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Mmmm!!..I do like your poem Emily, here is another of my free verse.
united
This Gum’s age he could not contemplate,
zephyrs swirl through leaves,
flickers sunlight like an old film projector.
Memories stir
she’s beside him
soul mate, his love, his rock.
Adoring eyes meet as they always have.
Returning to their cottage
peeling paint
fly screen door — gauze torn — rotting.
Walking, slowly along dusty floor
past the disused stove
Glimpses, her apron over the oven door handle
Notices, cobwebs
His meals now brought on wheels.
Tired, he’s on their bed
once filled with devoted love
he drifts….
Again she stands beside him
though, now more than a vision.
Takes her hand
beneath flickering sunlight.
David J Delaney
19/01/2010 ©
united
This Gum’s age he could not contemplate,
zephyrs swirl through leaves,
flickers sunlight like an old film projector.
Memories stir
she’s beside him
soul mate, his love, his rock.
Adoring eyes meet as they always have.
Returning to their cottage
peeling paint
fly screen door — gauze torn — rotting.
Walking, slowly along dusty floor
past the disused stove
Glimpses, her apron over the oven door handle
Notices, cobwebs
His meals now brought on wheels.
Tired, he’s on their bed
once filled with devoted love
he drifts….
Again she stands beside him
though, now more than a vision.
Takes her hand
beneath flickering sunlight.
David J Delaney
19/01/2010 ©
Emily that's beautiful. It says "Broken heart" to me.David, yours is so poignant with its echos of past and present.
Two very sad and moving poems. Well done you two.
Thank you Tui, thought you migh like a giggle...(-:
Male Dilemma
Approaching now with trepidation
Heart thumping anticipation
Brow soaked in perspiration
Throat tightening asphyxiation.
Echoed voices, feeling fearful
Clouded mind now in freefall
Transfixed eyes becoming tearful
How can she be quite so cheerful?
Just in there! She softly motions
Brain is racing with emotions
Scented whiff from bottled lotions
Perfumed aroma drifts from potions.
Trembling hands begin to reach
Wishing I was at the beach
Sacred law, I’m about to breach
Remembering, what Dad did preach.
I can’t do it, collapse in beanbag
Feeling like a rung out dishrag
To all you men, keep reading a mag
Never, delve into a woman’s handbag.
David J Delaney ©
Male Dilemma
Approaching now with trepidation
Heart thumping anticipation
Brow soaked in perspiration
Throat tightening asphyxiation.
Echoed voices, feeling fearful
Clouded mind now in freefall
Transfixed eyes becoming tearful
How can she be quite so cheerful?
Just in there! She softly motions
Brain is racing with emotions
Scented whiff from bottled lotions
Perfumed aroma drifts from potions.
Trembling hands begin to reach
Wishing I was at the beach
Sacred law, I’m about to breach
Remembering, what Dad did preach.
I can’t do it, collapse in beanbag
Feeling like a rung out dishrag
To all you men, keep reading a mag
Never, delve into a woman’s handbag.
David J Delaney ©
Mod
of a shattered mind
strands of self
scatter in the wind
your reflection
is fractured
where the cracks show
a spider web view
giving away pieces
of my person
chunks of heart and soul
w..."
Awesome Emily:)
Mod
united
This Gum’s age he could not contemplate,
zephyrs swirl through leaves,
flickers sunlight like an old film project..."
That's beautiful Dave!
Mod
Male Dilemma
Approaching now with trepidation
Heart thumping anticipation
Brow soaked in perspiration
Throat tightening asphyxiation..."
Hahaha!! Well said!
Thanks guys :) And thanks for the laugh David!
Mod
http://www.cairns.com.au/article/2012...
Brenda wrote: "I'm going to put this here...I put it in David's Author spot, but as you're all poets here, you'll be interested in reading this article!http://www.cairns.com.au/article/2012......"
Good article, it's a nice journey you're on David. Thanks for sharing Brenda.
That is a terrific article. Thanks for sharing and how wonderful to be able to meet him "in person" (if you could call it that) here on Goodreads.
Mod
I tried to find one of his books on the kindle store but there was only a print book. Hope he tells us when there's an e-book of his poems out. That's what I'd like.
