Poems Google Group

Playing with words

2010-01-07T04:50:51Z

One day she sat down
took all her words
set them end to end
Working them in a different display
She remembered a day
One so far away
When she played
another form of art
Monday was clay
She set out her tools end to end
Wednesday was oils
The palette filled end to end with color
Molding shapes and color was her craft

The Seer

2010-01-07T01:06:40Z

It’s in love’s nature
to reveal what’s true,
to un-clutter the path
between me and you.
Yet that’s too close,
the seer will say.
Too many lies
structure the day.
Betrayals arrive
to keep truth at bay.
To protect the illusions
cluttering the way.
See how that works?
asked the aging seer.
The greater the truth,

All Things New

2010-01-06T19:25:16Z

Sometimes I awaken
on a different stage,
decorated by another
yesterday,
who isn’t me
today,
then I’m struck
by the beauty of it all
even in a stark winter
which I dread the most,
trees nude, skies dark,
like the inside walls
of a refrigerator closed,
chasten and alone,
blackness pressing in
like the cold,

What Now

2010-01-06T00:48:48Z

BLINDING SNOW
She was in the parking lot
confused and beside herself
waving her arms
cursing up to heaven
We had been let out together
from the same school
when the weather
became the teacher
Being somewhat confused myself
I stopped to ask the matter
between curse words through my half down window
I determined her battery was dead

Re: too much

2010-01-05T20:53:52Z

What a pretty poem. Thanks for posting it. I'll limit myself to one
quibble: change the first 'actually' to 'really'. (Sorry, but I don't
consider it a proper reply if I can't suggest one improvement.)
In answer to your last question, though: yes, one can care too much
from the other person's perspective. Here's a poem I wrote with

Listen

2010-01-05T07:03:34Z

If I could have done one thing
it would have been through
a change in the way
I listened to you
I should have been
always intent
waiting to hear by the words
what you meant
Your friendship is more
than words of love
I’d rather have that
it’s a gift from above

What is a Poet

2010-01-05T04:18:32Z

Probably a fool like me
who likes to write,
to appease the demons
who haunt the night,
few other reasons
so it’s no big thing,
nothing in comparison
to what’s on this screen,
or in a museum
or in books galore,
written by those
who’s sole chore
is doing it right,
abiding by the rule
created on top

An Open Invitation (For Intellectuals Only)

2010-01-04T04:20:52Z

Non-Poetry and Subversive Verses courtesy of The Obsidian Eagle:
[link]

Reflections of my life

2010-01-04T04:00:51Z

I care for an elderly woman and this is what is revealed to me:
I look into a glass and see
another woman who can she be
I touch her skin
I hear her voice
she isn't me I have no choice
Everywhere I gaze I see
memories of the past of me
plates meticulously painted
by a grandmum dear
mother's piano whose notes

Canned Fun

2010-01-03T22:36:25Z

I went to the mall today
and what a spectacle
and awesome display
of crap on every shelf,
the people I see
all centered on self.
Everything laid out
the way they want us to
want it to be.
Duped and ignorant
is all I see
in a world of suckers
who’re proud of the fact
and if I say anything
I somehow lack

Re: [poems 2750] Re: too much

2010-01-03T19:15:31Z

you are prolific - keep it up -writing is good for the soul

Re: [poems 2750] Re: too much

2010-01-03T19:07:39Z

like your "Testing' - gr8 for any given day. Tho maybe the mic just isn't
on and that's why they don't hear us :)

painting your face

2010-01-03T16:53:44Z

PAINTING YOUR FACE
When I paint your face
I close my eyes
to me it is quite simple
to paint the face I love to see
until they close forever
noun

2010 Thoughts..my very first blog.

2010-01-03T06:44:33Z

As one year rolls by,
Gazing on the TV screen, I wonder how time flies.
As we look back in this year for hits and misses
Behold my friends, another set of 365 days comes to us and let there
be no remiss
Centuries, years and days are just mere numbers,
Its a play that we do sequentially from January to December.

POEMS: 020110 - January 2nd, 2010

2010-01-03T07:18:10Z

020110A
-----------
Everything I know
is only salvage,
from the depths of anything,
among the chanced happenings,
from across the ruined bridges,
that are all destroyed
by time, weather, or the enemy.
I am the rusted shell
of an abandoned situation,
bearing the scars of what happens,
when everything is knocked around,