Pane

Sorry. I know, it's been a month. I haven't been feeling very poetic recently. No creativity whatsoever. Bear with me; it may come back eventually. I did OneWord today, in guilt. I guess I'm thinking in homonyms right now.

A pane of glass is only a small piece of a window. So much pain can be caused by one pane of glass. Even more can be caused by a sliver. Interesting, how pain increases as the size of the cause decreases. Strange.

CROSS (from One Word)

Today's One Word exercise:

sometimes i get angry. but then i go backward, over myself. then, you see i look up into the heavens. don't doublecross me with crossed-out meanings! Too much is also not enough. Crossing guards should be paid more. They're so important.

Writing Exercises, Not Written

I've been meaning to write one of the inverted pyramid fairy tale news stories that the Phantom Prof assigned for a while, but I can't pick a fairy tale. Also, I've been very busy and keeping up with one blog has been enough.

I remember in high school, we were once assigned to write any fairy tale as Shakespeare would have. The idea was to get us used to the King's (or Queen's, rather) English of the period - intro to Shakespeare, or some such - so most of the class just wrote out a story changing all the "you"s to "thou"s and "s"s to "eth"s, but I actually had fun writing out a play, with stage directions and all. It would be fun to do that again, too, but it takes too long.

Straight writing is easy, but all this imagination and creativity has me tired out. I'll try to get back into it soon.

Not Technically Poetry

I couldn't resist. This probably belongs on the main blog, but I have a serious post up today, and I don't want to overshadow it with humor.

Here are a select few of the Washington Post's Style Invitational winners. The point is to alter any word by one letter and write a new definition. These are typed exactly as they appear, so I take no credit for punctuation or anything else.

Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.

Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

Karmageddon (n): It's like, when everybody is send off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.

Glibido (n): All talk and no action.

Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

Caterpallor (n): The color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you're eating.

Ignoranus (n): A person who's both stupid and an *******.

Anaphora

I never knew what an anaphora was until today, but I've written them before. I've decided to do this week's assignment from the Phantom Professor because it's a poem and I like the idea and, well, I want to.

Something I love or hate . . . Love is so hackneyed, and I've been feeling so negative this week, so it will have to be hate, won't it. What do I hate? I try so hard not to hate.

Why is it always about me?
Why can't it be about something else?
Why can't I just write and fly?
Why isn't life just free and clear?

Why isn't a fair question.
Why is just an excuse.
Why can't you take responsibility?
Why doesn't it work?

Why can't I make up my mind?
Why can't I just write?
Why do the questions have to be so hard?
Why can't they read what's inside me?

Why am I feeling so confused?
Why do I come back to me?
Why is a two-year-old blamed
For constantly asking why?

But that wasn't the assignment, so I'll have to do another one. I'm not even sure what I was writing, but it's way too personal to post in comments on someone else's blog. That one will stay here, and I'll write a nice, predictable, happy anaphora.

When I look at you, you're there for me.
When I cry, you hold me tight.
When I think about being alone, I'm not.
When you're there, everything will be fine.

When you hold my hand, I look into your eyes.
When you look into mine, I am safe.
When I feel that nobody cares, there is you.
When you go, I am lonely, but never alone.

When you need me, I hope that I'll always be there.
When you cry, I will hear - that I know.
When you're there for me, I will be there for you.
When we're together, we're one.

When I grow, you will take on different names.
When I was young, you were mom.
When I grow older, though, you'll be him -
And you'll stay him for the rest of my life.

A Thought on Fifty Words

Is it unfair, I wonder, to
Promise fifty words
And preface them - those promised few -
With countless extra terms?

Does anyone think deep inside
"Oh, great - a quick, short post!"
And then get mad at seeing the
Introductory remarks?

Italics should, please, serve to warn
Of words not in the count
But all in all, I'm careful to
Not exceed the set amount.

Italics, though, (from Emily)
It's proper not to use too much.
I use them not for emphasis,
Not to give a special touch -

But just to warn my readers fair
That something extra resides here
Heroic couplets not to fear
This last line will not rhyme.

New Fifty Word Fiction

It's been too long since I did any writing exercises, and I noticed as I was writing a school project last night that I am slipping in my writing style. I used to be able to crank out a textbook-perfect essay on anything - with grammar, style, content - on my first try. I'm having more trouble with that, and I've started settling for content-only, rationalizing that my English is better than the professor's and everyone else will be handing in something else. But that's rationalization, and I don't write for my professors; I write for me. So I must get back in the habit of proper writing.

