Three Poems

"Today I have grown taller from walking with the trees."
-Karle Wilson Baker
(1878-1960) U.S. poet

************************
A poem about the stars
Written at midnight
With no lights on.

Oak tree has caught
stars in her arms,
gathering them
like diamond chips
in the hem
of an evening gown.
She weaves them
into her branches
with practiced ease,
and her fingers point to
the moon as it
illuminates her
handiwork.

**************

It was snowing by two.
The pale, nervous flakes
fluttering down like the
insides of a feather pillow.
A sheet of grey cloud
shuddered across the sky,
and bare tree branches
trembled at the coming of snow.

********************************

One day the leaves grew restless—
They murmured and shivered and hung.
They naturally,finally,decided to fly,
And silently cheered as their bodies were flung.
They fell with a whispering crash below—
They were colorful, lively, and free.
They rustled and swirled as they tickled the street,
And danced through the wind with glee.

Oak Tree

There is an oak tree
in our yard.
Forgive her.
She likes making
poetic appearances.

National Poetry Month

Welcome to it! I'll be posting some of mine soon, but here's another's for now.

Advice to Writers
by Billy Collins

Even if it keeps you up all night,
Wash down the walls and scrub the floor
of your study before composing a syllable.
Clean the place as if the Pope were on his way.
Spotlessness is the niece of inspiration.

The more you clean, the more brilliant
your writing will be, so do not hesitate to take
to the open fields to scour the undersides
of rocks or swab in the dark forest
upper branches, nests full of eggs.

When you find your way back home
and stow the sponges and brushes under the sink,
you will behold in the light of dawn
the immaculate alter of your desk,
a clean surface in the middle of a clean world.

From a small vase, sparkling blue, lift
a yellow pencil, the sharpest of the bouquet,
and cover the pages with sentences
like long rows of devoted antsthat followed you in from the woods.

The Ides of March and Other Odd Things

"On a thyme-scented, bird hatching morning in May... ." *

Today is The Ides of March.

Saturday is St. Patrick's Day. Being Irish, I like this holiday. Wear green e'en if you aren't Irish!

Next Wednesday is the first day of Spring.

Next month, I'll attend a lecture about Emily Dickinson. It will be given by Claudia Emerson (A lovely lady, and a Pulitzer Prize winning poet). I'm looking forward to it.

*From Tess of the D'Urbervilles, by Thomas Hardy. Depressing book. I'd recommend Far from the Madding Crowd.

Chansons Innocentes III by E.E. Cummings

little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower
who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid

look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they'll stare!
oh but you'll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at out beautiful tree
we'll dance and sing
"Noel Noel"

Dream Children

When the world is all so ho hum and they can’t think of any more to say
When we need to speak our minds but we really want to sing and play
We really ought to stomp and yell because otherwise wouldn’t it all just be so boring.

Get a life, man and woman
Rise above the stupid meaningless
of this petty world and shake off
the sleep dust that is pulling you
beneath the waves of tired plodding sorrow
that is this depressing world—
free yourself from everything.
And let loose your baby voice
until it is a shout loud enough
to be heard everywhere—
until you have nothing left to say.
That is the point, for you to realize
your very own mind and leave your
shining finger prints all over the history
book that is not a textbook but a dream that is real.
Let the world understand what you’re.
Unthinkable hope is my connotation,
and whoever heard of something real
that didn’t die or go out of fashion?
You are the only thing that will never die,
because you are simply put
thought soul mind poetry inspiration. who can kill
what is kept in a safe place beyond our bounds of time. It
is a mystery that will never be solved by the undreamers.
We are the dream children with a
voice bigger than creation and
we will never die.

this is fall

Fall is here.
And all of a sudden
the mornings are 48 degrees,
and your sixteenth birthday
is in two days.
The first autumn leaves
are two bright spatters
on the tree outside the kitchen window.

The Death of John Glenn

John Glenn
Got bored one day
So he hopped
On the Titanic
For a fast cruise
To L.A., where
He was planning
To meet Jackie Chan
And Bart Simpson
Unfortunately,
You know
What happened to
The Titanic
And now
The penguins
Sing
Sad songs about him,
And Georgia O’Keefe
Thinks about him
Every day…

Trip: San Francisco

I went to San Francisco
I saw the bridges high
Spun across the water
Like cobwebs in the sky

--Langston Hughes

"i thank You God for most this amazing"

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginably You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

-e. e. cummings

...for lack of better words

Since poetry really seems to be all that I can scrawl out at the moment...

Seeing Sir Lancelot

Silhouette on golden hill
Stands Sir Lancelot the brave
Looking ready, dressed to kill
Beware ye, foe and knave
Kill he will if fight he must,
Charging arms and all
In Sir Lancelot’s spear we trust
Faint enemies and fall!
Peacock feathers at his helm
Servant lads admire
Saving hero of the realm
Quelling dragon’s fire.
No-one sees the tears,
Beneath his mask of steel
No-one sees his hidden fears
Although they are so real.

quick post and a long poem

Last week we library volunteers got our new shirts, so now we will look official-like when we're on the job.

