David Nelson: Favorites

Dec 2013 David Nelson

Anderson M

Mirror! Mirror! On the wall
Though art the cause of many a fall
What with them endless hours adjusting and re-adjusting
Visages to desired perfection mindless of the misgiving.
Wearing masks in a variety of color
In a bid to entice a bachelor
With whose heart she’ll most disconcertingly hold ransom
Anticipating a blossom
Of a methodically engineered relationship
Minding her speech lest a Freudian slip
Nips at the bud
Her good “fortune” exposing her as a fraud.
Perfect imperfections, perfectly mirrored
By an imperfect mirror…**absurd.

Random
stray
thoughts

Dec 2013 David Nelson

Late Night Rambles

Dec 2013 David Nelson

Kitty Prr

Late Night Rambles

Poem a day, day 11*

Late for bed once again.
Last minute scrawl with my pen.
What'll come out is anyone's guess
To make it half decent I'll try my best.

The other half might be indecent
You never know your luck.
On thing I do sense
My rhymes will run amok.

Rhyming couplets here and there
But you can bet they're not everywhere.
The rhyme shall be as the mood takes me
And self editing is not what I foresee.

So another poem not really about anything.
Just me rambling about the first thing.
That happens to come to mind as I sit down to write
My poem a day, so late at night.

So less for me this time
And more for my reader
And learning to create
Whatever my weather.

Dec 2013 David Nelson

Ison, I, Comet

Dec 2013 David Nelson

Nat Lipstadt

Ison, I, Comet

Ison,

you who are the sons,
this is addressed to you.

you who are comets,
you who are not,
cannot believe, you are
comet,
but are nonetheless.

You who awake and say,
I, Son
be whom you must,
pretend not to be
the son of...

no matter how many
millions of miles must be
traveled till you are visible,
no matter how brief your life,
you are more than Ison,
your are yourself, part son,
but all man, unique.

set your own course,
if to the sun you must fly,
set the course you choose,
and we will call you by your
name true,
I, Comet.

---------------------------------
http://online.wsj.com/news/articles/SB10001424052702303497804579240290630829078#printMode

Like Icarus, Comet Ison flew too close to the sun and perished. After passing near the solar surface on Thanksgiving Day, Ison vanished in a ghostly puff. Ice and dust proved no match for infernal heat. Next up is Comet Lovejoy, whose close encounter with the sun will take place on Christmas Day.

Here on the island of Nantucket, we know well the heartbreak of comets. In 1847, Maria Mitchell became world famous for discovering a comet from the rooftop of her family's home on this fleck of land 30 miles out to sea, the first comet ever found using a telescope. Mitchell's calculation of the comet's orbit showed that its trajectory would carry it away from the solar system, never to return. Within three months of its discovery, the comet had faded from view, beyond the light-gathering capabilities of even the most powerful telescopes. All that remains today is a memory.

According to Greek legend, when Icarus and his father, Daedalus, were imprisoned by King Minos on the island of Crete, Daedalus built wings of feathers and wax for their escape, cautioning Icarus not to fly too high because the sun would melt the wax. But Icarus was so overjoyed by his ability to soar and swoop like a bird that he forgot his father's warning. As he flew higher and higher, the feathers came loose and he fell to his death in the sea below.

Ison was once a prisoner too, held for billions of years in our solar system's dark netherworld, the Oort cloud, a place so remote it takes a beam of sunlight a year to arrive there. Freed by a sudden gust of gravity from a passing star, the comet began its exhilarating but ill-fated flight to the sun a few million years ago.

Dec 2013 David Nelson

Inkspiration

Dec 2013 David Nelson

Kitty Prr

Inkspiration

Poem a day, day 10*

Why can't I write poetry
About things that matter to me?
Or am I really that shallow that all I care about
Is my own feelings of love, passion and loss
Or how tired/busy I am.

I haven't written a single poem about
Feminism, ecology or politics
Or even Star Trek or Doctor Who.
No Red Dwarf, cats or Cat from Red Dwarf.
Heaven knows I've thought about it.

I've thought "there's more to my life than that"
"There's more to me"
"I should write abut such-and-such"
And then sit there
completely blank.

My cat looks at me, sniffing the air
"How could you possibly not write about me?"
And walks off.
His brother lying on the armrest
The world revolves around him in a different way.

Well be more inspiring boys!
Help me out here!
Okay can't blame you
If even Star Trek and Doctor Who aren't doing it.
Plenty of ideas, so few poems

Dec 2013 David Nelson

Never Here

Dec 2013 David Nelson

Mercy B

Never Here

If you stand so very still you just may hear giddy little fireflies (dancing in the moon kissed sky) whisper across the wind a wondrous tale, otherwise kept hidden within their light.

Secrets from the Land of Never Here, a forgotten world where our most coveted dreams are born and shimmering starlight is no longer bound solely to the night.

Fascinating tales of an enchantress, the keeper of bewitched forest, so captivating that even the strongest of hearts fall helpless when caught in the magnetism of her gaze.

Where a hillside water fall displays capricious streams of color crashing down over smooth rocks, the mist creating a delicate rainbow haze.

