Both excellent Usurper and CurrentRiver.

I know how you feel about the boards, it is super :o)

I LEFT A NOTE

I left this note on the bridge
to represent troubled waters...
Because your hands once
big and strong
did offer so much love
and promise to encircle me
and protect me from all wrong.
A promise like a wedding ring
without an end
that offers a shield from all the world
That two shall stand forever strong.
Somehow I find the circle broke
and much to my dismay
The hands that were to keep me safe
and make me feel so loved.
I find puts the world first and
gives to others before our own.
The bond so strong I thought would last
snapped the circle and ring in half.
When finding that my healthly needs
would always be put last.
Forgive me as I shed a tear,
How foolish I must seem.
To think I mght come before anothers need
or a night out on the town.
What made me think the bills or food
and cleaniness should matter?
So many times as I lay ill or
lost a loved one along the way...
I found would always be a burden
I alone would care.
For I know it shall 'always' be
and it will never change.
But other's wishes, another's frills,
other's 'have to's',
someone's meal and a pitcher of ale
will always come before ...
A circle of love a home built strong
and a scacred bond of a wedding ring.

Pattricia Pummill © 2001

You guy's are really putting some good poetry on here. I could just spend all my time here reading. It's like a very good book I get started and don't want to put it down till it's finished. :o)

A RISING STAR
by yours truly

what is the difference, and how not the same?
you demand far more than she ever would
you ask not for my body, my passion, but my Soul
broken and laid at your feet. what does not fit
you would cast to the dogs in the street
and i do always what i must, never what i should

a one-night stand is not a river of timeless love
but much more comforting all-in-all in a spot
you would make whole what perhaps is not broken
or broken and each piece needs a touch
i imagine the stars are shattered fragments of one Love
and a rising star can be what it is not

what is the difference, where the dividing line?
surely depth, and space, and motion, and Time
pointing upwards, i show you a star alone and glittering
on its way to dying, smothered by impossible existence
i speak this in sadness, without pretense
some things are different because they are more sublime

shall we go round in circles, or argue a causeless case?
why that anger, those tears, on your face?
I am what I am, lost and afloat in the Void
I cannot Unmake me, neither bend my back to the plow
perhaps others are wiser, for I do not know my place
only gaze at the stars and wonder

They were not power seekers, Aragon. A different breed entirely. Much higher. Excellent poem! :o)

Indeed! Wonderful piece,Aragon,thank you!

......Why did half these men not make to the seats of power?? Could have prevented lots!



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN, A DIRGE


I

When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev'ning, as I wand'red forth
Along the banks of Aire,
I spied a man whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care;
His face was furrowed o'er with years
And hoary was his hair.


II

'Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?'
Began the rev'rend sage,
'Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure's rage?
Or haply, pressed with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me to mourn
The miseries of man.


III

The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride;
I've seen yon weary winter sun
Twice forty times return,
And ev'ry time has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.


IV

Oh man, while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious, youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway,
Licentious passions burn,
Which tenfold force gives nature's law
That man was made to mourn.


V

Look not alone on youthful prime
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right:
But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn,
Then age and want (oh, ill-matched pair!)
Show man was made to mourn


VI

A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure's lap caressed;
Yet think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blessed.
But oh! what crowds in ev'ry land,
All wretched and forlorn,
Through weary life this lesson learn --
That man was made to mourn!


VII

Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Enwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves
Regret, remorse and shame!
And man, whose heav'n-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!


VIII

See yonder poor, o'erlaboured wight,
So abject, mean and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn --
Unmindful, though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.


IX

If I'm designed yon lordling's slave,
By nature's law designed,
Why was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty or scorn?
Or why has man the will and pow'r
To make his fellow mourn?


X

Yet let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of humankind
Is surely not the last!
The poor, oppressed, honest man
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!


XI

Oh death -- the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour, my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn;
But oh, a blessed relief for those
That weary-laden mourn!'





Robert Burns (1759--96)

Very nice Greg,Thanks for sharing!

Fantastic. And memorised too, astounding!!

I memorized this in high school and have always gone back to it in my mind....

THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK
by T. S. Eliot

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question....
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . . . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the doors of silent seas.
. . . . . . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers.
Stretched on on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald)
brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts
that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while If one, settling a
pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
. . . . . . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

From Psyche, with Other Poems, 3rd edition (1811)

PSYCHE; OR THE LEGEND OF LOVE (EXTRACT)


Here Cupid tempers his unerring darts,
And in the fount of bliss delights to play;
Here mingles balmy sighs and pleasing smarts,
And here the honeyed draught will oft allay1
With that black poison's all-polluting sway,
For wretched man. Hither, as Venus willed,
For Psyche's punishment he bent his way;
From either stream his amber vase he filled --
For her were meant the drops which grief alone distilled.

His quiver, sparkling bright with gems and gold,
From his fair plumed shoulder graceful hung,
And from its top in brilliant cords enrolled
Each little vase resplendently was slung;
Still as he flew, around him sportive clung
His frolic train of winged zephyrs light,
Wafting the fragrance which his tresses flung,
While odours dropped from every ringlet bright,
And from his blue eyes beamed ineffable delight.

Wrapped in a cloud unseen by mortal eye,
He sought the chamber of the royal maid --
There, lulled by careless soft security,
Of the impending mischief nought afraid,
Upon her purple couch was Psyche laid,
Her radiant eyes a downy slumber sealed;
In light transparent veil alone arrayed,
Her bosom's opening charms were half-revealed,
And scarce the lucid folds her polished limbs concealed.

A placid smile plays o'er each roseate lip --
Sweet severed lips, while thus your pearls disclose,
That slumbering thus unconscious she may sip
The cruel presage of her future woes!
Lightly, as fall the dews upon the rose,
Upon the coral gates of that sweet cell
The fatal drops he pours -- nor yet he knows,
Nor, though a god, can he presaging tell
How he himself shall mourn the ills of that sad spell!

Nor yet content, he from his quiver drew,
Sharpened with skill divine, a shining dart;
No need had he for bow, since thus too true
His hand might wound her all-exposed heart;
Yet her fair side he touched with gentlest art,
And half-relenting on her beauties gazed:
Just then awaking with a sudden start
Her opening eye in humid lustre blazed --
Unseen he still remained, enchanted and amazed.

The dart which in his hand now trembling stood,
As o'er the couch he bent with ravished eye,
Drew with its daring point celestial blood
From his smooth neck's unblemished ivory;
Heedless of this, but with a pitying sigh
(The evil done now anxious to repair),
He shed in haste the balmy drops of joy
O'er all the silky ringlets of her hair,
Then stretched his plumes divine, and breathed celestial air.

Unhappy Psyche! Soon the latent wound
The fading roses of her cheek confess;
Her eyes' bright beams, in swimming sorrows drowned,
Sparkle no more with life and happiness,
Her parent's fond exulting heart to bless;
She shuns adoring crowds, and seeks to hide
The pining sorrows which her soul oppress,
Till to her mother's tears no more denied,
The secret grief she owns, for which she lingering sighed.

A dream of mingled terror and delight
Still heavy hangs upon her troubled soul,
An angry form still swims before her sight,
And still the vengeful thunders seem to roll;
Still crushed to earth she feels the stern control
Of Venus unrelenting, unappeased.
The dream returns, she feels the fancied dole;
Once more the furies on her heart have seized,
But still she views the youth who all her sufferings eased.

Of wondrous beauty did the vision seem,
And in the freshest prime of youthful years;
Such at the close of her distressful dream
A graceful champion to her eyes appears;
Her loved deliverer from her foes and fears
She seems in grateful transport still to press,
Still his soft voice sounds in her ravished ears;
Dissolved in fondest tears of tenderness
His form she oft invokes her waking eyes to bless.

Nor was it quite a dream, for as she woke,
Ere heavenly mists concealed him from her eye,
One sudden transitory view she took
Of Love's most radiant bright divinity --
From the fair image never can she fly,
As still consumed with vain desire she pines;
While her fond parents heave the anxious sigh,
And to avert her fate seek holy shrines
The threatened ills to learn by auguries and signs.

Mary Tighe (1772--1810)

Excellent choice AM KM!

Jimi Hendrix
Castles Made Of Sand

Down the street you can hear her scream 'you're a disgrace'
As she slams the door in his drunken face.
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbors start to gossip and drool.

