blessing for voters, a Wordle

Bless the blue and the red
those who tirelessly stump for votes
among the hopeful and hopeless
grabbing at sticks and straws
as they burn bridges behind them
and always conceal how they ran the race
the votes they cast—win or lose—
behind the locked curtain.

©Sometimes, 2017

Wordle #273, November 11, 2016 … by MindLoveMisery

the words:   blue, burn, lose, race, red, lock, grab, bless, stump, vote, conceal, stick.

now…and again, in verse

DSC09451

Fall encroaches on Summer
not an ending
… a new season dawns.

© Sometimes, 2017

DSC09952.JPG QUEEN ANNE

Fall gently nudges
as Summer takes a bow
opening a new show in town.

© Sometimes, 2017

VERY GOOD DANDELION CLOSE

the culmination of flowers
not faded…but making room
for the next generation

© Sometimes, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beginnings, a poem re-blogged from Paul F. Lenzi’s poseypluspolemics

 

One of my favorite poets, Paul F. Lenzi, of poesypluspolemics blog, included the Reblog button with his fascinating and most inspiring works of sheer genius of words…no need to ask me twice.  🙂  The Hubble Telescope shot is also breathtaking. Thanks Paul.

Poesy plus Polemics

pillars “Pillars of Creation” – Photo by Hubble Telescope

Secrets of creation hide deep in conflation
Of science with faith, of corpus with wraith,
Discrete bits of essence, immune from senescence,
That mark each warm creature, or cold lifeless feature,
Of all the known world, plus those unknown, thus hurled
Through vastness of space, push-pulled in their chase
By grave forces, unseen, save by eyes utmost keen
As detectors of naught, who find nothingness caught
By the physics of sleight, in mathematical light,
Racing outward, away from a focal array,
From a radiant heart that outburst apart
With the first stroke of time, Divine in its prime.

Before that release, all was soundless still peace,
When all matter, all dust, was consigned to the trust
Of that heart, then mere speck, the one salient check
Against stark eternity, charged with modernity,
Then, slowly it swelled, its inertia unquelled,
Now a tumescent…

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A poem by Australian poet Dorothea Mackellar

Here is a lovely, lovely poem recommended to me in response to my chatting about the Pershing at the Front poem which I published a couple of days ago here on Sometimes.     My new blogger friend, ACFlory mentioned her own favorite poem…with which I was not familiar (which isn’t unusual, I’m no expert on poetry or poets.)   I googled the title, and located this charming site dedicated to the Australian poet Dorothea Mackellar.

My own roots, some of them, are in Australia…thanks to my grandfather, who when he left Australia at the age of 16, he was already himself a third or fourth generation Aussie.   I never have been there, by the time I decided I wanted to go, I had no funding to finance a trip, and so missed the opportunity.

So I am posting the web site I found honoring the poet, and her poem…

https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-country-17/  (A reading.)

My Country

The love of field and coppice,
Of green and shaded lanes.
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins,
Strong love of grey-blue distance
Brown streams and soft dim skies
I know but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.

I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror –
The wide brown land for me!

A stark white ring-barked forest
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon.
Green tangle of the brushes,
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops
And ferns the warm dark soil.

Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When sick at heart, around us,
We see the cattle die –
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady, soaking rain.

Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the Rainbow Gold,
For flood and fire and famine,
She pays us back threefold –
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze.

An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land –
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand –
Though earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.

Dorothea Mackellar

Sunday Sonnet! Re-blogged from Autumn Ambles

Thanks to friend Bushka for including the “re-blog” button. This poem is appropriate and timely now, and it is my honor to post it here on SOMETIMES for my readers!

Autumn Ambles

IMG_1962(WP)

🦋

Freedom of thought let no one disallow,
The stuff of progress, true, thereof is made;
No wholesome fruit is borne on broken bough,
Nor truth survive if censure speech forbade;
Thought with impunity precedes the word,
Utterance of which to ownership commits;
Denial, then, must surely be absurd,
Lest to hypocrisy a fool admits;
Inebriated hauteur can seduce,
A shallow-bottomed mind, to verbalise
Unconscious reservoir of vile abuse,
Which, in the end, leads to his own demise.
Uncultivated, barren, rocky field –
Much to be done afore it fruit can yield!

©Meanderings 2017

🦋

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Pershing at the Front (by poet Arthur Guiterman) a student recitation favorite…

Back in the day students were required to memorize poems and recite them in class.  For most the process was torture—memorizing a poem from a list of “suggested” poems, working up the nerve to stand up in front of the class for the recitation, and enduring the embarrassment from  snickers of buddies in the audience.