A land where the wild imagines of poetic minds are captured and given life, where one's inner sprite is encouraged to frolic and flutter, never stifled or confined.

It is a world of endless wonders where each new dawn the brilliant sun rises up into the pristine sky singing out melodious song nourishing the canvas in your mind.

Where fantasy and reality mesh splendidly into the now and the allurement of what tomorrow may bring fills one with anticipation and excitement instead of worry and fear.

A refuge in which time sets forth with specific pace, never late, for one will find themselves right where they should be in the Land of Never Here.

Written for my momma, I know she would have liked this. I miss you more than I could ever express.

Dec 2013 David Nelson

Always fall in love with a poet

Dec 2013 David Nelson

Nat Lipstadt

Always fall in love with a poet

Always!*
fall in love with a poet,
they cannot disguise the truth,
yet, soften it when needed, somehow,
for the only words they possess
are kindness and kindness...

Should you travel with a poet,
new ways of seeing will they introduce,
delighting you, and for ever in you, delight,
for every word that passes thru their lips,
gifts to keep, for the days of when...

There cannot be always good times,
poets know, so they write today,
for when tomorrow's intrusion is
the other end of life's continuum,
their words recalled, restore, revive...

Poets are the predecessors,
your torment, anguish, they have known,
so when they write today, it is
preparation when the future demands,
changes that require tissues, shoulders, arms...

Worry not about their torment,
t'is a seasonal change, comes and goes,
but in the winters of your life,
yours - warm fire, warm poets, summer kind words,
so, always, always,

Always fall in love with a poet...

A riposte to Mr. Hawkins of Canada

Dec 2013 David Nelson

The Solitary Earring/Cufflink (Where do we survivors live?)

Dec 2013 David Nelson

Nat Lipstadt

The Solitary Earring/Cufflink (Where do we survivors live?)

The solitary reminder,
a sole survivor,
hopeful-placed,
forgivingly encased
in little boxes decorative
hidden in plain sight
throughout our home.

Single and incomplete,
the lonesome leftovers,
openly hid upon bookshelf,
desk corners, fireplace mantels,
storage units of the
I am unlost,
I am unfound,

Raise your hand,
stand up and say
that is me,
that is me.

Minor treasure chests,
of carved wood, seashell real,
acquisitions of trips
to faraway places,
these boxes, they themselves,
visible but unremembered,
just there, no cares,
no one knows,
when or why.

that is me,
is that me?

Space fillers, memory taunts,
grandchildren's playthings, delight,
when they someday come visit,
weather and parents permitting,
finding keys for locks, doors,
from three homes ago.

Can they unlock me too?

Boxes hoard the things
we have lost, but cannot discard,
can't sacrifice, gotta keep,
an admixture of buttons,
dried flowers, faded notes that
once upon a time mattered,
shook someone's world...

Some kept in hope,
others, sequestered, lock-up,
jails that we are both
jailor and jailed,
the joke being on me.

Should we, you and I,
exchange these
cases histories of lost hopes, memories,
it would not be surprising,
if when opened,
the contents identical,
even if you are in Manila,
Leeds, places of need,
and yet,
we would be shocked,
asking,

*that is me,
is that me?

If you like this, and as of yet not read
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/always-fall-in-love-with-a-poet/
take a minute, for it the best of me, perhaps,
the best of you too...

Dec 2013 David Nelson

If cowboy hats had ear muffs

Dec 2013 David Nelson

Nat Lipstadt

If cowboy hats had ear muffs

If cowboy hats had ear muffs,
maybe they would talk more,
though they would hear less.,
caution tossed to the winds howling.

Not for them
the hairy skins of animals
on their bare hair, too much
respect for their sojourners.

Wooly caps are for sailors,
The ones with cutesy ears
hanging down to the shoulders,
popularized by geeks,
adopted by stylish teenage girls,
well, they would rather be frostbit.

Cowboys,
the silent type,
but never quiet, their thoughts are
their stories, eyewitness accounts,
never told under oath, of the truth
about life and death, in the
Great West.

So, no ***** for them
lest they not hear the
noisy silences, cries of the frigid
Great West.

Dedicated to Mr. Don Bouchard who writes below "I come from cowboy country (Montana), and I have seen this to be true, until the wind and cold drove us all to felt hats with earflaps and hooded sweatshirts. I have frostbite damaged ears and face to prove I know 40 below with wind and cows to feed."

Megan, get a cowgirl hat!

Dec 2013 David Nelson

Hurry Up and Wait

Dec 2013 David Nelson

Kitty Prr

Hurry Up and Wait

Poem a day, day 9*

Waiting on my lover
Ready and waiting
Been ready for ages
Ready and willing

What a joy it will be
To finally give myself
Over to my lover's arms.
Surrender to each other.

But the ache in this wait,
The longing,
The needing.
How long now lover?

When I need to show you my love
And you're not there.
When I want to wrap my arms around you
But you're not here.

And all these needs and desires
Are held inside
With nowhere to go
Building up pressure

The release valve seems
So inadequate
Just enough
But not quite right

Waiting for my lover
Waiting because
There is no-one else
Worth waiting for