Calling Card Thread (Poems by AWers)

I'm sharing 2, because I want to! (I couldn't pick one. I picked 5, to be honest.)


The World Conspires

I travel afar to forget,
to silence my raging thoughts.
Red is the dawn beneath cloud cover,
Love's flight ends with touch down
amidst greening meadows, rock and hill.
Cold wind rushes past chills my hands,
my heart aches, empty without you.

except....

When breezes sweep by, I feel it
your fingers in my hair.
The suns heat radiates,
it's your body against mine.
Earth whispers your name in my ear,
the birds are talking about you.
All the world conspires against me.


Winter's Toll


Air, chill and fresh
Breath, white and visible
Clean and crisp is winter's night
white with snow, white with moon
Round, pure, he peers down
full of knowledge, full of unknown
mocking, taunting, he looks on
aware of winter's toll, aware of winter's toll

I feel like I wasn't being current by posting such older content earlier in this thread, but I can't really post the poems that are within the context of my current novel. This is something that came to me while I was working on the book that doesn't yet have a home. I don't know how it stands up here, really, because my background isn't in poetry. But here it is:

Ghost

Stark it was, the cooling night
Blowing past her pillow
And there we were, a bloodless sight
That stirred her from the shadows.

She watched me as I gazed upon
The moonlight from her window
And then did see, both me and thee,
So thinly drawn and sallow.

For we are dead, both you and I,
As ghosts we dance together.
And dream she does, asleep again,
Head drifting like a feather.

Brand new user, brand new poem

I am such a newbie, green wouldn't begin to describe me. It's great to read all your work and absorb the enthusiasm. Here's my 2nd only poem ever:

I

Had not

Known of love

Until she came.

Unexpectedly

Uninvited, unannounced;

A thousand candles burning -

No, that was her smile just for me.

A thousand candles to warm my heart.

And a thousand lovers could not compare.

Beautiful!

Dear Yogurt King:

Beautiful...I am also a poet, new to the site. I just stumbled across it and am thinking about signing up.

There are many types of poetry, but the most incredible ones are those that stir the heart and change the cells in your being. Yours does just that.

Keep writing and posting!

Capri 383

Hi Gang

Definitely not a poet but here's a fun one.

oops... sorry for taking up so much space... don't have this thread thing down yet Happy New Year All!

Capri383 said:

Dear Yogurt King:

Beautiful...I am also a poet, new to the site. I just stumbled across it and am thinking about signing up.

There are many types of poetry, but the most incredible ones are those that stir the heart and change the cells in your being. Yours does just that.

Keep writing and posting!

Capri 383

Click to expand...

Thank you so much for the encouragement, Capri. I would love to see what you have to write as well. There is such a maze of poetry sites out there - this is the first one I found where it seems there are some quality work and conversations going on, from my amateur eye at least.

I don't write poetry (other than as class assignments)
so I can't really have one that represents my style. But about a year ago, in college, my instructor wrote several words on the overhead projector and then had the class write a poem (in class) using as many words as we could. I managed to get them all in. For extra credit, we could write a second one but it had to be totally unrelated (or different theme) than the first one. Since I keep all my assignments, I just went and dug out my binder.

These were the words: loud, slick, field, cloud, frog, bladed, steel, ache, horn, house, rain, gray, lamp, false and pure

I know - I suck at poetry - but it was a class assignment and I had no choice but to complete it.

This is what I came up with for poem No. 1

The Bottom of the 9th
The loud cracking of the bat
was heard across the slick field.
Skies cloud and a frog croaked as
he bladed acrosss bases.
With a steel ache on his side
he horned over the home plate.
Cheers raining down from the house
Graying the visitor's hope,
shattering their lamp as they
falsely claim pure injustice.

My instructor liked poem No. 2 better (that pervert)

Rape
Loud screams of pure fright heard
from the field beyond the house
of steel, as lightening rains upon
the slick roads beyond. With an
ache of false love and clouded
with lust, he horns her deep
over and over as a sharp blade.
No remorse of her fading lamp,
Finished and content, he ckicks a frog,
And as her skin grays, he leaves.

This was written in the fall of 2002, after an October visit to Washington, D.C. and a viewing of the VietNam Veteran's Memorial and the Korean War Memorial.
Touch Me

Touch me
And feel my many hearts
Run your fingers across my names
And be reminded of what you'd rather forget.

Touch me
And feel my raindrop tears
See the fear and determination
That are etched eternally across my granite face.

Touch me
And let your emotions take hold
Trace my words of inspiration
Let yourself feel the cold of my marble remembrance.

Touch me
And let me be your guide
Through friendships made and tragically lost
In the heat of war and chaos.

