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A Definition:
Poetry (ancient Greek: ποιεω (poieo) = I create) is an art form in which human language is used for its aesthetic qualities in addition to, or instead of, its notional and semantic content. It consists largely of oral or literary works in which language is used in a manner that is felt by its user and audience to differ from ordinary prose.
"I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution thousands or even millions of young Americans wandering around with rucksacks, going up to mountains to pray, making children laugh and old men glad, making young girls happy and old girls happier, all of 'em Zen Lunatics who go about writing poems that happen to appear in their heads for no reason and also by being kind and also by strange unexpected acts keep giving visions of eternal freedom to everybody and to all living creatures." - Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums |
After great pain, a formal feeling comes
by Emily Dickinson (1830 - 1886)
Winter Solstice by Sandy Nervig The sun is lowest in the sky the night time rules the hours. The cold crisp air ushers in snow as it dances down, with its mesmerizing powers. So nature's beauty changes now veiled in a delicate white. Its life-giving flakes a treasured gift as is the brightest moon of the night. The sun's brush paints brilliant colors pastels and fiery oranges in the sky. As it makes its journey higher and higher soon to be a memory, of winter days gone by. |
The Fly by William Blake Songs of Experience
Little Fly, Thy summer's play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away. Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me? For I dance And drink and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing. If thought is life And strength and breath, And the want Of thought is death, Then am I A happy fly, If I live Or if I die. |
The Green Hills of Earth by Robert A Heinlein Let the sweet fresh breezes heal me As they rove around the girth Of our lovely mother planet Of the cool, green hills of Earth. We rot in the moulds of Venus, We retch at her tainted breath. Foul are her flooded jungles, Crawling with unclean death. We've tried each spinning space mote And reckoned its true worth: Take us back again to the homes of men On the cool, green hills of Earth. The arching sky is calling Spacemen back to their trade. ALL HANDS! STAND BY! FREE FALLING! And the lights below us fade. Out ride the sons of Terra, Far drives the thundering jet, Up leaps a race of Earthmen, Out, far, and onward yet --- We pray for one last landing On the globe that gave us birth; Let us rest our eyes on the fleecy skies And the cool, green hills of Earth. |
My Soul Has A Hat
by Mário de Andrade (1893 - 1945)
I counted my years and realized that I have less time to live by, than I have lived so far.
I feel like a child who won a pack of candies: at first, he ate them with pleasure but when he realized that there was little left, he began to taste them intensely.
I have no time for endless meetings where the statutes, rules, procedures and internal regulations are discussed, knowing that nothing will be done.
I no longer have the patience to stand absurd people who, despite their chronological age, have not grown up.
My time is too short: I want the essence; my spirit is in a hurry. I do not have much candy in the package anymore.
I want to live next to humans, very realistic people who know how to laugh at their mistakes and who are not inflated by their own triumphs and who take responsibility for their actions. In this way, human dignity is defended and we live in truth and honesty.
It is the essentials that make life useful.
I want to surround myself with people who know how to touch the hearts of those whom hard strokes of life have learned to grow with sweet touches of the soul.
Yes, I'm in a hurry. I'm in a hurry to live with the intensity that only maturity can give.
I do not intend to waste any of the remaining desserts. I am sure they will be exquisite, much more than those eaten so far.
My goal is to reach the end satisfied and at peace with my loved ones and my conscience.
We have two lives and the second begins when you realize you only have one.
Colorado Cowboy Poetry Gathering - 30th Anniversary
I've had the pleasure of attending the Colorado Cowboy Poetry Gathering a number of times in Golden, Colorado. However, I don't often remember to take photographs. Luckily, at their 30th Anniversary show (January 17 - 20, 2019) I remembered to bring a camera that does a better job from a distance in the audience. In addition to the photos you see here, I also have a few with me and the individual artists on my Music page. More important than the photos, of course, are their actual performances! I encourage you to attend this or any other cowboy poetry gathering the next chance you get!
Carol Heuchan
Rex Rideout
Kristyn Harris
Ernie Martinez and John Chandler
Old Favorites...
Health Warning
All of these poems contain imagination!
While in Dublin I stumbled upon poet Pat Ingoldsby selling his books along the sidewalk. I thought this warning sign so interesting I photographed it, unexpectedly catching him by surprise. As a quick response, he pointed to another sign that said something like "photographing signs is rude" (or some similar phraseology) while saying to me, "Why don't you photograph that sign?" I was a bit flustered and not only didn't take a picture of the other sign, but didn't get one of him, me, or anything else. Nevertheless, this "Poetry Health Warning" sign speaks volumes (so to speak) about his work. (At one time I had a link to his site, right here, but it has long-since been discontinued...)
Psalm 91:5-7
Other Poems and Limericks:
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New King James Version
You shall not be afraid of the terror by night,
Nor of the arrow that flies by day,
Nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness,
Nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday.
A thousand may fall at your side,
And ten thousand at your right hand;
But it shall not come near you.
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