Featured Writer

Self-Promotion

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irish dance shoesI was looking in my port on Writing.com when I saw this poem, it’s one of my favorite poems I’ve written. I looked to see if I had shared it here on WordPress and discovered it among my early posts when I had one follower so I decided to share it again since I do have a larger following of poetry lovers.

It is done in couplets with a rhyming pattern on the end.

Love of an Irish Lass

He bowed his head in silence,
allowing his rattled breath to slow.

Closing his eyes, he could feel
the lively Celtic music flow.

He was swept away to days past,
Where her feet moved to and fro.

Oh wee lass, dance for me, I long to
see those ye’s rosy cheeks aglow.

Take me back to those days
Of hornpipes and tapping heel and toe.

Show me again those green Irish eyes
when you paused and bowed ever so low.

He lowered his head in silence again
cherishing his memories of long ago.

The lovely Irish ballad faded quietly away
and with it the old man’s final deathblow.©

Quote About the Purpose of Poetry

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Arc by Mike Green is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.W.S.Merwin says it the best,  “I think there’s a kind of desperate hope built into poetry now that one really wants, hopelessly, to save the world. One is trying to say everything that can be said for the things that one loves while there’s still time. I think that’s a social role, don’t you? …We keep expressing our anger and our love, and we hope, hopelessly perhaps, that it will have some effect.”

A Poet, I enjoy

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Late Fragment by Raymond Carver
And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.

And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

Happiness by Raymond Carver
So early it’s still almost dark out.
I’m near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.
When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.
They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren’t saying anything, these boys.
I think if they could, they would take
each other’s arm.
It’s early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.
They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.
Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn’t enter into this.
Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.

Carver wrote powerful poetry that reminds us to live in the moment.

Women’s History Month

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This month is women’s history month!  Who are some of your favorite female authors?

Mine are in no particular order just as they popped into my head:

Eleanor Roosevelt, Virgina Woolf, Kate Chopin, Maya Angelou, Natalie Goldberg, Anne Lindberg,

Jane Austin, Mary Shelley. Louisa Alcott, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton,  Pema Chodron,

Rachel Corson, Wilma Mankiller, Toni Morrison, Charlotte Bronte, George Eliot,

Alice Walker, Emily Bronte, Emily Dickinson, Ursula K Le Guin, Margaret Mitchell, Edith

Wharton, Willa Cather, Judy Blume, Mary Wollstonecraft, Anne Frank, Malala

Yousafzaifzai, Susan Sontag, Margaret Sanger, and Shirley Jackson.

Please take a moment to recognize women authors.

 

 

Discovered an interesting poet from a good friend, I just had to share.

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redlipsThat Kiss
by Sharon Esther Lampert

Fortune teller that I AM,
My crystal ball sees ALL.
Clairvoyant, the man’s libido is flamBOYant.
I SEE: ANIMAL MAGNETISM.
Inside of THAT KISS will be bliss.

Taking chances with amorous glances,
He advances… Lips pouting-tongue tied:
THAT KISS: SmOOch; smOOch.
When he romances: his gait prances,
his penis lances, his generosity enhances.
VOODOO, or DOO-YOU want dinner, dear?”
His heart dances….

Magician that HE IS,
He has a loaded deck of cards,
And wants to be my bodyguard.
Enchantment: a bag of mesmerizing tricks,
An ACE up his sleeve, a KING or a JACK
Are inside of his top hat of black.
Sleight of hand, THAT KISS is grand.

WIZARDRY: Pressed into his bosom,
I am caught in his embraces, arms
Flailing, like a net above my head,
His pounding heart is beating red.
THAT KISS tells ALL or just enough
to keep me Interested in ALL of his stuff.

Lips full of feelings, THAT KISS,
Soft as rose petals, free of prickly thorns.
In the  dark recesses of his mouth,
I find my way by the light in his eyes,
His smile is real, there is no disguise.

Even though we just met,
I am caught in the tangled web of
A hot-blooded, Israeli-Englishman:
“A Jack of All of Love’s Trades.”
A rare mixed-breed, a British accent,
Concealing a *Sabra, wherever he went.
Tricks of my own trade, I roll up my sleeve,
And I become a woman-in-need(?)
THAT KISS I can’t forget, and with no regret:
It is almost 4 a.m., and inside of my gypsy’s tent:
Sm(OO)ch, sm(OO)ch,
We are still one silhouette.

ANIMAL MAGNETISM:
Sm(OO)ch, sm(OO)ch,
Some call it v(OO)d(OO),
Most think it witchcraft,
Experts refer to it as “osculation.”
Others call THAT KISS Kabbalah;
A kind of Jewish mysticism:
Many are in need of exorcism.

 

I loved the imagery mentally and visually and the fun word choices that the author chose to bring her poem alive. Her witty sarcasm reminds of when I first began dating and all my jumbled emotions. I hope you enjoy her work too!

Langston Hughes and me

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Dream Deferred By Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?
1527_536743103033995_1809454923_n
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.Or does it explode?
I’ve asked myself that very question numerous times. I know more than once I’ve seen my hopes fade like the sun on a horizon. But I rose just like the sun refusing to accept my dream was deferred or over. I knew I was ready to share my story.

black-gloveBlack Glove by Lyn Crain

One single black glove left on the porch is all that is left a union of two.
The vivid, intense orange torch in their marriage flickered, now a black hue.
Angry words tossed into the flame, smothered immense passion.
Apologies spoken only sound lame, made the fire cold and ashen.
Violently shrugging away a touch, fighting a compulsion to flee.
Even a glance in his eye is too much. I must, Yes, I will be free.

Discussion Time for Featured Friday

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huggingwordslyn

I’ve been mulling over the prospect of hosting other writers on Friday as Featured Friday since another blogger approached me about wanting to discuss a post I made more in depth.  Is there any interest among my followers to participate in this venture?

If so please email me at lyn.crain@gmail.com.

My intent is for you to email your subject, and the content with all links necessary to connect everyone with you. Whatever info you would like to provide about yourself for the readers. I will post all writers participating in separate entries. If you would like to begin a series of discussion that should appear weekly, I can certainly accommodate that as well.

Looking forward to hearing from you.

Inspirational Quote

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I decided to spend some time with Mr.Edgar Allan Poe this evening. Brilliant author!

“Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.”

“With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.”

“I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.”

My Spiritual Side Needs

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angel1

Angels©Maurya Simon

Who are without mercy,
Who confide in trumpet flowers,
Who carry loose change in their pockets,
Who dress in black velvet,
Who wince and fidget like bats,
Who balance their haloes on hatracks,
Who watch reruns of famine,
Who powder their noses with pollen,
Who laugh and unleash earthquakes,
Who sidle in and out of our dreams
Like magicians, like childhood friends,
Who practice their smiles like pirates,
Who exercise by walking to Zion,
Who live on the edge of doubt,
Who cause vertigo but ease migraines,
Who weep milky tears when troubled,
Whose night sweats engender the plague,
Who pinion their arms to chandeliers,
Who speak in riddles and slant rhymes,
Who love the weak and foolhardy,
Who lust for unripe persimmons,
Who scavenge the fields for lost souls,
Who hover near lighthouses,
Who pray at railroad crossings,
Who supervise the study of rainbows,
Who cannot blush but try,
Who curl their hair with corkscrews,
Who honeymoon with Orion,
Who are not wise but pure,
Who behave with impious propriety,
Who hourly scour our faces with hope,
Whose own faces glow like radium,
Whom we’ve created in our own form,
Who are without mercy, seek and yearn
To return us like fossilized roses
To the wholeness of our original bloom.