Welcome to the Poetry Corner. Short, sweet and to the point today. I have no idea, it is a very old attempt at haiku maybe from the 80's? I dont remember, but gotta keep moving... can't hang with the hip cats long today..
full moon at nightfall
falling flowers of color
Summer time travel
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Welcome to the corner. I have playing around with pics, thought this was an interesting pic and did a wee thing for this poem. I also crashed photoshop and can't fix the misspelling. Somehow, it almost seems apropos. It also happens to be a short story in search of a different name. Similar to the poem, but.. different. Anywho, it's my blog, and I thought I would mix the short story pic with the poem. The story is still in progress, has been for years. The poem was written about '93 or '94. The story started a couple years later. Yeah.. it takes awhile for most things..
But here we are, the stool is set, the spot light is burning, time to lay it down for ya..
Two Dimensional Cutouts
A tuneless band of facades
experiment in performance art;
searching for a gimmick
with an indifferent lust,
living in the dream
of rotting mediocrity.
Shattering the wanderlust
with psychopathic arrogance,
the four mirrored placards
ravage their territory
with ruthless ignorance;
exposing personal voids.
Searching for any answer
to the meaning of life,
they channel hopes and dreams
into the passion of the beat,
screaming their dying agony
to a crowd already numb.
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Hey poetry cats, we're back. I pulled this piece out of the briefcase of poetry. This is from the Roaring Nineties, so we are talking old days. I must have bumped the way back machine before digging into the valise. So anyway.. here is one that I have always liked. Hope you do too. I have the chair in hand the spotlight is on...
Soul to Soul
I inhale the rhythm
Of your breathless heart
And bask in the reflection
From the pools of you soul;
Soaring toward infinite space
Beyond the grasping earth,
Into the throbbing pulse
Of the shimmering sun.
I can feel tranquility
Breaking against my rigidity,
Washing away all barriers
and absorbing my deepest thoughts;
connecting wordless dreams
of longing and desire
as I delicately respond
to your peaceful sigh.
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I was a boy once, very much like the boy in this poem. I know a little boy who just might like this place, although it has changed much. We may have to take a trip, see if we can catch a glimpse of a shadow of that time. I have the stool in hand, let's groove.
Summer Dream
Whistling the theme song
from his favorite show,
the young boy pushes
his coon skin cap forward
to shade his eyes from the sun.
Cane pole slung over his shoulder,
bouncing in rhythm to his
shuffling feet, the boy kicks
up dust clouds from the
old, one lane road.
He turns at the rust stained
cement bridge, heading
toward the gurgling creek,
down the moss covered slope
into the shadow of the swamp.
He sits his tin can down,
careful not to spill the freshly
dug worms into the water,
and places his lunch bag
by his fishing rock.
With ease of long practice,
the boy hooks a worm
and cast his line out into
the creek, the baited hook
landing next to a fallen log.
The boy stops whistling,
takes a seat on his rock
and leans back on the bridge;
closing his eyes he smiles,
and dreams his summer away.
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Welcome to the poetry corner, have a cigar, or a seat, or whatever strikes your fancy. We dont take to a lot of rules round here, come and go as you like, do what grooves ya. We dig poetry in all of it's myriad forms. If you do, then hey, its cool by me.
This time around, it is winter and storming and kinda cold, not so much cool. But again, it is what it is and we can go with the flow. I got a wee bit of poem about spending a winter night in a cabin. I think you'll see what I mean. Queue the spotlight, I have chair in hand.
Meditated Solitude
A clear sky is filled with stars,
as a full moon rises in the east;
reflections dance across the plain;
vision is measured in light years.
A light snow covers the ground;
warm, spring water shatters the mirror
as harsh winds blow over the lake;
a crystalline symphony drifts outward.
The fireplace glows with warmth,
leaving a trace of burning birch
radiating through shifting images,
and settling into dusty corners.
Cold nibbles at the solid cabin
in the rising winter solstice;
inside, a consciousness is subdued;
meditated solitude, overshadows all.
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Hey groovy hip cats, welcome back to another edition of the Poetry Corner. For the regular crowd, you now the skinny and can kick back and sip the Gibsons and enjoy the show. For all the new cats who wandered down the broken stairway trying to catch the smooth vibe floating up from the dark doorway, you have entered the Corner.
Most times, when the boyos take a break between sets, we turn on the spotlight,drag out the stool and lay down some words. So order a cocktail, kick back and before you know it, the boyos will be done resting their fingers and head back in to lay down some more vibe. For now, let me spill a few words I strung together. This is a sestina, a recent poem of my own... you can find it in From the Dark Side Anthology and get a whole book of cool poems and short stories from some very talented writers for your Kindle, click here.
Veil
Standing at the edge of the balcony
looking across the beach, into the bay
seeking the coming of the white sail;
dancing across sand, the morning fog veils
the slender finger of the lonely pier
the blue water, a reflecting mirror.
I catch a glimpse of her through the mirror
beyond the railing of the balcony
she stands at the edge of the pier
pointing, looking outward across the bay
a parting of misty morning veil
revealing the white line of ship's sail.
I search past faded buildings, a sail,
shielding eyes from reflection mirror
breeze billowing lace curtain, a veil;
sun kissed kaleidoscope balcony,
hiding, blurring images of the bay
shadowing, illuminating the pier.