She sat alone on her bed, thinking of the friend she hadn't seen in months. Would he come to visit? Should she let him in? Would he try to explain?

He stood outside her door, hestitating to knock. He thought, She doesn't remember. She blocked it out. He knocked once.

One Word

A word is a thing
That is nothing at all
But sometimes it can be
Everything.

Anyone can say a word
Anyone can smile
Anyone can do or be
Everything.

So much need, tragic loss
Here and far away
And others sit because they have
Everything.

It's just a word
A single thought,
But sometimes it means
Everything.

If You Cared to Know

I am the sonnet, never quickly thrilled; Not prone to overstated gushing praise Nor yet to seething rants and anger, filled With overstretched opinions to rephrase; But on the other hand, not fond of fools, And thus, not fond of people, on the whole; And holding to the sound and useful rules, Not those that seek unjustified control. I'm balanced, measured, sensible (at least, I think I am, and usually I'm right); And when more ostentatious types have ceased, I'm still around, and doing, still, alright. In short, I'm calm and rational and stable - Or, well, I am, as much as I am able. What Poetry Form Are You?

But I do like people! I do! I do!
So not everything they say is true.

I am also Heroic Couplets, apparently.

Welcome, Welcome

Oh, my! I've had visitors
To this neglected site
I haven't been courteous,
Try as I might.

How can a girl keep up with two blogs
Especially when one requires all rhymes?
Yes I know it's self imposed,
But what of that? What rhymes with "rhymes"?

And what of meter?
This poem is pathetic.
I'm ashamed - yes, I am.
I'll try to do better.

Oh, I know! I know!
"Times" rhymes with "rhymes"
What else do I have to post here
At this times?

Some pictures, you say -
Since I know how to post them
And I have these gorgeous shots
Already uploaded.

This is getting worse and worse -
I'm shocked you still come
But I thank you and promise
To try to have something better for next time.

I heard a Fly buzz

by Emily Dickinson

I heard a Fly buzz -- when I died --
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air --
Between the Heaves of Storm --

The Eyes around -- had wrung them dry --
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset -- when the King
Be witnessed -- in the Room --

I willed my Keepsakes -- Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable -- and then it was
There interposed a Fly --

With Blue -- uncertain stumbling Buzz --
Between the light -- and me --
And then the Windows failed -- and then
I could not see to see --

This is the poem that inspired one of my Grand Canyon haiku. My favorite lines of this poem are "The Stillness in the Room / Was like the Stillness in the Air/ Between the Heaves of Storm". Very evocative phrase - brings these wonderful images to mind. I realize this is a depressing poem at first glance; much of Dickinson's work is depressing. But it's also veyr beautiful, and, whether she intended it that way or not, there is an insightful message beneath it - the important things in a person, in life, and how trivialities can get in the way and blingd us - or, in their own way, become important in their own right.

I just really like this one.

Hunger Pangs

Today is dragging slowly by.
The whole week's dragged its feet.
And I sit staring, naught to do,
Sitting, waiting just to eat.

The kitchen table's full, and I -
I like to eat alone.
Don't stare at me; don't watch me eat.
And please, don't take that tone.

I'm not so hungry, come to think.
I'm willing just to wait.
But everyone says, "Come and eat."
And I say, "Keep your eyes on your own plate!"

It's been a while since I've thought
Of things mundane and not.
I think I'll sit and contemplate,
All alone, in just this spot.

I think you're supposed to focus more on meaning than rhyme. My concern is always rythm over most other components of a poem. And I've been feeling Seussian/Wordsworthian recently - for like the last month or so - so rhyme is important.

Oh, and I should probably go eat lunch. You think that contributes to the subject matter?

Fifty Words on a Noble Hero

Soft ruffles of soft cotton on soft polyester fiberfill. Or goosedown. Covered by silk or satin. So inviting. Waiting for a slight weight to sink in, to gently indent the smooth surface. No matter that it becomes misshapen. It fluffs back up.
Last night I dreamt I ate a marshmallow.

Impending Senility

What was that? I didn’t hear.
Could you say that again?
I wish I may, I wish I might
What comes after ten?

You told me that, you say? You did?
It happened just last week?
Sorry, but I don’t recall.
I must have been asleep.

Sometimes I remember, true.
Some things stick in my mind.
Often, though, you find it’s gone.
Bear with me; please be kind.

You mutter, underneath your breath
“Some cards are missing from her deck”
I’m trying, though, so give me time.
I’ll remember in a sec.

