Content: life

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There are many reasons for writing poetry. This may be one of the more common. Comments welcome.

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Almost every winter up in my North Country woods there's a brief break in the long winter action and we get a few warm days that remind us of the promise of spring. This one tries to get hold of those times. Comments welcome.

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Well... Here's the long awaited (hah) second half of my post apocalyptic story Ashen. The main character sets out on his journey across the desolate planet as an immortal. Let me know what you think of his thoughts on being immortal and his choices. I wrote this half and the first half quite some time apart so I'm not sure how well they'll fit. Have fun :)

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This I wrote for my daughters ages 30 and 36. I raised them in somewhat of a fifty's generation as I was raised. I wrote it and enlarged it then framed it for them on Christmas about 4 years ago. I think every word of it is true, it does contain one quote from Mark Twain, and one from Einstein. Hope you enjoy it and perhaps learn from it.

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Another poem from an old notebook that I re-thought and re-worked. Comments welcome, as always.

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any feedback welcomed

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Changes

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This was written some time ago and recent events prompted me to re-work it and make a few changes. Comments welcome.

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A child is discarded, left to die in a dumpster.

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Some time ago, as I was traveling, I met a fellow walking the same suburban nature walk that I was following. We stopped and chatted. I've tried to capture his tone and outlook in this poem. Comments welcome.

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open verse remembering Viet Nam any feedback welcome

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Everyone in NY makes of life what is available. "Need” delivers differently than “want.” Too few know that.

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Regardless of the years, the simple gifts come as a result of living one's life, not just putting up with its insistence.

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Hello . . . this is a song I wrote. It's as close to poetry that I'll probably ever get. Please let me know what you think. Any comments welcome.

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Just more thoughts. Pondering of an older heart. Practicing opening up mind to thoughts. Hoping words find a home Any and all comments appreciated. Most what thoughts the words provoke or don't provoke!

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This is a poem I wrote back in '07 which was later turned into a song...

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Accept my humble offering.

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This was an idea my mother had some years back.

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What would you see?

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i was living in a small room,the room was full of roaches and mice. i laid out some roach powder, the roaches grabbed some tiny straws and formed a conga line.

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This piece is made up of four separate poems, all written at nearly the same time, connected in some mysterious way. I suppose. Comments are welcome.

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A simple theme.

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I wrote this back in my twenties, but even now, two decades later, it still remains one of my favorites. This site is the first to see it. Initial reaction is what I'm looking for, please. To all of the poetry experts, any suggestions for cleaning it up would be much appreciated. Thanks!

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SHADOW WOLF SERIES: Remembrance (Cameron&Sophia), The Three Kingdoms (Aedan&Kathleen-no longer Bianca), Cursed (Ian&Kirrah). BOOK 1: Remembrance: Sophia considers her life pretty much normal, that is until she befriends a gigantic wolf, who happens to push her down a waterfall. Technically, the fall wasn’t so bad and she would have forgiven her four legged friend, but when she emerges from the water, she finds herself several hundred years in the past, in Scotland of all places, abandoned by the wolf. Lucky for her, she is rescued by a handsome Scotsman, or so the arrogant lout says. Really, what’s wrong with the man? One minute he drives her mad with his kisses, the next he accuses her of being a witch. Cameron’s nights are plagued by dreams of a spirit, begging him to remember something long forgotten, and his days are tormented by a lovely stranger, who very well could be a spy from the enemy clan. What is a laird to do? Keeping the lass will only anger his mistress and cause him great distraction at the time of war, but the thought of sending her away leaves him barren. When Sophia saves his life, he learns that maybe there is more to life than empty passion and the sound of clashing steel.

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A bird tried to visit me, unsuccessfully, in my office about 10 minutes ago.

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To quote Edgar Allan Poe - Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream? I don't fully understand why I am so fascinated by the concept of multiple realities, but find myself returning again to the subject. Since its first posting, this story has been dismantled and and reconstructed. Hopefully its flow and comprehension has improved. Your comments are invited and appreciated.

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Some mildly spiritual musing as I thought about how great it would be if prayer was an immediate and viable solution to the maladies of life. And in some ways I suppose it is. Comments welcome.

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Yes... there will be more but too much on my mind to follow up right now. Although, perhaps it says it all? Today is truly all we have and perhaps not even that long. Live in moment more? This is one of those little pieces that one simply grabs a pencil and throws down before the words escape. Especially an old mind like mine! I had forgot it was even here as had no title even. Stumbled across it this morning so here it is. Very brief so sorry about the fifty word limit!!! haaaaa

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Adjustments made

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A story about love, loss, death and damnation. I have revised this entirely with many of the altercations recommended by those who have already reviewed it. I would very much like some fresh feedback.

