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 |   "Scattered leaved with poetic imprints." My new collection of poetry. |
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P.(tree)Log ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Well, it's now mid- 2019 and this is still the only book I use to house part of my new poetry. I began using it years ago due to a lack of storage space in my over-700 item WDC portfolio. I really need to do some spring, summer, fall and winter cleaning. There are still lots of static items which have never received any mention by other members here. But that's part of the problem of being a writer ( musician, artist, actor ... ). I do not know how to network. Thanks for discovering this link. Please leave a comment. Bookmark it, please.... This is a writing site and not FarceBrook where it's so easy just to press the button "LIKE." (( And I am not a fan of the fact that WDC has added it. )) |
on a distant hill their spirits roar or is it the wind over the grasses so far away from their homeland? the cross framed in green and blue reminds mankind of their memories unending and fertile, frozen in pictures of summer circuses, buried under snowy blankets which tamed their spirits eternally... on a silent day, the songs of elephant tears will add a sad harmony to the prayers offered to the white cross on the hill on the hill [2009.11.5...a] for Mandy |
| Twitter, since writing here on WDC is a favorite word of mine. I don't know why. I can't explain it. I visited Ken's blog this morning, and his decision to quit WDC this summer and write only on Twitter got my muse interested. Here's the first result. At the end of the day, I may post the revised version if I get courageous enough. twitter for me while Myrtle Beach bathes my aches sing me a song of destitution, or amazing grace there's confidence in your words whatever your verse... as the sea air calms my blue nightmares I imagine your gentle twittering, like the hymn of a pair of turtle doves, and as absence makes my heart fonder, I'll ruffle your blond hair in a gentle gesture of friendship when at last we meet on Myrtle Beach at the beach [2009.10.5...a] for Ken |
| Something I found in My NotePad which had gone unnoticed. Haven't checked to see whether or not it was in my blog (it was...), but I've decided it's worth posting here: white puffy clouds, snow? there's a light rain, or smog has invaded the suburbs, too quiet too distant from my high window distilled music like chips of chocolate in oatmeal reaches my senses oddly but cannot color this whiteness surrounding me rooftops shimmer in silvery shades of wetness, the streets are dry my umbrella will remain behind when I brave their emptiness below the sounds are distant, evolving around memories somehow still alive later that day the snow fell I remember ice on the trees too many nights I have seen this vision escaping, like white smoke from chimneys from my dreams, solitary apparitions of another moment in time whiteness... [2009.26.2...a] |
interrupted on the billiard table, my drunken celebration, a thick layer of sooty dust hides whatever else we were too hurried to forget thirteen wilted red roses now frame the eight ball I should never have found the keys in my left pocket twenty-one doesn’t mean intelligent [2009.22.4...a] |
| It started with the idea of a five line poem. Except that these five lines started out with 35 words. Polishing added a few more, and the lines are a bit too long for my taste. tempted by misty fields of golden shimmering blossoms your laughter spreads to my heart in an echo swiftly, distant aeolians send crackling coffee and crumpled morning news to the fruit-laden promise filling your eager waiting arms I am patient — the flowers will still decorate the countryside tomorrow colza in love’s mist [2009.21.4...a] SO, they get rearranged in the following manner. Which do you prefer? tempted by misty fields of golden shimmering blossoms, your laughter spreads to my heart in an echo, swiftly, distant aeolians send crackling coffee and crumpled morning news to the fruit-laden promise filling your eager waiting arms I am patient — the flowers will still decorate the countryside tomorrow colza in love’s mist [2009.21.4...a] The NovaCatmando Version: tempted by misty fields of golden shimmering blossoms, your laughter spreads to my heart in an echo, swiftly, distant aeolians send crackling coffee and crumpled morning news to the fruit-laden promise filling your eager waiting arms I am patient — tomorrow decorating flowers will still color the countryside colza in love’s mist [2009.21.4...a] |