Mod
Why don't you send him a PM Tui, then he'll be able to answer all your questions:)
It was more a case I'd like to get a copy of his poems but looks like there's no kindle version. I haven't earned for three years so I can only afford e-books if they're not too expensive, but not print books. Also i have weak eyes so need the big e-print on my kindle.
Not true to say I haven't earned but true to say I gave all earnings away and didn't keep any. So still very poor but not for long hopefully.
Mod
I just sent him a message asking if and when that is likely to happen. So cool that we can do that.
Mod
:D
With ANZAC day approaching, thought over the next couple of weeks I would post some military related poems, starting with this one...
Still they fight the fight
They walk the shifting sand like those who went before,
now in that ancient land still fighting in a war.
They once again defend, the young answer the call,
joined by their Kiwi friends, they’re ANZAC’s proud and tall.
While now the Hum-vee’s rule where once were camel trains,
and desert life is cruel, support we must sustain.
———
They fly the open skies like those who went before,
though fear is in their eyes, they hope to end this war.
Insurgents hidden well, with missiles in their hands.
At times it must be hell to fly those hostile lands.
Now in their super jets, not like those planes of old.
I hope no one forgets, the sacrifices told.
———
They sail the oceans wide like those who went before,
with allies by their side, protecting ports and shores.
They’re boarding suspect ships that could have contraband,
then, guiding battleships, support those on the land.
They glide on ‘Omans’ waves, or ghosts in submarines
and, many lives they save, on daily scout routines.
———
The young now fight the fight, like those so long ago.
Believing this is right to beat the hidden foe.
When home they all return and nightmares are now told,
their visions will confirm, they’ll need someone to hold.
So with each morning light, respect for ever more,
for they have earned this right — like those who went before.
David J Delaney
15/04/2010 ©
Still they fight the fight
They walk the shifting sand like those who went before,
now in that ancient land still fighting in a war.
They once again defend, the young answer the call,
joined by their Kiwi friends, they’re ANZAC’s proud and tall.
While now the Hum-vee’s rule where once were camel trains,
and desert life is cruel, support we must sustain.
———
They fly the open skies like those who went before,
though fear is in their eyes, they hope to end this war.
Insurgents hidden well, with missiles in their hands.
At times it must be hell to fly those hostile lands.
Now in their super jets, not like those planes of old.
I hope no one forgets, the sacrifices told.
———
They sail the oceans wide like those who went before,
with allies by their side, protecting ports and shores.
They’re boarding suspect ships that could have contraband,
then, guiding battleships, support those on the land.
They glide on ‘Omans’ waves, or ghosts in submarines
and, many lives they save, on daily scout routines.
———
The young now fight the fight, like those so long ago.
Believing this is right to beat the hidden foe.
When home they all return and nightmares are now told,
their visions will confirm, they’ll need someone to hold.
So with each morning light, respect for ever more,
for they have earned this right — like those who went before.
David J Delaney
15/04/2010 ©
Here is a bit of info on Francesco Petrarch, some say is the 'father' of the sonnet & from whom the likes of Shakespeare, Milton, Keats, Browning etc obtained their forms.
http://petrarch.petersadlon.com/bio.html
Also one of my favourite Petrarch sonnets...
Soleasi Nel Mio Cor
She ruled in beauty o'er this heart of mine,
A noble lady in a humble home,
And now her time for heavenly bliss has come,
'Tis I am mortal proved, and she divine.
The soul that all its blessings must resign,
And love whose light no more on earth finds room,
Might rend the rocks with pity for their doom,
Yet none their sorrows can in words enshrine;
They weep within my heart; and ears are deaf
Save mine alone, and I am crushed with care,
And naught remains to me save mournful breath.
Assuredly but dust and shade we are,
Assuredly desire is blind and brief,
Assuredly its hope but ends in death.
http://petrarch.petersadlon.com/bio.html
Also one of my favourite Petrarch sonnets...
Soleasi Nel Mio Cor
She ruled in beauty o'er this heart of mine,
A noble lady in a humble home,
And now her time for heavenly bliss has come,
'Tis I am mortal proved, and she divine.
The soul that all its blessings must resign,
And love whose light no more on earth finds room,
Might rend the rocks with pity for their doom,
Yet none their sorrows can in words enshrine;
They weep within my heart; and ears are deaf
Save mine alone, and I am crushed with care,
And naught remains to me save mournful breath.
