Poem of the Week

On time, no less!

Stasis
June 22, 2008

In the woods of Ancient Greece,
any person foolish enough to
sit beside a stream waiting for a poem
to drift by on the lazy current
would surely be turned into some
nimble, exotic plant, perfumed with
fruit, poisonous to the touch.

Those Greeks, poets included,
demanded men of action,
adventure, courage and wit.
Odysseus did not wait for Ithaka
to sail to him, after all, and no
glory came to Achilles for watching
Patroklus wage war in borrowed armor.
Those heroes feast to this day
in the long grasses of the Elysian Fields
honored for deeds of doing, not waiting.

But as I sit here, nibbling my pencil
to a nub, the taste of cedar on my tongue,
I think that neither the gloom of Hades
nor the flowers of the Elysian Fields
can match the reward of an eternity
spent on the banks of a sleepy river,
enchanting, fragrant, and deadly.

Poem of the Week

Evening

June 15, 2008

At the very moment

the heat of day

melted into

the cool of evening,

the family's conversation

turned to magic.

From Our Budding Linguist-ette

Quoth the Wrig: Let's go play in our fortress! ... You know, it's called a "fortress" 'coz we're all girls ... if we were boys, it'd be called a "fort."

Poem of the Week

forgetful
june 3, 2008

when my fingers forget the taste of your skin
when my hands can no longer grasp a pen,
when the wind forgets the shape of your name,
let diamonds crumble to dust.

when my ears forget the color of your voice,
when memory no longer holds you close,
when the rose escapes her comfortable vase,
let the stars darken to dust.

when my eyes forget the heat of our love,
when my tired feet will no longer strive,
when tides forget the call of the shore,
let dust return to dust.

The Rarely Merry Month of May

May in Review:
Days: 31
Poems: 7
Poems Posted: 2
Poems I Like: 2

Well, at least the math is easy ...

The Year So Far:
Days: 152
Poems Written: 95
Poems I Like: 60.5

Poem of the Week, Slightly Delayed

Storytellers
(after Brian Doyle)
May 29, 2008

Every scar tells a story –
of falling down
and rising up,
of hands that push
and those that lift.

Yes, every scar tells a story –
of the knife that divides
and faith that cleaves,
of the fragility of bone
and the strength of spirit.

Let me caress your scars,
trace them with tender fingertips,
bless them with timid lips,
and I will love you –

not with sympathy
for the wounds
you’ve suffered
but admiration
for the wounds
you’ve survived.