We walk where Adam walked...
Gardens pristine and new
Where knowledge was sin
The tree of life denied, yet
Walking now where Adam walked
Eternal life denied no more
And God's bounty all-sufficient
a "snippet" by
ELAshley
Sometime in June 2005
..::Original Comments::..
change.... time and space.... duality... conflict.... beautiful... smile.
Posted by clown on 06/02/2006 03:49:37 AM
i did not understand why there is sin? are you resigned into accepting knowledge as sin? i liked the part where you substituted the tree of knowledge with the tree of life. but the last line was again resigned. you start with something positive, an action, of walking,... moving on, you continue with positive images of knowledge (marked by sin) and tree of life, you evoke eternality of life, but your end is a letdown. on the whole one of the few contemporary short poems i have ever read and liked.
Posted by dc4doppleganger on 06/06/2006 05:04:57 PM
"We walk where Adam walked..." Is a picture of the world made perfect once again... future tense. "Gardens pristine and new Where knowledge was sin" Describes the Garden as Adam knew it, and where sin befell him. "The tree of life denied," And God cast him out of the Garden, and the way was guarded by Angels with flaming swords to guard the Tree of Life. Had Adam, after eating of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil-- which was a sin against God --then eaten of the Tree of Life (eternal), God would have been truly branded a liar by the serpent who whispered to Eve... "yea, hath God said?" But "Walking now where Adam walked" The Earth is made new... restored... Again, future tense. The penalty of sin is paid in full and... "Eternal life denied no more" And God's bounty all-sufficient In this context... "God's bounty [IS] all-sufficient" What more will man need ask for?
Posted by MuslinOpaque on 06/06/2006 08:19:24 PM
on Boundaries and Peace
I was made to look over the edge
By a man who fell over the edge
Who spoke of how he climbed back from the edge
And into a body of pain
Reassured, I was made to wonder for my soul
By a man so sure of his soul
Whose eyes spoke of peace in his soul
In a body all too acquainted with pain
a "snippet" by
ELAshley
Sometime in June of 2005
By a man who fell over the edge
Who spoke of how he climbed back from the edge
And into a body of pain
Reassured, I was made to wonder for my soul
By a man so sure of his soul
Whose eyes spoke of peace in his soul
In a body all too acquainted with pain
a "snippet" by
ELAshley
Sometime in June of 2005
An Object Lesson
The Beautiful Bright Red Rose
There was once a flower, a bright red rose among many, who loved no one, not even herself- though she much preferred herself above others. She was far from the first to bloom that spring but neither was she the last. And this made her sad, for though she was beautiful, she was quite unremarkable among so many others. To her own eyes she saw nothing beautiful, not even herself. She was quite confused.
Because of this the other flowers ignored her, whispering behind their petals how confused their sister was, how sad that she was not like they were; happy with the garden in which they all lived. But they loved their sister nonetheless, and wished she could be happy.
The beautiful bright red rose heard their talk and took hurt by their words, and said to herself, I will fix them! And on the next morning began drawing the gardener’s attention. She worked very hard to lift herself straight, spreading as much of her petals as she could to catch the sun. But the dew on her petals soon dried, leaving her quite unremarkable among so many. On the first day he did not notice her at all; she was too dry, and the rest of the garden laughed at her. And she cried all the rest of that day.
The next morning she tried again. She lifted her head up high, but waited until the gardener came to open her petals and all the dew that had collected since she awoke, glistened brightly. On the second day he did not notice her either; she was no different from the others, and again the other flowers laughed at her.
When the sun set that evening she ceased her crying and waited for the rest of the garden to curl up in their petals and fall asleep. With the garden asleep at last, she opened her petals wide to catch as much dew as she could. The night was long and she shivered throughout, but by morning she was covered with dew.
With the rising of the sun the rest of the garden awoke and began their preparations for the arrival of the gardener. They laughed among themselves, chatting and dreaming, and gossiping, as flowers will. At first she was not noticed, but as the gardener began his work, one flower called out to the rest.
