P.S. Your poetry is very good too, Letty. Keep up the good work!
Hay sunnie, let ... wish I could write more. I go through cycles of stupidity and lucidity. When I'm off I don't bother .... there is enough crap in the world, I don't need to add to it. But when I'm on I feel that I can speak without moving my lips. I wrote one a while ago about finishing poems for poet warriors of the past that died with their work un finished and so depended on thee poet warriors that followed to finish for them ....I speak from the ages .... sorta.
Excellent article, Doug. Thank you for posting it. I have read extensively in this area, and I find her thoughts right on target. Interestingly, I have read that Iraqi women enjoy a freedom not known in other Arab countries, and that the weight of the Sharia is not felt there. Maybe because the overpowering rule of Saddam is what counts, and men and women are equally oppressed by that.
The Sailor
In my movie the boat goes under
And he alone survives the night in the cold ocean,
Swimming he hopes in a shoreward direction.
Daylight and he's still afloat, pawing the water
And doesn't yet know he's only fifty feet from shore.
He goes under for what will be the last time
But only a few feet down scrapes bottom.
He's suddenly a changed man and half hops, half swims
the remaining distance, hauls himself waterlogged
Partway up the beach before collapsing into sleep.
As he dreams the tide comes in
And rolls him back to sea.
---Geof Hewitt
love
You
lying here amid
the perfume of your desire
the warm smile in your eyes
love is a nibbling kiss
rapture sensed
never spoken
while we loved
lust took over
building the pyre
delicious flames of
pleasure caressing pain
driving pulsing
higher and higher
bodies melting
into one
You
lying here amid
the perfume of your desire
Doug
Anyone else find it a bit warm in here? :wink:
Nice one, Chief.
MUWAHAHAAHAH
The death gig was killing my carreer ... had to show versatility yeeah thats the ticket ..... Mr. versatile
What is that ...Marcel Marceau ..... (sp?)
War never ends
Her eyes looked up
wide open with fear
eyes that cried out
to all that would hear
please, don't let me die here
don't let me die here
I wake cold and sweaty
a child's voice in the air
the stars stop their twinkling
through the darkness they stare
in their gaze
words were forming
please, don't let me die here
don't let me die here
each night
the dream returns
in the year that has past
my room filled with darkness
remembering the flash
bullet tearing through flesh
then falling beside her
I repeat her prayer
please, don't let me die here
don't let me die here
I wake cold and sweaty
Doug
That is a beautiful poem, Doug. Thank you.
The moment of dying, the concern of your poem, has fascination for me. What goes through your mind? Do you think of another? Or of your own suddenly small life that has fallen short of the promise, the hoped for purpose, of your idealistic youth?
It is about life ..... death is an inescapable conclusion. The little girl was saying over and over, don't let me die here .....
Christ said 'forgive them, they know not what they do.' I don't think he meant the crucifixion, He did not suffer death, the intent was what 'did him in', so to speak. The intent was that he suffer mortal injury .... a fact he realized in saying 'father, why have you deserted me?' and acknowledged with 'it is over' was .... he had failed, failed to reach them on a level higher than, don't let me die here.
So we die again, and again, until we come to know in our hearts, what we feel in our souls, a final lesson, preached from the cross ... and ignored, is the simple rule that we suffer every wound we inflict .... over and over.
Of mention would be that it matters how you tell the story, some meant to be heard, others felt.
Happy egg day darlin and to all my darlins reading this .....
Happy Easter, Gelisgesti and Kara
The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:
In splendour and in light the Pope passed home.
My heart stole back across wide wastes of years
To One who wandered by a lonely sea,
And sought in vain for any place of rest:
"Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,
I, only I, must wander wearily,
And bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears."
I gazed into the darkness
what I saw gave great surprise
walking through black mist
knowing
I just left
the other side
ripples moving out and through me
fighting wake and wave
left of my passing
who was this
that knew they knew me
chasing shadows
in the dark mist
so far away were they near me
leaving ripples in the tide
waking up
to darkness growing
still not knowing what ...
was just described
Doug
Happy Easter to all here.
