Andrés’s Comments (group member since Jan 02, 2016)

Andrés’s comments from the Once Upon a Time group.

LOL! This was both funny, and true, Lee-lette. I enjoyed it very much.

Maybe I'll post a poem, too. Hmmm. I recently wrote one for the WSS that I enjoyed, but it hasn't got any votes. The topic is post-apocalypse.

Here is:

Afterglow

I am here, in the morning afterglow the morning after it was done.
The words of empires and of the philanthropic tyrants of wealth,
Perfect days and all those hard fought and deserved achievements,
Soul mates and those painful and forced play-dates,
All and more have become emptiness
beyond empty
that the day’s glow does not in this moment notice.
Yesterday’s revered words, all of them, are wanton
their con now fully revealed, naked in empty want full of nothing.
The stars may show again, and the moon, too.
I am here with my journal, and a pen,
a warm sun,
and nothing clever or wise or trite to write.

[I used to be, but I've lost a lot of weight.]

I wondered why mother would say that, now, other than that being one of her standard phrases used to passively express her anger.

James wrote: "White
J. F.

I write a poem of black
on a plane of white, the dark scratches of my pencil alone on a sterilized ocean.

Shades of gray mix into a bigger picture, a piece of art, or folly.
When all ..."

This is a delightful homage to black! I thoroughly enjoyed it. :-)

Rotfl! I wish! NOT! ;-)

Lol! Really. :-D
And what is wrong with OMG? ;-)

Have you seen the NFB film, The Cat Came Back? Cat people and their opposites will both enjoy this.

When I was a teen, a large stray tom cat started coming into our house whenever we opened the door. And no matter what we did it wouldn't stay away. Eventually he became a pet. My favourite cat. Ah, Smitty the kitty. Wow, that's 40+ years ago. OMG! ;-)

Here's a recent poem I wrote for the WSS that I liked.

The naked canvas,
Mirrors the infinite void
Where we fear to be,
And where we want to be found
Without paint, honest and true.

It is a kind of fushigi because it has captured some of the themes here, even though I wrote it independently of this thread.

Lilly and Lee-Lette. These are nice philosophical self-reflective poems. I enjoyed them very much for their exploration of place and self.

I saw a documentary called The Wisdom of the Dream. (I loved that series!) At one point, I forget where in the 3 part series, the host talked with some Pueblo Natives who were making clay pots. They ensure that each pot has a flaw, because if it was perfect it would compete with the perfection of the Gods and make them angry.

And there is the myth of Arachne, who made the Goddess Athena jealous because her weaving was more beautiful, i.e. 'perfect' than Athena's.

It felt like I had become disconnected from my body, as if I were someone's marionette.

I began to move my limbs, shift my body and lift myself up into a sitting position.

"Young lady, you are in no position to ask me anything!"

It was my mother.

I was unsure if it was the scream of an animal or of someone dying in very bad way.

And then covered my mouth with my hands and chastised myself for shrieking, because I realized that whatever killed whatever that animal is may still be around.

But I'm reasonably sure, after feeling myself, that it wasn't mine.

Not me!

Sometimes simple is all that is required to bring joy to our hearts. And this your poem did. A light unaffected homage to rain.

:-)

Thank you Lee-lette. (I have had three Haiku published in books and two articles in newspapers, that is all. And a few things 'published' on a web page. Not counting my self-published blogs.)

Lee-lette, your homage to rain brought a huge smile to my face. I thoroughly enjoyed it. And I loved that I'm reading it tonight, after having been in the long steady rain common for this part of the world, that of a temperate rainforest.

I wrote a continuation of The Clock Struck Six.

Here is The Clock Struck Six Part II: The Recycle Bin

As I squinted at it,
from my neighbour’s home,
through the open window
on this warm evening,
I heard his old fashioned clock
strike
six.
Another day over
done, just
to
start over again
after the beginning
and the end of
night.
The movement’s indifference was
deafening,
Dawn to dusk, over and over
again.
I put from my face,
off of my nose,
the glasses I was blind without.
Hung them from my loose fingers.
I closed my eyes and
rubbed them
as if my fingers could erase
the ghosts of
the striata of
too many words read and re-read
again and again and again.
A living made and done,
long since done,
writing the same things
the same tiny little words,
over and over
again.
I set my eyes’ glasses down
pick up my scribble of ink
on paper,
and I stop. Reading.
Start to read it, again.
Stop. Again.
Through that open window
I hear young voices,
passionate angst,
fighting to find truth
in
love.
In the words of love,
misconstrued as words always are,
mistaken for the real
and the true.
I crumple my scribble
throw it away.
How appropriate,
I thought,
that my trash
can
had been
replaced by a recycle
bin.
Pre-canned.
Has been.
Has bin.

Janessa wrote: "Thank you both. This was the first poem I've ever shared with any one outside of my family."

Great of you to take the plunge and put your words out here. If I may say a few words on praise and criticism, relax about them both. As long as you are writing from your heart and mind to the very best of your ability at the time, that is what counts. The very best writing engages the whole of the writer and the reader, heart, mind, spirit. Which means that there will be some who will not connect with that and others who will. And it truly does not matter either way. It is icing on the cake of creative expression if even one person reads it and reacts to it, positively or negatively. Any reaction is proof of the poet having brought to life his or her words.

I feel honoured to have had the privilege of being a first reader of your poem. It is beautifully expressed. :-)