Is dead.
That’s the part
you heard,
those words
through the gap
between door
and frame.
Who’s dead?
or what?
the dog?
Uncle, Auntie,
Grandfather?
The old biddy next door
whose nose
spied through curtains?
Curiosity
like some virus
bit into you,
and your ears
lingered by the gap,
your eyes peered
at the adults talking,
lip reading unsuccessfully.
Heart beat of man pounding - yet
unheard joined becomes the beat of a nation.
Words of man written - yet
unread joined becomes a proclamation.
Sounds of man spoken - yet
unheard joined becomes a production .
Lines of man drawn - yet
unrecognized joined becomes an illustration.
Beings of man humming - yet
forgotten joined becomes a celebration.
Patterns of man created - yet
invisible joined becomes a new universe.
Joined we become recognized.
Susan "Sue" Bacon Trumpfheller
now is not the time to open open that great door again not the time to be more tolerant not the time to play to win
now is not the time for justice evolution mercy choices not the time to pet the puppies yipping with pathetic voices
now is not the time for kindness not the time for compromise not the time for loving blindness not the time to close my eyes
now for one too many people not that i have gained no good heart has sown but flesh is reaping tears to mind and wasted blood
now my inner wolf seeks equals only those whose chords can howl deadly whether lone or social defending young or on the prowl
tell me not that you would die upon the spines of my displeasure live for me and for you will i cherish each cell as if a treasure
put me not inside a cage but roam with me through snow and sun be by my side or breathe my dust for i shall bleed again for none
Niki Lasher Artist, Writer, and Webmatron http://www.kthulah.com
Find the Magic As you release old bondage Come out of hiding And see the stars
Find the Magic As you expose the pain Let the tears flow And find beauty in your body
Find the Magic As you scream from the beating Run from the threats And feel the warmth of a hug
Find the Magic As the little girl is silenced Told she is too smart for her own good And she finds her place of honor as she speaks her mind
Find the Magic As the ghosts creep into dream Haunt your daily life And you meet them at the crossroads and move on
Find the Magic As you drift out of your body, avoiding the anger Observe the separation And you join the body temple once again to rejoice in this unique wonder
Find the Magic As you listen to the conflicts and Watch in horror And emerge from the water whole and beautiful in a rainbow of colors
Find the Magic, For you are whole once again
© 2004 Susan Bacon
How wonderfully sweet to be a dweller
dwelling on the road of goodbye.
Bittersweet tears fall as I think
of all the places I'll never see,
all the faces I'll never know,
all the joys I'll never share,
as I head for the unknown.
I have lived life as best I could,
met challenges head on,
drawing strength from an unseen source.
You cannot come with me on this journey
you can only stand and watch,
sometimes the more difficult task.
I know what I must do
and I will give myself a voice
drawn from the inward depths of my being.
For Ken
June 1, 2003
copyright Fran Watson
So due to the challenge manifested in such a question,I pondered on creating an answer. Many reasons came to mind,but after digesting much"time for thought",I managed to condense my response to three items. I enjoy writing for three reasons: self-expression,personal sensitivity and thirst for adventure.
"Self-expression" is our Creator's gift to all-everyone has something to say. The difference comes with how a person expresses him or herself. Having an outlet to relieve ones inner turmoil or joy is necessary;and when the results is a wholesome creation of some type,it should be shared with others.Complexity arises when trying to express how others feel because a person's self-expression(being a writer) is a prerequisite to understanding another's expression(being an editor). There's an interwovenness of personal feelings,dogma and personality associated with a person's self-expression. Much of what writers' convey is the result of the chemistry of feelings,experience or both.Most of the time the writers' feelings prevail.Deep down in all of us there are voices whose vocal chords are pencils waiting to be sharpened and used. Self-expression is the breath of opinion,the dissipation of disposition and the only river worth drowning in. "Honesty" rules the castle of "self-expression".