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On this site there is a serious thinker and author who constantly challenges us to dig deep into the nature of humanity and the cosmos. He has given me many hours spent in the contemplation of these mysteries. This little poem is the shallow outcome of some of that heavy thinking. Thank you O.R. Comments welcome.

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This is a subject that has haunted me since I was a small girl with two uncles in the Korean War. One who slept with a gun under his pillow so we had to be careful waking him. He would break out in a sweat and moan. Most likely reliving. Which is worse? Dying on a battlefield or the walking dying who live each day on the battlefield they left so long ago. What are the 'trues reasons man goes off to battle?' I would thing they are varied but I would venture they had no clue what they were getting into. Nor did they truly understand who and why they were killing. To question your government was simply not done. Those who did lived in fear and isolation. I have seen the walking dead. On street corners, silent in wheel chairs unable to meat the eyes of the onlookers. For what will he or she see? Disgust? Pity? Any true understanding how devastated these souls are and how for some, death would have been kinder. There is no way I can understand nor fully see into the heart and life of one at war. I can't. But I do recognize the horror when I see it reflected and the total lack of life in blank staring eyes who long ago gave up the will to get anyone to understand.

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I write a lot about trees. I identify so much of my life with trees and memories. They were my haven and still are.They are magic ... They have been honored and they have been defiled My tribute to trees. I would imagine most on this site have their own memories both good and perhaps bad. Willow switches hurt like hell! Favorite means of punishment on me but I never blamed the TREE... My Tree! As always ... any feedback is greatly appreciated

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This suicide poem of a Samurai is an attempt to underscore the cultural differences between western culture and eastern culture. The west is largely Christian. In Japan Christians amount to less than 3%. The culture is largely agnostic--Buddhism and Shintoism are the primary 'religions' although they are more philosophies than religions.//Imagine not believing in a supreme being and contemplating the end of your life as an absolute ending, by your own hand?//This poem is the creation of the author's imagination and is not at all authentic. I'm not Japanese but I've lived in Japan for nineteen years over a thirty five year period from the mid fifties to the late eighties. I graduated from a Japanese grade school in 1964.//The Japanese have a deep sense of honor. They are particularly sensitive to anything that reflects negatively on themselves, their family or their company. Most suicides in Japan are over issues of honor.//Personally, I'll never forget receiving a hand delivered wedding invitation on Monday, only to have it have it retrieved the following Monday, because the father of the bride opposed the marriage, and executed his wife, son and daughter with a Samurai sword, and then took his own life. The groom was the President of a large Japanese distribution company.//This poem, and many other cultural differences and nuances, are what inspired me to write the novel Executive Samurai.

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Max was not entirely perfect; his office was a disaster zone. LOL! I don't know how he got anything done in all the papered chaos. I used to tease him laughingly that one day he was going to die and leave me to deal with his office...Max got the last laugh. While sorting through the morass in the early hours of this morning when I couldn't sleep, I found a folder under a pile of books on his desk. In the folder I found little things he had kept: ticket stubs to the opera, receipts from especially romantic dinners out...dated on my birthday or our anniversary, a few photos of us together taken by a stranger he had asked...and this. I had forgotten I had even written this poem...my first to Max. I mailed it to him during the first absence we had to endure after we had fallen in love. He kept it all these years...As I read it i realized the unknown of tomorrow can become the reality of today...the known of yesterday fades into memory...there is only today. i can not control time, but i can choose to be present in each of the moments i have. time lived moment by moment is life lived to the fullest...time lived moment to moment with each moment filled with love is, for me, life lived to the max!

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I'm taking a poetry class and the assignement is to write a poem. I've never understood a lot of poetry, so for me this is a real challenge. The instructor said that rhyme and meter are unimportant - that poetry evokes an image or emotion with words. I chose to evoke a philosophy. So, tell me, is the poetry? Is is any good? what could I do to improve it. Blast away. All comments welcome.

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Finding an old forgotten poem is sometimes like finding lost treasure. This one was buried for eight years. I decided to post it unedited. Comments are appreciated.

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Give me your reaction to the piece. Tell me if it seems natural. Any writing, word choice or grammar comments are welcome.

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I don’t know if there's an afterlife, but it would be nice to fly away.

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I entered this poem in Poethood's Change of Scenery contest. It was one of three that I entered and we should find out the contest's winners and who will be published in the book that will come out of the contest next week. It is one of the longer poems I have written and, so far, the only sestina.

