"catherine" poems
PLEASE FORGIVE ME
for not reading right now.
1) I've been very busy with personal issues.
2) I've been on the low with some poets
who need to talk.
3) I've been emailing Elliott York all
morning about a couple of things.
a) The asinine war that was happening
here on his site. It's caused many to leave
and it (the attacks on Wolf Spirit included)
MUST STOP. Gary L has extended the olive
branch. THE REST OF YOU MUST DO SO
AS WELL. It's kindergarten stuff! You're
ADULTS. ACT LIKE IT!
b) A couple of years ago I came up with an
idea. The Poet Tree T-shirt and poster. It would kind of look like this...
P O E T S
XXXXX
XXXX♡XXX
XXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXX
XXXX
**P
O
E
T
R**
love.joy Y peace
happiness.pain
other.poet.words.
...FILL HEARTS
The X's above would be POET NAMES!
YOUR NAME WOULD BE ON THE SHIRTS!
You could then get the t-shirt/poster
from Elliott York!
It's an idea that I personally put out
a while back but never was able to
follow up on.
Email Elliott York if you like the idea.
I want it to UNIFY POETS. We are ALL
LEAVES ON THIS TREE!
Thanks for reading.
♡ Catherine
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
Back in the day,
When I was a little whipper snapper in Leeds,
We would go “chumping”, as we called it, for firewood,
For weeks and weeks.
Everyone built towering infernos,
Ready for November Fifth:
Bonfire Night.
Some made effigies of the “evil” Guy Fawkes,
Leader of the “Gunpowder Plot”
And stood in the street saying
“Penny for the Guy”.
What a night!
Roaring fire on a chill Winter night,
Those flames burning your face.
A World War Three
Of Fireworks:
Rockets, Catherine Wheels and bangers.
Bangers to scare the girls.
Kids painting pictures in the air
With sparklers.
And best of all,
That yummy gingery Parkin cake:
A taste I cannot put
Into words.
Oh and deep dark
Treacle Toffee,
Jacket potatoes,
Roast chestnuts
And Crunchie-like cinder toffee.
It’s many a year since I went to a bonfire.
Politically correct firework displays
Are more the modern thing.
Seems strange to burn the effigy
Of a man who had the sense
To try to blow parliament up –
Especially a Yorkshire Man.
Ha ha.
But then I read that good
Religious reasons are behind
This bonfire Celebration:
Those flames are orange
After all.
Not wishing to create divisions
Anywhere in the world,
It’s still good to see traditions
Being maintained.
Let those fires and fireworks keep rising,
Constantly emerging from the shadows
Of Halloween.
Paul Butters
© PB 27\10\2018.
Written at the request of Stephen Chapman. “Treacle toffee” added later, with “jacket potatoes” and “cinder toffee” added on 31\10\18. "Roast chestnuts" added 18\11.
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 6:35 AM UTC
In her gauzy garments
Above the bowing trees
The moon has many lovers
In the sighing breeze.
They all take her dancing
In exotic lands
They give her sparkling diamonds
They kiss her milk-white hands.
She is round & fullsome
Or slender as a waif
When she is then waning
Her flowers are kept safe.
Silken skeins of darkness
When she's waxing full
Are parted by her brightness
She is NEVER dull!
Her beaux are all so courtly
But she eschews them all
Her only love can make her pale
She burns at his call...
She lets out her moonbeams
Through her eyes they weep
She loves the one eclipsing her
They can NEVER meet!
She, so strong within her court
Will curtsey when he comes
The moon has many lovers
But she's taken by the SUN.
Catherine Jarvis
(C) 12/14/2019
Dec 15, 2019
Dec 15, 2019 at 12:07 AM UTC
This is a fictional account, but based
On truth for many women. I was,
Myself, abused by an ex-boyfriend.
---
Here's the ballad of Hammer Hand,
I'm here to spread it 'cross the land.
He loved to hit, as you can see.
What he hit was mainly me.
He was a brawler in the day,
But I left him where he lay.
