| The Age Of Innocence
Posted: 6/13/2009 9:10:56 AM | loved the whole poem, especially these lines...
And tear stained moments
Where we sense our fragility
And let it grow
Soft bodies craving abandonment
Nuzzled into
The soft sweet scent
solitary man
waiting for this moment
to sing his song
he pours his longing
for a mate
into his throat
releases it with pride
a soliloquy
I pause
under the tree
admiring his heart
and thank him
for the symphony | |
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| The Age Of Innocence
Posted: 6/14/2009 10:44:49 PM | | Thank you Brizo and I too love listening to the birds singing out their hearts. Maybe he really was singing to you *grin* | |
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| The Age Of Innocence
Posted: 6/14/2009 11:37:37 PM | | I have stopped calling them, now that I'm grown up and know about mating...when I think back on how I used to call them as a girl, I'm appalled...I was really good at it, though... | |
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| The Age Of Innocence
Posted: 6/14/2009 11:45:20 PM | I bet you were good at it...
What else is written on leaves?
Our identity
Imprinted in its rudimentary form
From birth to death
We shape and blend the colours
Into a kaleidoscope of our persona
Striving at times
To abolish the shadows of past mistakes
A finger smoothes the soft mossy surface over our leaf
Thoughts float in a puddle of
Ancient tea leaves
Adroit consistency
Wonderfully transparent
To those who recognize the forest for the trees
And it’s Saturday already
And my daughter is digressing into her father’s daughter
Critical of anything that doesn’t resemble
The fast paced anxiety of her world
She wants my leaf to be an extension of her tree
Young still a fledgling of unearned wisdom
Her brief encounter with the wind has only given her a glimpse
Of the orchestra on fire in the harvest of our souls
I don’t have to tell her
I have paid my alms
A thousand times over
Budding each year
As spring explodes in sequence
Stay on your own tree my child
I am your mother not a clone
I have my own etch-a-sketch to deliver on time
As you have yours
It’s not a bad thing being a needle in a haystack
As long as I can stick my head out for fresh air
Once in a monsoon
I fly with those of like mind
Free to be me
I have endured many storms to get to this place
On one of the higher branches
Find your own tree little girl
It’s time to open your eyes
Plant your own seeds remembering all you have been taught
Inside the balance of nature
And not to follow in anyone else’s shadow | |
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| The Age Of Innocence
Posted: 6/15/2009 10:40:12 AM | Saints and Sinners
Men are not deities
Have you not learned that yet little one?
Some come equipped with
Their own agenda of strange idiosyncrasies
That can drive a woman insane
And you begin to think you are living with an alien
I think that men digress
Back into their childhoods
The older they get
They begin to see life
Through cartoon characters
Heroes and villains
I have watched a group of mature grown up men
Speak with the tongue of Elmer Fudd
Reciting Monty Python as their bible
Or mumbling epiphanies to themselves in the shower or on the toilet
Born out of Woodstock, not the church
Have you tried to get a man into a church?
To walk down the aisle and feel the mystery
Their brains are thinking sex in the belfry
Or on the altar during confession
How do they change those light bulbs in the rafters?
Religion is the folly of man
Did you not know that the baby boomers
Are the screwed up generation
And it’s up to you now to start a revolution
Think outside the box to fix this world
Don’t follow in our footsteps
Or you will find yourself
On the eve of destruction
Asteroids plummeting to earth
Instead of the annihilation of the dinosaur
It will be us who loses at risk or monopoly
Find fresh ground to break your dreams upon
Or this world will truly spin off its axis. | |
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| The Age Of Innocence
Posted: 6/15/2009 5:43:30 PM |
I have watched a group of mature grown up men
Speak with the tongue of Elmer Fudd
Reciting Monty Python as their bible
try sitting in on a game of D and D....I started giggling, then a guffaw...when they wondered what I was laughing about I asked them what the difference was between that and Barbies...
I tried, I really did, but I had to leave because I couldn't quit laughing...they were pretty incensed for awhile...  | |
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| The Age Of Innocence
Posted: 6/17/2009 11:17:51 PM | Re 0342…when people ask me why I still stay…keeping in touch with FAMILY xoxo…who else can forgive you for cackling like a witch?
Friendships I remember
Especially your special day
Almost above us
Another season I celebrate living
I asked the love of my life
How would you feel if I asked you?
