Please drop a poem or writing of any flavour at the door...

[mousey1]

...for my reading leisure...

or an image or two...

consider it the paying of a toll if you wish.

stop.

drop.

and run...


(if the text box stays empty I shall be very very )

[stilltrucking]

I am not the one
to do this
so many poets here
but even so

I O U mousey
more than I could ever repay you
I wish I had a poetic soul
so I could tell you what I saw.

Padre Island Texas
on the third coast of the united states
sitting on a dune
the wide sweep of undeveloped beach
nothing to block my view
out to sea
the water green going to deep blue at the horizon
a clear blue sky merging darkly into the sea
wave after wave surfing in

First time i have seen the ocean in more years than I can remember.

For the past year I have imagined my self walking on a beach with my pockets full of rocks and my lungs full of caner.

On the trip down to the coast I felt a sense of dread. Is this it? What now?

After images
like wiggling my ears

CT scans
and a pretty doctor
life goes on

running




As if
You asked me to

[mousey1]

Thanks stillt, I caught a whiff of ocean through your words.

[mousey1]

I'm going to drop a Roethke poem that I especially like into the collection plate.


The Geranium
by Theodore Roethke

When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail,
She looked so limp and bedraggled,
So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle,
Or a wizened aster in late September,
I brought her back in again
For a new routine--
Vitamins, water, and whatever
Sustenance seemed sensible
At the time: she'd lived
So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer,
Her shriveled petals falling
On the faded carpet, the stale
Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves.
(Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.)

The things she endured!--
The dumb dames shrieking half the night
Or the two of us, alone, both seedy,
Me breathing booze at her,
She leaning out of her pot toward the window.

Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me--
And that was scary--
So when that snuffling cretin of a maid
Threw her, pot and all, into the trash-can,
I said nothing.

But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week,
I was that lonely.

[mousey1]

ps: I do take Dylans you know...a little desolation row a little wheelbarrow...

[stilltrucking]

I don't think it was the ocean you smelled
but my poetry
it has the odor of dead fish.

But maybe that is just sour grapes
cause I could not smell it at all
it was as if I was under a bell jar, the whole sceene so far from me because of that. I was sucking so hard on the ocean breeze but it was silent to my senses.
one of these days I am going to pack my nose with cocaine and take a pliers to straighten it out.



I loved that poem
I think I will plant some Geraniums this year.

Any flavor you said
well flavor me strange
I feel as weighty as a quark these days.

A quark star or strange star is a hypothetical type of Exotic star composed of quark ...

[mousey1]

Yes, it's a beautiful poem. I always plant geraniums, tenacious little buggers.


Hey yo stranger.

Thought you fell off the face of the sandwich
too much baloney

don't ask what that means
I write em as I sees em

you and I the only ones post here.
this place dies.

we move on
accept

I have lost something

well, if you can't breathe the ocean all you can do is feel the ocean and that
that ain't so bad

I love my sense of smell
after the rain
after the rain is the best
I'm sure that's what heaven smells like
after the rain
after the rain
heaven scent

[Doreen Peri]

god's art in 4 parts 2002

I.

the tiny river whirlpool swirl
can satisfy my spirit's need,

each day arriving new to wake
from morning's silent sun,
the seed
which sends a glow of hope and lifts
us up to heights above the sky

while teardrops fall like rain
upon our souls, the joy of knowing why



II.

each day a new day dawning,
nature yawning as darkness settles in,
the spin of saturn, the satellite of the moon,
the tunes of Love poured out from pens,

the lyrical shape of a mountain,
the ocean flow,
the natural fountains,
the pique of intrigue when the design

is inclined to confuse, the ruse of
a question,
the sweet exhale of a sigh,
spring and summer coming nigh,

and it is all art, all a part of breathing,
totally seething, parts and wholes of poems



III.

we live, and so we do, and here we are in awe of sculptor's hands
which formed the earth, our birth a miracle we'll never understand,
each moment a true gift of Love designed to be our Truth, our seed --
the tiny river whirlpool swirl can satisfy my spirit's need


IV.

each verse is the answer to a why and why not,
each brush stroke of the pen, each name
of God the same God recreating a day
and a dream again and again and again
and we are here in it!
and so we win!

and so...
we win

[mousey1]

Thank you Doreen for this beautiful inspiration. Dropped here, a treasure midst my simple offerings. Lovely.

"in awe of sculptor's hands"... and so it is.

[stilltrucking]

Spring evening

Walking on rose petals
This world so beautiful
What’s my hurry?

[mousey1]

rose petals inhaled

fragrant headiness

I rose above

I circled the globe

a time bomb significant

in its implosion

importunate mysticism

[stilltrucking]

importunate mysticism

my globe sits on a high shelf
my eyes look upward
in earnest entreaty
and dive into the the atlantic


a windy day yesterday
the rose petals are gone
a bit chilly for swimming

Web definitions for importunate
appealing: expressing earnest entreaty;

[Jenni Mansfield Peal]

This is an old drawing of mine
From when I bought my first computer
And had to get to like it

Then I was alone in my canoe
And the stream moved me fast forward
Now, there's a pilot I sit behind

And we're in deep water.
The flowers still bloom, though.

[mousey1]

I'm very much loving this thread. Visual gems all. Feasts for the eyes and mind.

Jenni, what a cool pic. I love it! Seen from above...I like that angle...rarely done.

...and the flowers always seem to "still bloom". Be it in a lushly garden or struggling up through brambles or enhancing a crack in the pavement.

I sometimes feel very alone on this planet...a grain of sand in a dune. Tis nice to see and feel how the other grains of sand do, how they shift and move.

Thanks so much Jenni. And thanks stillt and Doreen for your weaving of flowers throughout this thread. Blooming marvelous.

[mousey1]

Lines Written In Early Spring
William Wordsworth

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure: --
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?