He cries 'Oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?'
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green.

And so castles made of sand fall in the sea, eventually

A little Indian brave before he was ten,
Played war games in the woods with his Indian friends,
And he built up a dream that when he grew up
He would be a fearless warrior Indian chief.
Many moons past and more the dream grew strong until
Tomorrow he would sing his first war song,
and fight his first battle but something went wrong,
Surprise attack killed him in his sleep that night.

And so castles made of sand melts into the sea, eventually.

There was a young girl, whose heart was a frown
'Cause she was crippled for life,
and she couldn't speak a sound.
And she wished and prayed she could stop living,
So she decided to die.
She drew her wheelchair to the edge of the shore
And to her legs she smiled 'you won't hurt me no more'
But then a sight she'd never seen made her jump
and say,'look a golden winged ship is passing my way'

And it really didn't have to stop, it just kept on going...

And so castles made of sand slips into the sea, eventually

I'm right here, making sand castles!!

I like that one :o)

Thank you all...you are really too kind. I'm sure a kindergarten student would do better,but in the absence of the Greats of this site I thought I'd give it a go to fill up some space ... lol

Donna is very talented. :o)

I really like this one Donna.

Very very good Donna.

Thanks emattie1943 for all the nice comments about Pattricia's Poems. Her poems does bring back many meories don't they? My Dad ran the ferry on Current River for about 4 year's. We lived there in the Lewis house on the river bank.

that was beautiful stardust.........oh my my beautiful

Tremendously good, Stardust. Wow. :o)

Beautiful beyond words.

Okay,now you've done it...you've asked for more! LOL Please,to all you true poets and poetry lovers,forgive this Novice attempt. :-)

I am lost
I am alone
without my Love
so far from home

We once were part
of a greater scheme
Entwined together
Without a seam

Then destiny came
and ripped apart
that which was real
that which was wrought

I searched in vain
through time's expanse
Watched empires fall
and lovers dance

Throughout it all
I have remained
steadfast and true
to Love's regain

Until at last
with pen in hand
I find my Love
amoung the sand

We will embrace
True Lovers found
Ne'er more to part
Forever bound

Outstanding. What we would expect of Stardust.

Awwww, thats lovely, Stardust, and so sad :o(

Once there was a little girl
Oh so very cute
She wandered through the playing fields
oh so resolute.

Once there was a little boy
with patches on his knees
He loved to wander through the field
and climb the knobby trees.

Once there was a time so sweet
as to make your fun so light
When all you had to do was play
the future seemed so bright.

But time can be relentless
and age be so forelorn
to take away the fun we had
and fill our lives with scorn.

For if this little girl and boy
should meet upoun the knoll
who knows what good times they will have
before time takes it's toll

by yours truly
inspired by life

Oh Wanda!!!! Oh I so relate and I can see what she was talking about...and whom:) little did I know.....we could talk about the ferry and know what we were even talking of...and of course she talked of games..........that too:) and I would imagine she could think of maybe going for quick swims....in the Jacks Fork/or Current River??Thank you again for sharing the poems and words from Pattrica Pummill....they are awesome and now close more than ever to my home, my memories!! Thanks again and again !! She is doing well with words..I love it.....Granny!!

I walked alone.........

I walked alone through Rivendell
For a thousand years or more
But that fair day you came to me
Upon this elven shore.
Your eyes were dreams of far off lands,
Your voice was like a song,
My love for you had an eternal youth,
A love that was not wrong.
Many times we wandered through,
The valleys of green and gold,
We looked upon the crystal lakes
That shined from days of old.
You took my hand and all was clear,
I was safe when in your arms,
I fell for your enchanting spell,
Your rugged ranger charms.
But then one day Lord Elrond spoke,
Of quests to the unknown,
And from that moment you were gone,
Like the North Wind you had flown.
And still I wait under elven skies,
For you to return to me,
If you perish on your road,
My soul to you will fly.
Oh Aragorn, to my heart,
You alone posses the key.
I will love and cherish you this day,
And for all Eternity.

- Arwen

Poetry Challenge

The Guidelines

The Poetry Challenge Fellowship has been created for one sole purpose, the love of poetry. As with all of life’s challenges it is always good to be judged on how well you have done. To this end, Poetry Challenge has risen to the occasion.