He replied; I’d feel hurt
If you’d keep losing my address
Now I hang my head in shame
Been through five computers in six months
More in husbands but that took years
Although since I had the pleasure of meeting you
I want to celebrate your birthday (your summer and my winter…there’s irony in that…maybe only in my mind)
What’s your address again? | |
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| The Age Of Innocence
Posted: 6/18/2009 10:04:14 AM | I could write fairytales
God only knows
How much Oi thank you for
Forgiving me xoxo | |
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| The Age Of Innocence
Posted: 6/18/2009 12:30:17 PM | Brizo I am glad you can see my attempt at humor *grin* There is a difference between men and women and it is sometimes hilarious to watch from our perspective.
AD what a wonderful surprise to see you out last night and writing again. I am so happy to hear your news about you and your caveman. This one sounds like a keeper sweetie! | |
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| The Age Of Innocence
Posted: 6/18/2009 12:39:09 PM | I am not ready to sweep out the nest
It becomes too sterile when the sounds
Die down and I am left to my own devises
The babies are only just spreading their wings
And as long as I’m needed I will be their grounding stone
As well as their window to see beyond
I was born to be a mother
It was in my blood from the beginning
My head still swings around at children crying
The joy outweighs the outbursts
I die a thousand times over
When they cry
It doesn’t end with 3 beautiful daughters
They always bring home more to love. | |
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| The Age Of Innocence
Posted: 6/18/2009 11:50:54 PM | I like it when you make me speechless
Smiling down on me
With eyes that crouch low
In the night
Magical eyes that see everything
The wind stripping the blinds
Of their modesty, gently rocking, arms folded
The candle wax painting a glass tray with rubies
A book of yoga falling to the floor to rest beside the I Ching
You have created the moment
And tickled it silly with soft hands that will not behave
The pungent scent
Of lilacs entering
Through the crevices of unknown origin
The cat smiles
That knowing smile
The clock in the tower oblivious to time
Tiny drops of sweat
Fall upon sighs
Warm and cozy
Napping in each other’s shadow
The moon seeks absolution
In the dizzy, crazy June madrigal. | |
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| The Age Of Innocence
Posted: 6/22/2009 10:49:36 PM | I love summer
Summer magically appeared
Poking her head in through the door
Another year of
Festivals in the park
Sailing ships
Music in the air
Lit by rusty hinges
Of swings not oiled
Are we getting too old?
Or are our swings out of sync
With the spreading branches of the trees
Ropes groaning suspended out of rhyme
Time to go down to the beach
And paint our toes with sandy loam
Wiggling toes waking into dancing waves
Rocks painted green, slippery, slick
My favourite place to sit
Amid the seagulls and sunshine moments
Of closing eyes and stolen kisses
Instead the hum of air conditioners
Crooning into their microphones
Next door
No time to question the insanity
When summer knocks
Take an imaginary dog for a walk
And savour every breeze
That makes you feel like a kid again. | |
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| Summer's End
Posted: 6/24/2009 8:57:16 PM | first love
memories are tiny fires
burning and dancing
all on their own.
you
are a circle of
one hundred slender
white candles
your face different
vibrating
in each movement
each with your different voice
with a different touch
burning easily
with confidence
in a dark room.
white
wax
drips
when I
remember
you
and I do
and I do. | |
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| Summer's End
Posted: 6/24/2009 11:21:18 PM | Thank you Soulful that was lovely.
I saw a star cluster through the telescope last night called The Ring Nebula - a gobular cluster of stars shaped into a ring and died long ago but still sends its image to us. It looked like a puff of smoke circling around two shining stars.
The dying suns
of a night flower
bursting open
wings beating the darkness
rippling back in time
it is only illusions
that brought us to you
in the first place
how time travels back
galaxies on fire
embers a ring of gaseous
talons
somewhere between the beginning
and the end
this pinprick of heaven
bows down to our destiny. | |
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| Summer's End
Posted: 6/25/2009 7:55:35 PM | | wow, the last two poems, really good! | |
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| Summer's Beginning
Posted: 6/26/2009 10:47:06 PM | Thank you Brizo
I don’t write poetry to be accomplished
Like the daughter of the house learning
To play an instrument to appease tradition
I don’t write poetry just for slapping
Words down on a page
And hoping they stick
And don’t fly away
I don’t write poetry
To be mean spirited
Or confrontational
I write it because I can
Release the tension
Sooth the mind
Work through a feeling
Describe a moment in time
That is fleeting and has meaning to me
I write it as a gift
To those I love
An expression of sympathy
A hug with words
The joy of friendship
Some have no clue what I am saying
Or trying to say
Some of it is working through a day
That needed weeding desperately
Or just because a thought popped into my head
It rolled off my fingers effortlessly
Gently prodding life
Into my perspective
In reality it has become a historical path
A walk through life. | |
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| Summer's Beginning
Posted: 6/26/2009 10:59:24 PM | I’m trying to be reflective
Asking the universe
What my purpose
My role is on this planet
Where do I want to belong?