Important notes, appointments, plans
Come and go and wander past.
It’s coming back, I’m trying hard
What was it that you asked?

A Poem I Really Like

by Someone

"I got two A's," the small boy cried.
His voice was filled with glee.
His father very bluntly asked,
"Why didn't you get three?"

"Mom, I've got the dishes done,"
The girl called from the door.
Her mother very calmly said,
"And did you sweep the floor?"

"I've mowed the grass," the tall boy said,
"And put the mower away."
His father asked him with a shrug,
"And that took you all day?"

The children in the house next door
Seem happy and content.
The same things happen over there,
But this is how they went:

"I got two A's," the small boy cried.
His face was filled with glee.
His father very proudly said, "That's great;
I'm proud you live with me."

"Mom, I've got the dishes done,"
The girl called from the door.
Her mother smiled and softly said,
"Each day I love you more."

"I've mowed the grass," the tall boy said,
"And put the mower away."
His father answered with much joy,
"Well done; you've made my day."

Children need encouragement
For tasks they're asked to do.
If they're to lead a happy life,
So much depends on you.

I always thought that this was written by Shel Silverstein; it has his style. But I don't think I've ever seen any author's name for this poem, and if it was Shel Silverstein, it would probably be attributed to him.
I've seen this poem on other sites with slightly different words, but this is how I first heard it, in approximately fourth grade, when we were introduced to poetry. Either version has the same message, and since no one knows who wrote it, I suppose no one can complain about misquoting.
Anyhow, I got two A's. Maybe I can make it three. Keep hoping.

Fifty Words on Fifty Words

I figured out why the writing exercise has to be fiction. Fifty words of frustrated ramblings is easy to write. The challenge is to introduce a story and bring it to a conclusion using only a limited number of words. That's why these fifty words don't count as interesting writing.

Happy Bicentennial!

How I've been waiting for this day
For the excitement when I say
The count has reached two hundred now
Two hundred pageloads - holy cow!

Bad poetry, I know, but then
I'm so excited and have no pen
I'll stop right here so that you'll stay
Return and visit every day.

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village, though
He will not mind my stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Not sure why this came to mind tonight. Maybe wishful thinking. But one thing that's always true is the promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. Sometimes, though, like tonight, I think I will pass on the miles to go and just move straight to the sleep.
Call it camping out, if you will.

Finals, Finals, Every Day

And not a drop to drink.
With all that's going on in here,
I haven't slept a wink.

Well, maybe one or two, but not
More than that at all.
I'm thinking it's not healthy to
Bang my head against the wall.

Will I finish all in time?
Who knows? And who's to say?
Right now few things are on my mind,
but finals, finals, every day.

Fifty Word Reflection

I still like the idea of seeing what you can do within a specified number of words, but the imagination required to keep up the fiction part is just not here anymore. It's finals crunch time. So we're back to depressed ramblings, just like on my other blog. I was debating whether to put this here or there, but I decided that it's artsy/poetic due to the word limitation. Whatever. It's a shame, though, because no one ever visits here. Maybe I'll put it up twice. But I somehow doubt it. Anyhow, here's fifty words about being depressed.

Drudgery. Once you take away the enthusiasm, everything becomes the same. Then it’s not fun or new or different, even when it is. So you have to do things to recharge and bring back the feeling of newness. Otherwise, nothing feels important, and you wonder why you bother at all.

I'm Nobody. Who are you?

by Emily Dickinson

I'm Nobody. Who are you?
Are you Nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us - don't tell.
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody -
How public, like a frog -
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog.

I've always kind of liked Emily Dickinson - I learned this poem by heart in fifth grade. There are a couple of others of hers that really stayed with me. She has this interesting way with punctuation and capitalization, a bit like the constant capitals in German. I may have made some mistakes in punctuation, since I'm writing from memory rather than from a book, and that's actually very wrong of me. With Dickinson, the punctuation is an integral part of the poem. But I'm too lazy to go look it up right now. Even online.
Emily Dickinson was a very tragic character. She died young - in her thirties, if I remember correctly. She never actually intended her poems to be published; they were discovered posthumously by her sister, again, if I remember correctly, who decided they were worthy of publication. Apparently many people agreed, since Dickinson is now considered to be among the classic poets.

More on Emily Dickinson later.

Fifty Word Something, Part XI

It's entirely possible that I am slightly depressed. This isn't technically part of the story. But the character in the story (who is me at least some of the time) might be feeling the same way. Anyhow, I felt bad about going so long with no posts.

