Once Upon a Time discussion

You can post poems here, preferably your own poems. People can comment on other peoples poems but keep it friendly guys. Everybody has their own style. Respect that.

************Words*****************

Words
Who came up with them? What did he or she intend?
They can be quite useful, but when misused can brutally offend.
They can express one's emotions but only to an extent.
Some things are better felt than said.
An "I love you" is ok,
But a sweet kiss will bring it faster to one's head.
Words can be dangerous.
"How so?" you ask.
Will they poke or cause an illness that is serious?
Are words able to perform such a task?
They can cause the windows to your soul to leak.
They can make you confused and make you feel weak.
They can bring back memories from that hot summer day.
They can charm all your bad thoughts and feelings away.

Hello Lee-lette. I like your poem! It questions words, which is something I also like to do. In fact, I just wrote a poem for the WSS that does just that. I hope that it's okay that I post it here, too. (I am likely to be an infrequent poster, as my writing has all but stopped, except, now and then, a short poem or letter.)

So, here is a poem. It began with a prompt, a quotation by TS Eliot:
For last year's words belong to last year's language. And next year's words await another voice.


The Clock Struck Six

There was a moment
when the meaning was clear
a difficulty understood with a
brilliance that gave me the hope
of truth.
I remember that moment
in yesterday’s words
with a clarity that
adumbrated uncertainty.
Foolishness is the truth
of yesterday’s truths.
And to be unembarrassed in
the remembrance of the joys
born in each final truth’s finality
other than death
before death
instead of death
means something also true.
I am old.
My words no longer resonate
with the possibility of a future
remapped by words as sutures
with the power to unknot
what I had once been convinced
I had been able to unravel
more elegantly than
Alexander had done his Gordian.
Knot.
And whatnots.
Sew what.
The words that look back up at me,
now,
have a weight to them,
as if they are now eyeing me
as something worthy or not
to eat.
Sorrow, perhaps, for having been
wasted in my fervid well meant
fruitless looping back
to discourses in logic
looking for the mind
in my mind
in my books blinding my eyes
that would
cut
that
cursed knot,
answer
the demon Sphinx’s
riddle.
Oedipus in the end
put his own eyes out
for having been blind
to his truth.
I wonder,
was that enough to keep him
from getting lost in labyrinthian
words
words with points like the sticks
stuck in his eyes?
That had stuck him with what
had been
untrue?
I scribbled something,
but it was illegible,
or maybe just unintelligible,
and of dubious intent anyway.
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.

I don't think I need to tell you that that was brilliant. But i'll tell you anyways.......Guy! That was brilliant!!

Ps- I'm glad you liked my poem. It was totally random.

Lee-lette, your poem is excellent. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

So glad that my poem resonated with you so strongly. I will put it into Amy King's big poetry contest.

I think it'll reach far in the contest. It will definitely stir up lots of interest.

Lee-lette wrote: "I think it'll reach far in the contest. It will definitely stir up lots of interest."

:-)
You think so? It is more likely to repose quietly in the lake of words, unremarked on and largely ignored. But now to put it in, for sure, just to see! LOL! Have a great night.

Ha ha :) Thanks and the same to you.

THE SEQUAL

Is the second time around
Always better than the first?
Must we know what happened
After happily ever after?
The shoe fits
Hooray!
The frog is kissed
Let's celebrate!
The witch is burned
Give a cheer!
The demon vanquished
Dance a jig!
So why do we need more?
Good has triumph over evil
The story's over
The last page has been turned
The book is closed.
The end has come.
Battles have been lost and won.
But we want more
We crave it like a sweet.
Yet we do not start all over
We continue the story on.
Legends never die
I suppose that is life.

This poem is awesome Janessa!! The randomness of it makes it even better.
Sorry, gtg :(

Janessa wrote: "THE SEQUAL

Is the second time around
Always better than the first?
Must we know what happened
After happily ever after?
The shoe fits
Hooray!
The frog is kissed
Let's celebrate!
The witch is burne..."

Great fun and philosophical at the same time, Janessa. I enjoyed 'The Sequel' very much.

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

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. :-)

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.

SINS

The sins of my fathers do not reflect me
Though the path I walk is broken and is not paved in gold
I still continue on it
Wherever it leads
Onward
Forward
I only ask for understanding
Forgiveness for when I have strayed from what is good and true
And just maybe
If you please
A little kindness
So that I in turn can understand
Forgive the evil and the lies
To be kind to all.

Rain


Sometimes we wonder why It falls.

It seems sometimes that when we're unprepared,

it comes and to us is a pain.

How would we survive without the rain?

All the dryness around us would make us insane.



Just like the plants get rain and they seem to perk up,

the rain brightens our day.

We fail to admit, the usefulness of it and wish it would just go away.

Imagine each day, for the rest of our lives, bleakness, dreariness no joyful play.

Just dry plants, dry conversations- really, nothing is there to say.



The sun brightens our day literally.

But the rain seems to take our troubles away almost medicinally.

When we face troubles psychologically.

We become closed of and create blocks mentally.

The rain always seems to heal us physically.

