Maybe it's time to renew your poetic license?

Meanderer

Meanderer

Supreme Member
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It is said that deep inside each of us, is a poet waiting to turn from Bard to Verse. I have dabbled at writing poems...usually in dribs and drabs...splashes and spurts of inspiration...and then like the tide, it recedes. I have let my poetic license expire on occasion, but eventually find myself in line at the Poetry Vehicle Department to have it renewed. (No photo ID....they use 1000 words!).
I have written what I call String-cheese poems...that just meander along the page to their own drummer. How about you? Do you have a poem that you wrote that you would want to share?


THE TURNING OF A PAGE by Meanderer

What in the world is age? It’s like the turning of a page.
Day after day, years send age our way. Our yearly odometer numbers cannot lie.
In the words of a Godless sage, life without God, is all the rage.
What is life? According to the bard, a stage Sometime Just around the bend, life will end.
Life without God is only a cage, but beyond the gates, Life awaits!


What in the world is time? It’s like the rolling of a wave.
Wave after wave, time comes our way causing the commotion of aging.
Time washes over us, leaving erosion and jetsam of emotion.
The time will come, when time will go away. It will eternally be no more, and forgotten.
Standing still with God, timeless, on a wave-less shore, with fruits that never rotten.
 

I have written a good number of poems and some have been published. I had put one on-line concerning the 9/11 horror, and was surprised and gratified to have an e-mail form the Pentagon Fire chief asking if he could put it up in his office!
 
The Night Trip

THE NIGHT TRIP by Meander

THE NIGHT PASSED LIKE A SLOW TRAIN...
NOW LEAVING THE TOWN OF FRIDAY…ALL BOARD!
THE CLOCK’S HANDS DRAGGED ALONG THE TRACK.
SNORES AND WHISTLES, ABOARD THE “SLEEPER TRAIN”.
EVERY STOP …JUST A SHORT TRIP DOWN THE LINE.
NO SPEED OR RATTLE, TRACK FILLED WITH SHEEP, NOT CATTLE.
TIME SPENT DOING THE AUSTRALIAN CRAWL, JUST DOWN THE HALL.
DESTINATION “NEWDAY”! NEXT STOP THE TOWN OF SATURDAY!
…ARRIVED RUMPLED, A LITTLE STEAMED, BUT RESTED AND FULL OF HOPE.

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There is a popular womans' magazine in the UK called 'The Peoples Friend'. It is so truly cringeworthy that it is a bit of a cult mag.
The poetry is pretty dire - a whole order of magnitude worse than yours Meanderer.

Now, if you want really truly awful poetry, then read the words of Scotland's second great bard, William Topaz McGonagall.

As a small sample from one of his more famous poems - The Tay bridge disaster.

...Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.


I just love those last two lines !!

I would not make a good poet
and I know it
 
Suffering without rhyme or reason

An Irish Air-man Foresees His Death by W. B. Yeats.
"The poem was written in 1918, the final year of World War I. The Irish Uprising had been brutally suppressed by the British two years earlier. While Ireland was still seething with discontent at British rule, there were also plenty of Irishmen in the British Army. The poem explores the ambivalence of an Irish combat pilot in the Royal Flying Corps, who knows that his death is not merely likely, but assured. It's a poem about fate."

http://www.theage.com.au/comment/suffering-without-rhyme-or-reason-20140411-36ipp.html


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THE MAILBOX

She can’t hear the truck pull up these days
Even when the brakes squeal
The hands on the old wall clock are hard to see
But the sun on the porch tells her it’s time

She takes a while to get out of her slippers
Thank goodness for sneakers without laces
Trading her cane for a walker she slowly creeps across the damp grass
Finding it hard to catch her breath

Each day her journey seems more tiring
The destination farther
Still she has hope
Of beautiful cards, long letters, and such

As she approaches, her excitement grows
Shaky hands reach for the key
The lock turns and the door opens
The dark, empty mailbox stares back at her

Slowly she returns to her tiny apartment
Trying hard to keep her footing
The sadness she feels won’t last
Tomorrow the truck comes again

Titus 06
 
"I Watched The Moon Around The House."

A WONDERFUL poem! Who - besides Emily Dickinson - can write a SO fine poem just about "watching the moon"?


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Make My Death a Canticle for Peace

Make My Death a Canticle for Peace
by Nicholas Gordon

Make my death a canticle for peace.
Evil has no greater friend than anger,
Making ready converts to its cause.
On me think but of beauty as you pause,
Remembering the service of a stranger
In giving life to purchase your release.
Armies live according to their art.
Love of life at times requires death,
Defending what would else find hungry jaws.
As you enjoy the gift of every breath,
Yet mourn for me with morning in your heart.

