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Sun 15 Feb, 2004 07:10 pm
starkly moves to measure,
The pendulum of grief and pleasure.
And now it only stands as one adornment,
To satisfy the lawn of supple memories, forlorn
Ment..............
The looming shade of the Norman castle,
The hut of simple people and their torment..
And their ancient pleasures...
Empty treasures.
Punctuated with shields
Of easy penetration,
Defining a nation.
I think I'll walk until the sun
Brings us another day
Men quarrel with everyone
They grow old and refuse to play
But how black the fields in the early light
The seed is on its way.
and gleaning in the fields,
We find a potion,
That simply takes us back
To love and notion of
Picking up the lumps
On railroad tracks,
Ignoring all the charts
And all the facts.
in the simple light of day
who work and play
til the darkened hue
hail the sinking blue
home warm and safe
to plan and love and dream
to measure another day
to gage the planet and heartstrings
Amulets and dreamcatchers,
succubi, and body snatchers,
Beating softly, vibrant drums,
Silent rivers,
Morning comes,
Wanting love and everafters,
Pigeons coo among the rafters.
Hand hewn logs,
And slivers gleam
Among the now,
And in between?
The white raven
Shedding feathers,
Soft satin,
Crackling leathers...
Measurements silent right after sundown
as the moonlight covets it to give it a crown
it rages like the wind pushing hard at your back
and it continually refuses to ever turn back
Hence the long day, as we know it
Ends, and comes. With much renewed wit!
Candles, horses, limos, jeep...
(and many things that only creep).
A downy bed, but gravelled trail;
"Oh grandest play" where souls travail!
"Yea, must I laugh and be in pleasure?"
Contentment be our long kept treasure.
Hey, everyone.
Isn't it amazing how one verse begats another? I have enjoyed reading every poem here; so different, and yet so communal.
Remarkably inspired by the TEACHER, herself.
Letty, you set a gifted pace.
(I enjoyed it all, too- thrilled at the talent of dyslexia.)
and I, theo, as well as yours and the rest. Sometimes, things just need saying and the only tongue we have is verse.
Beautiful, thank you all.
Well, there be the princess. Hey, gal. Your turn.
le sang que ce soit d'un sundial au midi sur le visage ou à la peau des morts dans noir et du blanc comme nouvelles ou vidéo à 11 ressemble toujours aux ombres
and the translation
Lies in the beauty of the variation,
And the expectation of pronunciation.
Soft sounds and pleasing to the ear,
Mon petite, enfant.
Allon, allon.
Hey, did I spell all the Frenchie stuff correctly?
translation
blood be it from a sundial at noon
on the face or skin of the dead
in black and white as news
or video at 11
always looks like shadows
Dys, that was intriguing. I didn't know you spoke French.
Ever look and seen a snowflake
Resting on the tongue of time?
Ever feel the cold of warming,
On the rime of hoary line?
I have stood within the shadow,
and have bathed within the sun,
Taken quietly in the moonbeam,
Waterfalls of sweet decline.
And the cave that stands behind it,
Whispers softly to me still,
Say my name, you nymphs of water,
It's all we have that's left of will.
I took this from my spontaneous poems, because it fits here.
The lonely snowflake fell
searching...looking around
finding a roof top to stick to
and then another, his brother,
until his whole family covered the ground
Great lines on snow, colorbook and Letty.
Forecasters promise us snow... it does not come.
Tonight, they still promise...
I am going to bed, refuse to wait and see.
snow
(too far south)
Turning snow into ice cream,
Ginger snaps and lemonade,
Ballet on ice,
Don't you feel " the nice?"
NO!
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