Spontaneous Poems

Edgar
Edgar, your antlers in the meadow poem took me back in time when I used to get so angry at my older brother's deer antlers hung all over our house. He was a deadly hunter with rifle and bow and arrow.

One of my memories of my brother was right after December 7th 1941 when the San Francisco Bay Area had off-shore attacks by Japanese subs up and down the coast of California. My brother, who was 17 at the time, sat on the front porch of our house during a blackout announced by sirens with his 22 rifle pointed at the sky, yelling "Come on plane, I'll shoot you out of the sky!" in defense of his home.

BBB

I've been on both sides of the hunting dilemma. As a boy we were so poor and hungry we ate armadillos and the occasional deer. I hunted because it was that or have no meat. Today I do not need to hunt. For people like myself I am foursquare against hunting.

bambis mama died for your sins my friends
and jim jones of murder most foul
one cannot divest potatoes of skins
nor great gods features of its scowl

you the titanic and the iceburg flows

MY, my-----Edgar-

Such solemn and busy thinking coming from such deep seated convicitions...
How your head much ache from such talent!
You amaze me--- always.


colorbook (a few posts back) you write poetry just like MINE. I am astonished at the likeness--- (wording and style). Incidentally, can I say I am impressed and I really LOVE it, without sounding like a "braggart" as tho I could do as well??? oh ho hum

BBB, your aunt's poetry is heart-filling. 'Worthy' is not a good enough word--- she surpasses!!!

Good poetry thread, from people's hearts.

How about a snowy rhyme
It is coming down pretty hard at times
With a little sleet mixed in
Oh, what a mess it sends
Anybody wants some snow cream
I do not think we will have enough for the icy team

theollady and larry
Pleasure to see you here. I just write what pops up. Sometimes it works; sometimes it stinks. The fun's in the effort.

Moonlight
MOONLIGHT
By Luella Trumley Doering

Moonlight a moving magic on the hills--
Shadows that dreamed and danced elusively--
Breezes, which carrying fragile miracles
Of perfume and a hidden mystery
Of motion, lifted and lace veil
Of silvered silence draping a dim pool
And wafted half heard voices to the frail
Star faces gleaming far and cool-----
And you and I, small atoms wand-ring free
And tiny through the singing, surging night.
Glory and silence in the heart of me--
Silence and rapture, moonmist, starlight.

Lake Mendota
LAKE MENDOTA
(Madison, Wisconsin)
By Luella Trumley Doering

Such peace as men envision who are caught
In battle's tumult and its fearful wracks
Of misery--a peace so subtly wrought
Of summer sounds and colors, and the track
Of lazy winds on water, tree and grass---
Such peace lies, dream-like, here beneath the sky
Where this still water holds a rippled glass
To the faint cloud-forms idly drifting by.
And yet this water, now so tranced and still,
Can show such fury and destructive might
When autumn winds break savagely, and shrill
Their raucous challenge to the startled night,
That all this beauty seems a painted show
To mask the grimness of the undertow.

If It Should Be
I'm dedicating this poem to Dyslexia and to Diane---BBB

IF IT SHOULD BE
By Luella Trumley Doering

If it should be my eyes should close today
And I run sightlessly the final race--
If I should make to darkness, still I think
I could sing gayly, though without a trace
Of light--for have I not this thought
That I have seen--have seen--your face?

If I should die tonight, should sink in mist--
Should find but waters round me, and above
No light, why should I cry or fear?
I should be circled by a thousand thoughts
Of you, and think you very near,
For I have known--have known--your love.

in the graveyard of billions of phones
sans dial and the dreaded busy tones
there's a dynamic at work
of gluttens gone all berserk
and when some aliens rovers chance here to land
they'll marvel at the texture and depth of the sand

BBB, your aunt sure could write some beautiful poetry. It's a shame that it wasn't shared with many people...until now.



Same here. Thank you, theollady, for the complement. You've got me curious...I'd like to read some of your poetry.

Cell phone in your ear driving down the highway
gotta talk to someone while on the road
weaving in and out of lanes along the by-way
it's bound to claim your life before your old

Explanation
EXPLANATION
By Luella Trumley Doering

So many things have made entanglement
Between my heart and mind that I would fain
A sharp stroke might destroy the tugging strain--
A firm hand make a sudden hissing rent
Between the two. This disillusionment
Lies somewhat deeper than the source of pain,
I know myself as tender as the rain
Yet am obliged to laugh at sentiment
With mordant irony, because the mind
Of me has, like a stripling boy, outgrown
The soft authority. But gods must laugh,
So now and then I am appalled to find
The foolish heart in saddle, and no stone
Thrown to defend a mind like scattered chaff.

