poetry

[glimmer]

row row row your knees
not so gently avoid the fleas
your boat goes where
the boat knows
that you breathe so merrily
merrily merrily in that early
morning early breath breeze

[laughter]

May 8, 2018 4:42:33 GMT -5 glimmer said:

row row row your knees
not so gently avoid the fleas
your boat goes where
the boat knows
that you breathe so merrily
merrily merrily in that early
morning early breath breeze

[laughter]

Nothing to gain. So nothing to offer.
A whole lot. Of nothing.
Nothing to learn. So nothing to teach.
There is a confoundry here, for any Phd.
Nothing to see, hear, feel or taste.
But in the absence of anything, there is a sense.
In the stillness on this Earth as it spins relentlessly through the silent void.
There can be a sense of what is always here, and from where the eternity of now appears to emerge.
From the nowhere that is anywhere, and everywhere.
From the no thing that is the host and the wellspring.
Of anything. And everything.

[laughter]

motion knits together the instants
and eternity dons the dress of intervals
ever so subtle, always out of reach of what would grasp
like a doting invisible lover, looking silently over your shoulder
turn your head, and she's suddenly gone

[laughter]

[zin]

May 11, 2018 11:22:26 GMT -5 laughter said:

"know thyself".. accomplished..

[laughter]

Jun 27, 2018 14:45:04 GMT -5 zin said:

mostly I think in pictures, and I am happy to find the thoughts already expressed in words in some people's works. ...I for one, don't lean on his words. I just 'recognize' them and it is a pleasure . And then, I like to think that there is a link between like-minded people throughout the centuries..

Echoes that ring and sing and bring
a call that wends back through time.
Mostly in prose, in laguage it rose, and sometimes, even in rhyme.
Truth translated sounds the same
but beautiful nonetheless.
Lucky we are, to stand on these shoulders, as some might say, we are blessed.

An interest is hooked by some lines in a book and the existential cook,
fires the stew and who would've knew
that eternity stirred in his pot.
Dancing his way through the kitchen someday
he'll finish that masterpiece.
But until then, remember back when, noone hungered for any such feast.

Roaming the world, without a care, scurrying to and fro,
always a goal, ever on point
with something new to know.
And in an instant, the mind opened up, and nothing was ever the same.
The sky looked so different, with a scent unimagined,
forgotten, were rules of the game.

[zin]

"forgotten, were rules of the game"  ---> yes, yer a poet!! maybe even a hypnotizing one! : )

[laughter]

Jun 27, 2018 20:56:46 GMT -5 zin said:

"forgotten, were rules of the game"  ---> yes, yer a poet!! maybe even a hypnotizing one! : )

[Deleted]

"Peter Quince At The Clavier" by Wallace Stevens

"Beauty is momentary in the mind--
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh, it is immortal."


Poetry from the God of Football:

[Deleted]

Admittedly bad poetry by an alter ego of a famous cartoonist

"When the stable genius starts to sputter,
The breaking mast lines smack the rudder,
The ship of state begins to shudder,
Then all can plainly see, he is a nutter."

[Deleted]

Inversnaid By Gerard Manly Hopkins

This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.

A windpuff-bonnet of fáwn-fróth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.

Degged with dew, dappled with dew
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet

[explorer]

"Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet." I like that.

Here is a poem by an Australian Quaker,Sue Parritt, about the aborigines, last verse of Footprints, 1988.

"May the age old tales
echo anew through the trees
the laughter of the little ones
float on the breeze
and the earth mother smile
as the dancing feet
of her children
heal her wounded spirit."

[Deleted]

Fire and Ice by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

[Deleted]

Just listen to them in your mind. Let them work on you: Four Quartets