We propose that a ‘Monthly’ challenge be set. Starting on the first of each month you are all free to submit up to Eight poems for consideration. From the 20th until the 27th of each month everyone is free to submit their points (scores / nominations) for any of the peoms that they liked. Scoring as follows:

Fantastic = 10 Points
Not Fused = 1 Points
And so on!

These scores will be sent to appointed ‘Ballot Box’ members. (Harley and Aragon KM) via Private Message. Both of whom will compile a list and compare with each other (to prevent double voting) before compiling a completed list from both.

The top 5 poems will then be posted on the board with the top three poems appearing in the Latest News Section of Poetry Challenge and also as a post on the general Poetry Board.

NB: We understand that not everyone will want their poetry entered into the challenge, and we do not want to put these people off from posting some fantastic poetry on this board. So we would ask that in the subject of you post that you clearly mark your entry as Challenge Entry: [Title of your poem]

Many thanks and get writing!!


I've just had an epiphany, and it explains why I am the way I am, if there really is a true "I". Reading a poem makes your mind, subconsciously, analyze and judge. You read it at your own pace and take it as you feel you should, according to your own understanding of it. There really is no true definite meaning to a poem- everyone understands it differently. Does this sound familiar? Hasn't this same process happened to you everyday of your life, though you've been too blind to realize it? What if you ARE the poem? You're the one being read and analyzed; you’re the one being judged and taken the way they feel you should be! There's no "you" anymore, it's only what they believe is true or not true- nothing specific enough to be determined a fact! Doesn't that just make you want to be a sound, rather than words of a poem?! At least being a sound, you'd be able to be music! This is absurd! Stop reading me at your own free will! Take me for what I really am!

When I am dead, and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain drenched hair,
Tho you should lean above me broken hearted,
I shall not care.
For I shall have peace.
As leafey trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough.
And I shall be more silent and cold hearted
Than you are now.

Suicide note to her lover who left her.
~~ Sara Teasdale, poet, d. 1933

Aragon KM & Harley, thank you!!! You both are to be commended for your superb work in setting up both the Poetry Challenge fellowship and the poetry challenge itself. I urge all to visit the fellowship page where the challenge rules are on display. Would also love to see them posted here at least once for all to see but will leave that up to Aragon's & harley's better judgment. I again urge poetry AND poetry-lovers to put in a request to become Poetry Challenge members. We'd love to have you there.

Life Spans...
I remember how you took my hand when
I was very small and showed to me so much love.
How could I forget grandpa?
And as time passed and you grew ill
it was time to offer out our hand
to help you thru it all.
And so you came to live with us and I was only
twelve...
You grew stronger and seemed to flourish and
I would like to think, it was from the love you felt since you chose to stay.
Through many years of growing up you watched us along the way.
But did you know that I watched you and marvelled at your walk?
Oft times that cane would hinder you
'Toss it aside' ......that was my thought.
But I was young and didn't know why it stood close by.
Just in case you might stumble ..
it was there to rely on.
Much like we do our parents and our grandparents as we grow.
Funny isn't it the things we love so much don't know until it's gone...
But like I used to grab your hand
I can imagine momma did so young and then again when my young ones came along.
Some days I hear your chuckle ringing in my ears and when my tomatoes bloom
I see your face all aglow and I remember you in the garden.
No, never met another who could grow 'em quite like you!
Through all those years and with that cane you walked along the way....
Be it rain or shine it didn't matter
up and down the hill you went to run the ferryboat each day.
And for awhile I'd be hard pressed to say who it was
My grandpa or grandad who liked to
ride the most.
As I look back and picture you with that
shiny red car,
Ever ready just to roll and set on cruise....
Yes, and I can remember a time or two when that cruise got us into trouble and
I learned never hurts having the marshall as your uncle:+)
But in looking back today the thing I learned the most...
was making time for family that very special quality you always had.
Cause often I would hear these words...
Who wants to play a game of checkers or some yahztee...
do you have the time?
Care for a game of aggravation, scrabble or monoply...
Just bought this deck of cards, want to loose a dime?
and I would think, oh no! grandpa's out to get us all.
Will I have to play?
Cause seems like mostly you would win and
those eyes how they would twinkle 'n crinkle as I would hear you shout....
Yep, I'm the Best, I won again....
No doubt I'm the Best!
Looking back tho, I can see the same twinkle when at times we won.
And wee ones too as the art you passed on.
So now I know the joy you felt in teaching and in learning.
It's always nice to win a game and always nice to know
that you taught another and help to mold a young ones mind.
But bigger than the game itself comes the loving and the sharing.
Then setting down to spend sometime with those you love not rushing or hurrying.
So thanks for always reaching out for always having time.....
And you are right, 'You are the Best'
and not just with the name but
your quality in giving with your living made a 'Life span...' of loving along the way.

