19 - 21 Poetry

Wol Euler smiles. This wasn't written for this evening, I don't work that fast. (clears her throat):

Inconsolable
on finding no chocolate
I eat stuffed olives.

They taste of sunshine and warmth,
the summer of my thirtieth year.

Maxine Walden:

hot springs memories
painting, pedals, lakes, no bears
Thea's sisters two

SophiaSharon Larnia: My favorite poet is Emily Dickenson. Her simple style may not appeal to everyone, but I identify with this simple style and her life.
SophiaSharon Larnia:

There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields -
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!

Agatha Macbeth:

FLOW MY TEARS
Flow, my tears, fall from your springs!
Exiled for ever, let me mourn;
Where night's black bird her sad infamy sings,
There let me live forlorn.
Down vain lights, shine you no more!
No nights are dark enough for those
That in despair their lost fortunes deplore.
Light doth but shame disclose.
Never may my woes be relieved,
Since pity is fled;
And tears and sighs and groans my weary days
Of all joys have deprived.
From the highest spire of contentment
My fortune is thrown;
And fear and grief and pain for my deserts
Are my hopes, since hope is gone.
Hark! you shadows that in darkness dwell,
Learn to condemn light
Happy, happy they that in hell
Feel not the world's despite.
JOHN DOWLAND

The Surging
by Eden Haiku

It's born afar
Under the pale green sky
A strong undercurrent
Rising and moving
Against the ocean's floor
Rising and moving
Towards us
A gentle wave
Dancing and rolling
Rising and moving
Surging in front of us
A wall of water
Sparkling in the sun
Foaming and moving
Rising in myriads of droplets
Neptunian music of the spheres
Presence of the appearance
It's born from within
Rising and moving
Time presenting us minute sounds
Fractal rainbows and delicate webs
Rising and moving
Washing over our heads
Erasing our footsteps in the sand
Dragging us towards the open sea
Ancient turtles swimming
In the blue amrit soup
Drank by a blue god
We float peacefully on appearances
Rising and moving
While the surging keeps bringing
Wave and wave of ecstatic presence
To whatever comes ashore
Brought by the happy tides
Of eternity

edenhaiku © Totempoetry 2010
 

Eliza Madrigal: :::clears fingers:::::

The lion of time is roaring...
"No more, and No poem!"
No poem?
a Blank notecard
in the beak of a crow
Reads
"Pencils Down!"
What, could come of this...
Open Question
Creative Confusion
"It is enough," says Adams, "to be alive."

Zen Arado:

The Guest House
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

~ Rumi ~

Archmage Atlantis:

A horse is a horse
of course, of course
Star travel e does
of course, of course
The famous Mr. Ebb
Now I talk to that horse
Of course, of course
And ask e what future e will endorse
The famous Mr. Ebb
 

Bruce Mowbray:

"The Solitary"
He is not poor because he covets naught.
He reasons inwardly, from hand to heart.
He knows the depth and height of things are taught
By moles and mice and sparrows - and a hawk!
His days are dwelt in confidence sublime.
He threads his way through thickets, ferns, and fate.
He breathes each flower's flavor unrefined,
Inhaling deep to feed his soul's estate.
He stands inside himself - a mighty shield.
He's honest as an ox outside its herd.
He wakes expectant in a grassy field
And beds himself as guiltless as a bird.
O'er public gales preferring private breeze,
He hoists one sail. Life answers him with seas.

Bruce, 09-10

Eos Amaterasu:

white chrysanthemum's
perfection cuts my tongue;
still, sadness cries beauty

 

 Ewan Bonham:
And so‚
In the rising of the sun and its going down..
We remember you
In the blowing of the wind in the chill of winter
We remember you
In the opening of buds and rebirth of spring
We remember you
In the blueness of the sky in the midst of summer
We remember you
In the rustling of leaves and the beauty of autumn
We remember you
In the beginning of the year and when it ends
We remember you
When we are weary and in need of strength
We remember you
When we are lost and sick of heart
We remember you
When we have joys we yearn to share
We remember you
So long as we live, so you shall live
For you are always a part of us
We remember you

Eliza Madrigal: (made up of everyone's poems recited to this point)
Tasting Sunshine

No Bears
Green Leaves
Into the garden
Lost fortunes are gone
Rising and Moving
Droplets Born
From within
It is enough
to Greet them
at the door
That is all
expectant
in a private
Cutting
breeze
We remember


Wol Euler:
Disparu
I had thought to write
a mutual on-line friend
to ask about her.

After two months of (mostly)
silence, letters unanswered

I was uneasy,
wondering what had happened
or what I had said.

"I'm not asking for details,"
I'd say, "just tell me that she

is well and happy;
that this silence only means
that she is busy."

But I haven't written, and
I will not write, to our friend.

There is some justice
in her silence, a karmic
return for all the

letters that I never wrote
to people who were my friends,

not from anger or
because of resentments real
or imagined, but

just because I could not see
that time and the moment pass.

I hope and believe
that it is the same for her;
she bears no ill-will

and will write when the time comes;
as I have written, years late.

Virginia Woolf
said "I have lost friends, some by
death, others by sheer

inability to cross
the street." I am no better.

We see always our
good intentions, and thus do
we find ourselves good:

we will write that letter -- soon.
But somehow five years go by

and the letter still
has not been written, and now
it never will be.
 

SophiaSharon Larnia:
A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
 

Bruce Mowbray: This one is titled:
Sonnet -- "In Praise of 90-Second Breaks"

There lies in every crude and common crag
An opening through which to find and flag
The cosmos down - in wordless wonder's wake.
A brief hiatus, hole, or postern break

That naughty nature notches everywhere
To catch our contemplations unaware.
And in serenely self-determined mode
Each one of us will find herself abode

Therein. A hermitage, an inward home,
Through which imagination's stallions roam
Unbridled. Nature made it so in every bind,
Specific speckle, particle, and mind.

A penetrating argument for Grace:
That puny perforations offer space!

September 2010 -- by Blub