“Look at our sister! She must have stayed awake all night.” And the rest of the garden was very pleased, their sister was indeed very beautiful, and they were happy for her. And on the third day the gardener took notice.
“Hello beautiful flower,” he said to her. “What a beautiful, bright red rose you are!”
“Yes, I am,” she replied rather smugly, “how kind of you to finally notice.”
“You are but one among many,” he quickly apologized, “and I must confess you all look pretty much alike.”
“I do not!” she corrected him, “and if you would prune your garden more often, I could truly shine and the world would take notice of my beauty.”
“That is true. I should have pruned days ago!”
“The garden is too full, besides. I am crowded, jostled by my sisters, and by every breeze to blow past, to say nothing of rough winds!”
“You are right,” said the gardener. “I will get my shears.”
The beautiful, bright red rose smiled, but in her heart she was fearful. She had betrayed her sisters, they must surely be angry with her! But the entire garden grew very excited, and began chatting amongst them as to what they might soon become.
“I hope I am plucked and cooked to become a drop of rose oil,” said one, “and my seed planted in rich soil!”
“I hope to be pressed between the pages of a book of verse by a beautiful young girl!” said another, “and when she is old she could then open her book and still catch my scent, and remember the young man who gave me to her.”
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful,” began another, “if we were all placed together in a vase and given to a young man’s true love? We could brighten her room for days, filling her room with our scent, perhaps she might write of our beauty in her diary, in wonderful detail, perhaps even sketch or paint us!”
“How lovely!” they all agreed.
“But aren’t you angry with me?” asked the beautiful, bright red rose.
“Why should we be angry?” they asked.
“The gardener will soon come and take you away. You will be cut and die.” And she began to cry for shame at what she had done.
“Do not be silly, sister, and smile; for this is why we were born. Men, as gifts, give roses to lovely women, especially beautiful roses such as we. Sometimes we are made to scent their soft skin, a drop of perfume behind the ear. Be happy for us, sister. Our only sorrow is that you will not join us, but your time will come too. No rose is ever wasted.”
“But I am beautiful!” cried the beautiful, bright red rose. “I wish to remain here in the garden!”
“But even you will one day leave!” they replied with tenderness. “Perhaps sooner, now that the gardener has begun to prune.”
“What have I done!” exclaimed the beautiful, bright red rose.
“Be happy for us, sister!” they said once more as the gardener returned at last.
The beautiful, bright red rose watched as the gardener worked his shears and carried off many of her sisters. She was now truly the grandest flower in the garden, but she was still not happy. Her remaining sisters too were disappointed, but at not being chosen by the gardener. Seeing their sister still unhappy they tried to console her. But nothing they said could brighten her spirits.
In the days that passed the beautiful, bright red rose grew happy once more and took up her old ways, despising her sisters even more. On days that the sun shone bright, she protected her petals as best she may, spreading her dark green leaves to soak up light and warmth, and on rainy days she drew inward and drank deeply.
She soon forgot the pruning, as did the others, for roses are not known for their great memory, and she began to feel good about herself and her place in the garden; content at last.
There came a day, while enjoying the sun, that the garden observed a horse being led up the lane bearing the loveliest of ladies. She was indeed beautiful, but her eyes were filled with cruelty. Walking beside her was a young man so enamored of her that he could not see the light that shone from her eyes, or if he ever did, readily forgave her.
She was angry with him, as she seemed always to be, and spoke sharply to him, saying she did not believe he loved her, that if he did, he would treat her more like the beautiful princess she was. These words had always hurt him, and he had, over time, grown inward. Yet hoping to earn a smile or at least a kind word, the young man reached over the low wall, and with a sharp knife quickly cut the largest rose in the garden.
The beautiful, bright red rose screamed in horror. “What is happening!” she cried. “Why have I been cut? Where is the gardener?”
Her sisters called out to her, “Be happy, sister! See? You are to be a gift to the beautiful lady! We are so happy for you! We will miss you!” but of course they didn’t, for she was soon forgotten.
