The Poetry Page
Thanks to all who have contributed, and keep them coming!
6/10/98
The Most Beautiful Flower
The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read
Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree.
Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,
For the world was intent on dragging me down.
And if that weren't enough to ruin my day,
A young boy out of breath approached me,
all tired from play.
He stood right before me with his head tilted down
And said with great excitement, "Look what I found!"
In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,
With its petals all worn - not enough rain, or too little light.
Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play,
I faked a small smile and then shifted away.
But instead of retreating he sat next to my side
And placed the flower to his nose and declared with overacted
surprise,
"It sure smells pretty and it's beautiful, too.
That's why I picked it; here, it's for you."
The weed before me was dying or dead.
Not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow or red.
But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave.
So I reached for the flower, and replied, "Just what I need."
But instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
He held it mid-air without reason or plan.
It was then that I noticed for the very first time
That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.
I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun
As I thanked him for picking the very best one.
"You're welcome," he smiled, and then ran off to play,
Unaware of the impact he'd had on my day.
I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree.
How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight.
Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see
The problem was not with the world; the problem was me.
And for all of those times I myself had been blind,
I vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every second
that's mine.
And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose
And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose
And smiled as I watched that young boy, another weed in his hand
About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.
~~author unknown~~
Jody's Jello
Whisper My Name
I don't need money
And I don't need fame
All I need is you
To whisper my name
When you're in my arms
I feel no shame
You warm my heart
When you whisper my name
When you whisper my name
I feel your love
So warm and so tender
You're all I think of
Sometimes there's turmoil
Like the winds of a hurricane
But it all calms down
When you whisper my name
When you whisper my name
And look into my eyes
That's when I know
I have found paradise.
Copyright � 1998 by J.P. Chambley. All Rights Reserved.
Kathy47's Kollaberation
ARE WE THERE YET
Taking a trip can be a pleasurable escape, if only
the children would refrain from asking me, are
we there yet?
We didn't get but two blocks from the house when,
the kids shouted in my ear the music I would
rather hear! Are we there yet?
Not an hour from home the kids exclaim we have
to stop , and use the bathroom before we pop.
So back into the car we're on the road and my kids
ask me and I'm not suprised I can tell by the look
in their eyes. Are we there yet?
A few hours go by and stillness is within the car,
what a pleasant suprise they've fallen asleep, now
I can relax it's so serene with no one shouting from
the back seat.
Within minutes their eyes open like a revolving door,
it's back to questions I have quiet no more. Are we
there yet?
By the time I arrive at my parents front door my
hair is frazzled my make-up has run, at least for a
few days the kids won't say, are we there yet?
After a few days we're back on the road, of course
within ten minutes they will not refrain from
driving me totally insane, it isn't long before they
say, are we there yet?
I can't wait until I get home as I begin to think
to myself, that tedious refrain. Are we there yet?
KATHRYN CARROLL
8-8-96
A ROYAL ROSE
A rose is a simplicity of beauty, its thorn
to punish those who touch.
A rose should be admired for its grace
and not be disrupted from its place, where
it has anchored its royal roots to the ground.
Just admire the fragrance that's in the air,
and my beauty we both can share.
For if you should disrupt my royal beauty,
my thorns are like a mighty sword, I will
fight to draw blood and only then will you
see the power that's enthroned in me!
So never think of me as just a flower that
can be plucked from its sacred ground, I
will sharpen my thorns to fight for my life,
to enhance my beauty I have to be strong so
please just look and leave me alone!
KATHRYN CARROLL
6-6-96
Below you'll find a few of Lizah's Laments....enjoy....
Animal Passion
She lay beneath him, warm and open
in an attitude of full surrender.
And he, poised above, looked down
and murmurred, "I love you."
As quick as that, she slapped him
savagely across the cheek.
Don't talk, she said. It spoils the mood.
Body and Soul
The soul stirred
even as the body sank beneath the weight
of age and illness.
As the heart ceased,
the soul quickened, quivering, like new-formed wings.
Beating, beating...a prelude to flight.
The lungs exhaled
and the soul escaped to rise and swell and soar,
and never heard the weeping as it fled.
I Was Depressed I Think
there is a smudge of dirt
on my cheek
that I can't be bothered
to remove
but I'm almost out of cigarettes
so I guess I'll be going out soon
the light hurts my eyes
I haven't seen the sun
in days - or is it weeks?
the moon was much kinder
although her light was cold
outside the air's gone chilly
I guess fall's really here
the leaves are all but gone now
my God, I look like hell
stripped to my soul
like those trees are
laid bare by the blast
of the wind
things change
it's just a short walk
to the corner store
and I cough as I trudge along
the sidewalk where
the dry leaves crackle underfoot
I smoke too much
and I drank - til I ran out of booze
now I just sit
and watch the smoke spiral up
without a sound
sometimes they come
and knock on my door
I never answer
they've stopped since last week
probably think I've gone away
they aren't far wrong
I've been on a journey
for to find infinity
and you know what?
it isn't there.
BELGIUM
European exile:
Fast trains and meals
that last five hours;
Patchwork farms dividing
villages huddled
around ancient church towers.
Castles and graveyards,
history on every hand.
A museum that breathes.
Everything in miniature:
narrow streets and minds
cocooned in culture.
Pay as you go, but don't
touch the glass, please.
Stay on the paths.
Seven years a tourist.
At home and yet...
forever foreign.
(© Copyright Lisa Martin All Rights Reserved)
ODESSYUS FIN
Poems I wrote in innocence,
believeing that the surge
of emotion was the tide
of truth.
I thought the ocean of my soul
was deep and full of secrets.
The siren song was mine
and filled my sails with high ideals
and dreams.
I was young.
The earth is flat
and monsters wait to devour those
who sail too far.
There is no passion in the profound;
it simply is.
And old sailors sit
in quiet taverns on the shore,
telling tales and never looking
at the sea.
(© Copyright Lisa Martin All Rights Reserved)
Sky
I am enchanted with the Nebraska sky. On our Sunday drive (which may become
a family tradition) we passed mile upon mile of corn and soy bean fields.
Old cottonwood trees marked the winding streams and surrounded white farm
houses and tall silos, like stout classical columns sprouting where once
there was only prairie grass. And above all these things that man had made,
the vast Nebraska sky remains unchanged, but ever changing.
We followed a storm. A wide band of black clouds on the northern horrizon
flashed and sparkled with lightning that rivaled the sun. We drove through
water on long, straight roads, saw cars heading south with their windshield
wipers still thumping. But we never caught the storm. The blue sky stayed
above us as the storm hurried north and west, drawing a veil of gray from
earth to sky across the landscape.
I am enchanted by the Nebraska sky.
(© Copyright Lisa Martin All Rights Reserved)
Strangers
It occurs to me that we are all strangers.
Strangers to the area, strangers to each other,
strangers to ourselves.
We live.
And we move about on the planet.
And we see the world.
And we change it.
And it changes us.
And we love,
yet we are strangers.
(© Copyright Lisa Martin All Rights Reserved)
If you liked Lizah's poetry, check out the pics she clicks
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