Assuredly but dust and shade we are,
Assuredly desire is blind and brief,
Assuredly its hope but ends in death.
So I just realized its National Poetry Month in America (not sure about here) and so I already added a blog entry for it so I'll just add the link to it here so I don't have to retype it lol :)southernboundsoul.wordpress.com
G'day Cliff, this one was translated by Thomas Wentworth Higginson & this is one of his sonnets...
The Snowing of the Pines
Softer than silence, stiller than still air,
Float down from high pine boughs the slender leaves.
The forest floor its annual boon receives
That comes like snowfall, tireless, tranquil, fair.
Gently they glide, gently they clothe the bare
Old rocks with grace. Their fall a mantle weaves
Of paler yellow than autumnal sheaves
Or those strange blossoms the witch-hazels wear.
Athwart long aisles the sunbeams pierce their way;
High up, the crows are gathering for the night;
The delicate needles fill the air; the jay
Takes through their golden mist his radiant flight;
They fall and fall, till at November's close
The snow-flakes drop as lightly--snows on snows.
Thomas Wentworth Higginson (1823-1911)
The Snowing of the Pines
Softer than silence, stiller than still air,
Float down from high pine boughs the slender leaves.
The forest floor its annual boon receives
That comes like snowfall, tireless, tranquil, fair.
Gently they glide, gently they clothe the bare
Old rocks with grace. Their fall a mantle weaves
Of paler yellow than autumnal sheaves
Or those strange blossoms the witch-hazels wear.
Athwart long aisles the sunbeams pierce their way;
High up, the crows are gathering for the night;
The delicate needles fill the air; the jay
Takes through their golden mist his radiant flight;
They fall and fall, till at November's close
The snow-flakes drop as lightly--snows on snows.
Thomas Wentworth Higginson (1823-1911)
The love of field and coppiceOf green and shaded lanes,
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins.
Strong love of grey-blue distance,
Brown streams and soft, dim skies
I know, but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.
I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror
The wide brown land for me!
The stark white ring-barked forests,
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon,
Green tangle of the brushes
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops,
And ferns the warm dark soil.
Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When, sick at heart, around us
We see the cattle die
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady soaking rain.
Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the rainbow gold,
For flood and fire and famine
She pays us back threefold.
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze ...
An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand
though Earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.
"My Country" by Dorothea Mackeller
Mod
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror
The wide brown land for me!
I love this poem, the part above was on a welcome/thank you card for travelling on the Indian Pacific which I thought was really lovely. Thanks Emily:)
One of my most favourites by Henry Kendall, from his book "Leaves from Australian Forests" published in 1869
Bellbirds
By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling:
It lives in the mountain where moss and the sedges
Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges.
Through breaks of the cedar and sycamore bowers
Struggles the light that is love to the flowers;
And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,
The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.
The silver-voiced bell birds, the darlings of daytime!
They sing in September their songs of the May-time;
When shadows wax strong, and the thunder bolts hurtle,
They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;
When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together,
They start up like fairies that follow fair weather;
And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden
Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden.
October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses,
Loiters for love in these cool wildernesses;
Loiters, knee-deep, in the grasses, to listen,
Where dripping rocks gleam and the leafy pools glisten:
Then is the time when the water-moons splendid
Break with their gold, and are scattered or blended
Over the creeks, till the woodlands have warning
Of songs of the bell-bird and wings of the Morning.
Welcome as waters unkissed by the summers
Are the voices of bell-birds to the thirsty far-comers.
When fiery December sets foot in the forest,
And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest,
Pent in the ridges for ever and ever
The bell-birds direct him to spring and to river,
With ring and with ripple, like runnels who torrents
Are toned by the pebbles and the leaves in the currents.
Often I sit, looking back to a childhood,
Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood,
Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion,
Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of Passion; -
Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters
Borrowed from bell-birds in far forest-rafters;
So I might keep in the city and alleys
The beauty and strength of the deep mountain valleys:
Charming to slumber the pain of my losses
With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses.
Henry Kendall
Bellbirds
By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling:
It lives in the mountain where moss and the sedges
Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges.
Through breaks of the cedar and sycamore bowers
Struggles the light that is love to the flowers;
And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,
The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.