“Here,” the young man said to his lady, “a rose to match your beauty.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” the lady shot back with venom. “I am much more beautiful!” And with an angry toss, cast the flower to the other side of the lane, where it fell down into the swift waters of a small brook.
The beautiful, bright red rose was carried far down stream, tussled and bruised upon the stones of the brook, finally coming to rest beneath the eaves of an alder tree where she died, spilling her seed, in time, upon the dark rich earth.
When spring returned, the seeds awoke and sprang from their hulls, but the alder robbed them of light for most of the day, allowing them only the early morning and late afternoon sun. With no gardener to tend them, they grew wild and stunted on the bank of the little brook.
ELAshley
Written in one sitting
1 December 2001
2:30pm
Untitled, and Rudderless
It is small, my world
Some twenty-five thousand miles in circumference*
Small by any standard
When I can
By merely glancing out the window
Watch my brothers fight amongst themselves
Clubs, rocks and fists raised
~their shouts penetrate the walls
And resound throughout the house
Father will be home soon
He'll put an end to it all
But it's a wonder the neighbors haven't complained
ELAshley
052606.102600.6
*24,902 to be precise
Some twenty-five thousand miles in circumference*
Small by any standard
When I can
By merely glancing out the window
Watch my brothers fight amongst themselves
Clubs, rocks and fists raised
~their shouts penetrate the walls
And resound throughout the house
Father will be home soon
He'll put an end to it all
But it's a wonder the neighbors haven't complained
ELAshley
052606.102600.6
*24,902 to be precise
Long From Her Gardens
[Later Poem Form]
She is never firm
--fluid undulation.
Often violent and equally so
Beneath her calm.
She is all I see in every direction
And I am humbled;
Made insignificant
By her vast magnificence.
Men-of-war rise and fall
Upon her every sigh and swell.
Porpoise mothers lift their newborns
To the cusp of her realm
For first breaths and
Glimpses of golden sun.
She is kinder to them, my lover
Her voice whispers in their veins
--and mine.
I have heard her song
In the winds that buffet me,
Chorused in the cry of gulls
Wheeling in a winter sky
And I live haunted by its melody;
The singing of my name,
A song she learned years before
--Remembered and held in wait.
She whispers to me
As I lay sleeping
Fitful with dreams,
She sighs,
"Return to me, my love.
Thou hast been too long from my garden.
I long for thee to furrow my skin
Drawing wakes across my back-
Any prow wilt suffice-
If thou wilt but return to me."
I long to scent her breath,
Feel its caress upon my brow,
To taste the salt of her tears,
Kiss her with my soul and
Beg her forgiveness;
I have been away too long...
Forgive me, my love...
But she is patient,
If not always forgiving.
She knows my heart is not my own,
And that all things return to her
In time.
ELAshley
111900.114116.1
Revised:
120300.020807.6
Revised:
031601.111244.1
Adapted from the rough draft
of an English Composition of
the same title...
..::Original Comments::..
This is a very, very beautiful poem.
Posted by clown on 05/26/2006 09:10:52 AM
She is never firm
--fluid undulation.
Often violent and equally so
Beneath her calm.
She is all I see in every direction
And I am humbled;
Made insignificant
By her vast magnificence.
Men-of-war rise and fall
Upon her every sigh and swell.
Porpoise mothers lift their newborns
To the cusp of her realm
For first breaths and
Glimpses of golden sun.
She is kinder to them, my lover
Her voice whispers in their veins
--and mine.
I have heard her song
In the winds that buffet me,
Chorused in the cry of gulls
Wheeling in a winter sky
And I live haunted by its melody;
The singing of my name,
A song she learned years before
--Remembered and held in wait.
She whispers to me
As I lay sleeping
Fitful with dreams,
She sighs,
"Return to me, my love.
Thou hast been too long from my garden.
I long for thee to furrow my skin
Drawing wakes across my back-
Any prow wilt suffice-
If thou wilt but return to me."
