a dream of dreams

This is a poem I wrote nearly a year ago, inspired by a charming and fascinating site called Osseous Design: The Blog .      I happened upon the site one day when surfing, and wrote the date 1-24-17, and name of the Blog at the top of my notebook page.   Tracing back, I was able to find the unique  site, with its creative and innovative “faces” and an original painting and poem with a dream theme.    https://osseousdesign.wordpress.com/2017/01/08/identities/

I was moved to write a poem of my own in my notebook.   Here it is:

dream of dreams

a dream is never “just a dream”
but a manifestation of reveries
ever real, everlasting, ever true
figments of memories—

a dream is never “just a dream”
for much of life’s experience exists
within a world of somedays and might-have-beens
through which hopes and wishes bravely persist

those who discount or ignore life’s dreams
lose and squander the joy of make-believe…
forfeits the pretense and right to achieve
truth never known remains to perceive.

©Sometimes, 2017

Wisteria in silence and sound

A scent of Wisteria
if real or fake
borne by warm breezes
over rippling tidewaters.

A ship’s sharp whistle
from deep in the gut,
as sweet music echoes
through silent halls

… a faceless, mute bibliotaph,
who treasures… within his soul…
sounds he cannot experience
except in his penetralia.

© Sometimes, 2017

 

This WORDLE #129, has languished in my notebook for months.    I do love these exercises offered frequently by MINDLOVEMISERY, and enjoy the challenge of making a poem or other form of writing, using at least ten specific words from a list of 12.  This Wordle words are: Wisteria, faceless, penetralia*, sharp, tidewater, fake, breeze, occur, mute, bibliotaph*, step, and guts.

penetralia: held in interior, core, deep, innards, etc… as in deep sometimes private thoughts or memories

bibliotaph: someone who hoards books, a book collector

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…

View original post 63 more words

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

🦋

View original post

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

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

the dance of the miscreants, a fairy-tale?

… and all of the miscreants danced in a ring
singing and clapping and everything.

Chicken Little handed out cups with holes in the bottoms…
and urged everyone to please help themselves.

Uncle Paul smirked and grinned, and dreamed
when he slept, of clever tricks and double crosses.

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, sent out engraved linen notes
that read: “Be here or else—but mind what you say.”

The Ice Queen giggled and tried to look cool,
as she whispered to the boss “you’re starting to melt.”

The King beamed and preened to adoring crowds
who cheered as he told them: “You all are invisible to me!”

The Witch of the Beltway cackled with glee:
“Listen to me!   What do I say?  What do I mean?”

…and the Tall Man looked down on everyone
until he tripped and came crashing down…

Topsy Turvey turned and spun… telling tales and amazing everyone.
“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

Mr. Dowdy Pudding frumped and preened,
beady eyes glistening with malice and mildew.

It’s all a cruel joke intended to wound—impossible tricks every day:
the Media chatters and makes up titillating tales.

The Wise Women lecture and try to make sense
while the Old White Men tell them “sit down and shut up.”

The Lawyers, in turn get their say…don’t let facts in the way!
Believe nothing you hear—nor even what you say!

…and all of the miscreants danced in a ring
singing and clapping and everything.

©Sometimes, 2017

 

clouds and memories, a poem

jet trails2

Draw me gently to your chest
my heart will linger there;
across the ages, along time’s trails,
the memories ever return.

Wait for me!—oh, wait for me!
the plaintive echo pleads.
When least expected, awakening
to memories in words of a poem.

Oh tell me—where do they dwell?
Among the dreams and reveries
apart from the wrack of reality
forever a blend of torture and joy.

©Sometimes, 2017