This is for you gals out there
Who are hopeless, in despair,
Who are battered, made to kneel,
I do this so we both can heal.
I was kicked upside the head,
But now ol' Hammer Hand is *dead.
~~CHORUS~~
Hammer Hand, oh Hammer Hand,
Did beating me make you a man?
I have suffered your attack,
You have made me blue on black,
Your heart was black, my soul was blue,
Your soul was false, my heart was true.*
~~~~~~
Hammer Hand was tall and lean,
He was big, and ha was mean,
He would snack and he would punch,
Then he would demand his lunch.
He used to hit me when he drank,
His breath was fetid, his body rank,
Whenever help I'd try to seek.
He would hit me into next week.
~~~~~~
Hammer Hand is dead today
And this is what I have to say,
I told him when he broke my teeth,
He would pay and come to grief!
*Satan himself will take you down,
And you'll be six feet underground.*
~~ CHORUS ~~
I'm a woman so you're bold,
But Hammer Hand, you're getting old,
Hammer Hand you've had your fun,
But don't forget I have a SON.
You can make me black and blue,
But don't you go and hit him, too!
Don't make him hate you, make him mean,
Soon he will be seventeen.
You said a thing which I believe,
You said you'd **** me if I leave.
But me 'n Jamie gonna pack,
We're gonna leave and not come back.
When I die, at least I know,
Where I'm bound, which way I'll go!
Down inside you know as well,
You are goin' straight to hell.
Hammer Hand, O Hammer Hand,
Now we've left, are you so grand?
You won't hurt us anymore,
'Cause you're dead upon the floor.
I don't think that you'll survive,
Shot with your own 45,
It wasn't me, I'm not that brave...
*T'was Jamie put you in the grave.
At sixteen he was pale and shy
But he put a slug between your eyes.
You made him beg. You made him bow.
Well. I hope you're happy now.*
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) June 11, 2011
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
Reading the works by Sally, Vicki, Catherine(SoulSurvivor), Ryn, Deborah, Elizabeth, and Pamela Rae, is akin to drinking champagne from a crystal flute. Me, cheap beer from a Mason Jar.
copyright:(revised) June 03, 2015
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 7:38 AM UTC
.
T h e
F an t a s t i c
Rocking Horse
T h e Catherine
W heel The Glo w
ing Triangle The
****** The Nirv
ana The Padlock
The SlideThe Ape
The Butterfly The
Ascent to Desire
The Balancing Act
The Splitting Bam
boo The Curled A
n g e l The Bridge
The Clip The Clos
se-up The Double
Decker The Seduc
Tion The Crouchi
ng TigerThe Hero
The Dolphin Th e
Frog The Glowing Juniper The Plow
The Peg The Classic The Kneel The Reclining Lotus The Lustful L eg The Eagle The Cros
s The Rowing Boat The Star Doggy Style
The Super 8 The Bandoleer The
M a g i c Mountain
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
---
A zombie and a troll
Squared off one fateful night
All the ghouls and goblins watched
Expecting quite a fight!
But much to their surprise
The troll was quick dispatched!
He was dumb, and so outdone
He had met his match!
He WAS good at deception
But now the zombie reigns!
Altho he's in a fit of pique
The dead troll had no BRAINS!
SøułSurvivør aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc
Catherine Jarvis
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 8:50 PM UTC
**How can you be truly tough
In this painful world?
How can you stand firm
When the spears of agony are hurled?
Most people in the proud US of A
Don't have a clue of the
price they have to pay.
Western people do not know
What hardship really is.
So gratitude is lacking...
It is this...
Gratitude is having a ***
That doesn't leak,
To walk miles for diseased
Water from a creek.
Gratitude in thanking God
For the dry wood
To cook the rice or millet
For your food.
Gratitude is finding
A pair of shoes
In a garbage heap
That you can use.
Gratitude is finding
Pesos in your hand
When you beg the streets
In a poor land.
Gratitude is escaping
Vicious thugs
Who deal in human
Trafficking and drugs.