Down the road
If I can turn over as many stones as possible
Take courses
That will guide me closer
To whom I am
I remember being here before
Looking around me
At the people I see on a daily basis
Wondering, “Do they love their jobs?”
Is that what I want to be when I grow up?
It’s a daunting procedure
Looking yourself straight in the eye
For some answers
Sometimes it just all flows together
Opportunity knocks
But in a recession
I find more doors closed then open
The summer is beckoning
With her capricious smile. | |
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| Summer's Beginning
Posted: 6/28/2009 1:40:41 PM | Fountains and TramwaysShare By Priya
(She has justed turned 18 and is a good friend of one of the twins. I am always amazed at how her mind works. Did we think like this at 18?)
When your car drive’s by your house for a flicker you think you might never come back, and for a minute, your uncomfortable, in that car, in your clothes, holding that bag, wearing that scent, fingering your chap stick in your back pocket. Your lips are dry; your fingers are young and clumsy. Your drink pours all over that brand new shirt, and you smell the coffee or the juice or the milk or whatever it was all over yourself, all those people, and places and lives you already lived all over your groomed and perfected self, and it’s all stuck to your fingers and shorts and shoes. And even after washing it off every inch of your skin, scrubbing under your fingernails and through the roots of your hair, the traces are still there, like memory hooks, wedged in your blood vessels and muscles and twitches and grimaces. And now you’re running around the city, the world, your cup, trying to find answers. Did you even grow older? Did anyone change at all? When you left did you make a double take? Are differences only apparent in shades of hair, and muscle weight, and stretched fat and pushed limbs. Were you here a thousand years ago? Does alcohol even make you lightheaded or is that just something you think happens? Can you hold your drink now, or is that made up as well. Does it all even fucking matter? Drunk off your old memories and made up answers you peak out of your window, and hope, that everyone for a few seconds, are thinking the exact same thing as you. Not thoughts on home, or strangers, or love or sadness. But that,
in the simplest of words,
I hope today will be lovely.
I hope tomorrow will perhaps be lovelier.
I hope the day after that will be good.
I hope I have no more bad ones.
I hope when we all close our eyes our dreams all align. And even if they don’t, I hope we all think they do. I hope the wind still feels just as good somewhere else. And I hope, bit by bit, I disappear, and get polished and remade, dusted off and put back together, as something entirely new.
And now, somewhere else, a few blocks away, I am the person walking fast trying to play cops and robbers with the weather, trying to outrun the night, and walking slow to delay the day, to see if I can trick time. And I am holding that same drink quite steadily so as to not tip over everything I will ever have, and only let its contents find its place back inside me, not on the pavement, not the table, not someone else’s careless hands. | |
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| Summer's Beginning
Posted: 6/30/2009 8:52:39 AM | [Lisa]
Lisa is a sylph,
Man’s midsummer angst.
Lisa drives man to sin.
We are peccant—paint
Our anxiety to the wind.
Lisa is a quiescent goddess.
She colors man in uncertainty.
She drives man unto madness;
Leaving his soul whet wit desire.
Lisa is winsome, the radix of
Intense beauty. She is regalia—
Rejuvenescence of man’s
Essence. Lisa is a diamond.
Lisa is resplendent.
For her love man is penchant,
Pensive, wistful and repentant;
But Lisa belongs to no man.
One finds Lisa is a reliquary.
One finds Lisa by chance.
Lisa is seemingly imaginary.
Lisa is more than romance.
I love you, Lisa. You are the
Efflorescence of existence—
An effulgence of spirit—I
Love of you despite evanescence.
Lisa is an emblem of perfection.
Who can resist her essence?
She is a prophetic masterpiece.
Lisa is the taming of the beast.
Lisa I have begged of you
Not to take my love for vain.
I have begged of you to feel
The flame; But Lisa is bane;
Lisa is a poison surging through
Mans’ veins. Lisa is a hurricane
Waging war within man’s brain.
Lisa is man’s number one desire.
