To Whoever finds this I love you....................

that's cool Letty

you really caught me off guard with sand's glass on the last line...I think you did that on purpose thought because we were obviously expecting to see "our past"..right?

Stuh, I have never tried to catch anyone off guard, and that is true. The sand and the glass are only allusions to the strength of the most fragile in life, and yet the most solid. I watched your view on philosophy and have carved for myself a cuniform of clay that is tempered. Believe me, my friend, you and all of us are striving for the tear drop in the goblet that makes a pure crystalline original.

Wow Letty, I really liked that.

ah, darkangel. Youth is the one compliment that I defer to. In the midst of war the first casualty is NOT the truth..the first victim is the beauty of the arts. Thank you, my young friend.

Heh, no problem.

DarkAngel, the hope of the world is you and the sweet children upon which the planet rests. May you always be there to nurture the soul of those of us who leave our legacy in a poem.

Good night from Florida

Dude that just brigtened up my whole day. Thank you so much, omg I don't know what to say. You're writing is awesome Letty, and you are even more awesome.

A sweet tribute to a vanishing species, my young friend.

I'm sorry Letty, I don't mean to be slow but I'm running on 3 hours of sleep here, who's the tribute to and who's the vanishing species? Lol, I promise next time I get on these boards I won't be confused cause that's the 2nd time today....

letty,

your words of late are most cryptic...too cryptic for me to follow!

stuh and DarkAngel, I appreciate your responses to my rather cryptic poem. <smile>

stuh, some poems are arcane even to the author. The entire poem was simply a reaction to love and the many attributes thereof. Here, the comparison was made to the beauty, yet fragileness of crystal.

The title is rather like a note left in a tree for someone to find, and the rest , poetic glass blowing, a lost art. My mind is like a chain reaction. One think leads to another, etc. and the day ends up on parchment.

Well, I got it, and I think it's great. Then again, nobody understands me either.

Maybe my dog does, by imitation. He is currently sprawled out on the bed, sleeping like a human, with his head on MY pillow.

Sometimes poèmes de clef are the best ones, Stuh. The poem was very different to what I had envisioned it would be from the title; but it just flowed gently, but quickly, from one sentiment to another; all detached, but all linked. I liked it very much, Letty.

Ah, Cav. The age old line:

My husband/wife doesn't understand me. Thanks, Toronto.

Thank you, drom. As Frost observed, poetry is the one place that an author can say one thing and mean another. Some observances are black holes, others are evening stars, but mostly we are just people looking up and sometimes down.

Cav, it seems to me that all portraits of nobility are depicted either holding a whippet, or a spaniel of some breed or another. I wonder if Elizabeth has commissioned a portrait holding a corgi.

One of these "looking back" evenings, I am going to dedicate a poem to my mutt, Janie, who waited for me to come home from Charlottesville before she died, seriously. I should have christened her Argos, I guess.
(wasn't that Odysseus' dog's name?)

I think Lizzie did commision a painting with the Corgis, but cancelled the project when they pooped in her dress.

Frost was right. Poetry should have some elusiveness. Would you say that he influenced you, or any others, in your writing?

O; Argos was, indeed, Odysseus' dog.

And yes, there are pictures of the pampered mutts (with the corgis.)

Wow! I arose too early and had to go back to bed.

Cav, you are sooooo funny. We need to see a picture of your mutt.

Drom, really no one has influenced me except in style. Emily Dickinson, perhaps. I like poetry to be short but powerful. I love E.A. Robinson for his compression and e.e. cummings for his esoterica. "In Just Spring...." is one such odd poem.

Well, it's time for the kitchen poet to do some stuff.

Later all.