I wonder…

If distance makes the heart grow fonder -

could this be reason for long distance ardor?

Would wishes, desires – those fanned fires,

or the noble, lofty spiritual intent

be any lessened by closer quarters?

Or would we find ‘tis better left

to mind’s fantasy instead?

I wonder…

Distance keeps us from nectar sweet

yet could it be the safety factor

that protects from pain of reality?

Would the world of the mundane

be best left unexplored, unknown -

the ‘we’ of us better left to reverie?

(I do wonder, but I would rather heed caution's voice... ;>)

No Benefit of Doubt

Jumping, jumping

too much of late

to false conclusions

and odd debate.

Whatever is wrong

with taking the chance

of trusting, perhaps

the easier path?

Oft what is read

is not what was meant.

What was innocently said –

now by viewer, contorted and bent.

E-mails and internet communications are a boon.  The bane is the absence of voice or facial expression that convey, more than words, the speaker's intent.  Lacking this, one can easily misunderstand.  Forums and chat rooms can burst aflame!  :>)

Sandy Walk

White capped wavelets cresting

soft reminders, rolling

with rhythmic movement.

White horses gracing

a tranquil, blue-green sea.

Stretch of sand and dunes

though empty, not lonely.

Footsteps accompany,

an old friend and loyal.

Shadow leads, we follow.

A walk though frothy plumes.

Was the walker alone or with company?  Human or dog?  Neither.  She walked alone yet in the company of her oldest friends; her shadow and her footsteps. (White horses-Brit. English for white caps.)

My matriarchal leanings protest the assumption that The Creator is gender bound (or has other such limitations).  The following is just poetic food for thought.

'GOD-DESS', why not?

 

What makes you think that 

the Creator of all things

great and small

of masculine gender is?

 

Aren't we women

here on earth

makers of nests

and beings small,

- those 'creators', after all?

 

Would not logic follow reason 

that we who nurture,

seek peace, harmony, tranquillity

-those 'God-like' attributes-

that if there indeed a gender  be,

would not that be ours, naturally?

Pantoum poetry - The original pantoum was used for a project, and as a personal challenge I decided to write it closer to the original Malaysian form (rhyming and no reversal of A1 and A3 in the last stanza).  I used rhyming iambic tetrameter and allowed myself a slight variation, also in text (he/she).  This revision has a little more variation of text and an extra syllable in S3, L1 and S7, L4.  

Abandoned Room and Business Schemes

Abandoned room of long ago,

that secret place of childhood dreams,

no longer haunts with tales told -

for life moved on to business schemes.

That secret place of childhood dreams

lost innocence to greedy life,

for life moved on to business schemes.

Divorce took care of adult’rous wife,

whose innocence lost to greedy life.

Oh Fool, fool self and no one else!

Divorce took care of adult’rous wife,

(ironically, she grew in wealth).

Oh Fool, fool self and no one else!

Workaholic, callous of others

(ironically, he grew in wealth

though indulgent of own lover) !

Workaholic, callous of others -

he, surprised by failing health

(though indulgent of own lover)

yearns for place where innocence dwelt.

He, surprised by failing health

no longer young, no longer sound

yearns for place where innocence dwelt,

forgotten refuge, no more found.

Feeble now, reminiscent of

abandoned room of long ago,

though exists in memory’s cloth

no longer  - still haunts with tales told.

For all of those who think it just takes a hat to qualify and nobody will notice.

Hat Game

Hats are powerful things, you know.

Put one on and, “Look Mama, I’m a conductor!”

another, “Look, I’m a doctor!”

Spot is a dog.  See Spot run – a child’s first reader.

Lay out an array and a child will try them on.

And then there’s, “Let’s play Indian”,

another hat and, “I’m a fireman!”

Look at Johnny.  Look at Mary.

A child’s game played by adults who lose

reality and live by ‘Hat Game’ rules

fool themselves and the innocent few.

I think, therefore I am – said Rene Descartes.

I put on this hat, therefore I am – said the cheat.

Those little minds need many hats.

They cover what reality lacks.

No matter damage done misleading.

How convenient, such self deceit.

Ego trip. Bypass hard work learning.

I am reminded of a sage jewel:

(the overnight pro is made of this)

A little knowledge is dangerous!

Foreign words to the Hat Game fools.

Off the cobblestone road, by Romans laid, leads a way to the old Abbey - steps' middle deeply worn.  

To the Abbey

Stone steps hewn of sweat, well treaded

worn where countless footsteps fell

not of granite as most eyes see,

here tread countless believers still.

Found marks of mason’s tool engraved,

like signatures, though not of words.

Found plaque records those who paid,

recalls only wealthy learned.

What tales tell, these silent stones?

What fervent words uttered in step

by anguished maidens rich or poor,

grieved mothers or hopeful remorsed?