I long to scent her breath,
Feel its caress upon my brow,
To taste the salt of her tears,
Kiss her with my soul and
Beg her forgiveness;
I have been away too long...
Forgive me, my love...
But she is patient,
If not always forgiving.
She knows my heart is not my own,
And that all things return to her
In time.
ELAshley
111900.114116.1
Revised:
120300.020807.6
Revised:
031601.111244.1
Adapted from the rough draft
of an English Composition of
the same title...
..::Original Comments::..
This is a very, very beautiful poem.
Posted by clown on 05/26/2006 09:10:52 AM
Long From Her Gardens
[Original Essay Form]
Dearest,
You once asked whom it was I loved, if not you. I will tell you who she is-- though you may not understand, but I hope you will. I hope you see that she could never replace you, but maybe she can show you what you need to see, that I will never leave you, but that I belong to her as much as you...
She is never firm, my lover. She is often violent, and equally so when calm, but when she is all I can see in any direction, I am humbled by her magnificence. I become insignificant before her enormity. She does not love me, but is jealous of me nonetheless. She will never let me go, but I do not care. She is the most beautiful place I know, and I have been away too long.
I met her years ago, when I was but a child. Gibraltar rose up from her like a shard of age-old bone. I heard her whisper as she washed my feet and swamped the ruins of the last Great War that marched, forgotten, down the Spanish coast. Ocean is what my father called her, and I felt enthralled as though under the spell of a siren's song. She was wet and warm, and bitter to taste-- a wonder and no small mystery to an even smaller boy. As a child of the military, and a camp follower perforce, our paths converged and drew apart many times. From Libya to the Azores, with their black volcanic sands, to the pebbled inlets of Massachusetts, and the white baking strands of Florida, we were never parted for very long. Each time I came to her, I heard her voice, but she never spoke my name. I would not have understood, so she held it in wait for the day I might return, a child on the cusp of manhood. And on the day I came to her at last, I felt her smile in my heart. She made me welcome and bade me learn of her.
She revealed herself to me in subtle ways. On the deck of my first vessel I saw for the first time what sailors of old feared most-- the loss of terra firma over the edge of the world-- "Here there be monsters," the ancient maps declare of those seas uncharted --and I felt my throat close and my chest constrict. She was rarely the mirror I had envisioned; she was chaos, an unchanging constant ever in motion. Men-of-war rose and fell upon her every sighing swell, only seeking the refuge of her depths when she grew to rage. Porpoise mothers pushed their newborns to her foaming boundary to take their first breath and catch a glimpse of golden sun. Stars intaglioed across the night sky made their circuit to morning, so bright beneath a new moon I could read by their light. I grew to love her, but being a child of the shore, our paths diverged once more.
It has been nineteen years since I left the sea-- Ocean, as my father named her --but I have carried her voice with me. I have heard her sing and heard her song chorused in the cry of gulls wheeling in the sky. It haunts me to this day. She learned my name years ago and has not forgotten it, calling me by name, often whispering to me as I sleep, sighing, "Return to me, you have been away too long."
"Can I trust you?" I ask.
"Never. I am fickle and easily angered."
"Will you hurt me?"
"If I can."
"Why then should I return?" I ask.
"Because you are mine and I have written my name in your heart. I am Scylla and Charybdes. I am Tsunami and Leviathan. I will destroy you if I can, but I will give you something the shore cannot."
"What?" I ask.
"Longing."
And I have longed for her ever since. I have been too long from her garden. I know she is violence, yet I am drawn to her. Though she be calm above, yet am I turmoil within, without her. She is my lover, and I hers. She longs for me to lay furrows across her back with any ship I can find, and looking back, watch her smooth my wake without enmity. She smiles to know I long for her, to ride her swells, to feel her breath on my face and taste the salt of her tears. I awake each morning with that longing, wondering if our paths again will converge. But she is patient, if not always forgiving; she knows my heart is not my own, and that all things return to her in time.