With love from my heart
Ralph Lee Best
My Grandpa

Pattricia Pummill
©2001

OH that was beautiful.....so beautiful...and I could just feel it and see it........granny

If I could write poetry
I would write for you
Would help you imagine
a ride on the wind.
We would travel to countries
where you never been.
I could sit you on a cloud, tis true.
In a sky of sapphire blue.
Then amidst some sparkling rain.
on a rainbow made with you in mind
I would watch as you slide...
Give to you a palace with a moor and gate Perhaps you might like to be king or queen for a day?
You might walk and feel my pain
as we climb up mountains praying for the top then smile and laugh once more
at the thought of my victory and gain.
Maybe take a peek at the golden gates
forget all your burdens and cares
as we fly and walk through the air.
Ah, just think we could do all this and more... If only for a moment or a day or three... A poet I could be.

@ Pattricia Pummill

The good old rule. The simple plan. That he should take who has the might and he should keep who can. unknown Fascist..lol

Yes. Blake is a Prophet of Protest (one of his many facets) against institutional inhumanity, which is part of the reason I love & identify with him. Thus his criticism of regal England during the incipient Industrial Revolution:

HOLY THURSDAY
by William Blake

Is this a holy thing to see
In a rich and fruitful land, --
Babes reduced to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?

Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!

And their son does never shine,
And their fields are bleak and bare,
And their ways are filled with thorns:
It is eternal winter there.

For where'er the sun does shine,
And where'er the rain does fall,
Babes should never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.

Awesome, Daedal. Yeats is my other favorite besides Blake. These dudes are DEEP. :o)

This is downright plagiarism! The toddlers have stolen my rules!!! :o)

Found this in this weeks local paper.

1. If I like it, it's mine.
2. If it's in my hand, it's mine.
3. If I can take it from you, it's mine.
4. If I had it a little while ago, it's mine.
5. If it's mine, it must never appear to be yours in any way.
6. If I'm doing or building something, all the pieces are mine.
7. If it looks just like mine, it's mine.
8. If I think it's mine it's mine.
9. If it's yours and I steal it, it's mine.

Very touching. The poor guy does need a lobotomy. LOL. No autographs? I have cash.... :o)

I don't understand poetry altogether ... 0:) ... ~*~

Thank you,thank you...no autographs please (as advised by my agent) ROFL

LOL @ Stardust, thats good!!

There once was a guy named Ed
Who made other people see red
He was so egotistical
It was thought he was mythical
but it turned out he was sick in the head

AWESOME!! Wanda

What hope is here for modern rhyme
To him, who turns a musing eye
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie
Foreshorten's in the tract of time?

Thes mortal lullabies of pain
May bind a book, may line a box,
May serve to curl a maiden's locks;
Or when a thousand moons shall wane

A man upon a stall may find,
And ,passing, turn the page that tells
A grief, then changed to something else,
Sung by a long-forgotton mind.

But what of that? My darken'd ways
Shall ring with music all the same;
To breath my loss is more than fame,
To utter love more sweet than praise.


By: ALFRED LORD TENNYSON

The Owl


When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

I like your inputs and I would be pleased but humbled to be on panel if that is what is decided..I have lots to learn, and I have lots yet to share, but we all have different walks of lives we have, an would be so interesting in each others way of looking at the poems....or writings....what ever you decide I would be glad and happy to be apart of...and I feel also this will be a learning tool for me as well...as to how to do it better... and present it better :)

And the words of Pattrica Pummell as you know Wanda I see so much more clearly now that we have met.....ITs beautiful!!!and of course, relate to her words!!!

Granny!

I like his way of thinking LOL

Rightly so.