| Progress
Posted: 3/20/2007 2:00:33 PM | Last week I wrote sixty-nine words .
Two days ago, forty-six.
Today I’m writing these twenty-three.
With any luck, tomorrow
I’ll write none!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J. Newman 20Mar07 © 2007
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| Inspired
Posted: 3/20/2007 3:16:46 PM | May I? *smile*
* * *
i love the end of a thunderstorm
i slip out the side door
my bare feet scatter the gathering puddles
leaving wet prints that mark my passage
i welcome the sunbeams
that pierce the retreating clouds
i stand in the wet grass
toes firmly planted in the soil
face lifted to the sky
arms outstretched, palms upturned
collecting those last few drops
that haven’t yet realized
that the storm is over
( 6 May 06 ) | |
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| Tuesday
Posted: 3/20/2007 3:48:35 PM | *
Tuesday
One in the afternoon
The corner of Aldwych and Kingsway
A relentless flow of people
Clutching their umbrellas and briefcases,
Collars up against the cold,
Heads down,
Eyes averted.
I pause....stop....
To think a moment about
The choices offered here....
I could go north to the Museum,
south to walk along the Thames,
east to the Library
..........(no, I don't wish to work anymore today),
or west to my favourite cafe.
The surge of the crowd
is forced to separate and go around me.
A man wearing a black trenchcoat,
A piercing stare,
An angry mouth,
A sullen expression,
Glares as he steps around me,
Frustrated that I've made him look up
and take two extra
..........(and completely unnecessary!)
steps.
Don't I know that he's late?
Don't I realize that his prime concerns
are the size of his bankbook
and the timing of his next appointment?
I'm trapped in a nightmare of neoliberal madness...
in a city whose future
is stuck on fast-forward.
( 20 Mar 07 ) | |
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| Some call it love
Posted: 3/27/2007 7:43:08 AM | Some call it love but it comes across
as persecution. Some heave and toss
compliments but they land like bricks.
Some have never learned the tricks
of truly loving which is first of all
to let their would-be loved one fall
or rise according to her own need.
Some call it love but it’s just a form of greed.
Cdnreader: Loved your 178! Thanks. | |
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| Some call it love
Posted: 3/29/2007 7:39:41 AM | puzzled
find the
piece that matches
a little red at the corner
a star
part of a cloud
not the track
nor wheel
weed
where in fits out
out, in
angle, curve
among zillions
.
29 March 2007 | |
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| Some call it love
Posted: 3/29/2007 8:47:28 AM | Ah, Wooby, have you too been reading about that "dark energy," the mysterious 74% of what there is, which is neither dark, exactly nor, as far as is known, energy, the nature of which might never be known?
mistake
cancel
reverse
hard-wired
Ralph Berg
Ralph Berg
Ralph Berg?
In grade 4 or 5, Ralph, who lived up the street from me, beat me up one day. I don’t remember why, but I do remember I felt helpless to fight back effectively. For the remainder of that school year and some time into the next, sitting a few seats behind him and a few rows to the left, I focussed my hate-filled stare at the back of his head until one day I knew I was ready. At recess time I went up to him and said “I’ll be waiting for you after school.”
He didn’t show up. He must have taken some other route home. And after that he did his best to avoid me and if our paths crossed he never looked me in the eye.
cancel
reverse
hard-wired
go back... | |
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| Some call it love
Posted: 3/29/2007 10:07:57 AM | .
Some call it love
when a heart beats
madly out of control
like a drum solo
on speed.
Some call it love
when the spirit sings
with mischief and delight,
when the world
shines more brilliantly,
when you'd rather
skip than walk.
I call it love
when hands touch
(whilst reaching for the salt)....
you reading the New York Times,
me with a pencil and a folded-up page,
only the crossword puzzle showing....
Eyes meet,
silent smiles appear,
and linger.
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| Some call it love
Posted: 3/29/2007 10:28:57 AM | Some call it love ..yet know not of what they speak...
the feelings throw...
mass quanities of unnormalty thru veins thick with blood...
yet they know not of what is felt...
knowing of what some call as love..
the horrifying glimpse into love filled hate....
yet feeling decades later the truth behind the secrecy of the word..
only to plummet it into a dark nights abyss...
thru a storm that will not hence to stop the suffocation..
of a lost souls fornitude....
a heartless wanderers aim on tranquility is lost...
love?
or what some call it....
a touch...
a tear...
a kiss.....
a winds breath upon naked flesh...
to know of it is to speak of it...
yet to have it is to sacrifice everything to keep it...
even when it falls in a sultury fire ....
burnt sulfur of a match left stained upon a soul...
knowing not of what to do...
but sit silently and wait for love to return....
from the darkened hole i left it at.....
thru my very own calculous ways of reigning terror..
i sought...
i found..
i felt...
i lost....
yet ...
.......I loved....
Lisa Anne | |
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| Some call it love
Posted: 3/30/2007 10:53:13 AM | Some call it love
and get lost
in the vastness of that syllable
as unknowable as life
which we cannot, truly
know except by its opposite
and by then of course
it's too late.
Some call it love
but better, perhaps,
to call him or her
Henry or George or Judith
or Miriam
and to focus on the mystery
of his or her name.... | |
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| and some?
Posted: 3/30/2007 12:09:44 PM | Having dinner with Ravincause tonight
to see what kind of mischief we can get into
it should be fun to release
our poetic minds over dinner
maybe a little wine some laughter
and you never know what great ideas
we can come up with to wreck havoc
on the pond. | |
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| and some?
