Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Dec 2015 JL
Irving MacPherson
Curses to those who judge
it's an experience you have to have
but need not endure

In this wordy worldly wordless whine
you'll find I'm not that kind
who flies by night
not looking for the sight or the foresight

Entangled in twine
not following
the road signs

Kissing your clothes behind
time to unwind
standing for
the  okay
from those so inclined
 Dec 2015 JL
Irving MacPherson
left with
a Christ to find
we ignore
or not
 Dec 2015 JL
Irving MacPherson
Not first in my family
by no means the last

My son also
wears that badge

What can you do
when you live in a shoe

You can take stock
pull up the socks

and move to a boot.
 Dec 2015 JL
Homer
XIX. TO PAN (49 lines)

(ll. 1-26) Muse, tell me about Pan, the dear son of Hermes, with
his goat's feet and two horns -- a lover of merry noise.  Through
wooded glades he wanders with dancing nymphs who foot it on some
sheer cliff's edge, calling upon Pan, the shepherd-god, long-
haired, unkempt.  He has every snowy crest and the mountain peaks
and rocky crests for his domain; hither and thither he goes
through the close thickets, now lured by soft streams, and now he
presses on amongst towering crags and climbs up to the highest
peak that overlooks the flocks.  Often he courses through the
glistening high mountains, and often on the shouldered hills he
speeds along slaying wild beasts, this keen-eyed god.  Only at
evening, as he returns from the chase, he sounds his note,
playing sweet and low on his pipes of reed: not even she could
excel him in melody -- that bird who in flower-laden spring
pouring forth her lament utters honey-voiced song amid the
leaves.  At that hour the clear-voiced nymphs are with him and
move with nimble feet, singing by some spring of dark water,
while Echo wails about the mountain-top, and the god on this side
or on that of the choirs, or at times sidling into the midst,
plies it nimbly with his feet.  On his back he wears a spotted
lynx-pelt, and he delights in high-pitched songs in a soft meadow
where crocuses and sweet-smelling hyacinths bloom at random in
the grass.

(ll. 27-47) They sing of the blessed gods and high Olympus and
choose to tell of such an one as luck-bringing Hermes above the
rest, how he is the swift messenger of all the gods, and how he
came to Arcadia, the land of many springs and mother of flocks,
there where his sacred place is as god fo Cyllene.  For there,
though a god, he used to tend curly-fleeced sheep in the service
of a mortal man, because there fell on him and waxed strong
melting desire to wed the rich-tressed daughter of Dryops, and
there be brought about the merry marriage.  And in the house she
bare Hermes a dear son who from his birth was marvellous to look
upon, with goat's feet and two horns -- a noisy, merry-laughing
child.  But when the nurse saw his uncouth face and full beard,
she was afraid and sprang up and fled and left the child.  Then
luck-bringing Hermes received him and took him in his arms: very
glad in his heart was the god.  And he went quickly to the abodes
of the deathless gods, carrying the son wrapped in warm skins of
mountain hares, and set him down beside Zeus and showed him to
the rest of the gods.  Then all the immortals were glad in heart
and Bacchie Dionysus in especial; and they called the boy Pan
(32) because he delighted all their hearts.

(ll. 48-49) And so hail to you, lord!  I seek your favour with a
song.  And now I will remember you and another song also.
Spring at her height on a morn at prime,
Sails that laugh from a flying squall,
Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme--
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
Winter sunsets and leaves that fall,
An empty flagon, a folded page,
A tumble-down wheel, a tattered ball--
These are a type of the world of Age.

Bells that clash in a gaudy chime,
Swords that clatter in onsets tall,
The words that ring and the fames that climb--
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
Hymnals old in a dusty stall,
A bald, blind bird in a crazy cage,
The scene of a faded festival--
These are a type of the world of Age.

Hours that strut as the heirs of time,
Deeds whose rumour's a clarion-call,
Songs where the singers their souls sublime--
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
A staff that rests in a nook of wall,
A reeling battle, a rusted gage,
The chant of a nearing funeral--
These are a type of the world of Age.

Envoy

Struggle and turmoil, revel and brawl--
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
A smouldering hearth and a silent stage--
These are a type of the world of Age.
 Dec 2015 JL
Carsyn Smith
The window is strung with the residue of sun dried rain drops
like strands of glowworm silk hanging from the aged ledge of the forever forward shuttle.

They're from a storm passing through not too long ago, whose wrath still rises from the fallen leaves and souped soil on the side of the busy city sidewalks,

But the sun is warm and bright and the tree line ebbing and flowing against the blue morning sky is splattered with vibrant yellows and oranges and my nose fills my lungs with the crisp breeze that stands the hair on the back of my neck and my heart skips as my mind drifts towards the wisped clouds lounging just out of reach... and my cracked lips spread... and my teeth embrace the winter kissed air... and I laugh as a warmth fills me and... I think of you.
You make me happy <3
 Dec 2015 JL
Carsyn Smith
As a poet I will always wonder
If my body ran under your fingertips like the Great Plains rolling under a tempest...
If the hollow echo of my breaking heart beating against your skin made you recoil in disgust?
Did the breath we share grow stale as it sat in my aching lungs?
Does the pale ghost of my lips make your neck shiver and tremble?
Where did your heart move when you held me; did it fill your stomach like it did mine?
Could the space where my hand used to lay thaw if you recollect?
Would your skin itch for the soft tracing of my fingertips again?
Do your ears strain for the sound of your name falling from my lips like leaves lifted by an autumn breeze?

As a person I will always wonder
If you even loved me.
Just wondering...
 Dec 2015 JL
Carsyn Smith
Sifted
 Dec 2015 JL
Carsyn Smith
You called me golden
Like, perhaps, I could be a California river
And now I know that I am that swollen western stream
Scattered with pebbles of treasure
And you are the man that is sifting through me
Marveling at a beauty I cannot see:
Telling me how the sun made me sparkle,
Bragging about the curve of my body through the hills...
I know that I am that western vein because
I know I give more than I take,
I know I could never stick around for long...
I feel like you're like the others
Who held me in a colander and
Walked away with all I could give them.
 Dec 2015 JL
Carsyn Smith
Only After
 Dec 2015 JL
Carsyn Smith
The streets only glisten after rain,
Puddles catch the setting sun or
Soup the city's flickering street lights:
Suddenly the landscape is scattered with diamonds.

Sea shells only appear after a storm,
The waves kick and scream only
The best and the biggest ones to the surface:
Decorating the shore with rediscovered treasures.

A wolf only sings when it cries,
His echoes in the moonlit valley
Resinate from his shuddering chest:
Flying across the land ever so effortlessly.

Art is only lovely when it is broken,
Tear drop stains leave the best character --
Silenced screams in paint strokes entice:
Humans lie when they say they love a happy ending.

His touch was only gilded as a memory.
Next page