Preventing our situations from ending catastrophically.

It brings a calm that only nature can provide so elegantly.

If we sit and see how mush the rain provides for us,

maybe we can stop thinking of it so blatantly.

These are great Guy and Janessa, are you sure you two aren't already published?

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.

Whatever you say Guy :)

I'm glad you like it, even though I think it's too elementary.

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

:-)

Thanks Guy, it means a lot :)

Mirrors-

They show me my reflection
each and every imperfection
making me doubt my beauty.

The longer I stare, I get sucked into a void
of hateful thoughts and envy.
I should be prettier, skinnier, taller.

I want to break the mirror into shards,
tiny, imperfect pieces of glass
to prove that it's not perfect,
but I'll still see my imperfections.
I can't get rid of my flaws, no.matter how I try.
If I can't get rid of this mirror or my flaws,
the least I could do is look past
the imperfections and the flaws
and see the beauty in me.

Mirrors are there to help you to see your imperfections.
It's a really great technology that helps one to look and see
"um, there isn't anyone out there like me"

Who wants to be 'perfect' anyways?
That'd be really boring.
'Craziness' is an imperfection that
only a few of us possess.
I'd rather have imperfections than
be a perfect mess.

That's definetely true, I didn't see it that way when i jotted that down. But sometimes all people can see when they look in the mirror is imperfections, and they beat themselves up about all those imperfections. That's what was on my mind when I wrote it.

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.

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.

BLACK CAT, LUCKY CAT

Black cat
Lucky cat
How do you do?
With your tail in the air
Like a welcoming flag
You move with grace
Towards me
With big, bright eyes
The color of gold.
You look at me with love.
I can't help but love you back
My black cat
My lucky cat.

Lilly wrote: "That's definetely true, I didn't see it that way when i jotted that down. But sometimes all people can see when they look in the mirror is imperfections, and they beat themselves up about all those..."

You know what they say "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder"

I refuse to like your poem Janessa because I dislike cats! Just kidding, but not about the cat disliking part.

Lee-lette wrote: "I refuse to like your poem Janessa because I dislike cats! Just kidding, but not about the cat disliking part."

Yeah not everybody a cat person, I understand.

Yea....I like your poem though, if that wasn't clear.

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! ;-)

Smitty the Kitty!? Really Guy? And did you really just say OMG! ???

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

:))
Nothing, if your a teen and I don't know, a girl!!

Rotfl! I wish! NOT! ;-)

Lol :D

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 else fades, black remains, a beauty in its own right.

I understand that black's a symbol, an omen for evil to some.
And black has its problems and perceptions, as all of us do.

A streak of blood on pavement, the darkness of the woods,
and a mess of politics, right and wrong alike; we can be unsettled

by the negative connotations
imposed upon us.

But black is steadfast, and black holds on.
When day is waning, black returns to wrap us in rest.

Why must we so villainize black, and in supporting it, alienate it further?
I write not of race. What we think of each other is our own business.

I simply write of black, that color, non-color.
Black, whose majesty is found in the beat of raven's wings,

the shade of a shadow when we are alone but for it.
The still of powder, stable. Black, yes.

Black, a thing of wonder. How deep must we delve into the cold abyss
before we realize that it has warmth and comfort of its own?

There's an ocean of it around us, between us. Stars dot a landscape
of endless space in three dimensions. Why do we so deny what surrounds us?

There's a comfort in repetition, as from dusk to dawn to dusk again.
In contrast, a comfort in change.

Should the Earth stop spinning, the sun go out,
an endless comfort black would be.

My paper's end draws near. A fitting end to an issue so endless,
for black to be outed by white.

Exeunt, pan out, fade to black.

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. :-)

Guy wrote: "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 fo..."

I agree Guy, this piece was phenomenal!

Sarcasm

He loved using sarcasm when communicating.
It gave him an aura of sophistication.
It's only funny when persons you're conversing with,
understand your elaboration.


Daily, I laugh internally when I see.
How some get offended when addressed sarcastically.
Only some understand the slightly taunting art.
Others get angry and want to pull you apart.


Sarcasm lightens conversation and changes moods.
The simple minded become puzzled and think you're a prude.
Some say sarcasm is borderline rude.
It's like undressing the conversation, leaving it nude.

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.

Thanks Guy :)

I can't see how ''Afterglow'' didn't get any votes!

TATTOOS
He marked his arms
His body was his own personal canvas
Ink to skin
Tells the story of his life
Look close and you will read his soul.

Some say the eyes are the windows to the soul.
But looking at his arms, 'you' see as his life unfolds.
Through dark and light, dull and bright
his signs bore more than any book 'you'd' write.
It's a sad story though.
One dark and deadly like a summer night.
One who'd bring agony to a crow.

****After I read Janessa's I just wrote.

Where is Everybody?

I wonder where everybody is on this fine day.
No conversations are occurring, is there so little to say?
Or are they simply busy and on their way?
All i can say is that this group is dead.

That really troubles my mind.
Because I know the people in this group are one of a kind.
So i'm just going to rewind ans as,
Where is everybody?