Impulsiveness is overrated. Actually, most things are overrated. Except good milk chocolate. Anyhow, why not run away? The thing is that in a few weeks, you’ll be frustrated and want to run away again. You could live your life that way, but what kind of a life would it be?

Death? Loneliness? Immortality?

No one's been to visit here,
It saddens me to say.
It's cold and lonely, truth to tell,
Sitting all alone each day.

So many claim to care, and yet
Not one has stopped to talk.
They gaze as they go by, and wave
But past me they all walk.

Not even slowing on their way -
They don't have time for that.
And I just sit and watch them pass
And wonder what they're looking at.

Surely something must be there -
There must be what to see.
Or could it possibly be true -
That they're all watching me?

It couldn't be, you see, because,
They just don't care enough
They're far too busy, all of them,
To see a diamond in the rough.

And what I am, for them to care?
What's special? What have I?
I sit alone, like every day,
And cry and cry and cry.

Fifty Word Fiction, Parts IX and X

All right, all right. I should just call this "Hundred Word Fiction". Maybe then I would move on to two hundred words a shot. But I find a certain challenge in making sure that every fifty words could, theoretically, stand alone. And since it seems no one's reading this, I can really do what I want. Including posting two sets of fifty words at once. So here they are.

She was afraid to go back to her apartment - afraid that she'd lose her nerve to just run away. There wasn't all that much there that she would miss. It might be nice to buy a whole new wardrobe. But a responsible adult has to remember things like turning off utilities.

She wanted to be impulsive this once. Treat herself royally. If she didn't do it, no one else was likely to. She didn't want to behave like a responsible adult. What would happen if she just left? Couldn't she call to turn off the utilities from wherever she ended up?

I've Written My Fifty Words for the Week

I just got so bored with homework that I wrote a letter for a professor. I should have written that letter a while ago. It's not all that good, but what do you expect from someone who thinks in terms of bearing stress and yield strength. At least I did it. Anyhow, someone else will read it and revise, so it should be okay. The Fifty Word story, on the other hand, is going nowhere.

I was going to write the fifty words continuation right now - really I was! - but I will again plead busyness and hope to have time tomorrow (ha, ha, ha!) or Thursday (more likely). I've been thinking about it, though, so there is hope. Maybe I'll do one hundred words, just to get things moving. I know y'all can't wait, so I humbly apologize for keeping you waiting.

Aw, who am I kidding? No one could care less about my story. Poor, illusion-blinded me.

Counting Stats

It dives and dips, an ocean wave
Hitting troughs and peaks,
Creating geometric curves
As days turn into weeks.

Watching graphs develop shape
Is only fun for engineers
Who take pleasure in the forms
Of numbers as they measure cares.

There is a music within math
As is in the written word
The artistry is to translate
Lines to lines which can be heard.

Fifty Word Fiction, Part VIII

To any readers out there, sorry for the delay between installments. I've been kind of busy. Yes, I'm embarrassed that I haven't posted a single thing to this blog in over a week. I'm aware of the problem. Talk to my professors and see if you can work out with them some way for me to be less busy. I would really appreciate it.
I haven't written a single word of decent poetry since I entered college. I think this whole Poetic Things idea was more of a "don't-I'wish" than anything else. I have all these great pictures that I wanted to post, but I have yet to set up any photo-hosting service, and I have a feeling that I won't be getting to it in the near future. Still, this is worth something - I'm writing at least fifty words a week. More, because I feel this need to write commentary, which I'm sure you're not interested in. Or maybe you are, since blog-readers often want to know the nitty-gritty details of the blogger's life. But probably you don't, since I haven't gotten any hits recently - so you couldn't have missed me too much. I know, I flatter myself by thinking anyone could possibly want to read anything I wrote.

By the way, if you want to stop all the depressing, self-deprecating, non-humor that occurs on this and my other blog, all you have to do is start posting comments. Then I'll cheer up because I'll know that someone's reading this, and I can go back to being my usual self. Which may or may not be more interesting than the current depressed persona.

Anyhow, here's the fifty words for today.

Isn’t choice the joy of life? She wouldn’t go back – she was off on an adventure, to discover the beautiful, wide world. Until the next mishap. Maybe next time there would be knots in her shirtsleeves or something. She really needed to move away to somewhere no one knew her.

