I 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.©
I read a lot of different styles of poetry every day. I believe the key to writing good poetry is to immerse one’s self. This particular one by Collins I find stimulating because I love how Collins uses descriptive phrases like sunflash of trumpets, rows of roadside trees, the huge blue sheet of the sky, into a pasture of high grass than drops the reader at the dizzying cliffs of morality. Life is definitely too short to miss all the sun-flash and dazzle of life.
The Parade by Billy Collins
How exhilarating it was to march
along the great boulevards
in the sunflash of trumpets
and under all the waving flags–
the flag of desire, the flag of ambition.
So many of us streaming along–
all of humanity, really–
moving in perfect sync,
yet each lost in the room of a private dream.
How stimulating the scenery of the world,
the rows of roadside trees,
the huge blue sheet of the sky.
How endless it seemed until we veered
off the broad turnpike
into a pasture of high grass,
heading toward the dizzying cliffs of mortality.
Generation after generation,
we shoulder forward
under the play of clouds
until we high-step off the sharp lip into space.
So I should not have to remind you
that little time is given here
to rest on a wayside bench,
to stop and bend to the wildflowers,
or to study a bird on a branch–
not when the young
keep shoving from behind,
not when the old are tugging us forward,
pulling on our arms with all their feeble strength.
My own attempts are feeble in comparison to Collins, but wth practice I will become better.
At The Lake’s Edge by Lyn Crain
The long rocky shoreline had rough water tonight
this breezy spring twilight in April.
I came to watch the evening sun set on the water.
I heard the loons crooning to their mates.
My tranquility was disrupted by a child’s screech and
two young people paddling hard in a canoe.
An elderly man fished on the opposite shore while
a woman read a book in her chair on the dock.
I shivered as the waves swished against the beach
and the cold spray hit my leg as I sat on the rock.
I struggled to regroup my thoughts, to close this day
The peace in my world was jeopardized so
I sought the calm of my beautiful beach haven.
I ached to find my composure once more
As I immersed myself in the beauty at the lake’s edge.
My mind rambled to the times when I brought my children
to swim and play in the chilling water in the summer’s heat.
Those moonlit nights on my way home from work when I swam
successfully working out stress in my own way.
I committed to memory the reasons why I must pick me up once more,
I need another sunrise, to gaze at another sunset on the lake’s edge.
The troubled emotions, I felt when I arrived have dissipated because
the lake’s rippled water refreshed my essence.
I heard the soft call of a loon, the woeful song was
a gentle reminder of my lover who waits for me
Good night, my lakeside haven!
Thank you for giving me sanctuary,
I am okay now because of you.
As you go about your day, I hope you find time to appreciate your surroundings and those in your life. Maybe read a poem while you’re there. ❤
Artists think outside the box either by choice or habit.These thoughts determine our actions. Showing up to our chosen canvas sometimes takes a lot of energy. The negative baggage we bury ourselves under like “I really have no particular talent” sabotages us. I’m sure there are good solutions out there, but for me, I strongly feel that my job is to mind my thoughts and to use my strengths to improve my creativity. I make myself lists of all the ways I can be inspired and then another list how I can inspire others. I never limit myself to one creative outlet.
One consistent thing that shows up in my lists is photographs, a captured image frozen in a narrow focus. Over the years, when I’ve found myself stuck writing, I grab my camera and just look at things all around me through that closed view. The details in that small glimpse are incredible because I frequently miss them with my eyes.
The pictures I chose today are great examples of looking at a picture differently. The seagull over the vast ocean is what I saw without my lens. Once, I looked at the seagull through the lens I saw his wings and how effortlessly he parted the wind to turn. His gliding motion when he wanted to use the wind to lessen his workload. I studied him until he flew out of my lens range and I moved onto the next one.
I filled my notebook with everything I saw. I discovered the seagull’s world not just in a picture, but later in poetry as I considered all the things the bird enjoyed and I needed which in turn inspired this.
My Deserted Island Has
Turquoise water swirling, seagulls hovering,
with shallow waves breaking along the reef,
crystal blue streams, and mossy banks in the shade.
A chilly deep pool sparkling with the sun’s glimmering rays,
surrounded by luscious trees with sweeping branches,
that beckon me to climb over a sandy beach.
Wow, so many seashells scattered on
the glimmering sand. It’s a shell collectors dream,
a painter’s haven hidden from the masses.
Wildflowers strewed randomly along the hillside, bursts of
purple and pink with a bit of orange amidst green grass.
