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Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.-Edgar Allan Poe

Poetry is when emotion has found its thought and thought has found words--Robert Frost

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance--Carl Sandburg

I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry--John Cage

You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you--Joseph Joubert

Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own. ~Dylan Thomas

joybragi84

Back at It! A Flower Picture and a Poem-a-Week!


Kellie took the picture of the Carolina Chicory above. It is growing in a few places around the fairgrounds where we go for our daily walks. I haven't thought to dig up any of it and see if I can make chicory coffee. If I am going to do so, I had better get around to it quickly. In the heat, the flowers are fading.


Yes, last week, I took the Father's Day prerogative and decided not to post a blog. Jesse and his kids came over and Sarah and Dylan were here as well. We made a day of grilling and playing outdoor games though it got way too hot. I will also admit that I didn't have a decent poem last week. I had one, but I haven't been able to revise it to my liking. This week, I have one that came to me yesterday. It really isn't so much a poem as it is a chant. See what you think about it.


The Rain Won’t Come

(A Folk Chant)

 

The crickets sing.

The tree frogs hum.

The sky is clear.

The rain won’t come.

 

The mourning dove

Is stricken dumb.

He lives in fear

The rain won’t come.

 

The rain won’t come.

The rain won’t come.

Don’t shed a tear.

The rain won’t come.

 

Our last whole loaf

Is just a crumb.

The wheat is sere.

The rain won’t come.

 

Our jar of black

Strap’s turned to rum.

We’ll have no beer.

The rain won’t come.

 

The rain won’t come.

The rain won’t come.

Don’t shed a tear.

The rain won’t come.

 

The possums eat

The unripe plum.

Such food is dear.

The rain won’t come.

 

A bumble bee

Buzzed in my ear.

“The end is near.

The rain won’t come.”

 

The lightnings play.

The thunders drum.

Too late, my dear.

The rain won’t come.


One of the reasons that I have not been producing much poetry is that I have been working hard to get the story Uncle Boog and the Dogfight into a book form. I actually have a proof copy of all the Dewey Lynn stories coming to me soon. I don't think that I will publish the book for sale. It will be a one copy deal--maybe. But, since I figured out how to make a book look like a book in self-publishing, I may have a publishable copy of Uncle Boog and the Dogfight available in the next few weeks or month. When I do, I'll let you know.


Don't forget to purchase you copy of our book Essential Words from either me (mbt1966@yahoo.com) or Lulu.com. Here is a picture of the cover.



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I find that I cannot exist without Poetry--without eternal poetry--half the day will not do--the whole of it--I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan.-John Keats

We do not quite say that the new is more valuable because it fits in; but its fitting in is a test of its value.-T. S. Eliot

A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases.-George Gordon, Lord Byron

The great beauty of poetry is that it makes everything in every place interesting.-John Keats

Our faulty elder poets sacrificed the passion and passionate flow of poetry to the subtleties of intellect and to the stars of wit; the moderns to the glare and glitter of a perpetual, yet broken and heterogeneous imagery, or rather to an amphibious something, made up, half of image, and half of abstract meaning. The one sacrificed the heart to the head; the other both heart and head to point and drapery.-S. T. Coleridge

The purpose of rhythm, it has always seemed to me, is to prolong the moment of contemplation, the moment when we are both asleep and awake, which is the one moment of creation.-W. B. Yeats

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