Those thoughts of past imagery

shrilled away by tourist’s noise

strange, irrev'rent cacophony

halts my steps on hallowed ground.

So waits my place of reverie

for another day and dawning morn,

when well treaded path will lead me

to ponder a mason’s steps of stone.

'hewn of sweat' is intended and learned here is learn-ed, archaic, but so what!  One can look at the stone and see stone. I look at worn steps and for me they are made of or hewn by 'blood and sweat' - to borrow an expression - well worn by feet of many past generations.  I am thinking of changing 'hewn ground' to hallowed ground...opinions welcome.

I often seem to lean toward 8 syllabic lines with a 7 or 9 count as a variation...this depending on pronunciation (ie, some say hew-n others hew-in which is 2 syllabic or irrev'rent, 3 syllables rather than irreverent which is four, I leave the pronouncing up to the reader's choice.)  I also seem to favour (as in naturally lean toward) trochic/iambic with occasional amphibrach/amphimacer in my poetry - this noticed post examined out of curiosity to understand what makes up my own poetry style.

Masquerade

Mask well fitted

suits willing face

grey mood covered

voice rendered mute

Mask well worn

for those who behold

saves face, saves grace

avoids dispute

Mask well suited 

fits mirrored place

saves the world

from feelings felt

Not least of all

hides truth from self

Cuckoo's Fate

(In Memory of a noisy cuckoo)

Hate, fate

hickory dock

Cuckoo's home but

won't come out.

Won't play, won't say

closes doors.

Time's at end

for wooden friend.

Did Raven say, 'Never More'?

(Once upon a time a cranky old man had a noisy cuckoo.  One day, there was murder in his eye...)

Cinquaine Poetry information

Tourists

elite, riff-raff

spending, disrupting, destroying

A plague descending upon peace.

Locusts

Garden Themes

Diamonte Poetry information

Spring

colourful, active

greening, growing, renewing

buds, blossoms, leaves, harvest

changing, slowing, falling

golden, preparatory

Autumn

Summer

bright, yellow

playing, lazing, cruising

flowers, bees, frost, magic

snowing, reflecting, resting

pale, transformation

Winter

The true villanelle has the second line of each stanza rhyming which this one, Lullabye and Convenient Friend do not.  A variation that resulted out of an exercise...

Restless Peace

Was there ever a time we were not bound

by restless, yearning search for answers,

so illusive, that inner peace was found?

Or not prayed for, that murmured sound

of inner sages, whispered warning, weeping.

Was there ever a time we were not?  Bound

it seems, we are.  Full of ponderings expressed out loud.

And questions, faulting pages bemoaned in Book of Life

Oh, illusive, that inner peace!  Was ‘found’

ever really the goal?  How much are we allowed

of sacred glimpse of mirrored soul?

Yet, was there ever a time we were?  Not bound

by such wearying thoughts profound

the unobsessed, blissful remain ignorant, of

so illusive an inner peace. ‘Was found’

for them, never the issue nor have they thoughts hallowed

nor question they, ‘cosmic why’s’ or ‘soul fusion’.

Was there ever a time we were not bound

nor self-illusive?  Oh, inner peace,  be found!

Another villanelle variation, and memories of the heather in Scotland...

Lullaby Mine

Where have you gone, lullaby mine?

Lilting on fairy’s wings to

heather and yon,  the wind on my sigh.

Soothe the child with whispered lies,

innocent, unknowing, dozing.

Where have you gone, lullaby mine?

If hushed song had colours fine

then I would recall hues of

heather. Yon, the wind with my sigh

carried it far, to places by time

not touched nor visited by me.

Where have you gone, lullaby mine?

My heart remembers, and aches at times

when I wonder where the

heather has gone.  The wind on my sigh

teases my tears, teases my mind,

plays through my hair.

Where have you flown, lullaby mine?

To heather and yon,  the wind on my sigh.

Another variation of the villanelle.  One of these days perhaps I'll manage the classic form with the rhyming second lines.

Convenient Friend

I, for you - always there to be

your convenient, comforting friend,

yet you, never returned thought for me.

Like safe guardian ship on stormy seas

I rocked you in my arms, never failed you,

aye. For you always there, to be

also your battered board, that too a need

that I harboured.  Foolish me, who sought

yet you never returned.  A thought for me

was all I hoped.  Is not friendship a dual street?

There is no tandem there - just a lonely friend,

I.  For you, always there to be

a resilient cactus to neglect.  It too, has water needs.

Forgive this much used cliché, but they do die without it.

Yet you never returned a thought for me

or that the ship may sink in it, or lacking it, the cactus wither.

And therein lies the secret problematic.

Aye, for you always there to be -

yet you, never.  Return a thought for me?

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