I made dinner last night for the guys since mom is out and about... first off, I couldn't find the spaghetti sauce, and when I did, the frozen meatballs wouldn't melt, then I found out that I had put in barely enough spaghetti, then the sauce started to heat up and little bubbles would pop and the sauce would spatter... whew--it came out pretty good after all, although the clean up was horrid.

here is a poem I've been working on for a while and just finished. A couple lines near the end I think need changing, but I'll post it anyways

King turned
Broken sword
A great evil
It must be burned
This thing
A token
Things to come
This ring…
Friends go
As one
Some die
Some don’t know
Rushing tide
Dark forest
Things in shadow
Run and hide
Promise to last
One gives
Two hearts
Held fast
Warriors duel
Friends are lost
Fleeing now
Don’t be a fool
Marble arch
Mammoth pillars
Cold stone
Footsteps march
In dull procession
Drums roll
Hearts beat
In restless tension
The ring of fate
The cries
Of those
Who have to wait
The road goes on
Plans made
Unafraid
Swords are drawn
Silent sounds
Echoes of words
No-one can hear
Fear abounds
A king bears
A quiet strength
A maiden’s heart
Bravely tears
Quiet halls
Empty of life
Arrows fly
A hero falls
Doors tumble
Men flee
Babes cry
Walls crumble
Can there be no light
Creatures wild
A shriek
In the night
Unknown fears
Screams so loud
Threads of hope
Bitter tears
A golden band
Fire of red
Forever choice
An outstretched hand
Eagles fly
Saving heroes
Sleep and wake
Laugh and sigh
Crowned head
Strong face
The song is sung
Lovers wed
No compromises
A humble
King
Rises
Ships will sail
Silver
Tears
Friends hearts fail
Life goes on
Death
Birth
The road goes on

odd poetry written on a cold afternoon

Anatomy of a Tree

I have lived
50 times over
I am old and young and free
I take what I need
And I give it back
For I am more
Than eye can see
I dance to the wind
I dance to the rain
I bow to the stars
And snow
I wreath myself in color that
Is meaningless to me
By the day-hour
I rise
I spread my ‘wings’
And
Try to fly
I kiss the earth
I kiss the sun
And then I fall
And then I die.

ML
11/27/05

no more reading in literature class about a little girl named Heidi who tended goats--now onto higher things such as a man who bleached himself into invisibility and madness, and another story about a man who turned into a beetle--WHAAAT?



Here's my finished poem...


Can you see the Monster?

Its eyes are two black shipwrecks—
Its tongue is one blue wave

It rolls on without ceasing
Take all that you can save

It heeds no lonely lighthouse
To stand you must be brave

A child’s wail
Heard through the gale

The sailors quake in fear
Their doom is coming near

The water swirls
It twists and curls

And then…without a word

The wind drops
The storm stops

Gull’s voices now are crying
The frothy foam is drying

At last the sand is eaten
The final shore is beaten

Did you see the monster?

I made gingerbread men yestereday...in the heat of summer. Miserable heat. But they were delicious!

poem i wrote...

Can you see the monster?

its eyes are two black shipwrecks
its tongue is one blue wave

it rolls on without ceasing
take all that you can save

it heeds no lonely lighthouse
to stand you must be brave.

of houses and haiku, and other things...

About a week ago, I became the head of a construction crew. Yes, I'm entirely serious, although not quite sane. I led my brothers in a rampage through the backyard that ended in a rough sort of playhouse/hut/wooden frame. It...well...nevermind, but we had a good time, if you don't count the mosquitos and the occasional sore thumb.

Ok. haiku. HAIKU?!? yes, I write haiku, but only occasionaly. That occasion being? Assigned to write haiku for Inkslingers. (5, 7, 5 syllables, there, now you know what haiku is--except in the traditional form it is supposed to be about nature, and not all of mine is.)

Inkslingers is a
Creative writing group for
Teens, grades 7-12

*****

To write is to find
the thin line of consciousness
telling a story.

*****

Did you have to go?
You left me fully empty—
Sadness in my bones.

*****

Fitfully, I sleep
Dark spirits possess my mind.
Nightmare, no control.

*****

Warm terracotta
And bright bluest of oceans
Oh, California!

*****

Mourning dove’s call says
No time for fixing all those
Broken-hearted dreams

*****

Lily lanterns in
The misty evening
Brighten rosy cheeks

*****

Ruffled skirts swaying
Little bits of sun on earth
Yellow daffodils

*****

(for you, Cara)

Where may I find her—
This ruby bit of laughter—
The pink dragonfly?

here

*****

White hand over grey
Linen over dying dust
Tears will pass away.

No offense to Bria...

...but complicated poetry is just not my genre(sp?) Recently, I had to rewrite a love sonnet by Shakespeare,(for school) and thought I would share the original, along with the edited version.

A Sonnet by Shakespeare
(the original)
Is it thy will, thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?
O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake:
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.

(my version)
Is it your will, that thoughts of you are keeping
My tired eyes open at night?
Do you want me to be unable to sleep,
While shadows of you mock my sight?
Is it your spirit, sent from you
So far from home, to pry into all I do,
To find my guilt and restlessness,
The extended nature of your jealousy?
No! Even your love is not that strong:
It is my love that keeps me awake:
My own true love that makes sleep useless,
To guard you forever:
I watch for you, while you wake somewhere else,
Far away from me, while others are too close.

Did you survive?