Fifty Word Fiction, Part VII

Perhaps eventually the story will get moving. It's hard to have any serious action when you only have fifty words to play with, and you want to develop the character a bit, too. Or maybe it's just that I can't decide what should happen next, so I'm dragging it out until I have a brainstorm. You'll never know the truth, will you?
Here's today's installment. Today's been a busy day on Poetic Things.

There she went again. She was letting them dictate to her – their petty jokes were taking over her life, taking away her power of choice. She had to stand firm. She would wear – and do – and be – exactly what she wanted. If only she could figure out what that was.

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as long as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim
For it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
But knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Someday ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I apologize for having referred to this as "The Road Less Travelled" in a previous post. That's how I always think of it. It's a metaphor for so much in my life - in everybody's life. The choices you make shape who you become, and there is rarely a chance to change paths once the choice has been made. I know the choices that I have made - and I am not happy with all of them - have changed how other people see me, and more - they have changed how I see myself. My choices have "led on" to other choices - there is no escaping the chain of events that every choice begins. Every time we come to a branching in life, we must stop, evaluate, and then choose, knowing that we will probably never come back. This is what life is all about - making choices and living with them; shaping your future by your actions of the present. Often, it is easier to take the road more travelled, but it may not be the best thing for you. And often, the road less travelled appears much more exciting, but it may not be a good idea to stray from the common path. Because every choice has repercussions on every aspect of your life, even ones that you may not see when you look at the choice. And you can never take back a decision. Sometimes you can repair damage, but you can never undo what you have done.

Happy Semi-bicentennial!

Go straight, and then spin 'round twice
I blink to make sure I've seen right.
We've passed the big one: "double-o"
Well, ooh-la-la, hip-hip hurro.

One hundred pages have been viewed
Maybe read - can I assume?
At least most of the poems are good
Better than this one, which doesn't rhyme properly.

Fifty Word Fiction, Part VI

I guess this blog is turning into A Novel Beginning, but I am saving that one for the summer when I have time to develop my novel. Since there is already a basic plot and charaters for the novel, I can't just let this story take over that space. I'll have to add some poetry here, though.
Anyhow, it's Tuesday(but that didn't matter [ref: Cookie Monster and the Cookie Tree, a very important book in my development]).

Well of course she tripped! That tends to happen when people tie your shoelaces together. They must have found her while she slept and decided it would be funny. Her hiding place had been violated; she’d have to find a new one. And she’d have to stop wearing tie shoes.

Fifty Word Fiction, Part V

Forget Tuesdays. Who can keep to a schedule?
I'm feeling a bit sarcastic today, so this is not really in character for the story, which should have a dark, depressed, lonely-turning-out-okay kind of tone. Maybe. But each piece is also supposed to stand alone. Or at least be exactly fifty words long. Which this is. Even though nothing happens.
Then again, if you read Asimov's Foreward to Foundation's Edge (I think. The fourth of the Foundation trilogy, anyway.), he too comments on how shocked he was on rereading the trilogy to discover that nothing happens for many thousands of words, and yet Foundation is one of the most popular and classic SF books/series ever written. Asimov rules!
Not that my writing is Asimov caliber. But I try to imitate only the best!
Anyhow, here's today's piece.

A branch? Where did that come from? This isn’t the forest, is it? Oh, that’s right. When you’re running away in panic, you usually end up in the forest. Even when you start out on concrete sidewalk. Maybe it wasn’t a branch at all. Probably it was just her shoelace.

Fifty Word Fiction, Parts III and IV

I missed last Tuesday, which is the day for updating the story. So here is last week's installment. Part III:
She tossed and turned, her dreams plaguing her with painful images. All the times she tried to impress them, or just to fit in. And they just laughed. Every time. As if they knew how hard she was trying, and they didn’t want anyone who had to try so hard.

Since I'm doing this tonight anyway, here is this week's installment, a few days early. Who knows, maybe there'll be another one on Tuesday, and this is just an extra. Part IV:
Was that the problem? She was trying too hard. Why should she bother, anyway? Why was it so important that they validate her existence? She was better than them, anyway.
She woke, confident, and stood up. As she stood, she tripped on a branch. In her mind, they laughed again.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

I've always loved this poem. As a kid, I loved it for the imagery of snow. I'm a winter baby, and I love snow. Which is why this poem is going u pthis week - it's been snowing on and off quite a bit recently. And this paints such a great picture, tells a great story. Which is what good poetry is all about: expressing feelings, telling stories, painting pictures. They're all facets of the same goal, and poetry is such a great medium for this kind of expression.