| after midnight, words of my lonely heart often go unread they join together in dreams and visions of loss I so dread it used to be I was old at thirty-five, now I’ve reversed the numbers, at fifty three my death clutches my unread verse upon the lavender route I find colorful stones and shiny rainbows playful imps and genies share the carriage with witch’s crows she and the turquoise-draped seer fight over rare Chinese peahens on an overgrown path hiding the forest, the road twists and bends the rite of spring has lost the jeweled rays of suns and moons love has gone astray, its improbability always made me swoon sadly, I listen to untitled music, sunday night in the car returning from strange purple sunsets I’ve witnessed from afar the blazing sun, like golden dragon eyes, makes me tame ravines in their depths, to find your wee kisses I’d willingly go blind to lose your love, my heaven forsaken, I fall at mach speed crushed on a highway where other lame days test the limits of my trust the circle of fathers long gone leaves our hearts lonely indeed here, their words penned in rhyme have been quietly freed the lonely hearts club [2009.12.4…a] Just a few of the titles used: "Invalid Item"  by A Guest Visitor "Invalid Item" by A Guest Visitor "Invalid Item" by A Guest Visitor "Invalid Item" by A Guest Visitor "Invalid Item" by A Guest Visitor "Invalid Item" by A Guest Visitor "Invalid Item" by A Guest Visitor "Invalid Item" by A Guest Visitor "Invalid Item" by A Guest Visitor "Invalid Item" by A Guest Visitor "Invalid Item" by A Guest Visitor "Invalid Item" by A Guest Visitor "Invalid Item" by A Guest Visitor |
| I sit in the inclement weather of contemplation tethered to my pungent words the finest wine which anchors me to the withered peelings of pear* left by the pairing of knives and brushes skinned and ripened in sepia, I wonder whether to twitter uncountable tattered pages describing inky feathered quills painted into a gilded unframed still-life or to attempt tweaking my tortured visions into something as fleeting as art departing artistry [2009.8.4...a] ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Thanks to Catherine for sharing. * original line was "to the withered pear peelings." KÃ¥re noted that the flow of the line wasn't right - he was correct, as is frequently the case. |
| The singers continue. the religious quality of their a cappella text soothes my uneasiness sometimes, I listen for hours He plays solitaire on his iPhone, I type meaningless words no one will ever read hidden in cupboards which are barer and barer as the years go by my dimming secrets become equally sparse for my own reasons, I choose to share them thus one by one, detail after detail sparing myself a rouged embarrassment hoping miraculously thus that a peaceful semblance can overtake my life. Bearing my soul — if I told him everything, would he not flee? — to confront the waning demons of solitude even when I spend a week-end with my man in the moon. Their voices are not yet angelic, but they don’t croak like untamed frogs either. They have a certain unity for the Italian renaissance project pleasing my sense of uncovering princes and princesses I may be moved discreetly impartial if a particular harmony is delicately balanced flat notes, cumbersome rhythms and inattention to details however, scandalize, embolden my tongue’s metered rhyme and quickly immobilize my aesthetic senses rusty voices filled with muddy waters abound, why can’t they merely sing saving thus their precious breath for nobler endeavors and be concise with their monologues? Yes, I am moved, watching him fiddle with his iPhone I long for his voice to replace the singers who haunt me his sweetness to engulf the abyss lurking so close to my tender soul. recitative, aria and chorus [2009.4.4…a] |
| The prompt was to finish the incomplete metaphore —Â there was a list of twenty — and select those that were the most inspiring to be developed into a poem. Here's the first poem that seems to work. 13) Up is like down when............ angel’s wings are made of snowflakes that never melt up and down, caressing his angel’s wings made of never-melting snowflakes, delicate thoughts of sex float like prayers, sticking on their whetted leaves of desire, poetic impressions of dreams, as they too fall back to their point of origin, timid declarations of a fuzzy-faced adolescent boy too scared to see how love overcomes his frugal heart he hopes, lying prostrate in the evening dew on a silk and velvet patchwork quilt from his father’s sixties love and peace collection he hopes for daring, to cover his beloved in kisses, eagerly losing their chasteness in the tingling of brazenness a ruddy glow to color their cheeks, and a restlessness heard about in whispered corners of his life-until-now shows them a newer definition of pleasure nothing like the see-saw of their childish playground vantage point changing restlessly, up, down on the ecstatic wings of an angelic smile up and down delicate thoughts of… [2009.31.3…d] 3) Nothing was the same, now that it was....... reflected, all topsy-turvy, in a circus mirror. nothing remains the same, now that I see it reflected, all tospy-turvy, in a circus mirror… songs blare on the radio, they tell of everything I know and those placid details of love I do not wish to remember I play on the ferris wheel of life, holding on to my shirt for since that moment I dressed him in my own blue checks he has become my shadow, following where he dares growing bigger than my desire outlined by the afternoon sun deformed images [2009.31.3…c] 9) The gray honor walked up the satin plank as if draped in velvet ribbons stained in his own blood. the public saw a strange gray blush instead of a rosy smile recognizing the honor he walked up the satin plank as if his indifference was draped in the velvet ribbons stained in his own blood sacrifice and treachery brought him, applauded to this pinnacle of secret shame, rewarding him instead with a golden parachute… he dreaded the day that the moth hole found in the slippery web of time would insipidly fray this highlighted glory etching it in a quick metallic taste of doom before millions of dollars could bring him the good will found instead of peace and love and a never-ending fear of the slick knotted rope reserved for those not smart enough to tell the truth cheating on fate [2009.31.3…a] |
