Poetry

[Persephone]

First, let me say....thanks, Lance. I requested an artsy farsty corner, so I guess I should be the one to start it. Only problem is I'm up to my neck in papers to grade right now.

Does anybody have a favorite poem?

[Satan]

There was an old man from Nantucket,

What??

It is so poetry! ::)

Sky, that is an almost verbetim post of what I almost posted.

You were a victim of harsh potty training, also?

[Meshuga Mikey]

WHY does the popular press give CREEDENCE to GANGSTER CRAPPERS as poets???

[Satan]

Sky, that is an almost verbetim post of what I almost posted.

You were a victim of harsh potty training, also?


You have no idea how furiously I typed that out trying to beat you to it. ;D

[Persephone]

Okay, buttheads. Here's a freebie for you to use if you ever find yourself in this situation again.

The shortest poem ever.


Balls.

Adam, had 'em.


This is one that my fiction writing teacher in college used to say to make fun of the poetry writing teacher.

[Satan]

Ok, so this ain't poetry, but it is my favorite, which seems extremely odd to me since I almost never practice most of it. Still it helps me to find some bit of inner peace, and get some small bit of my shit together, every time I read it. I guess it just appeals to my hippie-nostalgia. 8)

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble, it's a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantement, it is as perrenial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

~~ Max Ehrmann, 1927

[Persephone]

It sounds like poetry to me. Very nice.

You'd better be careful. You're starting to make me proud.

[Satan]

Oh shit. Well hold on a minute, I can fix that...

Myself

I have to live with myself, and so,
I want to be fit for myself to know;
I want to be able as days go by,
Always to look myself straight in the eye;
I don't want to stand with the setting sun
And hate myself for the things I've done.
I don't want to keep on a closet shelf
A lot of secrets about myself,
And fool myself as I come and go
Into thinking that nobody else will know
The kind of man I really am;
I don't want to dress myself up in sham.
I want to deserve all men's respect;
But here in this struggle for fame and pelf,
I want to be able to like myself.
I don't want to think as I come and go
That I'm for bluster and bluff and empty show.
I never can hide myself from me,
I see what others may never see,
I know what others may never know,
I never can fool myself -- and so,
Whatever happens, I want to be
Self-respecting and conscience free.

~~ Edgar Guest

<insert puking icon here>

[Satan]

OK, I knew that was bad, but I didn't think it was gonna crash the whole damn board... ::)

[Persephone]

Consider it fixed. :P

[Persephone]

Here's one I like.


Meditation at Lagunitas

by Robert Hass



All the new thinking is about loss.
In this it resembles all the old thinking.
The idea, for example, that each particular erases
the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown-
faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk
of that black birch is, by his presence,
some tragic falling off from a first world
of undivided light. Or the other notion that,
because there is in this world no one thing
to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds,
a word is elegy to what it signifies.
We talked about it late last night and in the voice
of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone
almost querulous. After a while I understood that,
talking this way, everything dissolves: justice,
pine, hair, woman, you and I. There was a woman
I made love to and I remembered how, holding
her small shoulders in my hands sometimes,
I felt a violent wonder at her presence
like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river
with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat,
muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish
called pumpkinseed. It hardly had to do with her
Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances. I must have been the same to her.
But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread,
the thing her father said that hurt her, what
she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous
as words, days that are the good flesh continuing.
Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings,
saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.



http://www.diacenter.org/prg/poetry/87_88/hass1.html

[Satan]

Google (http://www.google.com) is my friend. ;D

http://unix.cc.wmich.edu/~cooneys/poems/bad/

Warning: this is not 'table-reading'. :P

[Persephone]

I didn't make it past the first link. I'm gonna have to save this one for a time when I can really devote myself to it. :P

[Meshuga Mikey]

Google (http://www.google.com) is my friend. ;D

http://unix.cc.wmich.edu/~cooneys/poems/bad/

Warning: this is not 'table-reading'. :P


Kalamazoo
On the outskirts are celery marshes
Which only a few years ago
Were as wet as a drugstore in Kansas
And as worthless as marshes could grow,
Well some genius bethought him to drain them
And to add in a short year or two
About eighty-five thousand dollars
To the income of Kalamazoo.

The Michigan Insane Asylum
Is up on the top of the hill,
And some irresponsible crazies
Meander around there at will,
And they frequently talk to a stranger,
And they sometimes escape, it is true,
But the folks are not all of them crazy
Who hail from Kalamazoo.


from either A Basket of Chips (Kalamazoo, MI: J. B. Smiley, 1888) or Meditations of Samuel Wilkins (Kalamazoo, MI: J. B. Smiley, 1886).

