills Where the pick and track pulled rich dark seams From between harder stone to feed the furnaces That fired a nation born The big ones are gone But it is said that once you could find Bare stripped bones where with skin torn They had made the fragile craft natives used For some wounds never heal Still, This copse that forms in lines along the rubble Stands with trembling leaves now burned by Autumns wind And the reflection of their spines grows crooked on waves When dawn Comes with bloodshot eyes to this valley Higher on the slopes Hardwoods stand to fend off the hands of greed But find their fellows felled for lumber drawn to need Once for ships, then for sleepers, and now for paper mill As we learned to read and speak, for we were never still In the crease of stone she flows Changed by time and the ready hand of man to tame The wild he doesn’t understand but sees as the means To cleanse the alleys and the flush from ore The wealth man seeks So the stories told But today what's left are birch along the stone [This message has been edited by Cpat Hair (10-12-2010 06:44 AM).] |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
Here the birch grow And when dry, holds upturned palms in supplication Begging alms of rain from unseeing eyes While below In last year’s fall Black beetles glisten along the back as they Scurry beneath the mould with whispered clicks Calling Charon to his ferry So some believe It would be fitting to me For my last journey to be that across the river And I wonder if there the trees might have bleached white spine As the birch do here Or do they stand as ash on ash until the wind Sweeps them from the root to air Only to be formed anew when midnight’s ghouls Dance bare skinned taunt of sins To the newly arrived Still, I see beauty in the birch and in the beetle’s homely harangue Knowing they fit well into the myths written on page As they add a subtle elegance to the rubble Where rooted They soften our rape of hills and the ravage of stone Left behind when the seeking of fortunes and Mortality was bought with the backs of immigrants And those who simply wished to survive One more day to drink a pint, and pay the ladies Down at Adeline’s for a few moments of skin In hopes of softening the beetle’s click When it came for them Unworried as they were about the fare I’m not from here And can only see the birch and higher on the flank of hill The hardwood that have filled in the scars Not knowing of the families fed or lives changed When the pay from mines or timber stands bought futures Undreamed in other lands So how can I condemn The copse of birch with upturned palms Or the beetle’s call Beneath? |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Oh these are beautiful... how I wish I had time to inhale poetry the way I did this past summer~! I am here, popping in now and then... but haven't written anything of substance for weeks. I'm sure it will swing my way again soon. Thanks for patience and for the gems you've studded along this thread! Best to you~ Sharon |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Dawn, and the wind is penitent after a night`s violence through the spaces between bare limbs. A graphite sky weighs perilous, too exhausted for rain, knowing there`s always tomorrow. A rakish Jay springs in the elder branches, hops to the rain-dark mulch and scatters timid chickadees in bursts of monochrome, his jewel-blue a welcome vision for winter-weary eyes. |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
very nice ma'am... you capture the scene and add a splash of colour. It is early though...for winter weary eyes. We have much yet to see of stark grey limbs, gunmetal skies, and cold winds... truly nice to read you again... |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Thank you... I did think it early to paint it so December (or February), yet the stripped sensibility of winter spoke to the metaphor better than Fall did... as the dearth of (for me) finally lifts, and I find I at last have a moment or two to write... and visit these blue pages... plus, it truly has been grey/raining/windstorming here lately, which has stolen the greater part of the color from the limbs, leaving Mr. Jay a study in aqua saturation in a black & white palette outside my window. Oh, it`s great to be `back!` Best to you~ A |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
your metaphor works well and writing is not limited to "timely" use of seasons to express the intent... the fact I was moved to speak to the weary being early, simply says you succeeded in drawing me in as a reader to care and express concern for the author... which should tell you your metaphor works well Yes, the Jay can bring a bring moment of colour, but I have often found their greedy and bullying ways at times unsettling as they chase away the monchrome titmous or chickadee... all within the cycle of what is... but I have always found myself rooting for the plain and often under appreciated.. lol |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Thanks for the kind words~ yes, I have to agree re: the BlueJay`s nature! Today I focused on his redeeming qualities (color, flashiness) and downplayed his boorishness lol Typically they are the pest around the feeder.. Finding poems that were stoppered-up crowding at the door... wonderful, since I`d wondered where they `d gone! Time for writing.  . . She steps into the sequined skirt, pulls a purple blouse over the softer, golden silk of hair, drapes the red-fringed shawl about slim shoulders, slides the opal, zircon rings upon small fingers, clips the hoops, faux pricelessness tight unto the pink, inviolate ears. Her gypsy-grin comes gradual, as the kohl and turquoise lids lift in surprise- so wrong against the clear glass of her innocent eye; spakle, spangle, mystery- my daughter, twelve, tries the costume on... bewitched by the quasi-woman in the mirror. |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
