Soul Reverie

I like a rhyme that curls the toes and mists the brow
telling a tale as fresh as tomorrow that comes in a dream but is real
and chills the heat of the restless kiss, escaping a lover’s lips.

Nothing spoken caresses the impact on the senses
like a passionate poem with soul-filled stanzas
I like a rhyme that curls the toes and mists the brow.

To a reverie back in time to the moment that captured the soul
lost in the soul-mate meeting, found in the loss of the Self
and chills the heat of the restless kiss, escaping a lover’s lips

O what has become of the reverie that comes in a dream but is real
longing for belonging, for only the Lost and the Found
I like a rhyme that curls the toes and mists the brow
and chills the heat of the restless kiss, escaping a lover’s lips

When–Be Specific

Day 9 Writing 201,Poetry: Cold, Found Poetry, Epistrophe/Amaphora
I didn’t do the “found poetry” part of the assignment yet.

                                         BE SPECIFIC

Once in awhile I think of the song “Once in Awhile.”
Once in awhile I say hello to someone I see only once in awhile.
Once in awhile it is “Now and Then”

WHEN? they ask, when?
When will we meet?  Will we meet now?
Now, now is the time to meet–NOW
Not “sometime” if its “sometime–not now.”

To put off ’til tomorrow only brings sorrow
sorrow of putting off ’til tomorrow, when tomorrow may never come
Tomorrow may never come.

Come with me now, or meet me tomorrow–don’t make excuses
or make us recluses, come meet me tomorrow at ONE.
🙂

here’s another for today…

                                                                     COLD FEET

Cold feet he had when he asked her to dance,
but he stamped and stamped his cold feet
and he let his warm heart take the chance.

“Oh yes,” she said and followed his lead.

His lead led to twirling and whirling the girl, and
the girl felt such joy–such joy and laughter
laughter and joy that lived ever after

and he never, ever, again had cold feet.

An Elegy to an Endless Moment in Time

Day 8: Writing 201,Poetry:   Flavor, Elegy, Enumeratio

An Endless Moment

Sometimes a moment can encompass an hour,
a few days or a week enhances the power
of a memory — how poignant or sweet
or mundane as a walk down a street.

Fraught with danger, when meeting a stranger,
some moments include a flash of lightning
that strikes like a bolt and never retreats
no matter how old, or how far time has traveled,
the moment lives on and is never unraveled.

A moment remembered in memory unchanged, ever the same
no embroidery of the facts of the night.
The sprinkle of stars on the velvet black sky, lit the atmosphere
as the brilliance of a meteor shower, creating a twinkle in time.

Over and over, in reminiscence, we walk down that street
his hand takes mine, and warms to the welcome and tries a kiss…
and the rest of the tale is history

There is no happy sequel, all things being equal
but never forgotten by time as the years preserved and enfolded
that sweet long moment in time.

The Neighborhood Dance, or Taming the Wild Assonants

Writing 201, Poetry–Day 7: Neighborhood, Ballad, Assonance

(This rhythym sort of works to the tune of “Sweet Betsy from Pike.”
or even “Beverly Hillbilly song.”)

Neighborhood Dance

A natty Anteater’s Aunt wanted a chance to meet an
Easy-going Eel sufficient in charms, the
Idea she had was to learn how to dance, but
Only one catch–the Eel had no arms.  So
Unity of moves was hard to enhance
until the Risqué Raccoon suggested:
“Why not freelance?”

There’s Work to be Done…but Poetry is SUCH Fun!

Writing 201: Poetry, Day Six — Faces, Found Poetry, Chiasmus
(what the heck is Chiasmus?)

just a few books
just a few books

            Booksellers Lament

Books in order means order in books
to find them is the key
with thousands of books the ONE that is wanted
is the one nowhere to be found.

Well, it MUST be somewhere unless it was sold!

If order is everything and if everything is in order
the book business thrives, sporadically
(at least theoretically)
but only if you’re listing, they keep insisting
books on the shelves can’t sell themselves

an order’s an order but books MUST be in order
to fill the order–when there’s an order to fill.

Thanks T. S. Eliot, I loved meeting J. Alfred Prufrock

[This poem by T. S. Eliot is my all-time favorite.  I had not decided on an appropriate entry for this weekend’s Writing 201 assignment, which was to offer a work by “someone else,” other than our own.   I suppose it was serendipity that started the sound track in my brain, whispering the words “In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo” … and the T. S. Eliot masterwork with the fun name that has thrilled new students forever.   (Perhaps that is a bit over-stated, but at least I can say that the poem with its wonderful metaphors and similes and all that poetic stuff thrilled ME.  Nevermind that I was 50-ish when I first read it.)   Courtesy of Bartleby.com Great Books Online, http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html

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

        5

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….

        10

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,

        15

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,

        20

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;

        25

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;

        30

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

        35

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—

        40

(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

        45

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,

        50

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—

        55

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?

        60

  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

        65

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

        70

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 floors of silent seas.

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

        75

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep … tired … or it malingers,

Stretched 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?

        80

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,

        85

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,

        90

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”—

        95

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,

        100

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:

        105

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.”

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .

        110

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,

        115

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 …

        120

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.

        125

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

        130

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.