Naive
Hi Autumn, I thought that I would post this one here also. I wanted to show that I am not entirely murky as of lately. | |
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| Summer's Beginning
Posted: 6/30/2009 10:58:28 PM | | How can I post after that one now J. I like seeing that playful part of you come out. Thank you. | |
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| Summer's Beginning
Posted: 7/5/2009 10:50:12 PM | When my kids went off to university last year they were shocked by the lethargy and in some cases bad judgement of their peers. So many parents have over protected their kids that the kids had no clue how to stand on their own two feet. Many suddenly found themselves with too much freedom all at once. Some of these students have thrown away their first year and are only now coming to the realization that it’s not the parents they are letting down, only themselves. My girls thanked me for trusting them enough to loosen the reigns when I felt it was time, giving them more freedom of choice. I’m glad now I made them independent although it wasn’t always an easy task.
It is not our place to prepare the table
For our children’s lives
In trust we have been gifted with the wisdom
To offer first and foremost an unconditional love
To treat them with dignity and respect
Anointing their head from the waters of self discovery
We provide the tools and
A lifeline of continuity
We laugh with them, cry with them
Teach them not to be afraid of expressing emotion or being true to themselves
We cannot give them our beliefs
They need to find answers in their own time, at their own pace
It’s something already sealed inside their consciousness
Waiting to be born
Our imprint is teaching by example
Offering up a variety of choice
Even the pickiest eater will find something to satisfy hunger
I have watched my children grow by a gentle hand, a trusting heart
And although they have fallen I was the hug and reassurance
Not the persecutor
I do not live my life through them
They are not my hopes for the future
They are the future. | |
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| Summer's Beginning
Posted: 7/6/2009 7:44:22 PM | A Bedtime Story
In that dark place where black meets white
An explosion rocked her brain
Somewhere between the throws of sanity, death
Her bed quaked and trembled, the curtains overhead came down upon her like an anxious bird
The pungent smell of smoke
Assailing reality
Old and tired she crawled to the window
Half expecting to see a barrage of red lights, commotion
But instead was met with that transparent yellow
Of empty silence hanging from a lamplight
She vehemently claims this was not a nightmare
Inflicting pain, remembering but only pieces
Curling tentacles of morose illusion
Did she cry out in the night?
Alone and confused
Remembering another night a week or so ago
The room had quaked in seismic waves of fear
Bombs hitting her ancient heart
By rote in the darkness
She felt her way to the medicine chest
Grasping for her only means of clarity
In the blue bottle on the bottom shelf
With shaking hands she counted out one Lorazapam
Returning to her childlike stupor
The wet sheets
And her fear of dying.
[Already posted just bringing it home] | |
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| A Bedtime Story
Posted: 7/6/2009 8:04:50 PM | I'm so glad you brought this home...
like I mentioned before it is remarkable. After hearing your perspective it's worth even more. I'm gonna try to write something here on the fly... I've had writers block for months.
Searching for a muse
---------------------------
I float in and out of being able to write
usually when a girl sees in me what I am blind to
I write like Poe, Tennyson, Twain, Yeats and Keats
but when I can't grasp her shadow in a lost dream
I write like the pained architecture of Matt Groening on steroids
but the Simpsons were never my family
and I'm hoping there is more in this tunnel than just darkness and the approaching south pacific line
she most likely resides in the heart of Mississippi
where the tributaries turn a soul a thousand marshes wide
and when I think of her I usually cry pomegranate juice
like God talked about in the Song of Solomon
I'm safe and happy
no need to mix words
the thieves that hold me in the day
take nothing from my night of promiscuity
I wait for my muse | |
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| A Bedtime Story
Posted: 7/7/2009 10:36:07 PM | Thank you Tenz
[Bringing this home from the moon thread]
I often sneak out on the porch at night
to gather moonbeams in my pocket
especially when vulnerability strikes
those raw chords in your comfort zone
sending tingling doubts to collide with nature
you look up and plead with the moon
to set you back on cycle
it's a woman thing to shed emotions in the dark
trying to make sense out of misplaced confidence
that was there only yesterday
I swear we have a biorhythm upheaval
cheered on by hormones
sinking deeper into the abyss
of insecurities, unglued. | |
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| A Bedtime Story
Posted: 7/11/2009 8:23:35 PM | Alzheimer's
her mind is unspooling
events in her life
no longer chronological
clocks run backwards
a girl sits for supper
with parents long gone
a young mother sees
the infant face of her adult child
a bride blushes with
the passion of her honeymoon
a mercy
before it is all gone
to really inhabit
memory
before the final loss
LS 7/11/09 | |
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