How about a parody? Joyce Wilmer's "Trees" morphed into a poem about my favorite dog sport, Dog Agility.|
I think that I shall never see
A sheltie hate Agility
A Sheltie who will run and hide
Instead of taking jumps in stride.
A Sheltie who does not just love
To climb the A-frame high above
Who delights in downing on the table
Just as fast as she is able.
One who "teeters" like a champ
And hits the yellow on every ramp,
A dog who gives you all she's got
Who takes the dog-walk at a trot.
Who runs the course at such top speed
You'd swear the numbers she could read
Poems are made by fools like me
But God made dogs for Agility.
Reply #261. Sep 07 11, 8:37 PM
Sorry, Joyce Kilmer|
Reply #262. Sep 08 11, 11:09 PM
I love Thomas Transtromer: Love "Weary of all who come with words, words but no language."|
Weary of all who come with words, words but no language
I make my way to the snow-covered island.
The untamed has no words.
The unwritten pages spread out on every side!
I come upon the tracks of deer in the snow.
Language but no words.
(“From March 1979”)
Reply #264. Sep 18 11, 8:38 PM
I seem to be feeling unpoetic right now, sorry folks. I'm enjoying yours so much, but it does come and go for me/|
Reply #265. Oct 01 11, 2:03 AM
Happens to us all, Dixie.|
Reply #266. Oct 01 11, 9:06 AM
Hi, just in case you missed my Holiday dog poem, I posted it in Animals.|
I must be off my creative hobby horse. Maybe just to busy lately for a poem to grow.
Reply #268. Dec 25 11, 4:42 PM
I wrote this in the year after my husband's death.|
I only found it a few days ago... thank heaven, I got through the misery I was in...
I think that passion
Has gone from my life
And every moment from now on
Will be merely shades of grey.
Certainly there are memories
The great black horse
White blaze and two white feet
Whose existence thrilled me
To the very core of my being.
Working with my man
Or fishing by a quiet river
Building a garden from a wasteland
Or lying under the stars
Creating a dream
A red rose, fragrant beyond belief
And the exultation
At winning back a derelict house
From the brink of destruction.
But the passion for living
Books have degenerated
Into mysterious symbols
On a white page,
Chocolate lost its sweet splendour
A rose is just another pretty flower.
Where has the passion gone ?
Was it too laid to rest
In a country cemetery ?
Reply #269. Jan 02 12, 9:43 PM
Goodness, Tezza, it's so moving and evocative. When - how long ago - did you write it? |
Reply #270. Jan 02 12, 10:10 PM
Lesley, written in mid 2002 - Terry died in April 2002, and I think I wrote out a lot of my pain in the following months.|
I found the original tucked into an old book when i was sorting out books a day or two ago.
Reply #271. Jan 02 12, 11:04 PM
Tezza, I felt right there with you in that emotion, very powerful.|
Reply #272. Jan 03 12, 12:37 AM
“A journey to the hilltop|
Can shake up your habit
Of seeing the world just so.
New paintings flow
Onto your canvas
After your routine has been
Jostled, tilted and kicked.
Have you ever prayed
Until you saw your world
Through the eyes of Love or
Mercy? It can shake
Your habit of seeing God
Just so, and undo
Your routine of sketching
Your self-portrait of flesh
Without a soul.”
- A Journey to the Hilltop, by Elliott Robertson
Reply #273. Feb 09 12, 12:05 PM
I'm pulling together a brochure for the 100th anniversary of the opening of our district hall, and came across this..|
Trees by the Highway
Peppertree or palm or pine
Where an old house used to stand
Just a tree by the side of the road
Marks where people’s dreams were planned
A cottage or a mansion
That house of long ago
Where children laughed and played and lived
And the pace of life was slow
And I wonder if at night sometimes
Their ghosts come drifting round
And wonder at the changes
That a hundred years has found
Do they marvel at the wonders
Of the modern trucks and cars
Or do they think life’s crazy
As they drift back to the stars ?
What would I think if I came back
In a hundred years or so ?
Would I recognise my home place
Or shake my head….. and go.
Written after noticing two palm trees in
a paddock, where an old house had obviously been.
In the Australian bush, fruit trees and non native trees stand out very clearly as a mark of settlement..
Reply #274. Feb 18 12, 12:29 AM
Not quite a poem.. but some great thoughts|
You can shed tears that he is gone, or you can smile because he has lived.
You can close your eyes and pray that he’ll come back, or you can open your eyes and see the legacy he has left.
Your heart can be empty because you can’t see him, or you can be full of the love you shared.
You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.
You can remember him and only that he’s gone, or you can cherish his memory and let it live on.
You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back, or you can do what he would want: open your eyes, love and go on.
Reply #275. Feb 25 12, 9:02 PM
This poem I wrote after the death of my Mother in 1990. The reference to the Heron - beyond the cemetery there is a swamp area frequented by a variety of water birds.|
I stood there by your graveside,
Knowing much was left unsaid,
And though my heart was breaking,
I had no tears to shed.
It's true I've sadly missed you,
Since reason went astray.
But I couldn't wish you back again,
To suffer one more day.
Alzheimers had you imprisoned
Beyond our reach somewhere,
And robbed us of a Mother,
It all seemed so unfair.
I said a final farewell
And offered up a prayer,
Because I had no tears left,
Doesn't mean I didn't care.
I saw a Heron rising,
White and graceful as it passed,
And I knew it ws a sign,
Of a spirit, free at last.
No, I had no tears to offer,
For my heart felt lighter then,
So rest in peace, my darling,
Until we meet again.
Reply #276. Feb 25 12, 11:34 PM
I love that|
Reply #277. Feb 27 12, 4:26 PM
Inspired by the loss of a dream:|
Gone is the longing
For something better,
That once sparkled
In her eyes;
Only bitterness, resentment:
A deep seated pain
That will never go away.
Gone is the longing
For a father
The wish to connect
Even for a moment
With that childlike essence
Lost so many years ago.
Reply #278. Feb 27 12, 4:27 PM
In Loving Memory:|
He was so young,
So very young;
The years so bright with promise:
And then, one day, he had none left:
Merely questions, bouncing around like half-formed thoughts.
What happened to cut
His chances in half,
Was it, as some
A fatal mistake?
What is it
That some saw
That made him
Seem such a threat?
Maybe it’s best
Not to think
Of all the possible answers,
But rather to remember
All the good qualities,
To focus on
The highlights of his life
For anything else
May only detract
From his loving memory.
Reply #279. Feb 27 12, 4:29 PM
Weep for the Children:|
Weep for the children,
Who grow up knowing nothing
But the pain and sorrow
Of a broken home;
Who struggle with their thoughts and actions:
Who hope for something that will never be.
Weep for the children,
The innocents who die
Almost as soon as they are born-
Not physically, bot emotionally,
In a vain attempt
To cope with what life’s given.
Weep for the children,
The ones who have no choice;
Either accept the reality
Or cease to live at all.
Reply #280. Feb 27 12, 4:29 PM
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