Oh my, curious creatures peeking from the
rocks, and cliffs that shape the steep top of a mountain edge
where a large bird’s nest looms in a treetop.
I stared at the sail of yacht passing by,
Yes, I think one more day before I signal, I am here.
Maybe two days… I am content in the peace
I found here on my lovely deserted island.
Dresden blue water shimmers with each deafening crash
against field gray stones thrust upright to the sky.
Yellow, orange and red streaks boldly flash
appearing to skim the glorious waves crest high.
Cumulus clouds tinted with fire on the horizon
invite me to pause a spell on the ginger sand.
Dreaded silence, haunts me, so alone… not surprising.
Staring off at nothing while thinking, my life is out of hand.
Sooty darkness succumbs, chilling, salty sprays hit me
but will not hinder my compelling desire for seclusion.
The ocean… like ebony black silk with an irresistible plea
come, my dear, your demise is an earthbound illusion.
Grief cripples our delicate sensibility
Black plainly shows our vulnerability
Grief hinders our happy tranquility
Yet reminds us of our human fragility
Sweet harmony … joy to the world
Dreams, one must have hope
that all flags can wave unfurled
and mankind can find a way to cope.
Sweet harmony… peace on earth
All violence is a thing of the past.
Religions are respected, each has worth
and ethnic differences are not harassed.
Sweet harmony…joy in our world
Ode to John
©Lyn and Vic Crain
exercise in humor
How much time do you waste each day ridding wastes on the porcelain throne
Do you think about the years you’ve spent, or maybe how much you’ve grown?
For the guy this is a reading nook, a place of peace and quiet
For a gal, a quick call or text or maybe the Readers Digest.
At work it’s a place to escape annoying colleagues and of course the boss
It’s a place to decompress and consider your gain and the size of your loss.
At school you might use it to calm nerves before a test, to avoid a bully
Or someone you want to date who scares you, or something else so silly.
On trips you pick your gas stops where you think you might find one so clean
Or where you’ll be safe and not have to deal with boys so surly and mean.
If you have too much whiskey, it’s your sanctuary, a place to kneel and pray
Where no one can see you or hear the promises for the future that you say.
Indeed it is a magic thing, something that can be used for many ends.
Even kitties are now taught to use it, guess they don’t mind the smell it sends.
With the lid down it becomes a seat for a conversation with a shaver,
Or a place against which to brace while a thermometer checks your fever.
On aircraft there are other uses, you know of the Mile High Club?
But no noise lest the knock on the door, aye there’s the rub.
The man who invented this, I hear his name was Crapper.
No puns please, he deserves better, like a song from a famous rapper.
The child, the priest, the banker, the drunk all pay homage to it each day
Light and Darkness
(Έadrom agus dorchadas)
Once a very dark, dreary world
until the evil spell lifted.
Maybe the bad witch got stiffed
and hopefully, she really curled.Into the underworld far away
so we are blessed with light,
throughout All Saints day.
All the people will reunite,
happy they missed doomsday.
Wait, did you say ghostly rewrite?
The evil ugly witch must have whiffed
our plan before it came unfurled.
Oh, I feel her black magick swirl
The ghost might help us get uplifted.
Yikes, there must be some kind of a way
Hell knows no fury like a woman’s wrath
Even her black cat ran for the parkway.
Wait, let’s pause, did you do the math.
Let’s play her song, I’ll ask the dejay.
He thinks it is by someone named McGrath.
An bhfuil tu damhsa liom?
Irish translation: Would you like to dance? Thank you.
Irish translation for: Light and Darkness~ eadrom agus dorchadas
Pumpkin and the Blackbird
A pumpkin sat on the porch step
wishing he was in the garden.
Blackbird said I beg your pardon
Will I do, I am good for pep.My singing is quite hilarious.
I miss…. my pumpkin friends
Scarecrows says, I am gregarious.
I don’t know, I guess it depends
Our meeting is simply vicarious.
I suppose, we could pretend.
A scarecrow suddenly appears
chuckling at the silly sad song.
Oh, Where do you really belong
my little pumpkin, dry your tears.
Blackbird fly up in the sky
Hurry, before it gets to dark
Be sure to see what is nearby.
I’m sure it was not the park.
Blackbird, squawked his reply.
I’ve found his home, check mark.
La maison d’un homme est son château.
avec jolies citrouilles dans une rangée
A man’s home is his castle,
with pretty pumpkins in a row.
Form is La’Libertas