Kens poem - poetry
How wonderfully sweet to be a dweller
dwelling on the road of goodbye.
Bittersweet tears fall as I think
of all the spaces I'll never see,
all the faces I'll never know,
all the joys I'll never share,
as I head for the unknown.
I have lived life as best I could,
met challenges head on,
drawing dilution from an unseen source.
You cannot come with me on this journey
you can only stand and watch,
sometimes the more arduous task.
I know what I must do
and I will give for my part a voice
drawn from the hidden depths of my being.
June 1, 2003
copyright Fran Watson
Fran is a Consultant, Workshop Developer/Presenter, and Toastmaster. More in rank can be found at my website www. franwatson. ca where you can also sign up for my free ezine.
Rules for Inscription Poetry
You've been journalism poetry since that first assignment in your high discipline copy class. You know the rules about journalism poetry, right? Are there rules? Well, if you common the poetry forums diagonally the Internet as much as I do, you'd find that there are a lot of amateur poets who obdurately proclaim that there are no rules for journalism poetry and if a big cheese even suggests conception poetry or books on poetry, many of the amateur poets will throw up a cynical front.
"I heard what you said, Red. Yet, I have to disagree.
Poems have another cores, or so I believe, and can only be structured well for a variety of abstract language-heart beats; like all counselors are not made for all clients, so all poems are not made for the same person, or purpose; when we read we all have our likes and dislikes; I do not essentially know what poetry is per se, but I do know what the excellence of poetry has, and great poetry is close to an illusion?it carries an echo I do believe-figurative yes, at best, and questionable yes, by far. Here are five poems I've in recent times wrote, all with a another core, focus and style.
Tale of the: Old Huntsman and the Fair-haired Hare [In SPANISH and English now]
There once lived an old man and his goodwife On the edge of the thick of the woods; They lived in an old run-down shack For forty-years and some. The old man hunted for his living, And his wife sewed on her lap.
Two Poems, with Metaphoric Language
Says Mr. Dennis Siluk, when asked to analysis his poetry somewhat, for he hesitates all the time when I ask him to so; I can tell you.
Famous Poets Quotations - Top 30 Poetry Quotations by Illustrious Poets
"For this basis poetry is a bit more philosophical and more commendable of critical awareness than history."-- Aristotle"Every American poet feels that the whole dependability for contemporary poetry has fallen upon his shoulders, that he is a literary landed gentry of one.
Four Poems: Collect of Angry Domestic animals [Katrinas Pathway]
Four Poems: Katrina's PathwayHarvest of Angry Horses ((Dedicated to: Katrina)) crisis)It has happened before: Nearby and afar, Where the four-horses of Apocalypse With their burning nostrils Breathed in the fury of the winds Only to vomit out, disaster; - Then galloped away, Against pale faces!..
Key Largo - Frater Albertus
Key Largo:The fans turn languidly in front of the doorThey open wide presentation mangroves galoreAn egret in the everglades stalks its preyHaltingly it walks along its wayOn a further clear and sunny dayA woman's floppy hat shades her beauty not so brittleThe glossy scarf that holds the hat flutters just a littleShe pauses in the threshold of the doorSurveying what she's looking forShe is looking above-board at meHer beauty flaunted all to see.'Where are you from?' while noticing I had a frownOn the other couch she in a classy manner sits downIn the small hotel lobby bar'A city north and very far.
The Mercantile of Copan [In English and Spanish]
English VersionThe Mercantile of Copan [480 AD]Advance: The ballgame at the Honduras court in Copan, the year was 480 AD, Copan's 3rd ruler, Mat Head, whom succeeded Quetzal Macaw, whom was the come to grief of the city is now the new ruler. Mat Head, was a female, the partner of Quetzal Macaw, and here is where the story begins.
Four Poems: Grendels Nature...the Racetrack...Counting days...[Now in English and Spanish]
English Version1) Grendel's DivorceYou must know that I do not hateAnd that I hate you, Because the whole thing dead has twoSides; A sound is one arm of the quiet, Ice has its warm half.I hate you in order to start hating you To begin life again And never to stop hating you: That is why I do not hate you yet.
