Gelisgesti Poets Cranny

You're bully, too, hiama

Often when I think of that place
I dream of her and the stream
The way the water ran off the heather
Her ruby lips, the green air that
we breathed together
but that was long ago
and now the boy is a man
and he is lost in a world
of strangers and wishes he was home

synapse
Immersed I am
senses reeling
beautiful minds
the source
of this feeling
my mind reads aloud
it's silence revealing
words in rythms
waking me to
who
that I am


Doug

That may no be proper anglish ... I like it

I like it too

My Love for you has fell,

I know it should be "fallen"
When the muse she starts a-callin'
We must try to take and feed her
"Proper" messes up the meter.

I just don't know how to treet er

Life
If we could live forever
only to grow young
each day would
open endlessly
each moon
and every sun

Every season
is the birth of what follows
out of control
without reason.

yet, everyday....
next breath
becomes next
not being
steps into the fray

Life is consciousness only at the level you are conscious of being conscious of ... above or below lies spirit .....
When you are conscious of several levels of consciousness simultaneously, you are conscious of the fact of your own life.

When you are conscious of the fact of your own life you become conscious of the consciousness of those that surround you ..... you are on the threshold of enlightenment

Being is the awareness that all consciousness is shared ... even on death's plateau ...


Doug

good morning, Ge.

Waxing esoteric are we this Sunday? What inspired this poem?

Poem
Cost ya a cupa coffee and half that cheese danish

Curiosity and coffee
No danish for me.
A taste of subconscious
And hot water tea.

Sitting here last night, nodding off and regaining consciousness. I had HBO in a window while I surfed the net. A song started with lyrics about living forever or words to that effect. Good theme for a poet thought I!

So I began ..... only to nod off again and again .... did I ever tell you I hate sleep? Well. I do, fight going to bed. During one nod I thought, 'why not have this guy finish the poem while you sleep? I have very lucid dreams and often direct them, if you are aware of the meaning behind the name 'Gelisgesti' you have a feel for what I am saying. When I had the thought 'have this guy finish' I woke up thinking about the possibilities here ...... with several personifications, I would not have to do anything ;o))

Thus the poem and thus thus the .... whatever the heck you would call the rest.

Now where is my danish?

Ge, It becomes more apparent to me each day, that there are many things of which I am not aware. A dream poet--digesting that.

Here's your danish. They give me indigestion, anyway.

No Letty, I did'n't write it in my sleep .... going up and down in lucidity inspired it .... I get a lot of poetical themes that way.



Walk out
into the daylight
of a starlit night
look up to see
a moon of white
a sky so bright
I wonder if God
thrills at the sight
of his creations
does he share
our delight

Doug

You gonna eat the rest of that pie?

Yes, I understand, Ge. If I'm not mistaken, it may be akin to George Bernard Shaw's observation as he was going under ether. He asked for a pad and pen to write down his thoughts because he swore he had found the meaning of life. Upon becoming lucid he read what he had written and it was something like: The odor of ether permeates the room. Not nearly as "together" as the poem that you just posted.

What pie? :wink:

What kinda pie you got? ;o))

What kind of pie do I got?
The pie of the moon and some milk.
And, more often than not,
Singing country and songs of that ilk.

In a quiet and country village stood a maple on the hill,
Where I sat with my Geneva long ago.
Oh, the moon was shinning brightly,
You can hear the whippoorwill,
As we sat beneath the maple on the hill.

Now, Doug, I can get by with that, 'cause it's poetry in its own right.
Betcha don't know it, either.

It's not death
It's in the dying
Moving from born
To bourne
Many bright and shiny
Pebbles past by

It's not death
It's in the dying
Youth and the young
Have no questions
Pebbles are colored
With age
And past
Suggestions

It's not death
It's in the dying
A loved one's face
So filled
With grace
Each unearned line
Still etched
In place

It's not death
It's in the dying
When the last
Mournful call
Is issued
To us all
How many answers
Are made
From lack of
Inspiration

It's not death
It's in the dying
Tears are shed
For the living
From the dead
Silent prayers
Are said
Not to those
That stand beside
But those
Moving up ahead
It's not death
It's in the dying


Doug

Nice one, Doug. Is it yours?

Thanks Kara, yes it's mine, I forgot to sign it.
Tis a question of whether death is passive or active ... natural death that is of course. When that last mile pops up does one have the abilty to realize 'I have lived and loved enough', then close their eyes and slip into that darkness ..... to be bourne or born...

Ge, I particulary like born and bourne--from the cradle to the grave.

Wow! It is cold here. Enough of this gloom and doom.