"Personal sensitivity" varies from person to person. Much of a person's ethical,ethnical,moral and environmental exposers dictates his or her perception of the world. Some writers concentrate only on a certain discipline of their total resources. Others are more roaming and experimental as to absorb from a combination of all sensations obtained. Inspiration ignites sensitivity whether it be something heard,felt or read. To be able to define a sensation by the use of words is satisfying. Sensations make,break,increase and decrease the rhythms of ones mental and physical compositions. Ones "degree of compassion" rules the castle of "personal sensitivity".
The "thirst for adventure" deters boredom. Anyone, whether being a writer or not,imagines events,incidents,possibilities and probabilities in their minds.These mental occurrences(visions) dwell within us for short periods of time and sometimes forever. But until the inspirations are subjected to some type of tangible(music,painting,literature,sculpture,etc.)medium, they can't be documented and shared with others. If you don't want to be creative,you won't be!! Good writers aren't born,they are crafted!!! You are the characters that you write about!! You're a vital part of the incidents you describe. If you're writing about a diehard tyrant,you are that tyrant!! If it's a voyage around the world,you're on that voyage!! Merely sitting in the boat won't do it!!! One must set sail to quench the "thirst for adventure".
Writers are day-in day-out dreamers,dressed in all colors,travelling across paper pulp by way of a dictionary.
Now I ask you,"Why do you enjoy writing"?
By: Arthur Charles Ford Sr.,poet/lyricist P.O. BOX 4725,PITTSBURGH,PA. 15206
Growing hurts sometimes;
saying goodbye to friends,
to things you've known and done
to things you wanted to do.
Growing heals sometimes
the shattered dreams and hopes
of a life you once knew
leading you to a new knowledge of yourself.
Growing is fun sometimes
meeting new friends
learning new things
making changes that feel good and moving on.
Growing is necessary always.
Without change there is stagnation
death instead of life.
To choose to live is to choose to grow.
Copyright 2002
Fran is a Career Counsellor, Workshop Developer and Facilitator and e-zine Editor.
Ocean heal my wounds
Let your waves curl and foam on my body
Wash away blood, heal scars
Ocean renew me with your power
As unceasingly you roll
Giving strength that's been drained
Ocean keep me warm
Wrap me in your brine
Caress me with your tides
Ocean disperse my tears
As they flow in you
I cleanse my soul
Ocean let me grow in your depths
Color me vibrant blue, coral, green
Clear = revitalized
Ocean your spray anoints me
Cool and refreshed
My spiritual renewal
Ocean be my friend
Hold me flowing in your currents
Ever moving, ever changing
Ocean, heal me.
© 1983 Susan Bacon
I get up in the morning
And want to stay in bed
Oh, so nice and warm
Like fresh from the oven bread.
My day is oh so busy
I wish that I could stay
In the quiet of my house
If only I could play.
Relax and play like Children do
No matter where they are
Never worried about being late
Or looking ahead too far
My body won't sit quietly
I need to get there now
No time to chat, I now must go
All I can say is Chow
I hate to wait
For time to pass
Time to eat
To get some gas
Tick Tock of the clock
I look into the sky
The numbers move so slowly
I wish that they would fly
The weight won't move at all today
And the wait is way too long
I am doing the best I can
To help move time along.
I can not control the numbers
On the clock or on the scale
I need to remember that they are things
And that I will never fail.
Time will pass without my help,
The scale gets thrown away
I will learn to breathe these words,
I will to learn to say to say:
Say the words that matter
In soul, In Heart and Voice
I have enough, I do enough, I am enough
For each day is a choice.
http://www.reflectingrace.com
Chicken Soup is good for a cold
Sleep is good for the Flu
When I get a case of the Fears
What is a person to do?
It is not bacteria
Although it can eat away my soul
It is not a virus
Yet, it can keep me from feeling whole
I know what will do the trick,
What will put me back on top,
A great big bowl of Ice Cream
Will really hit the spot
That was great and now I am done
One bowl just won't do
If one is good, then more is great
And now I have eaten two.