Memoirs of a Wastelands Rim [a Poem: now in Spanish and English]
Memoirs of a Wasteland's RimIt still was light when she paused at the wasteland's rim- Over, the rim rest like a sleeping brute, a stiff frame Adjacent to the blue where early stars hung like oil lamps Hanging from old beams and shade?the impassive frame Her foothold jammed the beams, as she had fallen onto it Alone, she watched the forenoon, climbing about her A rolling stone woman, discernible by life, and at an angle dreams With advent of hurt and molded muscle on her face Her be included carved anti the made of wood frame, She tried to jump, and lost her balance, execution like a bird Now sipping the gloom in the ledge and devastated hopes She yielded ahead of the lethargic early payment of sunset Blood dripped, with her dying darkness And a red moon hurled a flame across The dark clouds, burning during the sky The littered sky above her?Crossing the valley's floor her eye absorbed it Rocky images, main points Thrusting herself up audaciously from to the ledge The painted break of day blushed over the rim Her brows and nose, face aligned with the sandstone stone Massive injuries was charming form, Her profile hovering so languidly crosswise the sun It was too great a task-to die alone?she wished now She had not jumped?a thousand feet below, yet to go. Too much for any woman in a lost world Out of the weak wood her mind had peace; She knew soon it would all be over-alas Mute and protesting adjacent to life's uselessness A narrow path lay below her meager body Between death and attainment, a careless foot The rocks beneath her weakening, she plunged Plunged to her death, in the statue hands of the valley Thinking of it, as she fell, assessment with a smiled, Saying, looking up-dead ahead of her echoes: 'Time is short?time is short?time is short!' When they found her, her face was brave of falling.
House of the Imp [Part Two of Three/with notes]
House of the Goblin [Part Two of Three]Here is where, where the air is stillAnd the mountains gloom disappear! Here is where, unidentified spirits dwellWhere harp and recall expire?Where the rainbow-leaps, from itsStoreroom-keep, and cries; And the sands along the lot coastEcho then die?as in sleep?;And where attraction turns into ghouls!..
For My Mother
I cannot bear to think of when you will be gone.I do not understand how I will get along.
Asha of Darfur [A poem with a commentary by the author]
Asha of DarfurCry, cry-oh barely Darfur woman For your sister Janjaweed- [in Sudan's hard region-who was raped to death); Where rape and death run ramped;And Asha prays the Arabs don't' hear Here crying barely black tears? ?in fear she will be chained to a bedIn Darfur, by the insidious justice Of the Arabs, who run ramped?Ah, yes! In Darfur you've guessed, It is not a crime to raped and arrested; By the very one who raped, and terrorizedYou; it is the conquest?Satan's ribs!..
Savage Nature: The Life of Ted Hughes
One of the most central poets of the post-war period, Edward James Hughes (1930-1998), was drawn towards the primitive. He was charmed by the beauty of the actual world, commonly portraying its cruel and savage makeup in his work as a contemplation of his own individual anguish and numinous beliefs - confident that contemporary man had lost touch with the prehistoric side of his nature.
The Power of Intake Disorders
I want to get closeI am afraid.Afraid of what you might see.
Have you ever practiced craze with a celebrity you know is not a good match for you? Or how about an appealing bond that roots itself deep in your memory..
The Spirits de Copan
Part oneI see them in the skies I hear them in their hells They hint and they moanAnd never are alone- The Spirits and the Ghouls? The Spirits de Copan!They are dark in my world Echoes in my dreams A mystery and a force To a cosmic happening! The Spirits and the Ghouls? The Spirits de Copan!..
So many looked to you for inspiration,Unlikely hero for the wheelchair nation.Proudly you fought and pompously you believed,Everyone loved you Christopher Reeve.
Grandpas House & From Iraq with Love [Two Poems]
Grandpa's House [The ole Real House]The house desirable painting Sun-blistered and flaking Grandpa on track to have us Boys-Mike and I- start Doing some scraping-While he, pealed off the ole Paint, and on track painting?Just a humble stiff house With more than a few rooms, but Strong a sufficient amount to keep the Winds and iciness snows out, How he loved that ole house!..
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