| april's blues, like sapphire added to turquoise, captivates we prisoners of the dull grays musty browns or mustard yellows marching like fortune tellers towards lost kisses and purple clover under the pink blossoming tree where I said I love you the first time and where you told me, with a sad smile of regret, goodbye... crushing my heart, bleeding it of hope's pure white perfection the harper's sad song of april's blues [2009.28.3...b] Now a Static Item: "Invalid Item" by A Guest Visitor |
reflecting silver, rays of shimmering stars reflect sea mist highlights our saltwater paths filled with evening’s memories, where romance mingles once more with moonlit footsteps, we walk, arm in arm, on the sands of hope strolling in moonlight [2009.18.3…b] 1) reflecting silver highlights our saltwater paths with moonlit footsteps 2) rays of shimmering filled with evening’s memories we walk, arm in arm 3) stars reflect sea mist where romance mingles once more on the sands of hope |
| golden painted orb, a sunrise marvels while spring warmth filters dusty particles of haze between the heavens and earth, horizon’s shimmering hope the grace of spring’s light, a calm silent hymn illuminates life the light of our days [2009.17.3…a] A Triple Haiku-Cleave Poem 1) golden painted orb dusty particles of haze the grace of spring’s light 2) a sunrise marvels between the heavens and earth a calm silent hymn 3) while spring warmth filters horizon’s shimmering hope illuminates life |
| all verses may rhyme in our imaginary lands where words make stories come true in the freedom of places where children run inventing ba-bings ba-bongs, and melon-reds their senses have not yet imagined, happily, rhythms dance like grasshoppers or shadows in the wind just before dusk when fathers tell tall tales to their sons dressed with halloween pirate's patches where dragons fear only tall white knights who will rescue Orphan Annie princesses as sleep overtakes sweet bedtime words sometimes prayers whispered to invisible gods where later, in books good and fine we remember the airiness of our hearts free and uncaged, like the night birds twittering in a language we all understood when we were children the land of words [2009.9.3...d] Better late than never. Thanks to Catherine for a very creative idea. |
I must whisper carefully my heart is stuck on standby it will not sing merrily while love’s rhymes refuse goodbye I miss your quaint melody of words hummed of the morrow your loss rings with tragedy my weeping sighs of sorrow sweet prisoner, remember a rose, your fading power in the winds of December abandoned in/to your tower time may heal this atmosphere of dark verse told with bluster a farewell so insincere so carefully I whisper December, next year [2009.14.3…b] Written using the Ae freslighe form. |
wickedness hidden in puzzles cut out of cereal box cartons animated paper maché figurines, speechless marionettes, slither repeating parental injunctions along side of harmless cuss word songs — all the thou shalt nots in a world of ever changing rules mortal voices chained in rust, we learn, hiding wickedness in puzzles wicked? [2009.14.3…a] A Cleave Poem wickedness hidden in puzzles animated paper maché figurines repeating parental injunctions all the thou shalt nots mortal voices chained in rust cut out of cereal box cartons speechless marionettes slither along side of harmless cuss word songs in a world of ever changing rules we learn, hiding wickedness in puzzles |
| fifty-three years of silence, loud sounds read in braille was the weight of wormwood soiled with dusty grey dots of mold a dark compost of secret illusions of bright color, images poorly developed , seen only in laboratory reflections I have screamed for the stories, I have begged for sweet clear voices that might relay me with myself and a sense of harmonious belonging my fingers ache after bloodied words for quiet exclusion has been my life... I have grown deaf to songs and lullabies... I long for the sounds of simple whispered truth fifty-three years [2009.11.3...a] A Cleave Poem fifty-three years of silence…………….……………loud sounds read in braille was the weight of wormwood……………………...soiled with dusty grey dots of mold a dark compost of secret…………………………...illusions of bright color images poorly developed………………………......seen only in laboratory reflections I have screamed for the stories………………..…..I have begged for sweet clear voices that might relay me with myself…………………..and a sense of harmonious belonging my fingers ache after bloodied words……………for quiet exclusion has been my life I have grown deaf to songs and lullabies………..I long for the sounds of simple whispered truth |
