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National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!
Re: National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!
Poem 4/16
Paschal
I dream of storm clouds,
gathering dark beyond sin,
and a man—
I hear him
breathing.
by George
Paschal
I dream of storm clouds,
gathering dark beyond sin,
and a man—
I hear him
breathing.
by George
- Tracy Mitchell
- Posts: 3483
- Joined: Sun Jan 07, 2018 3:58 pm
Re: National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!
#16
Last edited by Tracy Mitchell on Sat Jun 22, 2019 10:40 am, edited 1 time in total.
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- Posts: 915
- Joined: Mon Apr 01, 2019 10:50 am
Re: National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!
Deb, no. You should not apologize for your poems. Even if they don't come up to YOUR standards, and you believe that the rest of us are "better," we are all insecure about the quality of our writing because it is so intimate to who and what we think we are. Your poetry is as meaningful to me as you find ours to be to you. So. DO NOT KEEP APOLOGIZING. You are simply one of us flawed humans who are trying to be poets. Hugs, to you, my friend. Von
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- Posts: 915
- Joined: Mon Apr 01, 2019 10:50 am
Re: National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!
Day 16
Irony
DNA results are back.
I am one-percent Black.
If my mother were not dead,
she would just shake her hed
and say,
"We are NOT Black!"--
denying what I learned today.
If my mother were not dead,
she would curl her lip,
take another sip
of her iced Mint Julep,
and exclaim,
"Oh, YOU'RE Black? Why, what a shame.
Now I can no longer know you."
Irony
DNA results are back.
I am one-percent Black.
If my mother were not dead,
she would just shake her hed
and say,
"We are NOT Black!"--
denying what I learned today.
If my mother were not dead,
she would curl her lip,
take another sip
of her iced Mint Julep,
and exclaim,
"Oh, YOU'RE Black? Why, what a shame.
Now I can no longer know you."
Re: National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!
April 16
Benny Goodman Plays Goodbye for Your Listening Pleasure
We are told hearing is the last thing to go
so we tuned into the Big Band/Swing offerings
on dish TV and turned the volume up.
Glen Miller is playing.
I want to cry for a past in which I did not exist,
memories not mine, yet as familiar as if it was I
who snuck away on the train to the city
to dance to the music of Cab Calloway live
at the Marigold Ballroom.
Duke Ellington, her favorite,
I turn the volume up further,
watch her face for some reaction:
her face once beautiful, now fixed, open-mouthed,
gasping. Her body patched with deep plum evidence
of necrosis of her flesh. Death is not beautiful.
Les Brown, Sentimental Journey. I shout into her good ear,
Soon, I say, soon you will see Lucille again.
Lucille, the oldest sister, born with the navel cord
wrapped around her throat three times,
pulled tight too long in the birth canal while I
hovered near the ceiling imploring frantic doctors
hurry, hurry, save her, I too bear the family shame:
she was institutionalized, age nine for cerebral palsy.
My Blue Heaven, Artie Shaw
I tell my mother god loves you, do not be afraid,
though I am not certain what I say is true.
Perhaps the cosmos listens, perhaps there will be
a joyous reunion, perhaps I can believe that just enough.
Benny Goodman Plays Goodbye for Your Listening Pleasure
We are told hearing is the last thing to go
so we tuned into the Big Band/Swing offerings
on dish TV and turned the volume up.
Glen Miller is playing.
I want to cry for a past in which I did not exist,
memories not mine, yet as familiar as if it was I
who snuck away on the train to the city
to dance to the music of Cab Calloway live
at the Marigold Ballroom.
Duke Ellington, her favorite,
I turn the volume up further,
watch her face for some reaction:
her face once beautiful, now fixed, open-mouthed,
gasping. Her body patched with deep plum evidence
of necrosis of her flesh. Death is not beautiful.
Les Brown, Sentimental Journey. I shout into her good ear,
Soon, I say, soon you will see Lucille again.
Lucille, the oldest sister, born with the navel cord
wrapped around her throat three times,
pulled tight too long in the birth canal while I
hovered near the ceiling imploring frantic doctors
hurry, hurry, save her, I too bear the family shame:
she was institutionalized, age nine for cerebral palsy.
My Blue Heaven, Artie Shaw
I tell my mother god loves you, do not be afraid,
though I am not certain what I say is true.
Perhaps the cosmos listens, perhaps there will be
a joyous reunion, perhaps I can believe that just enough.
- Tracy Mitchell
- Posts: 3483
- Joined: Sun Jan 07, 2018 3:58 pm
Re: National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!
Binx!
Vaughn!
Indar!
You guys can write!
~
Vaughn!
Indar!
You guys can write!
~
Re: National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!
Indar - I hear you...indar wrote: ↑Tue Apr 16, 2019 10:30 amApril 16
Benny Goodman Plays Goodbye for Your Listening Pleasure
Duke Ellington, her favorite,
I turn the volume up further,
watch her face for some reaction:
her face once beautiful, now fixed, open-mouthed,
gasping. Her body patched with deep plum evidence
of necrosis of her flesh. Death is not beautiful.
Les Brown, Sentimental Journey. I shout into her good ear,
Soon, I say, soon you will see Lucille again.
Lucille, the oldest sister, born with the navel cord
wrapped around her throat three times,
pulled tight too long in the birth canal while I
hovered near the ceiling imploring frantic doctors
hurry, hurry, save her, I too bear the family shame:
she was institutionalized, age nine for cerebral palsy.
My Blue Heaven, Artie Shaw
I tell my mother god loves you, do not be afraid,
though I am not certain what I say is true.
Perhaps the cosmos listens, perhaps there will be
a joyous reunion, perhaps I can believe that just enough.
Aj
Re: National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!
Ask her what she wants you to know and how she want to be helpful. The poem speaks to me of two friends whose synergy is more than one and one. marcelDeb wrote: ↑Mon Apr 15, 2019 5:20 pmI'm in such fine company here. I am amazed. I've been advised to quit apologizing but I don't think my work rises to these standards. I'll keep working on it though.
I wrote this the day of my onslaught and didn't plan to use it but today my brain is shrouded in fog. -That's a poem for another day.
Prisoner
I quiet the muse,
reign her in
to relinquish
full authority,
a risky proposition.
I may drown
if I give voice
to that manic rise and fall
of undulating emotions
held tenuously
behind the floodgates.
She cannot be
completely unleashed
lest I go mad.
I lock her up
for safe keeping,
and feed her scraps
but I keep the key
in a pocket
close to my heart.
~Deb
Re: National Poetry Month Celebration 2019 - Post Poems Here!
So sharp and without hesitation. But the pain abides. MarcelVaughn Neeld wrote: ↑Tue Apr 16, 2019 9:29 amDay 16
Irony
DNA results are back.
I am one-percent Black.
If my mother were not dead,
she would just shake her hed
and say,
"We are NOT Black!"--
denying what I learned today.
If my mother were not dead,
she would curl her lip,
take another sip
of her iced Mint Julep,
and exclaim,
"Oh, YOU'RE Black? Why, what a shame.
Now I can no longer know you."