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"A Matter of Life and Death" is a tale of a tiny Midwestern town harboring a dastardly secret, festering to an ultimate showdown a quarter of a century after the story begins. Friendships are questioned, lifes are ruined, some lost, all with an isolated farmhouse in Fosterburg, Ill., as the muse for the saga.

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Like most writers, my writing is a necessary means of therapy. There's no need to review this, it's just something I had to write. http://www.grimesfuneralchapels.com/obits/2009/nibblett.htm

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On a recent morning I was sitting near the river with coffee in hand earnestly trying to study a book by Heidegger and these lines came into my head. Comments welcome.

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Quite a number of years ago I learned that some of the most relevant lessons of life can be found in the minds of those who have lived through a whole lot of years. And from those lessons come fodder for the work of a writer. This little poem tries to honor that principle. Comments welcome.

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i wrote this when thinking about a friend who's just found out her brother only has a few weeks to live...he's only 53

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Thanks to Mr. Harold Bloom poetry critic and author for this idea. He quite likely wouldn't like this little poem but that's okay. I sometimes disagree with him as well.

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This is a memoir of my daughter's death and the communications we've had since her death. Since it is a true story, I want to know if it's readable and interesting.

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New to site and this interface is driving me crazy... anyway i think I got the dang poem posted. Long story... I don't write poetry but was criticizing a poet on another site and wrote her what I thought she should do to make her poem and in doing this I wrote a fragment of a poem. Anyway she wrote back and told me it was the best and most sincere criticism she she'd ever received, then suggested I work out the bugs in this poem. Maybe we are a poetical team in the making. Anyway i had fun and to me it makes sense to me. Aloha

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Jake Wilson lives a life very much to himself. He seems content enough. He is close with his sister, Michelle. And his best-friend Alex is a pickup artist that tries to bring the best (or worst) out of Jake. And he has a decent enough job, which he only hates most of the time. Everything seems to be fine until a series of events leads Jake to question who he is. He meets the girl of his dreams, Chelsea. He receives a concussion. His ex-girlfriend, Rebekah, comes back into his life. His estranged father dies. And Jake's life spins out of control. But after receiving the concussion, Jake begins to see the masks he wears, and he begins to feel a burning in his stomach. It is at this moment that Jake begins the strenuous journey of self-discovery.

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I'd better explain a couple of things which may have you scratching your head. Muti = Af for medicine, poison, etc etc. Sun-downer = a drink (or 3) imbibed at about the time the sun’s going down, being 5:30 – 6:30 around these parts. I look forward to comments.

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Correne Johnson, 18, is all the things most women never want to be: Overweight, illiterate and unloved. And she is being molested by her Aunts fiance. She uses her addiction to the Oprah Winfrey show and Oprah's TV wisdom's to challenge her Oppressor. These actions could either end her life or save her.

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Just days ago, Madelyn Jacobs thought not getting into any of her top three colleges or snagging the guy who serenaded the summer stars were the biggest nightmares in her life. That was before being raped by her best friend’s boyfriend. That was before being put in a coma by the jealous bitch when she misinterpreted the scene. That was before trying to function after waking up all broken and torn, only to have a demon or something bust into her bedroom and tag her as The Keeper of some freakin’ list.



When the first person of ten dies in her presence, that’s way weird. The second time, it’s bloodcurdling. She can't avoid people, she tries. She can't run, she tries. An unseen hand always ushers her to the next demise, randomly shows her the list, in windows, in mirrors, on scraps of paper, even behind closed lids, and makes her feel more powerless than ever. And the sweet singer she loves now stands at number seven. As tattered as she is, can she find a way to break the curse before others die and the lover of her heart is gone forever?



*Strong language

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One of those pieces that simply fill my mind without trying. In a way a story about myself and many other abused children whether it physical/sexual or emotional starvation. I beat the odds as do many as children are also warriors in their own right. They fight back.. as I did. Many sadly don't as the mountain too steep. Not meant to be a 'feel sorry' piece but more an eyeopening piece about offering encouragement over stifling it. Any and all feedback ... mostly emotional pull of the piece.

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All feedback welcomed

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Observations of living for over a half century. Well over may I add! Using an altered Haiku format. Definitely not in best writing form but sick or not ... a writer writes!! Critical commentary always welcomed as here to better my writing.

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All feedback welcomed

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This little poem has been percolating in one form or another for a couple of years. Easter seemed like an appropriate day for it to appear. Comments welcome.

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Doing a little carpentry this weekend. Comments welcome.