More recently (since high school, but even more so now, what with college and a job), the last lines are what I identify with most. So many responsibilities, so many promises, so many things I wish I could promise but am afraid to because I know I simply won't get to them. And sleep? Sleep is a beacon, glowing in the future.

Actually, I'm a big fan of Robert Frost in general. Another great poem is The Road Less Travelled, another one I identify with and which will probably make an appearance here soon.

Fifty Word Fiction, Part II

Because I said "Tune in next week" I kind of felt like I should do another one. Besides, it's fun. So here's the next installment of the tale. I wonder where it's going.

Thinking is just too hard sometimes. Keep running. One day, maybe you can face thinking about it again.
She kept going until she couldn’t see them anymore. Finally, she found a quiet place to stop. She lay down to wait out the pain in her heart. When will she wake?

Perceptions

When
twilight falls
on the darkened stage -
whispering shadows flit by,
their beauty hidden
by the slow
dance.

Ode on a Grecian Urn

by John Keats

Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
Thou foster child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit dities of no tone.
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal---yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unweari-ed,
Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
Forever panting, and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"---that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty": I love that!

Justice?

This is an oldie - from February 2001. Almost four whole years old. I haven't had time to write much poetry recently. This was written as a song; it sounds much better with the music, but alas . . .

There's a prisoner who sits in a faraway cell
Ignored by the warden and inmates, as well.
He knows he's not guilty of the alleged crime;
He sits there, just biding his time, biding his time.

The judge and the jury stand out in the hall,
Calmly ignoring the prisoner's sad call.
His plaintive cry echoes, but they just don't hear.
Can it be justice they fear? Justice they fear.

The prisoner, he sighs, for he knows how they work.
They all hate their task, and their duty they shirk.
They must soon determine the poor prisoner's fate.
They quibble; the hour grows late, the hour grows late.

The prisoner despairs of returning to home.
His mind is with people; his body's alone.
He waits to hear just what the verdict will be
Knowing he's already free, already free.

The jurors hate justice; the judge is corrupt.
The prisoner's not guilty, but that's not enough.
The verdict's for prison, though based just on lies.
He smiles and closes his eyes, not really surprised.

Themes in Poetry

Supposedly the vast majority of classic poetry can be categorized as revolving around one of the following themes: death, loneliness, or immortality.
Since so many poems are odes to love and beauty, I would have to classify them as being about immortality. Rejection, obviously, is both death (of hope) and loneliness.
What are other major subjects for poetry?

Fifty Word Fiction

Not technically poetic, but this is my site ;-) Whenever I see something I like, I tend to try it out. Here's my fifty-word fiction. Check out the website from which the idea came.

She ran away as everyone watched. It was too hard to think; she could only do. Maybe one day she could come back. If they ever stopped laughing.
Her legs were moving on their own; she had no control. When would they stop? Tune in next week to find out.

The Grand Circle

The Grand Circle is the collective name of a group of National Parks in Colorado/Utah/Arizona. They include Zion Nat'l Park, Bryce Canyon Nat'l Park, the Grand Canyon, and Mesa Verde. These places are among the most beautiful spots in the country.

Ebenezer Bryce said about Bryce Canyon: "It's a hell of a place to lose a cow."

Some Haiku that I composed while watching the sun set over the North Rim of the Grand Canyon (June 25, 2001):

Red and gray faces
Peer out at me as I watch
Clouds settle on rock

The winds chill my hands
As I sit high on the cliff
Beauty absorbs me

(Inspired by Emily Dickinson)
I heard a fly buzz
Breaking the pristine silence
In canyon's own land

"Some people say that the water of the Colorado would be wasted if it went straight to the Pacific, but it returns."
It returns in our memories of our experiences of the water.

Daffodils

by William Wordworth

I wander'd lonely as a cloud,
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the bay, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle in the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

The Play's the Thing

by Jayne Jaudon Ferrer
in Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul (p.214)

Forgive me, Lord
for all the tasks
that went undone today.
But this morning when my child
toddled in and said "Mommy play?"
I simply had to say yes.
And between the puzzles and trucks
and blocks and dolls and old hats and
books and giggles,
we shared a thousand special thoughts,
a hundred hopes and dreams and hugs.
And tonight, when prayer time came
and he folded his hands and softly whispered,
"Thank you, God, for Mommy and Daddy and
toys and French fries, but 'specially
for Mommy playing,"
I knew it was a day well wasted.
And I knew You'd understand.