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I have written a very small amount of poetry. Most of my writing is novel-related (nothing published, haven't even finished one yet, only started actually writing a few years ago) ... but this? This is my favorite poem, for which I have to thank the actor who relayed it to me. I doubt that I would have recognized the depth of emotion without him.

 
This was my first attempt (as it relates to a 'next generation' family member who hurt me deeply).

An Epiphany (of sorts)

Admiration and respect
are not meant to be given freely
like love.
People are not meant for pedestals.
If someone makes a concerted effort
to keep me at arms length,
it behooves me to return the favor.
Even though it hurts.
 
One Child

One child wakes up in her warm bed
Another child wakes up in a cold, dusty cave

One child hears her mom sweetly say “breakfast is ready,dear”
Another child hears planes buzzing overhead, the sound ofbullets randomly pelting the ground, and remembers her mom is no more

One child puts on her new dress and jumps in daddy’s car forchurch
Another child is warned never to pray in front of strangers

One child’s face is clean, bright, and hopeful
Another child’s face is dirty, tear-stained, and hopeless

One child will grow up, go to college, get married, and havechildren of her own

Titus 08
 
And In Between

And In Between By Meanerer

He left a hero, and came home a hero…and in between…he was heroic.
According to the roster… it was his turn to be a hero, so he was.
Don’t cry…heroes are never in short supply…and they all get to fly.

He was brave when he left, and came “home” brave…and in between he walked bravely.
It’s hard to tell, but when he fell…he fell bravely.
So add our yell…of “Bravo”....to all who gravely tell …of bravery.

He rode out a chief, and returned a chief…and in between… he chiefly saved the day…
He led the way. His eye was clear, and shadow long.
But some would say…”he’s had his song”…they would die wrong.

He was born of God, and died of God…and in between…he lived of God.
His goal, along the way…was to obey. Some would say,
for him there was “no other way…to love”…true and faithful …to the end.
 
When I was 19, I ask my mother what help her through the pain that life put on us. She pulled a worn piece of paper out of her wallet, and handed it to me. I painted it on the door of my bedroom. It has helped me on many occasions.


DESIDERATA

Go placidly amid the noise & haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly & clearly; and listen to others, even the dull & ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud & aggressive persons; they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain & bitter; for always there will be greater & lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity & disenchanted it is perennial as grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue & loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees & the stars; you have a right to be here. And weather or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors & aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery & broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.
 
Thanks Ina,for sharing your Mom's poem. I have always liked Lorne Greene's reading of it.
 
The Reach of Speech By Me

…we note the first word….and the last…aghast. A thousand yaps are worth one pic…we love to squawk.
At first we imitate adult’s …baby talk….later please them with a word…of our own.

Never taught to listen…ever. For now, our words do not…fall on deaf ears…this will go on for years.
Until one day we speak alone…in company with other’s words…mixing as one…noise. Boys will be noise.

…at last we find a can of ‘word polish’….and apply with a tongue…liberally. Vocally…we are “there”.
Soon, we are skilled at speech…eager to talk…to teach …the world’s masses…gathered in classes.

Until comes old age…the last stage of …speech…. no longer within reach.
One day…what we have to say becomes….irrelevant to the world’s ear.
Sad, but true…they do not want to hear me squawk…baby talk.
 
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Graduation Is a Time by Nicholas Gordon

Graduation is a time
When our thoughts turn naturally
To vandalism, sex, and crime,
Now that we at last are free.

Our teachers think we're well prepared
To make decisions on our own;
But now, perhaps, they're running scared
As they listen to this poem.


Don't worry, folks, we aren't crazy,
Though sometimes we look that way;
Just annoyed, bored, and lazy
As we make it through the day.


So just like birds out of a cage
Or slaves set free from toil and pain,
We aim to try to act our age
And be for now a bit insane.


For life too soon will close its doors,
And then as we grow old in years
We'll teach our own kids to be bores,
But hopefully they'll stuff their ears
And do as we dream, not as we do,
Facing life a tad askew.
 
Still I Rise
By Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.


Maya Angelou
 
At Evening the Boats Crowd Towards Shore
By Nicholas Gordon
At evening the boats crowd towards shore,
The yachtsmen eager for a night of talk
In bars and cafes, weary of the wind.
At dawn they drift back into the harbor
And sail loosely scattered into the bay.
From shore there is nothing more beautiful:
A schooner moves reluctant with the tide,
Sails taut, yet trailing the current,
Hung as if absorbed in meditation;
Or a sloop leaning into the water,
Ropes groaning, skin cracked in salt and sun--
Why does it do battle with the wind?
In winter, white with moonlight, the harbor
Holds nothing in the darkness of its arms.
The boats await the coming of the yachtsmen,
Who once again will fill the bay with grace.




 
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