Here’s one that was a favorite of the day, passed around on typewritten and mimeographed “ditto machine” purple-ink copies.     It is appropriate now, among all this false rhetoric about General Pershing, who was a World War I American general, with a long and distinguished reputation as a good, tough cookie among military Historians.

It’s a great poem…rhythm and meter perfect in my book, and well worth reading out loud and all the way through.     Thanks to the folks at holyjoe.org\guiter8.htm for posting it on their site.

Pershing at the Front

      by

Arthur Guiterman

    (1871-1943)

The General came in a new tin hat
To the shell-torn front where the war was at;
With a faithful Aide at his good right hand
He made his way toward No Man’s Land,
And a tough Top Sergeant there they found,
And a Captain, too, to show them round.

Threading the ditch, their heads bent low,
Toward the lines of the watchful foe
They came through the murk and the powder stench
Till the Sergeant whispered, “Third-line trench!”
And the Captain whispered, “Third-line trench!”
And the Aide repeated, “Third-line trench!”
And Pershing answered- not in French-
“Yes, I see it. Third-line trench.”

Again they marched with wary tread,
Following on where the Sergeant led
Through the wet and the muck as well,
Till they came to another parallel.
They halted there in the mud and drench,
And the Sergeant whispered, “Second-line trench!”
And the Captain whispered, “Second-line trench!”
And the Aide repeated, “Second-line trench!”
And Pershing nodded: “Second-line trench!”

Yet on they went through mire like pitch
Till they came to a fine and spacious ditch
Well camouflaged from planes and Zeps
Where soldiers stood on firing steps
And a Major sat on a wooden bench;
And the Sergeant whispered, “First-line trench!”
And the Captain whispered, “First-line trench!”
And the Aide repeated, “First-line trench!”
And Pershing whispered, “Yes, I see.
How far off is the enemy?”
And the faithful Aide he asked, asked he,
“How far off is the enemy?”
And the Captain breathed in a softer key,
“How far off is the enemy?”

The silence lay in heaps and piles
And the Sergeant whispered, “Just three miles.”
And the Captain whispered, “Just three miles.”
And the Aide repeated, “Just three miles.”
“Just three miles!” the General swore,
“What in the heck are we whispering for?”
And the faithful Aide the message bore,
“What in the heck are we whispering for?”
And the Captain said in a gentle roar,
“What in the heck are we whispering for?”
“Whispering for?” the echo rolled;
And the Sergeant whispered, “I have a cold.”

 


Home> Hobbies> Poetry> Archive> Guiterman

Anne Finds Her Career (originally posted February 2016 )

— I first published this poem here on SOMETIMES in February of 2016.    The plan is to re-post some of my favorites among my 400+ posts since the blog began back in 2011.—

Anne finds her career …

When Anne was a girl, she always wanted to be
a dancer.  To wear flowing gowns and satiny slippers
and be guided as a sylph, lifting in twirls and leaping high,
up in the air with skirts twirling and shoes barely touching the floor,
and feeling the thrill of the collective sigh from the audience.
But as fate would have it, her two left feet, and her lack of graceful
moves — more like those of a duck than a lovely swan, or
even a goose–combined with her brother’s snickers
she stepped on her skirt instead of her shoes
and tripped over her partner’s feet.

So then, when she saw that a new goal was needed
Anne decided that she wanted to be, when she grew older,
a doctor.  To have a white coat, a stethoscope  and thermometer
and peer into ears and down throats of her patients…to quickly discover
what ailed them…and find a cure, and all of the people would just be
astounded when Little Anne became a Doctor!
A wonderful plan!
It would be  a good position, pay plenty of money, and mean
great prestige…and besides, the town needed a Doctor.
It might have been the perfect profession, except…
she fainted dead away at the first drop of blood.

Not to be derailed on her track to gainful employment
Anne thought long and hard to find just the right profession
that would serve both her ambitions and her need for recognition.
“One thing that I can do well,” said Anne, “without  tripping over any feet
while dancing…or to lose my wits and panic when anyone bleeds…

The perfect job for me (why didn’t I think of it sooner?) is to get
pen and paper, and a computer — and spend my life Writing!”
So she wrote and she wrote, books and poems, and tales
about dancers and doctors, and all kinds of things.

©Sometimes,2016

Dreaming imaginary Prague, reposted

Dreaming imaginary Prague

 I have never been to Prague, except in daydreams…
but my impressionable mind is easily led
into the magical world of zithers and Gypsies,
of violins singing and wailing in ageless melodies…
music of joy and abandon…or sadness and melancholy.