Posted: 4/2/2007 1:32:46 PM | Oh, Autumn, report to us please on that dinner you two had! The menu, some of the items of conversation!
When the Words in Our Mouth
When the words in our mouth have turned to dust
And we still wish to sing, because we must,
Of what shall we sing then?
I have told of my longing for love,
I have wept over love that failed.
But you have your tales of the same:
Of love that was coming, was promised
--and yet never came!
Before there was sound, there was silence.
And when the last of our race will die
There will be silence again. But the last word
The last of us utters will be, perhaps, a sigh
Or the sound of a broken-hearted lover
Crying softly, Good-bye, good-bye ...
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J. Newman © 2006 | |
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| and some?
Posted: 4/2/2007 9:31:36 PM | In a small cafe called the rude native
we dined in a village atmosphere
like old Montreal or Yorkville
a window seat overlooking the coblestones
and as the sun set upon us
a little candle burned
we talked and we laughed and we shared
life experiences, philosophy
poetic licence
motherhood, sisterhood
nature
were your ears burning Jer?
a nice full red wine
an attentive waiter
I'm not even sure if I noticed anyone
in the room
it was a lovely night that we both wished
we could have shared with many poets
special people
whose words ignite our souls
and facinate our minds
and make us swoon
girl stuff. | |
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| you just did
Posted: 4/3/2007 11:57:54 AM | it was a lovely night that we both wished
we could have shared with many poets
you just did babe
you just did
btw this is great jer-----
Last week I wrote sixty-nine words .
Two days ago, forty-six.
Today I’m writing these twenty-three.
With any luck, tomorrow
I’ll write none!
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| and some?
Posted: 4/4/2007 9:44:15 AM | "Girl stuff," you say, but sometimes, you know, we men wonder...
In a few minutes he had reached the edge of a lake. Not far from the shore three or four young women were bathing, naked, splashing water at each other and laughing uproariously. They did not notice him at first and he watched them play and laugh and call teasingly to each other. In their voices was the happy sound that he associated with being in love, when the world seems wonderful. They touched each other and then turned and struck off into the water as if to avoid being touched in return; but they never went too far or too fast, and sooner or later each toucher was touched back.
Was this the way they really were when they were alone with each other, he wondered, when there were no men around? Were they happier, more innocent, more childlike, more alive?
from a short story I wrote... | |
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| and some?
Posted: 4/4/2007 3:14:38 PM | from a short story I wrote...
A wise man. . . . No. Not always. But often enough.
♥ | |
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| The difference
Posted: 4/4/2007 4:01:14 PM | Your story sounds like water nymphs playing tag as children
In reality the openness is there certainly
No pretentiousness or competition
As men comparing themselves
And strutting about like peacocks
Territorial instinctively ingrained
Without men in the scenario
Women lay down their guard
Talk as equals understanding feelings and universal concepts
Sharing more of the essence of who they are
We are more open I think than men are
We nod and say “yes”
Baring our souls freely
Not trying to impress
Just reach out
No validation needed
The frolicking in the pond of which you speak
Seems more like a mating dance
That evolves between male and female
The playfulness is a dance
It’s the attraction
The curiosity between sexes
I don’t think as the observer on the edge
Looking in you can truly comprehend
That women free themselves from their bodies
And relate through mind
Perhaps you will never know
Not being a woman. | |
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| The difference
Posted: 4/5/2007 5:13:19 AM | Not being a woman,
of course, is different
from not being a tree
or a koala bear
but I might hope to understand
something of each of these
by being patient
and observant.
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| The difference
Posted: 4/5/2007 6:30:45 AM | Bear with me for a koala isn't.
He has a limited diet, seldom drinks,
motorbike growls when threatened,
exposes claws to be avoided,
frog hops up a tree, spit spot,
disappears in the canopy.
Patient and observant I wonder,
if not being one of these
a man is so different anyway. | |
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| Not by wishing will magic be achieved,
Posted: 4/22/2007 10:36:29 AM | Not by wishing will magic be achieved,
Nor what we give will equal that which we’ve received.
We travel on crooked paths, in hazy light,
Convinced that we’re on highways, bright
And straight. By losing our way,
We finally get home. We say
The meanest things at times instead
Of the love we mean to say. That word
Is difficult for us. But love is not what’s said,
But what’s both said and heard.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J. Newman © 2007 | |
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| Will you miss me in the summer?
Posted: 5/4/2007 6:23:45 AM | Will you miss me in the summer
when the lake is so inviting;
When the fields are filled
with zinnia, phlox and love in bloom?
Will you miss me?
Will you miss me at twilight
when the last of the day
laps softly at the shore of night,
falls back and ebbs away?
Will you miss me? Will you miss me?
Will you miss me in bed,
in our ark against the buffeting
of the harsh and often loveless world?
Will you miss me? Will you miss me?
J. Newman April 22, 2007 © 2007 | |
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| Will you miss me in the summer?
Posted: 5/4/2007 6:30:52 AM | ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Jerry that took my breath away....how lovely to be so loved | |
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| Will you miss me in the summer?
Posted: 5/4/2007 7:24:20 AM | Will you miss me in the summer? And, in answer to all the other words of this lovely piece (except for the bed part ya know)...Yes, of course.
What a beautiful poem. Heartfelt, touching emotional, reached the senses.
Loved it. That lucky, lucky woman!
V | |
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| Will you miss me in the summer?
Posted: 5/6/2007 9:40:30 AM | Summer, spring, winter, fall
are not all the seasons
the heart can recall,
for the heart has reasons
that neither reason nor
the calendar can measure.
The heart knows more
than grief or pleasure.
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