perhaps once more dying must end my armor fades, silence blends tears I roar again, ascend higher soaring from grief, mending my soul perhaps it will end [2009.8.3…d] Four-line Than-Bauk poems, side by side, forming a Cleave Poem, otherwise called the Baulking Than-Cleaved Poem perhaps once more my armor fades I roar again soaring from grief dying must end silence blends tears ascend higher mending my soul pink rainbow melting morning’s sky, so slow they watch with knowing wisdom a silent anthem echoes mountain’s dawn casts grey-blue mist on their lawn early morning memory quickly flees like the young fawn paradise building a home where they rise in Eden’s magic gardens under the perfect sunrise early morning decisions [2009.8.3…c] for Sheila and Lance Rannaicheacht Mhor Gairit ancient Irish form: a. any number of quatrains. b. syllabic 3-7-7-7 c. rhyme scheme aaxa, bbxb, etc d. written with aicill rhyme, (if L3 ends in a 2 syllable word, it rhymes internally in L4.) |
| Well, I did it. I used "blackberry" (in the plural, but since this is not for a contest and I already wrote three others properly, who cares?) as a fruit and not a telephone. This is lovely Hallmark Poetry, but nothing I'm terribly proud of. money doesn’t grow on trees ➾➾➾ berries grow on trees cranberries, straw, linden, blackberries mother made mouth-watering pies every friday night we all lick our lips all week-end, waiting for the moment her sweet voice tells us we may cut a piece of anything, the cloud of aromas is like a precious hushed fragrance of country cooking reminding us that only berries grow on trees and there’s no way to put a golden price on your tummy’s happiness… week-end delights [2009.7.3…d] |
As found in Red Writing Hood <3  's most recent Poetry Newsletter:Requirements. ➪10 lines ➪10 minutes of writing. ➪Rephrase a popular saying, and use it somehow. ➪Use five of the following eight words: cliff, needle, blackberry, cloud, voice, mother, whir, and lick. time is money ➪ time steals money blackberry in hand, chatting away his muffled voice a cloud of sincerity among the money hungry employees eating a quick lunch, he looks the part, his dearly departed mother always said, but with her millions inherited so recently time steals money, too much of either is like hanging on a cliff and never knowing when to let go, if you fall, all the cash in the world cannot put a smile onto another dead face… letting go [2009.7.3…a] there's a method in my madness ➪ theirs brings madness without method I quote Shakespeare about method and madness, these letters, their buttons are too small, my well-fed fingers are not needles fancy ring tones whir and blur, they’re impossible to select not docile, not friendly-useable is this new-fangled blackberry a swell gift from my mother-in-law, except she hates my whining nasal complaining, which at this rate no one will hear in this gadget’s voice mail offering, oh woeful modern technology theirs is bringing madness without books of method for I am but a man, no ghostly apparition from a small hamlet hamlets without communication [2009.7.3…b] much ado about nothing ➪ much ado about new shoes latest blackberry clangs on his bling-bling rolexed wrist she models another pair of designer stilettos called cloud number nine, four more than her Chanel he voice speaks to his consultant, good news, stock is up buy a third pair, dearheart, Wall Street’s paying oh darling I’ve topped mother’s collection, she has only two hundred, we’re celebrating two-oh-four (that late already?) dresses to be bought, he’ll text the office, (bosses are never on time) as usual, cocktail chiffons, matching handbags, just a needle in the paychecks of his bank account, so much ado about new shoes two-oh-four [2009.7.3…c] I can't seem to get around using "blackberry'" as a portable telephone, and I definitely do not like the word lick in poetry! Too many sexual overtones for my sensibilities.... Yeah! Sure! |
silently he whispers with ghosts echoes from his past untimely dream segments creep like moss along finely cracked glass memories a sudden ping weeping from the gallows shatters the moonlight death is no longer an invitation, a stranger to intimate fears so many warm wet tears overcome by a kiss heartbreak, final heartthrob how could he refuse such a passionate demise — a simple proof of love — even while courting eternity… silently echoes from his past creep like moss a sudden ping shatters the moonlight an invitation so many warm wet tears heartbreak how could he refuse a simple proof of love he whispers with ghosts untimely dream segments along finely cracked glass memories weeping from the gallows death is no longer a stranger to intimate fears overcome by a kiss final heartthrob such a passionate demise even while courting eternity… his last embrace [2009.5.3…a] |
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