Gratitude is Hellen Keller
With no hope
Finding Annie Sullivan
To cope.
Gratitude is having NOTHING
And in pain
On one's deathbed, but yet
The fact remains
They are redeemed
And they have Lord Jesus' grace
So they know that they
Will look in his sweet face.
Being tough is seeing life
As is and still not breaking
Being brave and looking
Not forsaking
Being tough is a
Mental attitude.
Loving God and thanking Him
It's GRATITUDE.**
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) September 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
In the annals of New York City
An amazing hero is acclaimed,
Known as "The man in the red bandana"
Welles Remy Crowther was his name.
Born in Nineteen seventy seven,
This New Yorker, born and bred,
Could have escaped death's destruction,
But chose to rescue folks instead.
All his life he cared for people,
Loved his family, kept them dear,
But on that day of 9/11
His higher purpose became clear.
An Honor Student, Lacrosse player,
Former fire fighter, too,
When explosions rocked the building,
Welles knew what he must do.
Rescuing with calm authority,
Directing people toward the doors,
He found a woman so disabled
He carried her to the 61st floor.
In the end, before death took him,
Twelve people were brought out, saved.
No one knows where Welles is buried
In his 9/11 grave.
Later, when his mother told
Of the red bandana Welles had,
The survivors saw his picture,
And knew Welles was the brave lad.
Only 26 years old,
Welles Crowther manned up in strife,
That young man is New York's hero...
... for twelve gave HIS VERY LIFE.
Soul Survivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) September 11, 2014
13th anniversary of 9/11
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
A song comes out of the speeding bhogis,
Seeta is the one rendering the song.
She chants that her husband has long been dead.
Seeta has two sons, just like her ballads.
One –
Gives rhythm to her song.
Other –
Rubs a gentleman out of his siesta
And asks for a little money.
The bhogis gain momentum (Ignores the station master who shows red to stop the pacing male phallus)
Long away –
A girl lies down, lower than the rails.
**** me, **** me, she bangs her head.
I will, I will, the rails swell the train song in her ears.
Though long away,
Though have not heard the girl,
As if she has heard something -
Seeta stops singing.
And her children dash out.
Two hobos enter in –
As if to sell sizzling peanuts.
Just as to give the body a bath –
Seemingly not pleased just with the rails –
The male train jumps off,
Into the wide sea.
(Whose ****** is the sea, the breeze hums a song)
A thousand crows flutters from –
One’s previous birth,
To –
Another’s next birth.
Seeta, having forgotten all her songs –
Looks out for her kids.
Will arrive shortly, will arrive shortly :
Weary, irked and bored -
Time waits at a station.
(I did remember Rupesh Paul, who drew a simile between the rails and the *** worker’s nights, Anitha Thampi, who wrote about female trains, Latheesh Mohan, who noted down how the train stretches its back, Vishnu Prasad and his poem on the phallus, Prasanna Aryans usage: **** says the wheel and shit-shit , says the rail et al , while writing this poem)
(Translated by Sherin Catherine)
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because, in one of the
spun sugar fragile sequences of the events in your life, it works
out. There is a place, somewhere amidst star stuff and cosmic
collisions, where you are not the problem daughter or the
biggest disappointment or the most regretted kiss. There is a
place where you sink into a desk in your eight a.m. class and
a boy with bags under his eyes and a hole-y sweater pulled
over his knuckles says, "hi." There is a place where your father
comes back from the war with sand grit in his eyes, blood
under his fingernails and lets you save him. There is a place
where you live in India, where you aren't afraid to love, where
everything hurts less, where you stopped punishing yourself for
the faults of your parents. You are a girl. Not a dart board or a guilty
verdict or the final, desperate ****** of a sword through
someone's chest. You are made of the same stuff as Marie
Antoinette and Catherine the Great and Elizabeth, and you
can command the winds too. You aren't going to **** yourself
tonight because no one ever asked you about the scars on your
thighs but that doesn't make them nonexistent or unimportant.
