Paddy's Wanderings

Paddy's Poetry Corner - Aftermath

I dug this puppy out of the closet of doom, one of the many poems that started on scraps of paper and survived to being actually typed up on ye olde electric Brother. I figured it was time to drag it into the digital-verse, so I will kick back on the stool and lay it down..

Aftermath

Acid rain pours
from a gray nimbus,
scouring human residue
from pitted cement.

Maple leaves stained
black and orange,
spiral to the earth,
trampled by consumption.

Lightning sanitizes
thick, polluted air,
as the river swells
with forgotten dreams.

Unbound energy heals
the wounded land;
devoid of compassion
for the dying or dead.

Paddy's Poetry Corner - Moon Shadows

Welcome back to another edition of The Corner. This time around, I have a poem from way back I would like to throw out there. I have always been fascinated by storms and the moon. I tend to write a lot of poetry about that. So put down the gibsons and give a finger snap or two while I take a seat...

Moon Shadows

In the dark of night,
by the moon’s white light,
I looked skyward and listened,
to the ethereal whispers
of the luminescent lady,
that stirs the soul of the sea.

The mists of my mind
ebbed with the tide,
revealing deep, dark impressions
across the tapestry of thought,
flowing through consciousness,
in waves of emotional release.

Can you feel the moon’s pull
as the night winds blow,
caressing tendrils of our reflections,
reality is eclipsed
and dreams flow freely
in shadows etched by the moon.

Paddy's Poetry Corner - Rosemary J. Schmidt

Welcome back to the corner. Today is not about me, and that is how it should be. Rosemary would have argued with me until she was blue in the face, it should be about me. She was all about everyone else, never about herself. A lesson that I learned from her, so she'll just have to understand. Allow me to take a minute to tell you just what she did.

She gave everything she had to everyone. She was a den mother, 4-H leader, PTA mom, mother to seven children and baker of bake sale goodies. She did amazing work for Muscular Dystrophy and the Cancer Society. She worked with handicapped children. She took her poetry to nursing homes and hospitals, schools and church groups. She worked for the Big Sister program and the Underground Railroad.

She started her own publishing company, Wordsmith Publishing and published a whole bunch of books and chapbooks, including my own. She was kind enough to let me help out, doing all those small tasks, loading printers and stacking countless sheets of poetry, mailing newsletters and poetry mags. I did all the basic work, but she in turn taught me everything about the small press. The little help I provided could never repay her for all the knowledge she passed on to me.

That first night at the poetry meeting she gave me two pieces of advice. Thankfully, they had started with Rosemary on my right and I was the last to read my rose poem. I was just a 23 yr old kid and these folks were my parents age, even my grandparents age. They each read their poems about roses, mostly nature, a couple religious and a funny poem by Norma about a cat eating her rose bush.

And here I sit with my poem Hollow..

I shuffled the pages and swallowed a watermelon of nervousness when Rosemary kinda nudged me. I  looked over at here and she whispered.. 'Breathe'. I nodded and shuffled the paper some more, clearing my throat. She nudged me again and whispered.. 'and don't puke.' I looked over at her and she smiled. So did I and then I read my poem.

Please welcome Rosemary to the corner, she would have gotten a kick out of the finger snapping, spotlighted stool...

Paradox

The unexplained
Mystifies the soul.

The inner mind
Cannot accept;
It delves and delves
Into the predicament.

Soon the soul is in
A wrath of turmoil,
And the mind
In complete agony...

For it seems
A paradox that...

We first must die
To live again.
To save our life
We must give it up,
Because all we keep
We're sure to lose,
But what we give,
We more than receive.

Paddy's Poetry Corner -Hollow

Welcome to a special edition of the corner. This is actually part one of a two part corner. Before I have a seat, I would like to tell you a story about poetry.

Last night I went to a meeting of The River Junction Poets. This is a local group, based in Saginaw, that has been meeting for a very long time. When I joined the group in 1989 they were known as the Saginaw Poets Workshop, shortly after the name was changed. How I found them is a story in itself.

Back then I called for more info on the group, talked to a nice lady named Rosemary. She told me to bring a poem to share, this month's theme was roses. I did that and for about 5 yrs I went every month. Then Rosemary and a couple of other 'poetry ladies' moved away and I lost touch.. and I stopped going. Last night I started going again.