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I just did some tweakin' and would love any feedback or suggestions on this poem. I had the most trouble with the second stanza, but kinda think I like it now, maybe; I'm going for a staccato, choppy sound with 'are plucked or hewn', so I'm wondering if that works or not. Your help is always appreciated. :)

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Out of all the poems I have wrote, this one is the most personal. I was weeding out some work when I revisited this. As artists, we have a hunger to be heard. We stumble around like clumsy Jesters..

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maybe it's the time of year, time for poetic pondering, i dunno...the dimming glow...just like the twilight...looking back on a love that felt so right but had nowhere to go...

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Sort of a "stream of consiousness" thing.

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Thoughts of not being. Death and dying.. reconciliation to truth. Letting words come into focus and put down without thought.

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I try to encourage any and all feedback. I realize this poem is cryptic, so here is the meaning of this poem for those who are interested: My mother died last year, so I was the one grieving in this poem. My wife and I decided to have a third child after my Mom's death. I didn't actually want the third child until I lost my mother, which changed my mind. It seems that I have been to several funerals of relatives and friends lately and it forced me to think of my own mortality and how short life is. My decision to have another child was born out of my grief for my mother and my realization that children are the only way to extend oneself into the future. My wife and baby boy are both fine. Little Noah Elisha was one day old when I wrote this poem. Tanka is defined as follows: "Haiku is always written in 3 lines. Tanka has an additional 2 lines of 7 syllables each with a line space after the Haiku section." Also, I am following the Japanese traditional rule that long vowells count as two syllables, or onji.

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Poem about life also the use of allegories in expression in poetry or any writing. Hope is to get readers who hesitate reviewing poetry to take a leap in faith as there is no wrong way to review if you say how a work 'feels' 'provokes' or if it doesn't. Still good feedback and can help enrich one's own writing. Poetry is not my favorite genre. I don't even own a book of poetry except for my mothers. Only poetry I read in on this site. I write it as do not feel confident in other genres. I too am learning to try though. To stretch oneself is to grow and stay flexible.

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daily life can be a philosophical journey

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Does duty preclude a young girl coming of age? Where is the line drawn between common sense and public opinion? Feedback welcome

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Just having fun.. hopefully a tad of wisdom thrown in. Observations made about living. Choices.. Any and all feedback welcomed except for those who think it stinks.. ha... keep it to yourself. ONLY KIDDING

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Observation from years of living and observing. This is not always the case as many 'willing hearts' are never snatched up by another. But once in awhile... love comes calling. Technically help is always needed but top priority is always the 'vision and feelings' evoked. Can always 'fix' the technical but if emotionally void it is useless

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A brief free verse look at today.

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A story about loss and gain.

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This was originally a lyric to a song I worte. I did a little cut and paste to make it look somewhat like a poem. As most of you know, I am a very poor poet. But sometimes the muse insists at the risk of her going on extended vaction if I do not comply. A little Psychology 101 mixed with a little humor. It's meant to be a little bit of fun. It suffers significantly from a technical POV. But my very best poetry is pretty bad. Hope you enjoy it.

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Just a sort of dark humorous reminder to keep things in perspective. Any an all sharing is welcome.

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Are you kidding... call 911 for God's sake... she finally cracked up!!!

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True story of a conversation I had one afternoon with a very sweet, but oh so innocent, former student. Enjoy! :)

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What are we to make of life when it takes so many forms?

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This is a story about a small college baseball that wins a game but there is more to it than that!

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Life in the South circles and swarms me.

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This piece is presented solely to encourage thought. The questions asked-I suspect, have been asked since the emergence of conscience, thinking mankind. Obviously there are no definitive answers to these questions. However, as death is truly the only inevitable, universal experience that all creation experiences, perhaps it's worth asking these and many other questions. If nothing else realizing that your questions are shared is of value, isn't it? At least that is the motivation that prompted this poem. It is the last in a series of five poems that started with 'Why God?'

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I was thinking about the holiday season, and this little ditty popped into my head. Hope you like it.

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This was written as I pondered the magnitude of my situation. My husband and I are both in our 60's, and got married in August, 2005; he after 30 years divorced, myself after 15 years. We met on-line; it was love at first e-mail, and was a long distance courtship, of sorts! He had just had surgery for cancer; I was a full-time missionary in D.C.The wedding was the wedding of my dreams! But, because of his health situation(there is no cancer!), things are moving a lot more slowly than I would like! We still can't be very active, but hope to travel a lot...whenever!!! This is the first time I have done this; your feedback is truly welcome!

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