The silver-voiced bell birds, the darlings of daytime!
They sing in September their songs of the May-time;
When shadows wax strong, and the thunder bolts hurtle,
They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;
When rain and the sunbeams shine mingled together,
They start up like fairies that follow fair weather;
And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden
Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden.
October, the maiden of bright yellow tresses,
Loiters for love in these cool wildernesses;
Loiters, knee-deep, in the grasses, to listen,
Where dripping rocks gleam and the leafy pools glisten:
Then is the time when the water-moons splendid
Break with their gold, and are scattered or blended
Over the creeks, till the woodlands have warning
Of songs of the bell-bird and wings of the Morning.
Welcome as waters unkissed by the summers
Are the voices of bell-birds to the thirsty far-comers.
When fiery December sets foot in the forest,
And the need of the wayfarer presses the sorest,
Pent in the ridges for ever and ever
The bell-birds direct him to spring and to river,
With ring and with ripple, like runnels who torrents
Are toned by the pebbles and the leaves in the currents.
Often I sit, looking back to a childhood,
Mixt with the sights and the sounds of the wildwood,
Longing for power and the sweetness to fashion,
Lyrics with beats like the heart-beats of Passion; -
Songs interwoven of lights and of laughters
Borrowed from bell-birds in far forest-rafters;
So I might keep in the city and alleys
The beauty and strength of the deep mountain valleys:
Charming to slumber the pain of my losses
With glimpses of creeks and a vision of mosses.
Henry Kendall
Brenda wrote: "I love a sunburnt country,A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror
The wide br..."
Ah, Dorothea Mackellar. This one I remember well from school days. Another iconic poem from my school days was Wordsworth's 'I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud'. I was interested to read on Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Wander...) that Wordsworth's poem was inspired by an outing on 15 April 1802 when he and his sister were out walking and were surprised by a long belt of daffodils by a lake.
David wrote: "One of my most favourites by Henry Kendall, from his book "Leaves from Australian Forests" published in 1869 Bellbirds
By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,
And down the dim gorge..."
Another iconic Australian poet. There's a touching story about how Louisa Lawson, in 1884, made a pilgrimage to Kendall’s graveside only to find a neglected, forgotten patch of earth. She immediately started raising funds to establish a suitable memorial for ‘Australia’s greatest poet’. It is thanks to her that in 1886 a splendid monument for Henry Kendall was finally erected.
Mod
Brenda wrote: "It's lovely to find things out like that, as they often get lost along the way."Absolutely agree, Brenda! JB :-)
Yes, & Louisa was quite a 'dab' poet herself.....
http://alldownunder.com/australian-au...
The Digger's Daughter
by Louisa Lawson (1848-1920)
The waratah has stained her cheek,
Her lips are even brighter;
Like virgin quartz without a streak
Her teeth are, but far whiter.
Her eyes are large, and soft, and dark,
And clear as running water;
And straight as any stringy bark
Is Lil, the digger's daughter.
She'll wash a prospect quick and well,
And deftly use the ladle;
The weight of gold at sight she'll tell,
And work with tub and cradle.
She was her father's only mate,
And wound up wash and water;
She worked all day and studied late,
And all she knows he taught her.
She stood alone above the shaft –
A test for woman, rather –
When I sprang to the windlass haft
And helped her land her father.
She turned her pretty face to me
To thank me, and I thought her
The grandest girl of all her race –
Sweet Lil, the digger's daughter.
And when my luck began to change
I grew a trifle bolder
And told my love, but thought it strange
She knew before I told her.
She said that she would be my wife;
Then home I proudly brought her,
To be my loving mate for life,
But still the digger's daughter.
http://alldownunder.com/australian-au...
The Digger's Daughter
by Louisa Lawson (1848-1920)
The waratah has stained her cheek,
Her lips are even brighter;
Like virgin quartz without a streak
Her teeth are, but far whiter.
Her eyes are large, and soft, and dark,
And clear as running water;
And straight as any stringy bark
Is Lil, the digger's daughter.
She'll wash a prospect quick and well,
And deftly use the ladle;
The weight of gold at sight she'll tell,
And work with tub and cradle.
She was her father's only mate,
And wound up wash and water;
She worked all day and studied late,
And all she knows he taught her.