I watch you as you lay sleeping, listen to the sound of your dreaming. Do you dream of me? As I, when I dream of the sea, hear it speak with your voice? My lover is calling even now; I can hear her thundering beyond this room. If you awoke now, would you recognize your own voice calling me? Would you walk with me to greet her, feel her pull at us both, and under the burning stars make love?
ELAshley
November 2700
Present Format:
122500.124459.1
Final Revision:
041401.021245.1
Italicized Portions:
February 2003, & not
part of the original
Dearest,
You once asked whom it was I loved, if not you. I will tell you who she is-- though you may not understand, but I hope you will. I hope you see that she could never replace you, but maybe she can show you what you need to see, that I will never leave you, but that I belong to her as much as you...
She is never firm, my lover. She is often violent, and equally so when calm, but when she is all I can see in any direction, I am humbled by her magnificence. I become insignificant before her enormity. She does not love me, but is jealous of me nonetheless. She will never let me go, but I do not care. She is the most beautiful place I know, and I have been away too long.
I met her years ago, when I was but a child. Gibraltar rose up from her like a shard of age-old bone. I heard her whisper as she washed my feet and swamped the ruins of the last Great War that marched, forgotten, down the Spanish coast. Ocean is what my father called her, and I felt enthralled as though under the spell of a siren's song. She was wet and warm, and bitter to taste-- a wonder and no small mystery to an even smaller boy. As a child of the military, and a camp follower perforce, our paths converged and drew apart many times. From Libya to the Azores, with their black volcanic sands, to the pebbled inlets of Massachusetts, and the white baking strands of Florida, we were never parted for very long. Each time I came to her, I heard her voice, but she never spoke my name. I would not have understood, so she held it in wait for the day I might return, a child on the cusp of manhood. And on the day I came to her at last, I felt her smile in my heart. She made me welcome and bade me learn of her.
She revealed herself to me in subtle ways. On the deck of my first vessel I saw for the first time what sailors of old feared most-- the loss of terra firma over the edge of the world-- "Here there be monsters," the ancient maps declare of those seas uncharted --and I felt my throat close and my chest constrict. She was rarely the mirror I had envisioned; she was chaos, an unchanging constant ever in motion. Men-of-war rose and fell upon her every sighing swell, only seeking the refuge of her depths when she grew to rage. Porpoise mothers pushed their newborns to her foaming boundary to take their first breath and catch a glimpse of golden sun. Stars intaglioed across the night sky made their circuit to morning, so bright beneath a new moon I could read by their light. I grew to love her, but being a child of the shore, our paths diverged once more.
It has been nineteen years since I left the sea-- Ocean, as my father named her --but I have carried her voice with me. I have heard her sing and heard her song chorused in the cry of gulls wheeling in the sky. It haunts me to this day. She learned my name years ago and has not forgotten it, calling me by name, often whispering to me as I sleep, sighing, "Return to me, you have been away too long."
"Can I trust you?" I ask.
"Never. I am fickle and easily angered."
"Will you hurt me?"
"If I can."
"Why then should I return?" I ask.
"Because you are mine and I have written my name in your heart. I am Scylla and Charybdes. I am Tsunami and Leviathan. I will destroy you if I can, but I will give you something the shore cannot."
"What?" I ask.
"Longing."
And I have longed for her ever since. I have been too long from her garden. I know she is violence, yet I am drawn to her. Though she be calm above, yet am I turmoil within, without her. She is my lover, and I hers. She longs for me to lay furrows across her back with any ship I can find, and looking back, watch her smooth my wake without enmity. She smiles to know I long for her, to ride her swells, to feel her breath on my face and taste the salt of her tears. I awake each morning with that longing, wondering if our paths again will converge. But she is patient, if not always forgiving; she knows my heart is not my own, and that all things return to her in time.
I watch you as you lay sleeping, listen to the sound of your dreaming. Do you dream of me? As I, when I dream of the sea, hear it speak with your voice? My lover is calling even now; I can hear her thundering beyond this room. If you awoke now, would you recognize your own voice calling me? Would you walk with me to greet her, feel her pull at us both, and under the burning stars make love?
