lotus flower nymphaea caerulea aquatic plant 62681 - Poem of the Week ~ Celebrating Taos with Annell Livingston

Poem of the Week ~ Celebrating Taos with Annell Livingston

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REMEMBER…REMEMBER…REMEMBER
“To remember is to go back to the heart, to make whole.”
–Anonymous Quote

Remember…
Adobe churches, houses, walls
Made from earth
Bricks of mud
Smoothed by hand

Remember…
An old windmill spins
Speaks a rhythmic “clatter”
In hot desert winds

Remember…
White clouds with underbellies of grey
Shaped like cotton candy at the fair
Stacked on horizon in cerulean blue sky
Similar to bundles of cotton bales at the gin
Clouds wait for Miss O’Keeffe
To return to her studio to paint them

Remember…
Ravens and crows, magpies and such
Birds of prey: eagles and hawks
Soar above like a kite
Eagle eye you can’t escape

Remember…
Lavender, pink, sage green, indigo, burnt sienna
Horizon, sand, earth, sage brush, mountains
Colors I call home

Remember…
Mountains, mesas, canyons,
The Rio Grand, “Leopard Hills”,
Volcanic rock, boulders

Remember…
Mesquite, pinion, tumble weed, cholla cactus, red willow, cotton woods
Fruit trees, apples, wild plums

Remember…
Velarda
Embudo
Taos…

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shayarisms4lovers June18 08 - POEM OF THE WEEK~ BY GRACE GUEVERA

POEM OF THE WEEK~ BY GRACE GUEVERA

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Recently I read a poem that moved me very much, penned by Grace Guevera, a Canadian poet who lives in Mississauga, Ontario, and who blogs at Everyday Amazing. I wished to feature it by itself, and you will see why when you read it.

My body stretching like a tear

along the paper*

Static
that second night
of mourning
My hands caught air
of your fragrance,
bamboo, eucalyptus,
aloe vera

My mom dragged her feet
in slow circles
while my brother silently grieved –
he’s a wounded sparrow –

Outside the window,
the bird’s nest, a music of hungry
cries & squeals
the busy cars honking
thirsty for summer rain

The wind turned,
dripping of sun’s tears-
the sky, blue-matted
blanket, times
another season
knitted new
canvas, bright orange

My eldest placed his new born
child into my arms
He, feather-light
Weighs our universe

They brought him and autumn
rushed in, tossed its cape of starlings,
tattered the frost-spackled field.

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shayarisms4lovers mar18 13 - POEMS OF THE WEEK BY CARRIE VAN HORN AND SUSIE CLEVENGER

POEMS OF THE WEEK BY CARRIE VAN HORN AND SUSIE CLEVENGER

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“Many of our fears are tissue-paper thin, and a single courageous
step would carry us through.”
~Brendan Francis
I never could walk in the rain with the ease of a star or runway model
I am not that girl
the one that takes the dangerous path
barefoot in the middle of nowhere
unconcerned with what may come
I am the lady that arrives early
to the Dr.’s office
on the verge of sickness
with an umbrella
not because it is raining
but because it could
when I leave the building
my bag is full of every document
known to man I could need
and my mind is even fuller
with the thought of
driving back in the rain
control is a small beady eyed old man
and no one knows his name
or where he was last
I have been trying to track him down
ever since grade school
I tried Marco Polo
but he was never listening
the only thing I have had control over
is my bladder
until about 2016
now it seems I could just throw caution to the wind
since not much remains in my hands anyway
jewel thiefs have ransacked my marble collection
it seems i never had them contained from the beginning
life is full of paper cuts and land slides
and somewhere between band aids and mud boots
I lost sight of the difference between the two
uncertainty is a scary thing
especially when you are young
if you learn to fear and dread early
all perspective can get distorted
like the view through the wrong prescription glasses
all objects get blurry
everything becomes scary and uncertain
I am learning to change what I see
but this has proved to be a slow process
like road repair done by old nuns
still I try to make control my own ordained ministry
even though I am no minister
with time I have found
it is not what one acquires
that makes it clear
but more what one
learns in the process
of letting it go.
Sherry: I so wish I had written this poem. And I could have, for I am also the woman early at the doctor’s office, in search of control in a world where very little can be controlled. I love the line about road repair done by old nuns, for my learning came slowly, too. LOVE the ending about learning
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shayarisms4lovers June18 244 - Poems of the Week ~ The Whale Heard Around the World

Poems of the Week ~ The Whale Heard Around the World

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 Our Home

“I’m a radical environmentalist; I think the sooner we asphyxiate in our own filth, the better. The world will do better without us. Maybe some fuzzy animals will go with us, but there’ll be plenty of other animals, and they’ll be back. Anthony Bourdain”

The moon is a peach in the sky.
The stars are sparkling grape tomatoes.
The cicadas are singing now.
They’ve emerged from their underground homes.
Watching the garden grow
in the dark of the universe.
I hear the nightly owl fluttering overhead.
With all the beauty around me
I mourn.
The orca’s skull can be seen beneath her blubber
as she carries her dead calf on her emaciated body.
The calf kept sinking as the mother
tried to push her towards the surface of the water.
So much beauty in this earth
and it is rotting beneath our feet.
The earth is an overripe peach
long past its maturity.
One day maybe we will be gone
and all that remains will be the skeletons of cities
poking through the overgrowth
with whales and deer and wolves
living in our place
roaming free and safe.