She stood alone above the shaft –
A test for woman, rather –
When I sprang to the windlass haft
And helped her land her father.
She turned her pretty face to me
To thank me, and I thought her
The grandest girl of all her race –
Sweet Lil, the digger's daughter.
And when my luck began to change
I grew a trifle bolder
And told my love, but thought it strange
She knew before I told her.
She said that she would be my wife;
Then home I proudly brought her,
To be my loving mate for life,
But still the digger's daughter.
Yes, she was. The Digger's Daughter is a treasure and we can see Louisa in that poem. Thanks for sharing it. JB :-)
Thought I would share with you all my very 1st sonnet, (which is included in my new book) at the time I had never heard of a sonnet when the Shakespearean Society of Melbourne put out flyers for a competition asking for Shakespeares 155th sonnet, so I googled "what is & how to write a Sonnet" read the info for about 1/2 an hour then wrote the draft to this sonnet, which after about 2 days of re-writing I was finally happy with it, & no I did not win but they were impressed with my attempt, I read Shakespeare was a hero to the common people & I took this into consideration when writing my piece.
Sonnet no.1
The pauper’s friend
Now thou hast mingled with the noble class
but they’d not see in life that I do see,
they hold their feasts', drink from their purest glass,
in finest mansions built beside the sea.
See not the homeless begging on the street,
nor in dark laneways, wet with cold they die.
See not the children sick or with bare feet,
nor for the measly scraps thrown out they vie.
If I could forward through the frames of time
to lands afar unheard of now by thee,
would not thine eyes view pestilence and crime,
would still there be fine mansions by the sea.
Where still are those who sleep in laneways cold,
where nobles, whom for wealth their souls they’ve sold.
David J Delaney.
17/11/2009 ©
Sonnet no.1
The pauper’s friend
Now thou hast mingled with the noble class
but they’d not see in life that I do see,
they hold their feasts', drink from their purest glass,
in finest mansions built beside the sea.
See not the homeless begging on the street,
nor in dark laneways, wet with cold they die.
See not the children sick or with bare feet,
nor for the measly scraps thrown out they vie.
If I could forward through the frames of time
to lands afar unheard of now by thee,
would not thine eyes view pestilence and crime,
would still there be fine mansions by the sea.
Where still are those who sleep in laneways cold,
where nobles, whom for wealth their souls they’ve sold.
David J Delaney.
17/11/2009 ©
I wrote this after spending some time with the President of the Cairns RSL, it was not long before Christmas & he had 3 veterans come to him (not all together)and ask for help as they were tired of living on the streets & fighting their demons alone.
An Old Vets Christmas
He shuffles down a quiet darkened street,
alone, he always dreads this time of year,
cause locals, he just cannot bear to meet.
He eats collected scraps and drinks warm beer.
Now as the rain begins to softly fall
he crawls beneath a long deserted shop,
and hears the singing from the nearby hall
while all the time, he wishes, they would stop.
A flash sends goose bumps covering his skin
the sky now rumbles with a long deep tone,
then, brings back horrors hidden deep within,
again, he fronts the enemy alone.
Now mortars fall as with each lightning blast
he’s foetal in his cardboard box and prays,
and shaking as his heart is pounding fast,
arms wrapped around his head, he rocks and sways
He flinches and he moans with every burst,
relives the scenes held deep within his brain,
and wishes that the visions would disperse,
the sight of blown up bodies, still remain.
The rain’s like thunder on this roof of tin,
like non stop gunfire in a jungle dense.
He’s once again a soldier in the din,
where many boys, lost all their innocence.
The ‘war’ is easing as the thunder dies,
he now releases clasping hands from ears,
remembers politicians and their lies
and how so many died throughout those years.
He hears again the Christmas Carols clear,
his shaking starts now slowly to decrease,
while in the darkness, sheds a lonely tear,
and knows that only death can bring release.
He’ll fight no more this demon battle ground
as finally succumbed he starts to doze.
In time his lifeless body will be found.
This old mans story, scribes can now expose.
David J Delaney
21/12/2009 ©
An Old Vets Christmas
He shuffles down a quiet darkened street,
alone, he always dreads this time of year,
cause locals, he just cannot bear to meet.
He eats collected scraps and drinks warm beer.