Touch me
And be completely aware of the moment
Feel all that you can, for me and my buddies
Allow our names to ring for eternity.

Let me
Touch you, and tug at the strings of your heart
Feel my joy and my fear, my love and my loss
The Veteran's spirit that lives on in this stone.

SUBMISSION: "The Trail" (c) Paul Ferguson

THE TRAIL





The cowboy peered

At passing cars

His jaw tight

Searching for a

Familiar face

The girl he loved

His shoulders fell

As with a long last look

He boarded the bus west

To ANYWHERE there



It was his own fault

He had been restless

Now he was free

The tear in his eye

He willed it to be

Up ahead

He could already see

The colors of dawn

Streaking the sky

The sun was behind him

Where it belonged

And everything was right

With this picture

And nothing was wrong



Though the coyotes

Had quit

Their mournful howling

And by now

Were hunting a place to rest

He could almost hear the quail

Coming out of their nest

Calling to him



He'd go home

Back to the ranch

He was a good hand

During roundup

They'd need every man




He'd straighten his shoulders

Best he could in the seat

And wiped his eyes

"There were girls," he thought

"And then there are women"

He pulled his hat brim low

Over his eyes to sleep

Knowing there were neither

This cowboy would ever keep



© Paul Ferguson

Redneck Happy Hour





Gussied myself up as fast as I could,

if I want a barstool, need to be there by four.

I wore my black Nazi stomping boots

Cause the place is usually swarming with whores.



The Starlight Lounge is where I hang out,

drawn to the ambience inside.

Two faced women stab each other in the back

and fugitives from the law find a safe place to hide.



I drink warm beer served in a can,

and listen to the same country songs,

of cheating hearts and long lost love,

and old worn out mutts who have died.



Like a fly to a **** pile,

a buzzard in a field,

Carl circles the room

while I’m dancing with Bill.



I preen as I guzzle,

laugh as I swill,

a shot of tequila

downed with a pill.



My home has soft comforts,

piles of good books,

offering sweet quiet bliss.

But who in their right mind



would want to stay home,

when they can come

to The Starlight

and partake of all this?

To Mary

I remember the sorrow,
the regrets,
the anger.

Sorrow, remembering
the past.
A station wagon filled with grass
for our horse.
You pulling my hair —
it was YOUR rocking chair.

The past...
OUR past...
and now it is mine alone.

Regret, remembering
all we did not do together.
All I did not say.
I never told you
I love you.
I never told you
that your poetry ripped apart my soul.
We never talked
about anything important,
or what we could do
about the world’s pain...
and now it’s too late.

Anger, remembering
your last words.
You tried to live,
you tried to love,
but you gave up and killed yourself.

When you couldn’t understand the assignment,
you burnt the school down.

To be honest the Water Cooler and its friendly resident gang have been the inspiration for me to come back to poetry ( and to move forward I feel) for the first time for a long time. So here are a couple inspired by the Poetry game.


Glimpses

How now genius?
Thou tantalizing specter of the half-light.
In waking moments I see you,
Clear, tangible, within my grasp and then -
Gone,
A will o'the wisp, dancing reflections on the wall
Of my darkened room,
From some unseen illumination.
If I could but hold you,
Make you mine for an hour or two,
I could triumph, conquer all before me,
Cross the T's and dot the I's,
Fill in all the blanks -
I can almost feel it -
The veil of darkness flickers back and forth
In the breeze of possibilities,
But then it's gone -
A fleeting figmentary radiance,
Breaking through into the swirling mists of
The ordinary.

Bloody Women ( with apologies to Wendy Cope).

Bloody women are like bloody taxis
when you need one you just stand there in the rain,
when you don't, a score or more
surround you and complain

about every little thing you've done
that really don't deserve
the biting little comments
that eat into your reserve -

so what - you left the lid up
and forgot to pull the chain?
Who cares if the door's shut -
has the whole world gone insane?

Can't I take a pee
without incurring nature's wrath,
and when comes to that -
I may well take a bath!

I want to be the master
of this, my own domain -
but women seem to think it
a right and royal pain.

Still there are some compensations -
a women's gentle touch -
and I seem to find that with her -
I don't screw up as much.

So I suppose that bloody women
are like taxis in the rain -
you know that if you've got one
you're a winner in the game.

Here goes. . .

I am a newbie to the board- wonderful, btw- and have been building up my courage to post here for too long now. I'm a lifelong poet- all of spent in the closet! So here goes, my calling cards to you all. . .