oh~~ tender and well captured... an age of innocence dressed in bright colours and the surprise of how transformed by costume we become someone else... very nice!! |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Thank you... yes, the moment became poignant when I realized a lot more was going on as she spied her face in full makeup (she doesn`t ever wear it yet)... the pre-teen awakening to the magic of being a woman, and all that entails... had a lump in my throat, why couldn`t she have wanted to be a fairy or princess again? Because, Mother, she is growing up. (gulp.) |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
(chuckling) yes mom.. children do that, and they go through all the things young women do, or young men. It is both a source of uncertainty and of joy... of anguish and pride... it is never easy to let go, we always in some way want them to be the innocent they once were and we want so badly to protect them from all the world's knocks and dings, dangers and damnations.. but Mom~~ as long as she has you and knows she can come to you, she'll be ok you know~~ |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Thanks for the vote of confidence! My children are a wellspring of poetic idea. But I suppose all of life is, really. |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
yes, I suppose life is... anyone or anything that moves us can also move the words inside us to try and capture the emotions or to chronicle the times... it says a lot about who you are that your children are a wellspring of inspiration. It speaks clearly of your heart and the love you have for them and family. I certainly enjoy reading the results..... |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
For the days I observed . . When the insistent clatter of obligation sent my feet on a charleston of hurry or rattled a morse of annoyance and wrapped the ends of the tired day in flannel exhaustion, sometimes I`d find that quiet hour slipped sideways into the evening like the backward book you hope to hide among the blaring bindings, only the gilt edges of page to tilt and glint from the shelves- it`s then I`d walk among the birch and trail wistful fingers along the paper bark, content to merely pass silent here, breathing the sentinel magic among the rows, a day and then I`d know they`d stay forever- my footsteps light, on a carpet of autumn... so quiet here, a hushed magnificence- even as the far-off thrush echoed my name, my name |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
beautiful ma'am... we find peace where we look |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Rip . . Strange how it bobs to the surface again- I thought I`d ripped the past to shreds, a confetti of soft white edges, pellets of color and time where only an eye or an unguarded smile winks in the wreck of our history; never regretful, no- this rage of justice, hunted every snapshot of our youth- it felt good to do this, good to grasp the white borders and pull apart that sanctimonious blonde, separate her unlined grin, undo the arrogant beauty, ignorant eyes- mince the nubile form of tawny promise- the print he liked to stare at for hours, not knowing how the accusation in his eyes slammed like a sour wave when he`d look up. . But there, I see a shadow of the years, grin mockingly from his top dresser drawer- stupid jezebel, why won`t you go, leave me to surrender to time; I made peace with the crow`s feet, the padding each child`s legacy on my thighs, silver striae I`m proud to carry on the stomach, wonder of a woman- where innocence once grew, beneath my heart- could you claim such, idiotic girl? No, your only magic is a glamour in the foolish eyes of men, where is your substance, wrapped in glitter? You`ve no idea all you will become. . |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
"leave me to surrender to time;" intense write ma'am.... very well done... the crux I see in the line above, one not easily forged when the fires that burn heat the outside and not the in... love to read you.... and find it amazing how your words paint the images |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Thank you, sir... funny, though I submit some of the better writing is born of intense emotion, I feel a silly urge to apologize to the world for my anger, which is so apparant in that piece... but I will not, as that would just be a paste of propriety over the truth. I should have entitled it `mid-life crisis`... lol! Thanks for reading me, and for your words. |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
don 't you dare apologize.... if you did I would certainly never forgive you for doing so.. your piece is honest and the anger natural. I don't think it is a mid life crisis, but a mid life passage we all endure often in many forms and many times.... yes, intensity does in my opinion often spur the most eloquent passages and fuels the words... complacency, is a slow death... I do truly enjoy reading you.... and if the author is not honest, then one has to ask what is there to enjoy? |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Quite so! Glad I didn`t, then... I`m sure these emtions are universal... for some reason I was thinking only women would relate, but of course men must go through a similar forge... hoping the metaphor carries through and we emerge stronger~? =p lol Nobody told me this about the 40`s... Maybe 50`s will be better...lol! |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
easier? not sure... the 50's bring on their own set of retrospective looks and challenges.... we're all vain to some degree or the other...and vanity is one of those things that we always find poking us, often upturning a perfectly wonderful thought and spilling it out of where we thought we had it carefully stowed.... age does bring with it changes to our looks, our energy, our introspections... the 40's aren't so bad...if you stay grounded in what is important and what you have, rather than what you were... it old and shopworn... but it is like good wine, and gets better, if you let it age properly ma'am... |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Well said, my good man. Thank you. I have a lot of blessings to focus upon! Truly.Best~ A |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