Now as the rain begins to softly fall
he crawls beneath a long deserted shop,
and hears the singing from the nearby hall
while all the time, he wishes, they would stop.
A flash sends goose bumps covering his skin
the sky now rumbles with a long deep tone,
then, brings back horrors hidden deep within,
again, he fronts the enemy alone.
Now mortars fall as with each lightning blast
he’s foetal in his cardboard box and prays,
and shaking as his heart is pounding fast,
arms wrapped around his head, he rocks and sways
He flinches and he moans with every burst,
relives the scenes held deep within his brain,
and wishes that the visions would disperse,
the sight of blown up bodies, still remain.
The rain’s like thunder on this roof of tin,
like non stop gunfire in a jungle dense.
He’s once again a soldier in the din,
where many boys, lost all their innocence.
The ‘war’ is easing as the thunder dies,
he now releases clasping hands from ears,
remembers politicians and their lies
and how so many died throughout those years.
He hears again the Christmas Carols clear,
his shaking starts now slowly to decrease,
while in the darkness, sheds a lonely tear,
and knows that only death can bring release.
He’ll fight no more this demon battle ground
as finally succumbed he starts to doze.
In time his lifeless body will be found.
This old mans story, scribes can now expose.
David J Delaney
21/12/2009 ©
Mod
For those of you who might like to read a 'Novel' poem....(-:
http://www.shakespeareswords.com/The-...
http://www.shakespeare-w.com/english/...
http://www.shakespeareswords.com/The-...
http://www.shakespeare-w.com/english/...
I've not heard of the term Novel poem, are they similar to epic poems?
Here is one of my latest sonnets (done in Petrarch style) an old style with a modern theme.
Sonnet no. 7
Installments of Love
A gentle breeze blows down this quiet street
as rustling papers echo through the night,
while on a corner stands a dim street light
where faceless, nameless people sometimes meet.
A lone car now approaches then it stops,
the driver silhouetted from the glow.
He ponders should he stay or should he go,
as nervously he glances ‘round for cops.
Then, stepping from the darkness feeling cold
she’ll spend another long night by his side.
It’s been three years since his beloved died,
with no-one, how he needs someone to hold,
and wonders can he share love once again;
just like the love they shared together then.
David J Delaney
10/09/2011 ©
Sonnet no. 7
Installments of Love
A gentle breeze blows down this quiet street
as rustling papers echo through the night,
while on a corner stands a dim street light
where faceless, nameless people sometimes meet.
A lone car now approaches then it stops,
the driver silhouetted from the glow.
He ponders should he stay or should he go,
as nervously he glances ‘round for cops.
Then, stepping from the darkness feeling cold
she’ll spend another long night by his side.
It’s been three years since his beloved died,
with no-one, how he needs someone to hold,
and wonders can he share love once again;
just like the love they shared together then.
David J Delaney
10/09/2011 ©
Thank you Despina...(-: I notice it's got a bit quiet on here, I would love to post some of my newer poems but can't as they would be classed as 'published' & would be disqualified from almost any competition I would enter them into....so how about some favorite poems from you mob, here is another fav of mine.
THE MOON FLOWER
I know a valley-- through its solitude
A brown road winds towards a mountain crest;
There gnarly ti-trees dripping sweetness rest,
And grasses bend, too heavily bedowed.
In that still valley by the still lagoon,
A ruined homestead for her secret shrine,
Dwells Beauty's self, half-earthly, half-devine--
Thrilling, I saw her waken to the moon.
In peaks of emerald the cactus crept,
And there o'er rafters falling to decay,
A miracle of flowers, spray on spray,
Burst into perfect life while nature slept.
First a slim silver riband from the sky
Uncurled green fronds from each imprisoned bud,
Then, one by one, bathed in the beaming flood,
Like ghost-notes in a spirit litany.
They blossomed out before my eyes,
Great chalices of snow filled up with light;
Set in the mystic radiance of night
They seemed a vision from immortal skies.
Hidden in shadow near the still lagoon
Nightly I worship at a secret shrine,
There on a ruin-- lily-white, devine,
Is beauty lying naked to the moon!
Lala Fisher. (1872 - 1927)
THE MOON FLOWER
I know a valley-- through its solitude
A brown road winds towards a mountain crest;
There gnarly ti-trees dripping sweetness rest,
And grasses bend, too heavily bedowed.