ELAshley
November 2700
Present Format:
122500.124459.1
Final Revision:
041401.021245.1
Italicized Portions:
February 2003, & not
part of the original
Of Mortar and Folly
Circles
They swim in circles
Not just because they hunger
Nothing so simple as this
But rather in waiting
When I've shed my convictions
In the cold water
of uncertainty
Circles
They spread out in circles
Ripples like roadmaps
Pointing back to the center
Of our anxious fears
Like clouds of blood in water
Presage the coming feast
in certainty
Coleridge's postulate still stands true
The Center ~ Where ripples are born
Cannot hold, and Man
Unwilling to fail
And mixing the mortar of logic and reason
Treads water struggling
To shore the crumbling wall
Of his own convictions
Circles
They swim in vicious circles
For vanity's sake
Vicious uselessness
For all is vanity
There is no new thing under the sun
What has been shall be again
This laying hold on folly
ELAshley
052406.103321.6
Revised, and with many thanks to
Samuel Taylor Coleridege and Ecclesiastes:
052406.115607.6
..::Original Comments::..
I don't know, ELAshley, how far you've read my blog..... but if you ever get to go through most of them you'd know that I'd written 'bout exactly what you commented on my blog.
Posted by clown on 05/25/2006 08:34:54 AM
The day you realized the concept of vanity as along with Coleridge, it was new..... and everytime that you keep reliving it over and over again it is renewed. Whatever's new is not always different from the old..... maybe, a reason why we think of it as repetition.... even if we believe in 'The Concept of Eternal Return' every cycle of repetition is 'new'.... pessimism is not as hard as we believe it to be..... But if there were no crumbling walls there would be no need of convictions.
Posted by clown on 05/25/2006 08:45:38 AM
They swim in circles
Not just because they hunger
Nothing so simple as this
But rather in waiting
When I've shed my convictions
In the cold water
of uncertainty
Circles
They spread out in circles
Ripples like roadmaps
Pointing back to the center
Of our anxious fears
Like clouds of blood in water
Presage the coming feast
in certainty
Coleridge's postulate still stands true
The Center ~ Where ripples are born
Cannot hold, and Man
Unwilling to fail
And mixing the mortar of logic and reason
Treads water struggling
To shore the crumbling wall
Of his own convictions
Circles
They swim in vicious circles
For vanity's sake
Vicious uselessness
For all is vanity
There is no new thing under the sun
What has been shall be again
This laying hold on folly
ELAshley
052406.103321.6
Revised, and with many thanks to
Samuel Taylor Coleridege and Ecclesiastes:
052406.115607.6
..::Original Comments::..
I don't know, ELAshley, how far you've read my blog..... but if you ever get to go through most of them you'd know that I'd written 'bout exactly what you commented on my blog.
Posted by clown on 05/25/2006 08:34:54 AM
The day you realized the concept of vanity as along with Coleridge, it was new..... and everytime that you keep reliving it over and over again it is renewed. Whatever's new is not always different from the old..... maybe, a reason why we think of it as repetition.... even if we believe in 'The Concept of Eternal Return' every cycle of repetition is 'new'.... pessimism is not as hard as we believe it to be..... But if there were no crumbling walls there would be no need of convictions.
Posted by clown on 05/25/2006 08:45:38 AM
Over Wrought
Momma hung baby
Out to cry
Then baked the wash
In mincemeat pie
She fed the piglet
Milk and rye
Before sitting down
With a heavy sigh
She burped the piglet
And wiped its chin
And finally brought
The baby in
When the pie revealed
Her wash within
She saw her petticoats
Black as sin
She bathed the piglet
And slopped the babe
Then dug her wash
A shallow grave
She ate what she could
Of the pie she made
Then slept in the bed
Where last she laid
She dreamt of babes
All clean and new
Of piglets simmering
In summer stew
Of petticoats soft
As morning dew
And idle days
With naught to do
But morning soon called
For her to wake
Baby needs washing
There's pies to make
Piggies to stuff
Bread to bake
And daddy 's a thirst
Only momma can slake
ELAshley
052206.103602.6
..::Original Comments::..