They were great. They never stopped meeting, fourth Wednesday of every month at the library. Last night was a special critique meeting. I remembered them, they remembered me, and then we started catching up fifteen years. It was cool. Then I asked if anyone stayed in contact with Rosemary. Marion looked at me and said.. 'You have not?' Well no.. I had lost track and never tried as hard as I should have to stay in touch.

Marion told me Rosemary had passed about six years ago. I did not know..

She was mentor, friend and poetry lady extraordinary. She published my poetry chapbook Unfinished Portrait. She taught me a world of stuff about publishing, poetry and writing. And I lost contact with her, I was lost in the wilderness. I do not have the words today, maybe another day.

This was her favorite poem of mine, it just so happens to be the rose poem from that first day...

Hollow

I give you a symbol
of our love and devotion;
a holographic image
of a long stem, crimson rose.

You will never feel
the pain of thorns,
or the gentle caress
of delicate petals.

You can never inhale
the fragrance of nature,
or treasure the perfume
of the blossoms in spring.

You will never understand
the simple perfection,
or experience the life
that flows from within.

You will never forget
my final, parting gift,
and never fully realize
what love truly means.

Paddy's Poetry Corner - Precipice

Welcome back to the corner, it has been awhile since we had a seat. Today I just pulled a poem out of the briefcase of holding, figured whatever comes out, is going on the stage. This poem had traveled for quite a few years in a battered briefcase. It is actually a brown leather briefcase that has seen some travel not to mention a tear in the side due to a cat using it as a scratching post. At one time, I used it to carry paperwork in a job I had. Long story short, I ended up in a frozen ditch at 4:00 a.m. in February and as the ice cold water rushed into the cab, I grabbed the briefcase and crawled up the bank. By the time I got home, a mile and half later, both the briefcase and myself were almost frozen solid. Now it holds a pack of poems.

Get the fingers snapping, get the spotlight on the stool, let's get the show on the road..

Precipice

Linear logic flows
like liquid glass,
as thought evaporates
from conscious memory.
    Language fades.

As nature is passion,
internal solitude
is a reality emerging
deep within the soul.
    Images erode.

In the instant acceptance
of a perfect emptiness;
change loses motion,
leaving nothing.
    Creative serenity.

Paddy's Poetry Corner - Quinn Creek

Welcome back to the Corner!

This time around I pulled out a poem about one of my favorite subjects, Quinn Creek. As a kid, I fished in that creek on my grandparents farm, many times over the course of many summers. I hunted deer near that creek in the fall, slid over the one lane bridge during the winter and in the spring thaw, floated a few home made boats under the bridge. You could say I have been fascinated with that little creek since I could walk. I am ashamed to say it, but I have not been across that creek in five years. Well, this summer, that is going to change. I will be taking the camera and try to capture, at least digitally, what the creek now looks like. Like all things, the creek has changed, the old one lane bridge has been replaced by a modern culvert. Flowing through the swamp changes it year to year, but even then, the creek still remains. Someday, I shall paint it, another in the long list of things I must do at some point.

So get the fingers snapping I can hear the bongos beating. Put the spot light down low and I'll take a stool..

Quinn Creek

Water washes over silent stones;
the scorpion sun settles in the west.
Shadows grow together, creating a canopy;
golden leaves dance on the cool surface.
Haloed tree tops begin to shimmer and fade;
chameleon reflections turn inevitably gray.

Darkness falls like rich, black velvet;
a frigid sky fills with blinking diamonds.
The moon, streaked with electric blue,
turns ice and snow into cold, hard silver.
Crystal fissures chime in harmony,
while warm spring water flows underneath.

Tall, barren trees etch morning shadows;
ice flows collide under the melting sun.
Cardinals and robins wash away winter;
they play and sing in renewed vigor.
Spring buds explode into colorful blossoms;
winter's destruction is strewn with new life.

A warm breeze brings the cool smell of moss;
the lazy creek carries the earth's fragrance.
Dust slides off the vintage, one lane bridge;
trout hide in the shadows of  fallen logs.
Footprints begin to fill with liquid mud,
leaving a faint trace of passing thought.

Paddy's Poetry Corner ~ Sestina

I have tinkered with the sestina form for many, many years and never really did much with it. Like so many things, it was a passing fancy and I will admit, I struggled with it. This past fall, I started working a bit more on this type of poetic form, and I finished a couple and have half-written a handful or two of more. I even have a few in 'note' form. Yeah, outlining a poem and writing notes and going through several drafts, not something I ever really did before. Mostly, it was a matter of a word or two, maybe a point of flow, but never to this extent. With a sestina, yeah, you gotta do a lot of work.