Bowls three, four, five and six
Came and then they went
I think my case of the fears are fixed
Look at how my time was spent
I am getting sleepy
It is time to go to bed
My fears are no longer in my stomach
Now they are in my head
I close my eyes and I can see
The Fears I want to kill
I will do, whatever it takes
To keep the monsters still.
When I rise to greet the day
My fears are rising too
I know I need a friend right now
Whatever will I do?
I walk into the kitchen
And Open the freezer door
I stop myself and think real hard
I have been here once before.
I grab a seat in my comfy chair
And reach over for the phone
What will I say, if you are there?
I can hear a dial tone.
I enter all your numbers
You answer right away
You sit and listen, as I speak
You said I would be ok.
We say good-bye and I start my day
I knew I had been wrong
I start to read and then to pray
To keep me feeling strong.
If you are like me then you will see
That the fears, they come and go
Be the person you were meant to be
Let your feelings show.
The history of English poetry stretches from the middle of the 7th century to the present day. Over this period, English poets have written some of the most enduring poems in Western culture, and the language and its poetry have spread around the globe. Consequently, the term English poetry is unavoidably ambiguous. It can mean poetry written in England, or poetry written in the English language.
The earliest surviving poetry from the area currently known as England was likely transmitted orally and then written down in versions that do not now survive; thus, dating the earliest poetry remains difficult and often controversial. The earliest surviving manuscripts date from the 10th century. Poetry written in Latin, Brythonic (a predecessor language of Welsh) and Old Irish survives which may date as early as the 6th century. The earliest surviving poetry written in Anglo-Saxon, the most direct predecessor of modern English, may have been composed as early as the 7th century.
With the growth of trade and the British Empire, the English language had been widely used outside England. In the 21st century, only a small percentage of the world's native English speakers live in England, and there is also a vast population of non-native speakers of English who are capable of writing poetry in the language. A number of major national poetries, including the American, Australian, New Zealand, Canadian and Indian poetry have emerged and developed. Since 1921, Irish poetry has also been increasingly viewed as a separate area of study. (Wikipedia)
Poetry (from the Latin poeta, a poet) is a form of literary art in which language is used for its aesthetic and evocative qualities in addition to, or in lieu of, its apparent meaning. Poetry may be written independently, as discrete poems, or may occur in conjunction with other arts, as in poetic drama, hymns, lyrics, or prose poetry. It is published in dedicated magazines (the longest established being Poetry and Oxford Poetry), individual collections and wider anthologies.
Poetry and discussions of it have a long history. Early attempts to define poetry, such as Aristotle's Poetics, focused on the uses of speech in rhetoric, drama, song, and comedy. Later attempts concentrated on features such as repetition, verse form and rhyme, and emphasized the aesthetics which distinguish poetry from more objectively informative, prosaic forms of writing, such as manifestos, biographies, essays, and novels . From the mid-20th century, poetry has sometimes been more loosely defined as a fundamental creative act using language.
Poetry often uses particular forms and conventions to suggest alternative meanings in the words, or to evoke emotional or sensual responses. Devices such as assonance, alliteration, onomatopoeia, and rhythm are sometimes used to achieve musical or incantatory effects. The use of ambiguity, symbolism, irony, and other stylistic elements of poetic diction often leaves a poem open to multiple interpretations. Similarly, metaphor, simile, and metonymy create a resonance between otherwise disparate images—a layering of meanings, forming connections previously not perceived. Kindred forms of resonance may exist, between individual verses, in their patterns of rhyme or rhythm.
Some forms of poetry are specific to particular cultures and genres, responding to the characteristics of the language in which the poet writes. While readers accustomed to identifying poetry with Dante, Goethe, Mickiewicz and Rumi may think of it as being written in lines based upon rhyme and regular meter, there are traditions, such as Biblical poetry, that use other approaches to achieve rhythm and euphony. Much of modern British and American poetry is to some extent a critique of poetic tradition, playing with and testing (among other things) the principle of euphony itself, to the extent that sometimes it deliberately does not rhyme or keep to set rhythms at all. In today's globalized world poets often borrow styles, techniques and forms from diverse cultures and languages. (Wikipedia)
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