In that still valley by the still lagoon,
A ruined homestead for her secret shrine,
Dwells Beauty's self, half-earthly, half-devine--
Thrilling, I saw her waken to the moon.
In peaks of emerald the cactus crept,
And there o'er rafters falling to decay,
A miracle of flowers, spray on spray,
Burst into perfect life while nature slept.
First a slim silver riband from the sky
Uncurled green fronds from each imprisoned bud,
Then, one by one, bathed in the beaming flood,
Like ghost-notes in a spirit litany.
They blossomed out before my eyes,
Great chalices of snow filled up with light;
Set in the mystic radiance of night
They seemed a vision from immortal skies.
Hidden in shadow near the still lagoon
Nightly I worship at a secret shrine,
There on a ruin-- lily-white, devine,
Is beauty lying naked to the moon!
Lala Fisher. (1872 - 1927)
Childhood by Rainer Maria RilkeIt would be good to give much thought, before
you try to find words for something so lost,
for those long childhood afternoons you knew
that vanished so completely -and why?
We're still reminded-: sometimes by a rain,
but we can no longer say what it means;
life was never again so filled with meeting,
with reunion and with passing on
as back then, when nothing happened to us
except what happens to things and creatures:
we lived their world as something human,
and became filled to the brim with figures.
And became as lonely as a sheperd
and as overburdened by vast distances,
and summoned and stirred as from far away,
and slowly, like a long new thread,
introduced into that picture-sequence
where now having to go on bewilders us
I don't know how I missed this thread. I love poetry, reading and writing. There's some beautiful poetry that's been posted here, truly emotional from the heart stuff, which is the kind I enjoy most. I've written an anthology of poetry available in ebook format from Amazon called "Reflections:A Modern Anthology". Here's a small sample -The human statue
The echoes roll unanswered
Cross the valley of my mind
In the light of shining truth
I remain completely blind
Past complicated and undecided
My life hangs in tatters
A screaming voice inside my head
My soul, like crystal, shatters
Standing frozen in uncertainty
Unsure which way to go
My life has been suspended
I’m still reeling from the blow
Surely there is hope
Somewhere waiting for me
Surely one day I will
Be all that I can be
Until then I will remain
A statue in your midst
Made cold by hot emotion
I pray that I’ll be missed
Hope you like my small offering.
Cheers,
Trace
Mod
G'day Tracey, beautifully written Hymnal Stanzerd quatrain ABCB. I really enjoyed this piece, I'll go & have a look at your e-book.
My "Out of Australia" is now available on kindle.....
(-:
My "Out of Australia" is now available on kindle.....
(-:
Kids Who Are Different
by Digby Wolfe
Here's to the kids who are different,
The kids who don't always get A's
The kids who have ears twice the size of their peers,
And noses that go on for days ...
Here's to the kids who are different,
The kids they call crazy or dumb,
The kids who don't fit, with the guts and the grit,
Who dance to a different drum ...
Here's to the kids who are different,
The kids with the mischievous streak,
For when they have grown, as history's shown,
It's their difference that makes them unique.
by Digby Wolfe
Here's to the kids who are different,
The kids who don't always get A's
The kids who have ears twice the size of their peers,
And noses that go on for days ...
Here's to the kids who are different,
The kids they call crazy or dumb,
The kids who don't fit, with the guts and the grit,
Who dance to a different drum ...
Here's to the kids who are different,
The kids with the mischievous streak,
For when they have grown, as history's shown,
It's their difference that makes them unique.
Mod
David wrote: "Kids Who Are Differentby Digby Wolfe
Here's to the kids who are different,
The kids who don't always get A's
The kids who have ears twice the size of their peers,
And noses that go on for d..."
Nice :)
Mod
Aussie Readers
Books mentioned in this topic
Ripple (other topics)Ripple (other topics)
Authors mentioned in this topic
Tui Allen (other topics)Tui Allen (other topics)
Leonard Cohen (other topics)
of a shattered mind
strands of self
scatter in the wind
your reflection
is fractured
where the cracks show
a spider web view
giving away pieces
of my person
chunks of heart and soul
worth less than time
snatching moments
waiting
to feel whole again
and my mind drifts
like confetti
dancing on the breeze
- Emily Elst 2011