I imagine that over time and with much practice, writing in this form would become second nature. I don't know if I will ever go that far with it. This type of writing is very demanding and I have so many other projects I want to do, but as a dabble, why then I think it will do just fine.

So que the spotlight, I got the stool in my hand. Put down the Manhattans for a minute and get those fingers snapping and the bongos goin, time for a sit down in the corner daddy-o!

Last Pattern in the Sand

The moon in her glory, so comes the tide,
flowing outward in revolution's time,
from the northern sky blows the gentle wind,
tonight the voices are but a whisper,
black velvet canopy, shimmering stars
trace my forgotten shadow in the sand.

Hunched down, eyes closed above warm sand,
feeling the flowing of the even tide,
the persistent pulse of the moon and stars
lost in whirlpool memory time,
from childhood past comes a gentle whisper
floating, dreamlike, along a southern wind.

A breath from the east, an opening wind;
a single finger draws in sienna sand,
the pattern flows from a breathless whisper
mirror the rhythm, passion of the tide,
my thoughts are lost in an eddy of time,
the waking dream flows outward to the stars.

Lines reflecting the path of somber stars
circle within circle, pattern in time,
inhale symmetry from the west wind
dancing across the surface of the sand,
and racing against the encroaching tide,
catch the echoing sound of a whisper.

The fingers trace an elusive whisper
listening to the siren call of stars
feeling the counterpoint of running tide,
directionless in a compass wind,
digging down, down across the shifting sand,
merging into synchronicity time.

The moment is frozen, ensnared in time
and the voices chant in urgent whisper;
a melody is born in circling sand
in harmony with the song of the stars,
sprinkled with memory from a spirit wind
washed in the cooling waters of high tide.

Looking beyond the stars, pursuing time
and on the wind, the soft voices whisper,
relentless tide, last pattern in the sand.

Paddy's Poetry Corner ~ March 2010

Welcome back to the Corner! Take a seat, order up a martini and kick back to some cool jazz as I dig out the stool and dust it off. I got an oldie I dug out of the briefcase that made the circuit years ago and needed to see the light of day. So bring that spotlight down, let me perch on the stool and clear the throat. Que bongos and snapping fingers, and I'll lay it down for ya..

Living in the Night

Black rain pours off eaves,
spilling into deep puddles;
lightning shadows doorways,
outlining broken cobblestones;
a neon arrow blinks down
on a crumbled stairway;
inside, cool jazz melts
through crowded bodies.

Ivory piano keys crinkle
like warm bourbon over ice;
the electric Fender purrs
like a persian cat in heat;
brushed cymbals sizzle;
rain falling on a tin roof;
bass strings rumble
with distant thunder.

Hot stage lights smolder,
sweating cheap perfume;
damp walls ooze soul
onto the wooden floor;
sporadic conversation drifts
through the smoky haze;
everyday distractions hide;
until the rising sun remembers.

Paddy's Poetry Corner - Fakirs

This is from an ongoing project I have been working on since the 80's. Yeah.. that long now. I wrote this around the mid eighties when I was in college. It has that feel too. From the book Variegated Voices, here is a poem different from my normal stuff.

Fakirs

Caught in the cycle
of alcoholic philosophy,
a round table discussion
on social metaphysics
echoes through passing voices.

Waves of quiet discontent
wash over golden-age hope
outing inherited failures
and misbegotten dreams
of generational heirlooms.

Mushroom clouds shadow
midnight burning rain,
underscoring the struggle
for victory in the now,
escaping from the future.

Wallowing in fashionable depression
like armchair reformers,
their voices slur to incoherency
as whiskey and exhaustion
release them from blinding visions.

A Poem finds a Home

Good Day fellow poetry lovers.

I have been sending poetry out again and for the past year I have received mostly rejection letters. That's just fine, I keep writing and sending them out. On occasion, a poem hits the right chord with the right editor at the right time, and I get published. That's cool too.

One of the magazines I read and really enjoy is Greensilk Journal.  So, like I always do, I sent out a couple poems, hoping to get in an issue and they were kind enough to choose one. Go check 'em out, there is some quality stuff there, and in this issue, I have a poem too. Major cool.

Pardon the happy dance, but it is nice to get into a fine publication with some of my own stuff. Check it out and enjoy the issue!

Happy Wanderings!