Our home - poetry
Our home was warm in the shade of the trees or when the sun was not upon it.
It was built on the side of a hill, near a lake where spirits could be free.
On the warm porch - hummingbirds watched, from kindling where they sit, and the cat and the dog lay sunning, as we read - nestled very closely.
It was made of dark wood and of brick, had green shutters and was considered by our father: as a place to come to rest after a day, a week, or as a protection all over the years.
It was a place - cool and safe, warm and open - quite different any other.
It was a place for exploring - the woods, the lake, and yes ? our inner fears.
We welcomed links unto this place. We called out: come one - come all, and many hours were spent talking, in performance cards, or cleanly session by the fire.
We conversed many times, culture of each other, decisive our tales, which then seamed tall.
From life's struggles, which then seamed unreal, we cultured to fight ? and to never tire.
It is there we educated to dream our dreams, and that with work, something could be done.
We tried out many things, as we grew - frustrating desperately, to determine who we be supposed to be.
It is there we cultured to love, to win a heart ? and how our heart could be won, and at a snail's pace there emerged, a character clearly formed, from deep classified ? which was free.
And if we carefully eavesdrop now - even despite the fact that we are many miles, and many years away -
We can see ourselves meeting by the fire, with family, with links ? or late at night - all alone.
We can see this place we can hear the voices, and snoop to their conversations as they say:
"Feel the sun, and the soft wind blow. Hear the trees ? as they gossip soft secrets of -- Our Home. "
Tom Knutson MN:: 1995 top 3% countrywide poetry contest
now is not the time to open open that great door again not the time to be more tolerant not the time to play to winnow is not the time for justice evolution mercy choices not the time to pet the puppies yipping with pathetic voicesnow is not the time for kindness not the time for compromise not the time for loving blindness not the time to close my eyesnow for one too many people not that i have gained no good heart has sown but flesh is reaping tears to mind and done in bloodnow my inner wolf seeks equals only those whose chords can howl deadly whether lone or social defending young or on the prowltell me not that you would die upon the spines of my displeasure live for me and for you will i cherish each cell as if a treasureput me not contained by a cage but roam with me all through snow and sun be by my side or breathe my dust for i shall bleed again for noneNiki Lasher Artist, Writer, and Webmatron http://www.kthulah.
Feelings, O How Glorious!
Sometimes we feel hard-pressed, Our backs alongside the wall; Sometimes we feel lightheaded, As if we are going to fall.Sometimes we feel fierce anger At those who abuse guns; Sometimes we feel ashamed Of how we treat God's a small amount ones.
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 Triggers [and a commentary]
So Many Einstein'sThe dawn mist, insists there is a God. The earth carcass faithful to its orbit.
How to Write Bad Poetry
"All bad poetry springs from frank feeling."--Oscar WildePeople write poetry for a embarrassment of reasons, but this commentary has a sharpened arrowhead aimed candidly at the fingertips of amateur poets who wish to be in print yet garbage to learn the attributes of a well-crafted poem.
Key Largo - Frater Albertus
Key Largo:The fans turn idly in front of the doorThey open wide presentation mangroves galoreAn egret in the everglades stalks its preyHaltingly it walks along its wayOn an added brilliant and sunny dayA woman's floppy hat shades her beauty not so brittleThe silky scarf that holds the hat flutters just a littleShe pauses in the threshold of the doorSurveying what she's looking forShe is looking as the crow flies at meHer beauty flaunted all to see.'Where are you from?' while noticing I had a frownOn the other couch she pleasingly sits downIn the small hotel lobby bar'A city north and very far.
The Lull of Sundown [Over Mantaro Valley] In English and Spanish
Twilight, was now beginning. As forthe sun, it was down-down over the Mantaro Valley of Peru.
Why I enjoy Writing?
During interviews and common conversations with the public,one of the most challenging questions for me to answer(timely and thoroughly) is,"Why do you enjoy writing"?So due to the challenge manifested in such a question,I pondered on creating an answer. Many reasons came to mind,but after digesting much"time for thought",I managed to condense my rejoinder to three items.
Expressing an Emotion - The Art of Characters Poetry
Writing poetry is an art, a way of expression, judgment denotation in few words. A song of passion flowing out onto the pages, words that flow into each other and yet communicate the inner most opinion and feelings of those who read the words.