Pleasure

My white trash raising cateches up with me sometimes.
I forget my proper grammar, pretty speech,
lofty phrases, and college vocabulary.
You can only pretend for so long
before the past comes back
to chase you down.
I've got a little bit of my momma in me,
with a splash of Daddy thrown in for good measure.
And sometimes there's nothing better
than the sweet, sweet burn of rotgut tequila
streaming down your throat.
I try to avoid the christmas-light strung rooms,
where the smoke and music
wash over me
reminding of what
I was meant to be.
Occasionally I tumble
and allow myself to feel
the wicked pleasure
of being absolutely nothing.

My Childhood Park

Piles and piles of fallen leaves,
shades of autumn strewn about,
as if seen through a kaleidscope.
A playground swing hangs,
broken and half flapping in the wind.
Tires grace the land,
hanging from the bars,
stacked up like donuts wating to be eaten,
lined up perfectly for hopping.
Bicycle paths worn bare with use
encircle the park,
nearly hidden amonst
overgrown weeds and thistles.
Underneath the dilapidated picnic awning,
cushed beer cans scatter in the wind.
Glass crunches under my feet as I walk,
and no children play here anymore.

I don't know if I have a style, unless maybe undisciplined is a style. In any case, I like how this one plays. Thanks to william for his help.


The Artist's Companion

I gaze amazed into truth
An image distorted, or not?
Bent bloated to thin
Chin over swollen lips
Is it I?
I?

The matter echoed
Insistent
‘Til rescue arrived

Saved, so brave, from inside
Torn from its mad grip
He cried...

It’s a ****ing spoon!

And, thwacked my sensitive mind.

Interesting challenge to find something that's representative of my work. For the most part I write light, humorous verse, although lately I've been getting more into ballads. I love to tell a story in rhyme whether it's funny or sad. This piece is pretty recent and I actually wrote it with the intent to write music for it so it can be sung at Ren Faires and such.

MEN DON’T GROW ON TREES

My mother was a wise woman;
she gave me this advice:
If any man asks for your hand
you’d better not think twice.
Good men are few and far between
so don’t be hard to please.
You take what you can get, my dear
‘cause men don’t grow on trees."

"The men are always going to war
from paupers right to kings.
They get themselves done in that way
with swords and other things.
They bleed there on the battlefield
and lose their foolish life
when they could be quite safe at home
making whoopie with a wife."

"The ranks are thin when they return--
there’s not a lot to choose.
You take what you can get, my dear--
you hesitate, you lose."
And so I wed a highwayman
Whose riches, looks and charm
made any trouble worth the risk
that he might come to harm.

Yes, he was hunted by the law
but thought himself quite clever
I begged him to be careful
and he answered me, "Whatever."
The night he robbed the squire’s son
they caught him in the act,
took him to court, the judge pronounced:
"He’s guilty. That’s a fact."

My mother was a wise woman
And I took her advice
A highwayman asked for my hand
I didn’t dare think twice
Good men are few and far between
I wasn’t hard to please
I took what I could get, mama
Now he’s hanging from a tree.

The more I read of my work, the more I am finding I do indeed have a style.

If I Were A Poet

If I were a poet
I would write in verse
And rhyme
Of long flowing silver
Night sky wanderings
Linking the moon
The soul and
Time

If I were a poet
I would speak within
The heart
Of tiny goldfish
A glittering of hope
Beneath the endless
Grey drudge of
Life

If I were a poet
I would sing the praises
Of beauty
Perfumed and powdered
With sweet auburn locks
Her milk white skin
Cascading gently across my
Mind

If I were a poet
I would piece together
My words
Waxed delicately and
Woven through
Reams of pulpy wood
Shuffled thoughts of injustices and
Crime

But alas, no poet am I
My muse instead
A colander
Filled with greenery and fluff
Unable to piece together
A single verse
The words, though eloquent in their escape
Through tiny vents they
Flow

I would write
I would, if only
I were a poet

I wrote this piece specifically for this thread. I'm also posting it in the forum proper.

THE ANCIENTS

I. John Coltrane

He uncoils his hidden mood around you
conspires with you in plangent, aching peals
this is manhattan in the warm night rain
a dusky cloak of spotlight and smoke
he knows you never knew him
but he makes you feel
a love supreme
as he did

II. Miles Davis

He suspends light brassmute shafts around you
thrills you with a perfect, unplayed note
this is the calm, dark, rolling shifting ocean
a strange suggestion of absinthe and dreams
he changes colour's name
but he makes you see
kind of blue
as he did

III. Thelonious Monk

He fingerplinks out starlight sparks to wake you
teases you with cryptic, rightwrong chords
this is beatnik cafes in the afternoon
a glad note that your dreams are real somewhere
he defies evening's gravity
but he makes you cry
'round midnight
as he did

IV. Epilogue

They made their new, fantastic constellations
then showed us their exotic, brilliant truths
their temple is a cool, eternal universe
a vast kaleidoscopic jazz of sounds
they strode as living gods among us
and we were in that number
when these saints
came marching in
.