Blue water crashes white against the pier,
harvest sun blazes on far off sail
far, far out across the sheltering bay
the sun dogs dance across the blue mirror;
I step through, onto the rain washed balcony,
from moon to morning fog through the veil.
To eclipse the secret of the veil
to catch her at the far edge of the pier
standing at the edge of the balcony,
longing to touch the horizon sail
but she has gone through the rainbow mirror
dancing out of the fog into the bay.
The night is gone, far out into the bay,
searching, seeking beyond the dream veil,
tracing the lay lines of the mirror,
the way of the dream is gone from the pier
she is fading with the passing sail
I am washed out on the balcony
She has faded from the pier, from the bay
gone with the sail, behind the veil
from the balcony, lost in the mirror.
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Been awhile since we hung out in the corner. This is one odf those poems that just seems to slip through your fingers. I don't know, it just seems, wispy.
But, there it is..
Maybe we should start up the fog machine and get a bit of mist rolling through the spotlight..
sure.. why not.
Floating Dream
In the summertime sunset
sitting in the tall grass
under the old maple tree
waiting for the blackness
to close down daylight.
Looking over my shoulder
a glimpse from the corner
of my half closed eyes,
her hair was pure amber
and those smoky hazel eyes.
Catching the dying sunlight,
those hazy reflective pools
turning to the living night;
rising with the full moon
I smiled into the stars.
Sunshine slowly fades away
into the misty gray between,
the starlight holds sway
over the dew falling blades
of green, green grass.
She rises up, greeting
with arms thrust skyward,
nightfall over the hillside,
appearing in silver shards
of light through the leaves.
Softly, a whisper between lips,
singer and song begin to flow
into the slowly swirling mists
caressing the dragonfly glow
up the hill through the trees.
I embrace her lilting melody,
following the enticing song
to the pinnacle of the hill,
pausing on the edge of memory
then reaching to touch the moon.
Ethereal dreams born in the mist,
chanted harmonies to soothe the soul,
infinite beauty captured in a moment
and a feather's kiss of acceptance,
pull me home to the floating dream.
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So I have been thinking, and that leads to trouble. Whats new, right? I dig the poetry corner and usually post a poem of mine once a month. On occasion, I post up poems by other folks too. All good and fun too.
So I have been thinking about making a site devoted to poetry and other writing. Just a place to plop down some fiction and poetry of my own. I also thought about inviting some friends of mine, to share their stuff at the same place as well. Nothing super fancy or with the thought of doing an online ezine or some such. More just a place, where folks can go read some good stuff by a bunch of cool writers.
I have a lot of poetry that needs a digital home, why not do it myself. Maybe you would like to join me and just do it for fun. You know, one of those places where people go hang out, lay it down for the crowd and then step out of the spotlight and take a seat at a table and take a listen.
Groovy.. laying down here at the corner today..
Space, Time, Infinity
I am on the edge of a memory, where time
distorts in surrealistic shadow.
I am chasing an alluring dream of mind,
where all my thoughts evaporate from the soul.
I can feel the shifting of conscious perception
into an alternate reality.
I can see the ultimate of my self
reverberating in all of infinity.
All of my emotions are in a state of flux,
caught in the currents of a universal pattern;
rejoicing in the beauty of the paradox.
But the universe exhales existence,
creating a whirlpool of space,
demanding in ritual insistence.
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Welcome back to the corner. I have such a wide range of stuff floating around that it is hard to choose a theme. With that in mind, I just reach into the briefcase of poetry and pull one out. Yeap, I got a briefcase full of mad scribblings and I try, try mind you, to keep it all in there. In the digital world, I have a suitcase of stuff on ye olde desktop and on occasion, transfer from paper to electron. Poetry is one of the few things I still write on paper(my hand writing is horrible).
So bring the lights down, turn the spotlight onto the lonely stool and get those fingers snapping, it is time to lay one down for ya.
Isolation
The seated lady,
wearing a chiffon dress
with a beret, jauntily perched
over short amber hair,
imperiously avoids
the large, plain man
searching with flaccid eyes
for something to say.
A woman in black
stares at nothing.
Two ordinary girls
queue at the empty bar,
patiently waiting for service
from an arrogant bartender;
talking aimlessly about possible
conversation with the two men,
who gaze intently into glasses
avoiding any eye contact.
The woman in black
leaves in frustration.
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Groovy man, the Corner has been hanging in ye olde blog for a year. I dig poetry in all its flavors. I read and write poetry whenever I get the chance. For you regulars, your table is ready, for new guests, there is plenty of room, have a seat, enjoy a cocktail. Berets are welcome but not necessary. However, get the fingers snapping, the bongo has started up and the spotlight is shining on the stool.. I'll take a seat..
Every Living Moment
In every breath
there is a poem.
In
every heartbeat,
a pounding song.
In every sleepless night
and
daydream day--
in the distant minute
and instant years--
within
every living moment--
there is solid ground.
The river, the
conscious river,
flows through every breath,
a poem. Through every
heartbeat,
a song. Through every life
there is a vision,
an
original thought
rediscovering the past,
glimpsing the future.
And
in the end
of a thoughtless beginning,
beyond all imagination,
life
promises hope.
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