My wife fetched me to come quickly but to leave the girls behind(my Labradors) She pointed timidly at a bird on my driveway as it lay still in evident distress. A beautiful Great Kiskadee Flycatcher with its bandit mask and saffron yellow breast. I knew this bird. I had observed him many times perched upon the birdbath in my backyard.
I picked him up easily which saddened me, knowing that he was truly injured. He offered no resistance to my touch, blood wet my hand and I knew this beautiful thing was to expire. I could detect no external injuries but there was blood coming out of his rectum. Perhaps something it had eaten, perhaps a poisonous tidbit or possibly being struck by a passing car. I could feel its pounding heartbeat pulsating in my hand, I presumed them to be its last. I peered deep into its eye, that dark orb, I could see light reflected there. What was I seeing? Resignation, surrender, acceptance of its plight, its fate, a placid calmness, its life ebbing.
It’s Saturday afternoon, October 24, 2015 and it is raining. There is a hurricane (Patricia) or the remnants of one approaching us from the southwest from Mexico. It was a category 5 storm when it came ashore on the Pacific coast of Mexico but the mountains decimated it into a tropical depression
I was watching the college football games but both games are blowouts (Baylor beating Iowa State and Clemson beating Miami) so I decided to come in here and let my creative genius express itself, Ha! I sincerely wish I had some writing ability so as to express what I feel and to express it in descriptive words so as to invoke in someone the emotion I feel or convey something of worth.
I think some of my poems are good but some are pretty amateurish. I did two of late that were quick and easy and they were “Faces” and “The Planting” but I have been f...
I was just watching a program on late night TV named” Alaskan Bush People,” I became inspired by the recollection or affinity or maybe call it an appreciation for the people we grew up with and or the place of our youth. I might have been influenced in this by the Double Smokey Martini I was drinking as a nightcap (I’m weaning myself off Nyquil).
I was inspired to write as my poetic juices seemed to be flowing extraneously. The program is about a family of seven living off the grid in southeastern Alaska. Their patriarch is a man named Brown who came from an upper middle class family in Texas. They were well-to-do by my standards in that his father had a small private plane.
Mr. Brown’s father, mother and sister were all killed in an accidental plane crash in a Texas thunder storm which made this young man an orphan. He took his inheritance and insurance money and fled to Alaska. I have been there and I know his torment, to just run and run and seek adventure and...
Poetry is possibly an art form to express not what you see but that which you perceive. Maybe it’s only purpose is to preserve the self.
Poetry is falling in love with a word like pierian, which relates to poetry or poetic inspiration. It also refers to the Pierides,(the women who challenged the muses and were turned into chattering Magpies), also to the nine Muses, the mythical daughters of Zeus.
“I am here where poets come to drink a strong poison with tiny shards of ice to loosen my primate tongue and its syllables of debris.”
(Fragment by Terrance Hayes)
Dreaming is an ode to the mystery of moonlight when in slumber we transcend ourselves to walk paths that are in a fantasy world, to escape the reality of the real world.
The Moon, that pale orb that traverses the night sky, unreceptive in its observance of the earth below.
Bombarded by the pinpricks of a million stars, passive, pale, luminous and unconcerned.
“It’s the stars that pitch white needles into the pond”
I had a dream last night or rather a dialog with myself and it turned into a sort of epiphany of sorts. This week I decided to become a whiskey drinker or at least try the spirit. I am resentful of the substance being my father drank straight whisky (Seagram Seven) and chased it with Seven Up. My father was a mean drunk and often beat my mother and I can still recall the wretched smell of it on his breath.
I performed my due diligence and researched the subject on line, sipping fine whiskey or scotch. The subject was quite exhaustive to my surprise and I learned a great deal. I learned that most whiskeys are blends and that Scotch is only distilled in Scotland. I learned that the way it’s distilled and in what containers makes a difference and there is such a thing as copper pot whiskey. Of course whiskey can be made from almost anything; rye, barley, corn, potatoes, rice, etc. How it’s stored and aged also makes a huge difference and that charcoal plays a huge part...
Every so often I seek to find enlightenment from whatever source as I may find. As of late I have become discouraged by the news and the progressive Liberal Agenda and Political Correctness.
My church and minister disappoint me in that our church is on the verge of ordaining gay ministers and bishops. This would certainly put gays in the vicinity of children and that is an accident waiting to happen especially gay men around young boys. How many scandals do we have to experience before we learn the lesson?
I got into a tiff with the minister’s wife the other Sunday at Sunday school. I stated there was a plan out there by God and it was called Mother Nature. I voiced my opinion that nowhere in nature do I see males sodomizing other males-nowhere! Nor did I see females destroying their offspring.
The minister’s wife quipped that we should be tolerant of gays and they deserve God’s love just as much as we do. I asked her if she was alright with grown men sodomiz...
This poem is actually a Shakespearian sonnet which I have researched. It is comprised of three quatrains and a couplet and is written in iambic pentameter. In short; a quatrain is four lines and a couplet is two. Iambic pentameter is five syllables or doubled as here to ten. Total of fourteen lines.
So much for your education. I got the word “jeremiad” from my on line subscription to “Word-a-Day”. It originates from the Biblical context of the prophet Jeremiah lamenting the sins of Israel in the Book of Lamentations. In short it’s a prolonged lament about anything of your choosing.
In my case it’s the way the world is bowing to the L.G.B.T. agenda and it has metamorphosed into a hatred of Christians since we don’t approve of their lifestyle or other things such as abortion. In other words the liberals accuse us of being bigots, haters and racists if we don’t agree with them. Conservatism is now being equated as being Christian and we are deemed intolerant. I am ready for the world to en...
Another one, they just seem to sprout from nowhere. I just wish they were better than they are. They are easy to write but how can I improve? I can convey to myself what I feel and put it on paper and make it rhyme but its not Frost. My stuff is better than Ezra Pound who is famous but I compare myself to people like Frost or Wadsworth where you can see their genius. I now love Shakespeare because I can see his brilliance and genius like no other in history, the man was like Leonardo DaVinci, a man out of his time. I'm not sure I even spelled his name right.
Nature's first green is gold
It's her hardest hue to hold
Her early leaf a flower
But only so an hour
Then leaf subsides to leaf
So Eden sinks to grief
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay By Robert Frost
Genius and so simple! I compare my work to that! I guess it's better to write and be lousy than to never have written at all! PUN! DAD
I read of an old wolf today that had been transplanted from Alaska to Washington State. He didn’t have a name but just a government number but his name was not important; no more than his story is.
He was a hero in every sense, a superb specimen and in his prime. He had been acquired by the government to help repopulate an indigenous species back into parts of the lower forty eight states where they had become extinct at the hand of man.This old wolf was the progenitor of so many of the wolf packs in Washington, Oregon and Idaho, they all carried his genes, and he had done his job well. People once again could hear the lonesome wolf howls swell in their eerie echoes through the mountains. They once again saw wolf tracts in the freshly fallen snow. This was a success story which America celebrated.
Alas! The old wolf grew old as we all must, such is the way of the earth. He soon was shunned by his offspring and driven out from his natural home by younger wolves seeking to esta...