Shazaaaaaaam~!!!

Spring
Edna St. Vincent Millay

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

[Satan]

Spring
Edna St. Vincent Millay

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.



"Mornin', Edna. You want some breakfast?"
"Shut up and leave me the hell alone. Damnit! Where is my pen?"

The Red Wheelbarrow
William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

Embra
Lizzie Eleanor

The beauty in
the pain that removes
all rememberance of
your embrace
will never equal
the beauty in
the pain of
your embrace

[Persephone]

I love your poem, Lizzie. Here's one of mine.



For an Ignorant Turd with Love


There’s at least one lover you’ve known
worth all the Pink Floyd you’ve ever heard.

There’s one worth giving up country cooking.

And one has a smile worth losing your job.

There’s at least one woman you’d hang the moon for.
You’d do it if it took the rest of your life.
You’d do it if it couldn’t be done.

There’s one you’d cut your soul out for.
You’d give her a kidney.
You’d give her the bones in your feet.

There’s a lover somewhere you’d leave the ocean for.
You’d scrape your own skin off just to wrap her in warmth.

You’d set a place for her when you knew
she was never coming back.

[Descartes]

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An Angel writing in a book of gold:

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" The Vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one who loves his fellow men."

The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!

-- James Leigh Hunt

[Descartes]

Live each day as though your last
and you shall raise your golden mast
at your back the wind shall be
and you shall sail your chosen sea

---Nutty (me)

[CatNtheHat]

To My Trailer Park Thistle

Collards is green,
my dog's name is Blue
and I'm so lucky
to have a sweet thang like you.

Yore hair is like corn silk
a-flapping in the breeze.
Softer than Blue's
and without all them fleas.

You move like the bass,
which excite me in May.
You ain't got no scales
but I luv you anyway.

Yo're as satisfy'n as okry
jist a-fry'n in the pan.
Yo're as fragrant as "snuff"
right out of the can.

You have some'a yore teeth,
for which I am proud;
I hold my head high
when we're in a crowd.

On special occasions,
when you shave under yore arms,
well, I'm in hawg heaven,
and awed by yore charms.

Still them fellers at work,
they all want to know,
what I did to deserve
such a purdy, young doe.

Like a good roll of duct tape
yo're there fer yore man,
to patch up life's troubles
and fix what you can.

Yo're as cute as a June bug
a-buzzin' overhead.
You ain't mean like those far ants
I found in my bed.

Cut from the best cloth
like a plaid flannel shirt,
you spark up my life
more than a fresh load of dirt.

When you hold me real tight
like a padded gun rack,
my life is complete;
Ain't nuttin' I lack.

Yore complexion, it's perfection,
like the best vinyl sidin'.
despite all the years,
yore age, it keeps hidin'.

Me 'n' you's like a Moon Pie
with a RC cold drank,
we go together
like a skunk goes with stank.

Some men, they buy chocolate
for Valentine's Day;
They git it at Wal-Mart,
it's romantic that way.

Some men git roses
on that special day
from the cooler at Kroger.
"That's impressive," I say.

Some men buy fine diamonds
from a flea market booth.
"Diamonds are forever,"
they explain, suave and couth.

But for this man, honey,
these won't do.
Cause yor'e too special,
you sweet thang you.

I got you a gift,
without taste nor an odor,
more useful than diamonds...
IT'S A NEW TROLL'N MOTOR!!

Luv, from yer romeo

[Meshuga Mikey]

"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will not fear; Thou art with me." (Psalm 23:4)

[Descartes]

"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will not fear; Thou art with me." (Psalm 23:4)


That's not how I thought it went. It goes like this

Yea though I walk through the valley of death I shall fear no evil. 'Cause I'm the meanest mother fucker in the valley.

;D

[Meshuga Mikey]

"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will not fear; Thou art with me." (Psalm 23:4)


That's not how I thought it went. It goes like this

Yea though I walk through the valley of death I shall fear no evil. 'Cause I'm the meanest mother fucker in the valley.

;D


That would depend, I suppose, on who was with Me~!!!

Allow Me---- to present the first piece of Visual Poetry in this thread~!!!

Ahhhh Pure poetry~!!


http://people.delphiforums.com/artcruncher/StuStuStudio.jpg

[LanceALott]

ARTY FARTY

Some people come to the passionate poetry party
Act all Arty Farty
Saying, "Hey, look at me.
Ain't I clever, talented, artistic?
Wouldn't you just die,
To get some attention from me."

But the real poets I see
Would rather be
Alone with themselves
Than with a bunch of self-centered elves,
Whose only talent is to party
And act Arty Farty.

