Poet's Corner

I am not a poet.

Though every now and then a faceless one appears without invitation.
Demanding, controlling, selfishly screaming words insistent on dictation.

Impossible to ignore, whirling round and round.
I do not create the words, merely write them down.

I am a scribe.

SeaGal 11/14/16

 

To the Predators

In lucid dreams of massive wings,
serrated beak in dripping prey,
who screams at last the oddest things
before its life force bleeds away:

"Devour my flesh to your disgrace,
but grant my dying wish at least,
and save for last my eyes and face,
that I may watch you as you feast

on ignorance that what you eat
is not my body but your own.
So savor that delicious meat
and pick clean each and every bone.

This final thought is my bequest:
fly safely home when you are done,
and from the comfort of your nest,
digest the fact that we are One."​

 

Some years ago, a friend and I were discussing the finer points of cane syrup. The making of cane syrup is still a fall activity in parts of the south, much as it has been for generations. Little has changed in the cooking procedure. I prefer the lighter syrup...and he prefers the heavy bodied dark. As in making a dark roux - the darker syrup requires taking it almost, but not quite, to the stage of being burnt.

The whimsical, fleeting, unsophisticated kiss on the palate of the light - or the heavy, powerful, lingering taste of the dark - can apply to poetry as well as cane syrup, and life too, I suppose. Anyway, our discussion on the finer points of cane syrup...some years ago...inspired these few lines.

(Untitled)

You choose the dark...
I'll take the light.

One seeks the sun...
the other the night.

To inner voices we hark...
As we ponder man's plight.

When our journey is done...
Could both...be right?

SeaGal 2008

 

The User

For quite a time he might appear
to be a stock of vast, wide lore
but once you´ve read his slime and smear
you ask yourself what you´re here for.

Time passes by and, nothing learned,
he still talks big and insolent
Harasses you and yet has turned
in useless waste the time you´ve spent.

You move along, another board
in hope for having better times
just to meet an equal sort
of users that yap even in rimes.

 

Opposing Forces?

Two hands, one left the other right,
oppose but for the common goal
to bring together dark and light
components in the mixing bowl—

a sight one stirs above the dried
and moisten'd hidden down below;
a scent one wishes to abide
and therefore seasons to bestow...

a taste of what could only be
a combination to fulfill
the dictates of that Recipe
we read as our Creator's Will:

opposing forces that create
to break the silence (each its own),
those Two persist to satiate
the hunger One feels all alone.​

 

You sir are truly a poet, while I remain merely a scribe - albeit a joyful one.

Anyway - once joined an mail order weight loss program that had an online support forum - designed for members to have a place to give and receive encouragement, to share success stories and setbacks. Overall atmosphere was one of positive reinforcement on a sometimes difficult journey. One of the topics was a challenge to pen a few inspirational words about your 'weight-loss' experience as a way to encourage others. Some expressed the desire but didn't quite know how to begin - advice was given to just 'write what you know'...so I did...with Good Humor (or so was my intention).

'Write what you know says PamSB.
So what do I know, says I to me?
They say that we must reach for the stars,
but all I see there...are candy bars.

There is one named for Mars
the Chunky god of war.
An' the creamy Milky Way
leaves me yearning for S'More.

Meanwhile, eyes drifting downward to earth
where happily, gladly there is no dearth...

Of chocolatey goodness
and peanutty delight.
I'd spend my whole Payday
for two Twix's tonite.

Even in sleep, tucked snugly in bed
Peppermint Patty plays in my head...

Dreaming of battles fought
by Three brave Musketeers
raising up sword and shield
to help conquer my fears.

I try to flee but there's nowhere to go.
Rivers of Hershey's are starting to flow.

A bridge made of Snickers
O'er Butterfinger lane,
heapin' Mounds of Almond Joy
are driving me insane.

They say that we must reach for the stars
but all I see there...are candy bars.'

SeaGal 2012

ps - they kicked me out.

 

Wow, this will be Post # 522 in this thread. I may have posted a poem by Wislawa Szymborska already, but this is a fascinating poem and poetry project.



"Draw a crazy picture, Write a nutty poem, Sing a mumble-gumble song, Whistle through your comb. Do a loony-goony dance' Cross the kitchen floor, Put something silly in the world, That ain't been there before." Shel Silverstein

 

For Rebecca (Becky) Born 29.12.1981....murdered 15.07.17

"Thy Tiny Footsteps on the sands,

Of a remote and lonely shore,

The twinkling of thine infant hands,

The wind swept golden hair you wore,

The mingled look of love and glee,

When we returned to gaze on thee."


In Memory of our Beautiful Daughter,We Loved you then, We love you still Darling.Papa
,

 

Opinion | Memorize That Poem!

"To be, or not to be--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--
No more--and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep--
To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. -- Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! -- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered."

Hamlet