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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
Apr 142 min read

Spiderwort: Just a Picture, But Two New Poems as Well


Look at how cute this little spiderwort bloom is!! And it was doing its very best to hide away in the middle and bottom of the bush. If I hadn't been planting some elephant ears and hosta nearby, I might not have noticed it. It is strange how the world can look very, very different when you are down on your knees.


Anyway...you folks all know how committed I am to the Poem-a-Week deal. Here are a couple more from what I should have called Two-Poems-a-Week. ENJOY! and look below them.


Some Thoughts Cannot Be Shared

 

You’d swear the ancient gods still live

In the distant thunder’s rumble.

You’d think I’d find some words to say,

But all I do is mumble.

 

A thought trembles and dies here on

My crooked, straining smile.

A wall of rain dissolves the words

I’ve pondered all the while.

 

I guess I’ll let the spirits speak,

Knowing their moans will burn.

I feel their pain through dying breaths

The moment when they turn.

 

I shelter now, here in the dark,

Because I am so weak.

The wind may blow, the rain may beat,

But still, I will not speak.

 

Were I to rest or fall asleep

Or maybe even die,

You’ll find no words have crossed my lips.

I hope you wonder why.


How's about another one--Just one more!


A Guy in Love Who Cannot Take a Hint

 

My sweet, I beg your pardon.

Will you join me in the garden

To tidy up a stubborn patch of weeds?

The rosebush that grows there

Is looking pretty bare.

I think some air and sun is what it needs.

 

My dear, I know your itchin’

For me to leave your kitchen

While you spice up those things I love to eat.

I’ve not be overlooking

The fare that you’ve been cooking.

For my crude tastes, it really can’t be beat.

 

Dear heart, I think it’s sweet

How you want to be discreet

And keep our love a secret from your friends,

But I can’t get a handle

Why our love would be a scandal

Or why it appears a “means” without an “ends.”

 

My love, no more excuses,

Your reasons seem like ruses,

And I think you’re unfairly being cruel,

And yet I must confess

My brain is all a mess

“Cause love has got me thinking like a fool.


So, I just wanted to post a reminder that OUR book Essential Words: Nature, Imagination, and Inspiration is for sale, but, right now, only for me. The note on My Projects at Lulu.com says "Distribution Pending." I have no idea what that means. However, I ordered fifteen copies today. I can order them for $4.60 a piece with roughly $3 a piece for shipping and handling. If you order them from the bookstore for $9.20, you will still pay S&H, so you might as well get a copy from me. I can make it cheaper than they can. Please send me an email at mbt1966@yahoo.com with your mailing address if you want a copy. Heck, I might bring it to you. Who knows?


Comments

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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