It would be impossible for me to present a single poem that represents all my poetry as what I do is too varied. At times, I write strict rhythm and rhyme, while at other times I employ free verse, but often I'll write with a blend of the two. Most of my earlier poems were short to medium length, Most of my newer ones have been longer, (although, I have been writing a lot of Haiku and Senryu as well.

I seldom write anything directly personal as I consider that the province of "Verse" but often draw from personal experience to build poems on classic themes or Love, War, History, Philosophy and Social Criticism.

Here is a poem that encompases most but not all of those elements.

*********

The Final Cycle

Cycles turn in an endless gyre,
As life renews like a phoenix's fire,
Always the same,
But always changing.
________

Am I in need of new images, then,
To express the changes that I see,
And if I am, What might they be?
________

How about, the "Horsemen" smirking
Above the spinning Earth.
In truth, they're flourishing more today,
Then in their prime.....

Or could it be that now's their time.
________

War is rampant.
New Diseases abound.
Famine is everywhere.
Death follows them around.

Not images I'd choose to embrace,
Yet, this might be their time and place.

Could the END actually be coming?
________

Prophesies of many kinds
Have said so for a long long time.
Revelations, Nostradamus, Edgar Cayce, and more,
The time lines on the Pyramids, the legends of folklore.

And the signs are there......
________

Depleted forests produce NO air.
________

Polluted seas CANNOT maintain
The bounty that they once sustained.
________

War never ceases,
Only moves around,
As men find new reasons
To cut each other down.

(Not to mention new ways to kill.....everyone)
________

Diseases are surfacing
For which we have no cures.
Medicines we trusted once
Are no longer sure,

And finding new solutions is
Much harder than before.
________

Icebergs melt., and oceans rise,
Crops die and famine starts.
New tectonics threaten
To tear the world apart.
________

If this be the final cycle,
Then, let it end in style,
Whether with bang or whimper,
For this ending's for all time.

Copyright (c) Fall 2003 James R. Hoye

*******
JRH

Silent Voice-Poem


















Worship not my splendid visage but my creations,

My astral tapestries, woven from bright strings and threads,

Jewels strung with love and care from my imagination,

Upon the worlds, I sow them to spread.

***

Worship not my name but that of my offsprings,

Their transient glory and lasting love, ephemeral sorrows and toils,

Sparks of perceptions in the celestial winds tossing,

Until they connect with the Silent Voice.

***

Fear not my Furies that shepherd you towards wisdom,

Tremble not beneath the echoes from the dawn of creation,

My blessing will grace you with a molecular Kingdom,

Yet the Silent Voice needs no adulation.

Clams or Quahogs?

contents deleted by author.

I write very different types of poetry in terms of style; rhymed, un-rhymed, free and form. Mostly what I write though is serious, often a bit sad or angry, but with a note of hope as well. I do best with philosophical pieces and strong emotions.
I'm not sure what I'd show as characteristic both of my writing style and personal character, that I haven't already posted, but I think this will serve well enough...
Enjoy
/Tessa

***


If I Should Fall

If I should fall today
and crash down into the abyss
Let them remember me for who I was
and scatter my ashes with the wind
If my time is at its end
and the sands have run out
Let them remember how I lived life
and was not afraid of dying

At that time –when my eyes close
in peace for one final time
Or unseeing stare out into the universe
When my hand is stiff and cold
Let them remember the steely gaze
that was ever tempered with joy
Let them remember the love that I had
for the simple pleasures of life

If my journey has ended
and I have nowhere left to go
Let them remember the proud strides
and the path I trod before them
For the dead carry no regrets
and I lived my life as I learned
So if you see me on the day of my falling
cry not for I fell for my dream


*

Just a little ditty about addiction and my fairy tale mind-the two often go together

Addiction

I know about pots
and ends of things
like rainbow's glossy slippery wings
nocturnal damp surrounds the land
where elves and fairies sprinkle dust
that loads my head and runs my nose
and cramps my lungs
to fill my heart
with sprites and mites and tiger toes

Much of my poetry is a processing of the stuff surrounding my life. If I have a calling card poem in that, then this one is its foundation.

________________________
Standing in Front of the Dragon Lady

Poem deleted - A few days on air is enough for this one.

The Blaze

Set fire to my pen,
ignite my words
until they’re seared
into your memory.
When emotions smolder
and paper turns to ash,
sift remnants for lyrics,
pull verse from remains,
until inspiration sparks
and my pen is lit again.