Hey! I was about to start a new blog for posting poems.... thought I'll invite you..... but it's been taken away by my evil twin..... please ignore him, if he comes here chasing me. smile.
Posted by clown on 05/23/2006 04:33:44 AM
And what makes you believe that he would ignore me if you say so..... stop calling me your EVIL twin, clown...... I've less vice than you do.... thanks ELAshley, that was a wonderful poem
Posted by other-clowns on 05/23/2006 04:37:02 AM
Out to cry
Then baked the wash
In mincemeat pie
She fed the piglet
Milk and rye
Before sitting down
With a heavy sigh
She burped the piglet
And wiped its chin
And finally brought
The baby in
When the pie revealed
Her wash within
She saw her petticoats
Black as sin
She bathed the piglet
And slopped the babe
Then dug her wash
A shallow grave
She ate what she could
Of the pie she made
Then slept in the bed
Where last she laid
She dreamt of babes
All clean and new
Of piglets simmering
In summer stew
Of petticoats soft
As morning dew
And idle days
With naught to do
But morning soon called
For her to wake
Baby needs washing
There's pies to make
Piggies to stuff
Bread to bake
And daddy 's a thirst
Only momma can slake
ELAshley
052206.103602.6
..::Original Comments::..
Hey! I was about to start a new blog for posting poems.... thought I'll invite you..... but it's been taken away by my evil twin..... please ignore him, if he comes here chasing me. smile.
Posted by clown on 05/23/2006 04:33:44 AM
And what makes you believe that he would ignore me if you say so..... stop calling me your EVIL twin, clown...... I've less vice than you do.... thanks ELAshley, that was a wonderful poem
Posted by other-clowns on 05/23/2006 04:37:02 AM
Balance
There is a balance of sorts
In this world I find so perplexing
It is brandished like weapons
And clashed upon shields
And it cries for attention...
This delicate balance of life
It longs to be noticed
Blatantly displaying it wares:
Blights in the east~ hot with fever
Storms to the south~ bruising the soul
Convulsions to the west~ birth pangs and thunder
A glimmer of hope to the north~ The first flower of spring upon the tundra
...A morsel for hungry caribou
It is what it is without apology
ELAshley
Circa 1990-96
& Revised this very evening:
052106.114824.6
..::Original Comment::..
I'm elated.... four poems... each wonderful than the other.... in whichever order you read them..... I wish I could write poems as beautifully as you do...... thank you.... and.... smile.
Posted by clown on 05/22/2006 01:29:38 PM
In this world I find so perplexing
It is brandished like weapons
And clashed upon shields
And it cries for attention...
This delicate balance of life
It longs to be noticed
Blatantly displaying it wares:
Blights in the east~ hot with fever
Storms to the south~ bruising the soul
Convulsions to the west~ birth pangs and thunder
A glimmer of hope to the north~ The first flower of spring upon the tundra
...A morsel for hungry caribou
It is what it is without apology
ELAshley
Circa 1990-96
& Revised this very evening:
052106.114824.6
..::Original Comment::..
I'm elated.... four poems... each wonderful than the other.... in whichever order you read them..... I wish I could write poems as beautifully as you do...... thank you.... and.... smile.
Posted by clown on 05/22/2006 01:29:38 PM
Lullaby I
Evening falls
And stars rise up
Moon awakes
That he might sup
Clouds roll in
To fill his cup
Sleep, Darling, sleep
Darkness toils
Upon her loom
Weaving dreams
To fill the gloom
Holding baby
In her womb
Sleep, Angel, sleep
Dream what dreams
Thy heart would be
Down and by
A timeless sea
Morning longs
To waken Thee
Sleep, Baby, sleep
..::Alternate Third Verse::..