She`s So Nice, So Friendly . . it was one of those languid hours the type of evening you can`t quite recall years on, though you didn`t mind losing a minute here, an afternoon there, for the chance to ease your fingers beneath the stranglehold and catch a sweet breath of sanity... when the phone`s whine pursed your lips in the most magnetic part of the warm novel in your hands well, you would have ignored it, let it be just a distant contrail of awareness but he answered it, now didn`t he yes, and so you sighed, put down the book, said hello, with a chalcedony smile and a heart of early mulberry when they`re green and bitter but oh so pretty on the tree |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
(chuckling) may I never be compared to mulberry you captured a moment and a feel, a duty and the underlying desire to have simply ignored.... well done as always ma'am... your writes of late take on more of the subtle and yet vivid descriptives... enjoying! |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Lol! Thanks... yeah, sometime`s I`m fascinated by the masks we wear, and how well they work at times... really, I`m not a bitter ol` gal, but just writing it all, the salt and the sugar in the raw... in my way Thanks for reading me. It is a compliment. |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
"What`s wrong, love?" his thumb blesses the arch beneath my eye, where the skin is thin and collects tears like a baptismal. I want his touch to burn and steam these fears, lift them to the air, the way my grandmother`s hands smoothed soaked cotton under the iron, hiss and spit, then heated curls- in an arabesque above the crisping fabric. "It`s nothing"- this is what we say when the gravid weight of womanhood presses hard the wisdom years have earned, slapped the practiced patience from the bosom, what can he know of this? The secret pull of tides, within my blood? The ebb and swell of transparencies, helpless in the turn, the tumble- at times incendiary, then the cold- I want his touch to brand, but it is gone. |
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rwood Member Elite
since 2000-02-29
Posts 3793Tennessee |
Amaryillis~ Your last piece reached right in to me and left its mark. The way you said what you said with such depth and few words--you speak the language I so revere. Amen & thank you for writing. |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Thank you so much, Regina (if I may) That`s what we want, as writers, eh? To grab the reader... yes! I appreciate your comment immensely~~ . Best to you~ Amaryllis (Sharon) |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
quote: Young lady... you are wise against your years. Brava! |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Thank you, Sunshine Wish I were blissfully ignorant, at times.. lol. Best~ A |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
*Going to scribble here, as I`ve made enough of a nuisance of myself on the boards... lol . . Doctor could you help me no, it doesn`t ache except when I bite my tongue or chew my lip in desire see, just here, where the eye teeth press longer, sharper, every day I used to be able to conceal their pointed agression, but now each week brings fresh blood and wounds unintended why does their glossed enamel peek through my speaking mouth shiny knives of ivory flashing beneath my smile so I must laugh behind my palms that the fangs won`t show oh help if you can, to smooth or file, maybe pull them from me or better yet, just dress them up in sweetly rounded caps so innocent beautiful again, and so unthreatening [This message has been edited by Amaryllis (11-09-2010 05:47 PM).] |
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Cpat Hair
since 2001-06-05
Posts 11793 |
OK..I like the concept... but struggle a bit with the flow. Doctor could you help me? no, it doesn`t ache except when I bite my tongue or chew my lip in desire see,just here, where the eye teeth press I used to be able to conceal their pointed agression, but now each week brings fresh blood and wounds unintended why does their glossed enamel peek through my speaking mouth? These shiny knives of ivory flashing beneath my smile have forced my smile behind palms that they won`t show (why?) ( fear, hurt, or propensity to cut even in a smile?) oh help if you can, (you begin by asking Dr to help, then offer here the answers not as questions but as solutions perhaps...) Can you not help smooth or file, maybe pull them from me or better yet, can you dress them up in sweetly rounded caps so innocent beautiful again, and so unthreatening? (conclusion?) Or must they tear apart the lips and all they touch? just thoughts..... I like the concept and the underlying metaphors. |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Thank you SO much, Ron~! I sure appreciate the help, your eyes, and your thoughts... that means a lot. Your points are valid and interesting... I`ll play with this, maybe post up a revision when I think it`s tighter. This particular one was written `off the cuff`, as opposed to those I`ve sweated over. The metaphor may be tired. And I appreciate your letting me know that the flow stutters... yes, I`ll be monkeying with it, more. . Thanks again~ Sharon |
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Amaryllis Senior Member
since 2010-05-20
Posts 1306Mi now |
Sometimes it is so still where cyan sleeps deep, no sigh of breeze ruffles these pages doldrums slick and shined so motionless where once was billlows rising with the moon where life and all its revelry would leap from thought to thought call, reply, repeat, and answer point and counterpoint in myriad voice mingled in the blue like crowds of shorebirds and one`s own call might put it final over into unbearable sweet harmony |
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