[LanceALott]

YEAR OF THE DRAGON

Forward:
May the year of the dragon
Bring the return of the poet.
(Copyrighted by Joe Proud Eagle, Jan 1, 2000.)


Unheard of,
Absurd,
My word,
Here I sit on my patio,
First day of two thousand and none.

Fear of Y2K
Has gone away,
And I sit,
No coat,
And gloat,
At the paranoid Y2K goat.
'Cause I am comfortable indeed
In only my shirt of tweed.

Wind tipple zero knots,
Sun still shines lots
Shines near the green pine,
Warms face, tingles spine.
Heat on my chest,
Where sun feels best.

But there!
Under the lilac,
Through a blanket of dry leaves,
Would ya believes,
New green leaves,
A flower of spring,
Too early doth spring.

'Tis a miracle
A sign,
That this millennium
Will turn out just fine.

Niether the North winds chilly breath,
Nor the hot dragon's breath,

Spells death.
Life will go on another thousand years,
Of blood, sweat, and tears;
But it will go on,
In spite of our fears.

So sit back
Relax,
Enjoy,
Listen to the little girl or boy,
The one inside of you,
Let the poet Return!
Let your verbal passions burn!
Tell of love amongst the aspen and fern.

If we've got to go on,
Might as well have fun,
'Till our poet's life is done.

[lucy]

ahh, back to poetry...it does make so many things seem almost palatable....

thanks for this poem. i need to hear this voice more often.

lucy

It was a warm, rank odor that hit Detective Swatworth's nostrils, breaking into components that seemed hauntingly familiar, reminiscent of dangerous deeds past, lighting up every wary fiber in his torso, warning him to be wary of what lay ahead, on guard, finger on the trigger, then relaxed again as he realized it was coming from his own armpit.

The blood dripped from his nose like hot grease from a roasting bratwurst pierced with a fork except that grease isn't red and the blood wasn't that hot and it wasn't a fork that poked him in the nose but there was a faint aroma of nutmeg in the air and it is of noses we speak not to mention that if you looked at it in the right profile, his nose did sort of look like a sausage.

It wasn't the best of times; it wasn't the worst of times; it was the times you'd get if you arranged all possible times (including even fictional times in which the nights were usually dark and stormy) in order from worst to best on the real number line from 0.0 inclusive to 1.0 exclusive and then used a really good uniform random number generator to pick a value in that range thus choosing the corresponding times -- that's the times it was.

[Persephone]

Oh, dear. Bad feels creative. This is not always a good sign. :)

[LanceALott]

CANOE YOU

By Joe Proud Eagle

Silently, slowly sliding over slippery silver stream,
The mighty Proud Eagle dips his oar into the water.
Rapidly rowing round the ragged rocks.
Joe thought of little White Dove.
His one true love.

Rapidly round the bend,
Near the end,
End of this hurried happy journey,
Little White Dove waits for me.
There, by the tall pine tree.

The wind blows,
Passion grows,
And it shows,
From her head to her toes;
And coming out her nose.

Man, is she hot,
Or is that snot?

Good one, Lance. I like anti-climax.

[lucy]

Oh, dear. Bad feels creative. This is not always a good sign. :)


;D

[LanceALott]

Had a Dream

I had a dream the other night. Next door, a big fight. Dishes broke, no joke, and the screaming of the wife, cut through the darkness like a knife.

Had a dream the other night, again they had a fight. Someone fell to the floor; I’ve heard it before. And the crying, oh my God, what’s wrong in this world? Why do people hear these dreams and the screams as I sleep and they weep?

It must be me. People don’t do these things to each other. Got to be a dream. Got to be.

IS HEAVEN IN THE YELLOW PAGES

Mommy went to Heaven, but I need her here today,
My tummy hurts and I fell down, I need her right away.

Operator can you tell me how to find her in this book?
Is heaven in the yellow part, I don't know where to look.

I think my daddy needs her too, at night I hear him cry.
I hear him call her name sometimes, but I really don't know why.

Maybe if I call her, she will hurry home to me.
Is Heaven very far away, is it across the sea?

She's been gone a long, long time she needs to come home now!
I really need to reach her, but I simply don't know how.

Help me find the number please, is it listed under "Heaven"?
I can't read these big big words, I am only seven.

I'm sorry operator, I didn't mean to make you cry,
Is your tummy hurting too, or is there something in your eye?

If I call my church maybe they will know.
Mommy said when we need help that's where we should go.

I found the number to my church tacked up on the wall.
Thank you operator, I'll give them a call.