Antidotes for an Alibi
Amy King's first full-length collection, Antidotes for an Alibi, insists that we appraise the misleading clarity of our measures and the goals that motivate us. How does one in point of fact get from "A" to "B"-and is there ever especially a "B"? What color is the white space concerning "A" and "B"? Upon more rapidly inspection, appear realities bring to light themselves to be absorbent and fragile, encrusted with textures and grains that lead the eye on unreliable pathways.
Blind Designs [a Poem] and a Note by Rosa on The Other Door
Blind DesignsBorn today, gone tomorrow Like a butterfly with no stomach Born n the morning, dead by night Oh-let me whisper Oh-let me cry What man has not learned? What man will not learn! In his pomposity, his idiom With his abstract concepts With his intellect With his creativeness He has befall enslaved By-them? By them all, he will fall. Ah! Yes-abstract concepts Bombast and idiom His intellect His cleverness This he grass behind To his decedents!.
Ocean Heal Me
Ocean Heal MeOcean heal my wounds Let your waves curl and foam on my body Wash away blood, heal scarsOcean renew me with your power As incessantly you roll Giving concentration that's been drainedOcean keep me warm Wrap me in your brine Caress me with your tidesOcean disband my tears As they flow in you I clean my soulOcean let me grow in your depths Color me bright blue, coral, green Clear = revitalizedOcean your spray anoints me Cool and refreshed My spiritual renewalOcean be my friend Hold me flowing in your currents Ever moving, ever changingOcean, heal me.© 1983 Susan BaconSusan Bacon is a researcher, dramatist and teacher.
As I singled out up some of the polished gemstones in the rock store I began to think about what the pebbles looked like ahead of they were polished. The store had quite a few rocks on demonstrate screening the beforehand and after and I realized that but for you knew what you were looking for, you could by far pass by a costly gemstone.
Become A Poet In Ten Minutes
Have you ever sat there staring at the paper, ready to write, but unsure where to begin? Want a blend that will overcome even the worst writer's block? A person can start inscription poetry today using a few clean techniques.One, two, .
I Required TO SAY IT WITH A BUNCH OF Vegetation A CARD WOULD HAVE SUFFICED.I Hunted TO SAY IT WITH A PACK OF SWEETS A' HI' WOULD HAVE SUFFICED.
It's dark, it's cold, its' just six thirty,thoughts of sleep still dull my brain,As I clump down, exclusive my coat,a rail user clone, just coming up for a train.Insidious rain, just showery down,through weak light of creeping dawn,Paper sandwich bags and old brown cups,blowing past, look so forlorn.
Shaking out the Rugs [Following the Poet]
Let's adhere to the poet to his Hell and heaven! Count his Ghosts and dilemma's?Reach out to touch his Stretched-out skies; let's follow The poet to see where he lays.Let's abide by the poet to his end; To see if he can?whatever He wants to do, do over again?.
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.
I Saw the Universe
I can see the cobalt blue of the skiesOr the cobalt of the nightI can see the stars wink, the grin of the moonDuring the changes of it's monthly face**I am in awe**I see the sun on it's twelve-monthly trekAlternately arousing the life in the earthAnd then desertion away to allow it to sleepUntil the next spring**I am told the Universe is "out there"Beyond those stars, moon and sun,Yet the power of what I can seeIs a fathoming afar my comprehension**I am in awe**"Out there" no time, no seasons passNo sense of age, hatred or loss existOnly the infinity0f the Universe**What IS "out there"?What IS the Universe that has no end?What IS the power that creates all this?I want to see it too**And then I remember..
AFRICA (to africans in diaspora)africa here i come, africa africa of the black soul the soul of an antiquated background the cultivation of your timid tribes.its your voice i hear africa your voice of the conversation drums your beaded drums and the royal trumpeter the metal gong of your town crieri have come to see your music dance i have heard of your everlasting minstrels have i not heard of your undulation hips! i have heard an adequate amount of and have come to watch wouldn't you dance for me africaafrica here i come africa would you not show me to your tribes the timid tribes of your syrupy tongues the miscellaneous tongues of your honorable menafrica, black soul africa tell me about your gods your gods of the sky and of the protect earth your gods of the hills and of the rivers aboundshow me to your kings africa your kings of the antediluvian dynasty the antediluvian era of rusted spear and shield africa, here i come africaHEAVENLY GUESTheavenly guest heralding thunderously in its own awake pelting on men as well, the gods gathering itself drop by drop.
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