Exile
EXILE
By Luella Trumley Doering

Morning will come on ghost steps to the edge
Of the wide waste and call to me, but I
Shall be unheeding as the grasses, dry
And still beneath the narrow rocky ledge
That breaks the march of miles into the south.
Opal and gold and pearl and rose shall flash---
And desert winds, refreshed from sleep, shall crash
And quiver from a gloomy canyon mouth,
But I who loved these things, may go no more
Across gray silences to meet the sun--
May never hear the sand's deep angry purr
Increasing as it veils the desert floor,
For stare into black night--I must have done!
I can but dream these things are as they were.

Answer
ANSWER
By Luella Trumley Doering

Dear heart, I fear my meaning was obscure
When I replied to your fond questioning,
Why I, with you now sheltered and secure
Can find no words to make by verses sing.
Why in the double twelve-month of our lives
Together, have I had so faint a voice.
(I wonder if your questioning derives
From subtle feat that I may not rejoice
In you, or in your love.) Dear life of mine!
Dear other self, more cherished than my own!
Did you but know how empty the design
Of light and dark when I am left alone--
Could I but tell you how your image lies
In every broken song that I devise!

leadbelly leadbelly
wont you sing for me
sing from your cell on high
you dont owe a thing to me
thats so the birds that fly
im ready im ready
youre the king to me
you made me laugh and cry
you dont owe a thing to me
sing from your cell on high

Allegiance
I think candidate Howard Dean would like this poem---BBB

ALLEGIANCE
By Luella Trumley Doering

You who have called me faithless, call in vain.
Your words are but the echo of a dream
Of troubled sleep, or as a gust of rain
Clearing the dusty air and leaving clean
Things soiled and stained by petty trafficking.
I tell you I am truer than you know
To what you know not. Rage, and cry, and fling
Your curses at me--they shall be as snow
Before the fire of my own faithfulness.
What is man's love beside the benison*
Of a clean sky and winds' tumultuousness?
Your flare dies out as does a torch in sun,
Yellow and pale before the cold white fire
Of my allegiance to my mind's desire.
-----------------------------------------

* Benison, a word not known to me---BBB:

n : a spoken blessing
Source: Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary (1913)
Benison \Ben"i*son\, n. [OE. beneysun, benesoun, OF.
bene["i]?un, bene["i]son, fr. L. benedictio, fr. benedicere
to bless; bene (adv. of bonus good) + dicere to say. See
Bounty, and Diction, and cf. Benediction.]
Blessing; beatitude; benediction. --Shak.

More precious than the benison of friends. --Talfourd.

BBB, your Aunt had a wide vocabulary did she not? A marvelous well of intellect and experience to draw from...

colorbook, here are a couple of poems from recent years:

Blues?

Meloncholy makes her bed
behind my hovel doors.
She fills my garments, spills my wine,
and blankets all my floors.

I cannot from her grasp break free
Nor add a spice in favor.
The lids are closed...
The sprite is dead
And I did naught to save her.

In stiffness of my sturdy chair
I sit with head on hand.
Just hoping life will jump on me
And bring a marching band.

My frenzy grows from deep in rust
Of bored and 'nothing' days.
Gawd, here I'll be until I'm juiced
To rise. And mend my ways.

A Binding Call

The Golden Bird kept flying near,
It's wing could brush my brow.
I turn my head and look away...
I say to her, "NOT NOW!"

Engraved on mighty beak I see-
a word that calls to me.. TRUTH-
it's deeply told in scroll,
A screeching call to thee...

To thee... I came and wrote upon,
A bough for you to find.
Upon your brow, this adage keep,
Unto your breast, rebind...

Rebind, rebind, do not let go
The waters lead to hell so deep,
O golden bird keep calling me,
Lest I fall in, and ever sleep.

theollady
theollady, profoundly wonderful and revealing.

BBB

I thank you , BumbleBeeBoogie-
we hail from what we know, eh?


I sincerly enjoyed your story of your brother and his 22 rifle.
I pray this American spirit is not destroyed in forced combat,-- that truly is more aggressive than defensive.

(INCIDENTALLY- call me "Lou"- I am an old lady , but it is not my name)