The Wake

Tahlequah carries her dead baby gently –
either by the fin or on her nose,
refusing to let go of the calf who died
within a half hour of her birth.
The mother kept using her nose to push the baby to the surface –
She is hungry.
The bones of her skull can be seen through her depleted blubber.
Salmon farms are starving a race of beings out of existence,
Tahlequah carries her dead baby,
day after day.
Her pod is helping her carry her baby
mourning the loss of her baby with her.
They communicate with each other
in a complicated language only they can understand.
They mourn in their unique rituals,
forming circles around the mother –
Like a human wake.
Like mothers holding close the mother
whose baby has died,
crooning and holding the mother close.
We are starving this race,
We are depleting this race,
We are lessening their birth rate.
We are killing a race
more human than we are ourselves
who think only of ourselves,
not caring who we kill
in our killing of this planet.
Tahlequah carries her baby gently.
The mother continues to mourn.

1000 Miles Later

Seventeen days 1,000 miles later
Tahlequah has dropped her dead calf.
Perhaps …

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shayarisms4lovers June18 235 - Poems of the Week by Robin, Julian and Frank

Poems of the Week by Robin, Julian and Frank

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It is time to listen to the men again, my friends. Today we have poems written by Robin Kimber, our Old Egg, who blogs at Robin’s Nest, Julian Clarke, of Pen to Poetry, Guernsey, and Frank Tassone, of American Haijin. I was so happy to gather them together and offer them to you today to celebrate our love of poetry. Enjoy!

A Long Summer

It was a long summer
While sun smirked down on us
Like an errant uncle
Outstaying his welcome

We needed a shaman
To sing a song for us
We needed the dark clouds
To pour rain down on us

Oh sincere singer sing
Spirit the days to change
Muddy our paths for us
Flood the roads, we don’t care

We’ve lost our dignity
We’ve forgotten our pride
We lose much more each day
The raven shakes his head

It was a long summer
Clouds darken the night skies
We listen to the rain
Watching from the window

Now just who do we praise?
We had cursed and ranted
Thunder booms, lightning strikes
Someone is not happy

Sherry: I love the shaman, singing his song. As our summers grow hotter, year after year, we are all feeling this kind of heat and thirst, Robin. You have described it well.

Robin: The poem “A long summer” is quite typical of my poems about Australia, where the seasons are not always kind. When first settled, South Australia (the Australian state where I live) was the only British colony in the continent of Australia that was not settled with convicts from England being the main occupants. The colonists here decided to settle by a river, which is now the state capital of Adelaide, and spread out from there, farming first the plains to the north and hilly areas to the east and south.

At first farming was very successful, which encouraged more to come to the state and spread out much further north, and at first the harvests were fine. Then a few years of drought, and the soil now drained of nutrients, crops failed and settlers found they could not make a living anymore, went broke and abandoned the settlements. A government surveyor named Goyder visited the areas and worked out that many farms were too far north or in fact outside the 10 inch average rainfall line, which was the minimum agreed standard for cropping.

As farmers went …

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shayarisms4lovers June18 262 - POEM OF THE WEEK ~ BY ANNA GRAMME

POEM OF THE WEEK ~ BY ANNA GRAMME

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Recently, I read a poem  that speaks truth so truly, I knew I needed to feature it by itself, the better for us to absorb its message. It was penned by Anna, who writes at hyperCRYPTical, and addresses some of the violence and inhumanity going on in the world today. It is hard to know these things, and yet we must. If others can live this trauma, we must bear witness, and speak up where we can to oppose it. Let’s take a look. 

Afghanistan

I was not there
when on his quick road to hell
he detonated the bomb,
death strapped to his chest
like a medal for martyrs.

I was not there
when you offered prayers at the mosque,
did not hear the explosion,
did not sink into blackness,
did not wake to the horror,
did not see as you tried
to piece your children’s bodies together,
did not see you searching for limbs,
little body parts scattered
as if confetti of war.

I was not there;
your screams passed without hearing,
your pain without feeling,
I just didn’t know.

I was not there but have read of you,
now know of your story,
know your grief is enormous,
know you sink into sadness,
know you can’t afford surgery,
know that poverty steals you,
know you still pick glass from the soles of your feet.

I was not there but have read of you,
I am moved by your story.
I think of you, feel for you,
picture the horror in my mind.