Put on your hat, my girl, and come along with me…
We will trip the light fantastic (or is it a Fandango?)
whirling, twirling and dancing …and laughing at nothing
as our echoing soles  click and ring among  the cobblestones…
back to the days of fancy and intrigue.

Halcyon days of exquisite youth and passion for it all–
sordid or glorious, respectable or ridiculous–
days when common sense stayed at home amid the quiet
and comfortable over-stuffed chairs…and crackling radio static
never quite able to drown out the strains of an orchestral tune.

Prickles of goose bumps remind of running with n’er-do-wells
and bad influences…those mysterious, exciting  ones that
never existed, masquerading as “ladies” and “gentlemen,”
life’s forbidden (or at least frowned upon) adventures
among the brilliantly dark recesses of shadowy corners.

The mere mention of Prague always brings unseen wonders–
half-vision, half-dream.      There are Ladies in satiny dresses
and impossible shoes…. dancing away the nights, until dawn.
They sway with the music of instruments with no names,
enticing dangerously handsome partners with unknown designs.

But I digress, as is my wont…
the thoughts of romance and mystery subside–
old Prague returns to an idea that lives on
for dreamers…and poets.

©Sometimes, 2016

pondering pastimes

So what should I do this afternoon?

study my Russian lesson?
expand my online  book inventory?
repot a thirsty “Wandering Jew?”

walk in the garden,
read a novel
–write a poem?

I could get lost on google…
visit friends abroad…who probably are sleeping now,
giving their blogs a rest.

sit here and daydream?
fix something for dinner…
clean the garage?

get out my zillions of beads
and all of their appurtenances thereto
to borrow a legal phrase

ah, the latter may be the winner
of my afternoon busywork lottery
with granddaughter birthdays approaching

a tiny bit of skill, strong thread and needles
my treasure trove of baubles and beads…
crystals shining of light of their own

so here I sit, writing a poem
about shiny trinkets and glistening orbs
…inviting a nudge from the beading-muse.

©Sometimes, 2017

 

 

the crisis d’jour

As if it wasn’t near perfect…
now here’s just what was lacking—
a beautiful woman spy
(er…excuse me…lawyer)
of course she has official backing.

The question that begs
to be thoroughly scrutinized:
were these Yankees duped
by nefarious, erstwhile  spies…
or are they just stupid?

 

The leery lady from Lake Erie… a sort of limerick

There was a lady who lived near Lake Erie,
who was cheery and bright
most of the time…
but when she grew weary she soon became leery
of things that go bump in the night.

“You’re a coward,” said her hubby,
(whose name was Howard)
“afraid of a shadow
…or mouse…or a deer.
What would happen if I wasn’t here?”

“Why, I’d get a gun,” said the lady from Erie
“if a faerie or elf or goblin appeared…
I’d get all teary and shoot off its earring!”
“But that would be silly,” said Howard,
“…that only would make it more eerie.”

“I’d rather have it be eerie in Erie,
than down a couple of beers.”
“Well, Dearie, that doesn’t make sense!”
The lady replied with a gleam in her eye:
“I’d rather have Scotch when its eerie in Erie.”

© Sometimes, 2017

a bit of haiku…because I like you

Topsy Turvy
twists and turns happen
each day the world turns tighter,
like a spinning top

©Sometimes, 2017

 

Connections
What can be made of them…
the funny snaps and buttons
…old-fashion Velcro?

©Sometimes, 2017

 

   Join Me
Come and dance with me
across the hills and time streams
let’s echo always!

© Sometimes, 2017

 

light
a sliver of moonbeam
winks warmly in the night sky
…brightens dim places

© Sometimes, 2017

 

inheritance
hair of yellow sunshine
flowing gently in the breeze
reminds of Vikings

© Sometimes, 2017

 

Contemplating the Overhead

(Originally published in Sometimes, 2016)

Who has never stared at a ceiling,
stark and unobtrusive, high above.
Waiting on the examination table,
A pattern of plaster, geometric or concentric
or randomness in tile squares…
in the eye unique to the beholder:
Faces and road maps, decorative design..
Dozing off while waiting for
examination of unseen mysteries,
matters of distracted concern
existing anonymously within
a rounded belly, something enlarged,
a broken bone peeking shyly out
to see air and light… foreign and out-of-place.
To contemplate anomalies without purpose,
pictures not there—right before our eyes.
Improbable, impossible creatures,
staring down on the same…unknown,
unrecognized, without meaning…
open for inspection under the sheet
or the silly inadequate gown.
The very distraction of these glyphs
on the ceiling have reason after all—
to occupy and entertain
a mind with nothing else to do
but wait and wonder, as patterns emerge
a mundane excursion into the
feeling that this may be— The Truth After All…

© Sometimes, 2016