Dream what dreams
Thou need to see
Drifting on the timeless sea
Morning longs
To waken thee
Sleep, Baby, Sleep
ELAshley 091899.0132.1
"For the child I will likely never have..."
Revised:
092099.0108.1
Deemed perfect without further revision:
102707.100547.6
And stars rise up
Moon awakes
That he might sup
Clouds roll in
To fill his cup
Sleep, Darling, sleep
Darkness toils
Upon her loom
Weaving dreams
To fill the gloom
Holding baby
In her womb
Sleep, Angel, sleep
Dream what dreams
Thy heart would be
Down and by
A timeless sea
Morning longs
To waken Thee
Sleep, Baby, sleep
..::Alternate Third Verse::..
Dream what dreams
Thou need to see
Drifting on the timeless sea
Morning longs
To waken thee
Sleep, Baby, Sleep
ELAshley 091899.0132.1
"For the child I will likely never have..."
Revised:
092099.0108.1
Deemed perfect without further revision:
102707.100547.6
Liken Me Icarus
If I could be Icarus
For just one day
And feel the wind
Like water upon my breast
Swimming the ether with wings spread wide...
T'would be enough to see the earth
Move silently below...
I needn't fly too near the sun
But if I could be Icarus
For just one day…
To see the Parthenon
Like a mirror below
The temple of Athena shimmering white...Perhaps Troy
And the face that launched a millennia of ships...
T'would be enough to see
The sun is not near high enough, I know
And the shaping of wings no mortal man knows...
T'would be enough for me.
But Is there aught in the heavens worth dying for?
The sun, the moon, the gods or their stars?
"...Do not fly too near the sun, my son..."
There is a time to be satisfied with what we are given
And a time to fly higher than we dare
If I could be Icarus
For just one day
I would hope to choose more wisely?
ELAshley
112998.112200.1
Final revision:
042001.123151.6
For just one day
And feel the wind
Like water upon my breast
Swimming the ether with wings spread wide...
T'would be enough to see the earth
Move silently below...
I needn't fly too near the sun
But if I could be Icarus
For just one day…
To see the Parthenon
Like a mirror below
The temple of Athena shimmering white...Perhaps Troy
And the face that launched a millennia of ships...
T'would be enough to see
The sun is not near high enough, I know
And the shaping of wings no mortal man knows...
T'would be enough for me.
But Is there aught in the heavens worth dying for?
The sun, the moon, the gods or their stars?
"...Do not fly too near the sun, my son..."
There is a time to be satisfied with what we are given
And a time to fly higher than we dare
If I could be Icarus
For just one day
I would hope to choose more wisely?
ELAshley
112998.112200.1
Final revision:
042001.123151.6
I Wonder
I thought of you all day
Held your smile close to my heart
Along with the words you spoke.
Did you regret them in the light of day? I wonder
For I've thought of you all day
Held your smile close to my heart
And fell in love with those lovely words
Did you regret them when you rose from your bed? I wonder
For you have walked with me all day
In my mind and in my heart, where I kept your smile
And those three precious words
Did you regret them, when you washed your long beautiful hair? I wonder
For your smile carried me through the remnants of Allison
And the heavy rains she beat upon my shore
The words you spoke were a light in the darkness
Three wonderful words
And I wonder if you regretted them as you made your way toward evening
And found I was not there
Waiting for you...
ELAshley
061201.011045.1
Held your smile close to my heart
Along with the words you spoke.
Did you regret them in the light of day? I wonder
For I've thought of you all day
Held your smile close to my heart
And fell in love with those lovely words
Did you regret them when you rose from your bed? I wonder
For you have walked with me all day
In my mind and in my heart, where I kept your smile
And those three precious words
Did you regret them, when you washed your long beautiful hair? I wonder
For your smile carried me through the remnants of Allison
And the heavy rains she beat upon my shore
The words you spoke were a light in the darkness
Three wonderful words
And I wonder if you regretted them as you made your way toward evening
And found I was not there
Waiting for you...
ELAshley
061201.011045.1
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