Small Pain In My Chest
by Michael Mack


The soldier boy was sitting calmly underneath that tree.
As I approached it, I could see him beckoning to me.
The battle had been long and hard and lasted through the night
And scores of figures on the ground lay still by morning's light.

"I wonder if you'd help me, sir", he smiled as best he could.
"A sip of water on this morn would surely do me good.
We fought all day and fought all night with scarcely any rest -
A sip of water for I have a small pain in my chest."

As I looked at him, I could see the large stain on his shirt
All reddish-brown from his warm blood mixed in with Asian dirt.
"Not much", said he. "I count myself more lucky than the rest.
They're all gone while I just have a small pain in my chest."

"Must be fatigue", he weakly smiled. "I must be getting old.
I see the sun is shining bright and yet I'm feeling cold.
We climbed the hill, two hundred strong, but as we cleared the crest,
The night exploded and I felt this small pain in my chest."

"I looked around to get some aid - the only things I found
Were big, deep craters in the earth - bodies on the ground.
I kept on firing at them, sir. I tried to do my best,
But finally sat down with this small pain in my chest."

"I'm grateful, sir", he whispered, as I handed my canteen
And smiled a smile that was, I think, the brightest that I've seen.
"Seems silly that a man my size so full of vim and zest,
Could find himself defeated by a small pain in his chest."

"What would my wife be thinking of her man so strong and grown,
If she could see me sitting here, too weak to stand alone?
Could my mother have imagined, as she held me to her breast,
That I'd be sitting HERE one day with this pain in my chest?"

"Can it be getting dark so soon?" He winced up at the sun.
"It's growing dim and I thought that the day had just begun.
I think, before I travel on, I'll get a little rest ..........
And, quietly, the boy died from that small pain in his chest.

I don't recall what happened then. I think I must have cried;
I put my arms around him and I pulled him to my side
And, as I held him to me, I could feel our wounds were pressed
The large one in my heart against the small one in his chest.

That is so fucking sad.

If only there were more poets - we might need less warriors.

It really puts it all in perspective, doesnt it?

[LanceALott]

Thanks badnews, I am honored to have read your work.

[LanceALott]

A Little Girl Was killed

Over six years ago, she was a beauty queen, prettiest ever seen.

So sweet, and little, and helpless, and smart;
Had a great big heart,
was it an accident, or a deliberate and ugly murder?

Whatever, she was taken away,
On Christmas day,
To Heaven some people say,
But her name was not JonBenet.

She was a Palestinian named Fatima,
From Boulder she lived far away.
And yet, ‘till today,
No one knew she was killed,
And no one cared,
Not even her mom and dad,
Cause they already had,
Had been taken from a life so bad.

So Fatima
As she lay,
Alone and cold,
No one to hold,
No one to care,
Yet her death was as unfair,
As the girl with golden hair.

When,
Does it end?

Thanks badnews, I am honored to have read your work.


Thanks, LanceALott, but unfortunately these particular pieces weren't mine. They certainly represent how I feel sometimes, however. :'(

The surest way to a woman's heart is sincerity...

If you can fake that, you've got it made.

~Johnny Bravo~

[I-RIGHT-I]

To sum up 2002

You broke my heart
You tore it apart, so
Fuck You

[LanceALott]

On New Year’s Eve

Will two thousand and three
Be good to me?
Or will it be,
Like the last three?

[LanceALott]

Happy New Year

‘Tis end of ‘nother year.
Tomorrow begins a new,
‘Less tonight I party,
Get all arty farty,
Drink too much wine,
Feel too darn fine,
And run into a truck,
Oh, f*ck.

[ALS]

'Twas the even'
when I sought the silent song of the sparrow.
Head in hand, and heart in lap.
I looked once beyond the shadows,
and twice beyond the whippoorwill wind.
I ran short of that breath called rain.
Which thrice saw me down on my knees.
Pandering to a moment of passion...
to an instant of acrimonious content.
Like a thunderbolt shunted against a mountainside
I gathered myself within like the cry of a waning willow.
I asked not why nor questioned the air I breathe,
but only to wonder
like all the frightened children before me.
When once I heard the clap,
I sought the dark wood
for the comfort I had never tasted nor ever touched.
Its earthy musk a surreal swaddling.
Its din a light to my path.
Dark and soft like crushed blue velvet on a moonless night.
What beauty is this slice of time given unto simple souls,
that we may squander it in loneliness,
inept at every turn, fumbling, stumbling forward,
falling like the last brown crisp leaf of Autumn.
Like a Fall that lasts forever on the tides of yesteryear.
Like a Spring never to be seen.
Why is it my emotions call passion its brother,
and silence its sister.
What is this boy within and that man without.
Once I touched the face of God,
and twice He called my name.
Which thrice saw me down on my knees.
Pandering to a moment of passion....
befriended by ignorance as all before me.
And now I stand like a symbiotic drop of rain
amongst every tear ever shed
for a fruit borne on wings of desire.
I stand as the children of my forefathers have always done,
and those that fell before them.
What makes this man so different,
so unique to utter his name before the dark wood.
Like crushed blue velvet on a moonless night.
If I were once again but a boy laughing at the sun,
and smiling at the stars,
perhaps then I would see...
then I would know...
that the sweetest apple is always the farthest reach ....