The terrible truth is that although moved,
soon I will unconsciously filter you out.
My thoughts will become full of a new outrage,
a new disaster or petty things,
little petty things that don’t matter at all.

This is the scheme of things;
this is how we operate – to stay sane,
to not be constantly afraid… to have hope…
to deal with the next day and whatever it brings.

I wish you had this choice.

Sherry: I wish she had that choice, too, Anna. Thank you for writing this poem, sharing her story and moving our hearts. Telling Sima’s story puts a human face on Afghanistan’s suffering. Statistics on the evening news, and the endless array of suffering, can overwhelm us. Sima’s story hits the heart.Anna: Thank you so much for featuring my poem as poem of the week – I am honoured
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shayarisms4lovers June18 263 - Poems of the Week by Sanaa, Donna and Colleen

Poems of the Week by Sanaa, Donna and Colleen

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I have some meaningful poems for your enjoyment today, my friends, penned by Sanaa Rizvi, who blogs at A Dash of Sunny,  Donna Donabella, of Living From Happiness, and Colleen Redman, of  Loose Leaf Notes. Let’s not wait another minute. Enjoy!

ODE TO A PASSIONATE MUSE

In my darkest days you are the first
glow of dawn that lights the sky,
your pain is as though splitting of
seashell that hems in understanding.
I am muse, I am song, yet I am woe
which others reckon their own,
as unadulterated heart I am sound
of the sea crashing upon rocks.
I wish to write words to delve deep
into the poetic mind and retrieve
irrevocable nothings that touch,
hear and taste a world which keeps
me from being myself.
I, am forever bound, to ameliorate
agony of knowing desire better.
Sanaa: Sigh… I
remember this poem as if it was written yesterday. It was for Susie Clevenger’s
prompt where she had featured Frida Kahlo.

The poem ‘Ode to
a Passionate Muse’ is a glimpse of my sub-conscious. It’s everything I have
ever felt about poetry since the day I began writing.

I believe poetry
is like a one-sided conversation where one has to express, keeping in mind that
nothing should be left out and that there should be no room for confusion.
To me, the muse
is as though a calling, a strong inner impulse toward a course of action. It’s
like listening to the heartbeat and attempting to translate rhythm into words
and image.
Keeping in
harmony with the quote by Kahlo, I sought to describe myself in the process of
fulfilling the desires of muse, hence the closing lines.
When I sit down
to write, I focus more on emotion rather than imagery because I believe if a
reader is able to relate to the poem, only then do the words truly sing. It’s
when I have managed to pour a bit of soul into my poem is when I know it’s
finished.
Sherry: That is a very good description: pouring a bit of your soul into your poems. Thank you so much for sharing this beautiful poem.
Donna’s recent poem follows the theme of the poet’s love affair with words. Let’s take a peek.

 

The Drought

Clouds drift along in the blue-grey sky,
Words and phrases obscuring the sun.
Drifting in and out of my consciousness,
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POEM OF THE WEEK ~ BY ANNA GRAMME

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Recently, I read a poem  that speaks truth so truly, I knew I needed to feature it by itself, the better for us to absorb its message. It was penned by Anna, who writes at hyperCRYPTical, and addresses some of the violence and inhumanity going on in the world today. It is hard to know these things, and yet we must. If others can live this trauma, we must bear witness, and speak up where we can to oppose it. Let’s take a look. 

Afghanistan

I was not there
when on his quick road to hell
he detonated the bomb,
death strapped to his chest
like a medal for martyrs.

I was not there
when you offered prayers at the mosque,
did not hear the explosion,
did not sink into blackness,
did not wake to the horror,
did not see as you tried
to piece your children’s bodies together,
did not see you searching for limbs,
little body parts scattered
as if confetti of war.

I was not there;
your screams passed without hearing,
your pain without feeling,
I just didn’t know.

I was not there but have read of you,
now know of your story,
know your grief is enormous,
know you sink into sadness,
know you can’t afford surgery,
know that poverty steals you,
know you still pick glass from the soles of your feet.

I was not there but have read of you,
I am moved by your story.
I think of you, feel for you,
picture the horror in my mind.

The terrible truth is that although moved,
soon I will unconsciously filter you out.
My thoughts will become full of a new outrage,
a new disaster or petty things,
little petty things that don’t matter at all.

This is the scheme of things;
this is how we operate – to stay sane,
to not be constantly afraid… to have hope…
to deal with the next day and whatever it brings.

I wish you had this choice.

 

Sherry: I wish she had that choice, too, Anna. Thank you for writing this poem, sharing her story and moving our hearts. Telling Sima’s story puts a human face on Afghanistan’s suffering. Statistics on the evening news, and the endless array of suffering, can overwhelm us. Sima’s story hits the heart.
 
Anna: Thank you so much for featuring my poem as poem of the week – I
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