http://cash.cyberkook.com/poems/

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I can't write poetry
boopoopydoo
8)

[LanceALott]

Roses are red,
Queers are blew,
Arod blew two.

[ilovelucy]

Y'all need some proper limerick instruction...

Contributed to WH Auden....


As the poets so mournfully sung,
Death takes the innocent young,
The rolling in money,
The hysterically funny,
And those who are very well hung.

[ilovelucy]

Yukon.

You should write more poetry.

I think you may have a natural bent for it....

Lucy

[Persephone]

Yukon.

You should write more poetry.

I think you may have a natural bent for it....

Lucy



How is your writing coming, Lucy? Did you ever write your "Friday Evening" poem? I'd love to see it.

[ilovelucy]

Thanks.
I am working on it, actually.

I posted a couple of poems at THAT OTHER SITE WHICH WE WILL NOT NAME because I feel they need a dose of something other than politics more than we do here, to tell you the truth.

Ah, but I am a Gemini and I suppose I will remain going from one to the other right now.....

Did you see the poem I posted from Wallace Stevens.

I got out my frayed copies of his books after your posting. He is wonderful. He died two months after I was born. That puts things into a certain perspective, for sure...

love ya

[Persephone]

I've been kind of laying low lately. But I'll go back and check the Wallace Stevens thread. Always a treat.

Keep working on that poem.

[ilovelucy]

FRIDAY EVENING (a draft)

We are complacent as a dying sun,
Setting not far from the window,
A brazen glaze which begs our attention,
And yet asks us not to look too far
Into its dying light. We can question
These things. You know, dying mists and
People lost in something beyong repair.

There is some message.

We look in vain for a bottle in the nearby swamp.
A caste. We dream of a season of tangerines among
The proverbial nuts from Christmas, ah.

This is past.
And now winter chills, the report is in.
We are due east with the wind,
The simple gray simple lasts,

It is a season of miscontent and breadbaking.

(more later...)

[Persephone]

It's going well. I hope you can find a place for the tangerines you started out with before. I liked that image.

[ilovelucy]

Thanks......

[ilovelucy]

There once was a boy named Art
Who lit a wee match to his fart
With a large sonic boom
That was the end of the room
Cause the fart blew the basement apart...

inspired by another thread.....

[tileman]

GEEZE Lucy......... ;D

[ilovelucy]

:)

I thought some of you would like it....

You have to go with the muse whereever she takes you....

[Persephone]

Not your usual style, Lucy, but certainly appropriate today. :)

[tileman]

There was a thread (darwin awards) where this dude died of his own gas.............THAT would have been an interesting ignition..... ;D

[ilovelucy]

gee, tileman, that guy sounds like "Ode"material....

[LanceALott]

WATCHING A WYOMING WINDSCAPE

There’s a time for escapes.
You’ve heard of landscapes,
And seascapes,
Here is wonderful Wyoming windscape.

Today on the Wyoming plain,
Looks like rain,
Wind rocks my mighty maple tree,
Dark clouds high above.

Wind 30 knots,
Everything moves lots.
The elm dances too and fro,
Catches the wispy wind, then lets go.

Clouds roll and tumble above,
Carrying rain and God’s love.
Gorgeous grass already emerald green,
Far as eye has seen.

Trees lovely little leaves only peeking
More sun silently seeking.
The recent cold
Retarded ready leaves too bold.

So it is the wind
Makes tall trees bend,
And paints magic motion
On this dry prairie ocean.

Back and forth, round and round,
In and out, up and down,
In and out,
Sends things rolling and rocking roundabout.

Something to watch, something to see.
Stand by the window with me.
Too chilly outside,
Let’s crawl under comfortable covers and hide.

[LanceALott]

Copyrighted by: Joe Proud Eagle,
March 4, 1998.
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TAKE IT
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Absofuckingloutlely beautiful, today,
Perfect temp.
No wind.
Clouds drift above.
In a world filled with love.
Ever so often,
I guess,
We just have to take it!