You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because you've grown:
stronger in some ways and weaker in others, but you are still
a result of rhapsodies in violet and trees bowed to the sea
and soldiers with wind burn on their cheeks. Tonight, you are
going to wrap your own arms around your own chest and
breathe, swaying silently to no music. You are going to
memorize the sound of silence, and you are going to listen hard
for the even, jagged, pitter patter of your heart. You are going
to thank your body for waging war against itself, you are going
to apologize to your head for bruising your heart. You are going
to feel the roughness of the floor and the vastness of the entire
world and all of the eventualities spread before you. You are
going to remember that this is only one, that atoms and
molecules are flighty, whimsical, prone to selfishness and
longing for the promise of stability. You are going to press your
lips to your own wrists and know, as surely as Anne Boleyn
knew when she walked to the guillotine, that no one can save
you but yourself. You aren't going to **** yourself tonight
because you are not an accident of the multiverse. You are
purposeful and beautiful and young and reckless with your
feelings, but you are not a mistake. Listen to the trembling
of your heartbeat and breathe. You aren't going to **** yourself
tonight.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
“Good afternoon”
Light kisses on the cheek
Walk gracefully to your seat
Cross your legs at the ankles
Never the knees!
“May I have a cup of tea, please?”
A porcelain teapot pours
With grace, three quarters full
And, as not to cross the paths of love
Milk is always last
A silver spoon in glistening pride
An inverted reflection
Of your well-bred smile
Stir, ever so carefully, from 6 to 12
Never ***** the sides!
Take a sip, looking into, never over
The cup. Laugh, smile, and converse
Indulge in a skon (not scone)
With clotted cream and raspberry jam
Always parted in two
As you say your farewells, praise yourself
You have made Queen Catherine proud
With your lady-like poise and elegant charm
At afternoon tea
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 6:51 PM UTC
This is our blitz, puppydog, I said,
dragging him away from the whizzbangs
echoing green and purple off shopfronts.
My Chuchundra scuttled ground-bellied
from fallen ******* bags spilling guts
like casualties of war
and hoodlums tremendous in commando gear
who set off peonies and chrysanthemums
before charging triumphant down alleyways.
We go home. I’m happy to leave these heroes
the soda from the Catherine wheels,
and the drizzle, for which London has yet to apologise.
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 6:51 AM UTC
~~<○>~~
shadows shed by moonlight
through the plants entwined
creating their own patterns
weaving their designs
blues and purples shimmering
the subtle shades of grey
the lovely dearth of color
unmatched by light of day!
they create a tapestry
of mystery on their looms
the woof and warp of dreamers
the shadows of the moon
~~<○>~~
SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc
Catherine Jarvis
(C) 9/11/2016
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 2:41 AM UTC
Slimy sea feet.
Sandy salt tongues.
Gabby gulls and cautious *****
Boardwalk smiles and sticky ice cream fingers.
Ripened hearts and eager tide eyes.
Tears in my ears from the satisfied sun seeking silence.
This is where I belong.
This is where I know God.
I don’t belong in a town that can offer me nothing.
I don’t belong in a massive city that’ll swallow me up.
I don’t belong at silly soirees or late night parties.
I don’t belong at the top tier or down with the underdogs.
I belong on the shores.
I belong arm in arm with my confidantes, walking through downtown streets of some sweet town.
I belong hand in hand with my true companion with our toes in the sand.
I belong sipping soda with my sisters giggling endlessly as we watch some cheesy chick flick.
I belong hugging my mama who I will never stop loving for an instant.
I belong sitting with my father drinking tea in the purest, sweetest silence, for that is how we were made to be.
I belong listening to my dad’s tall tales and my mothers soothing words.
I belong holding my stomach with my face streaked with tear drops from some joke that is only funny if you were there.
I belong forever in the future with that one, the one whom was made for me; the Tilney to my Catherine.
I belong holding the gazes of my friends as we try to hold back our cackles, tears, and even our own words.
I belong in the waves of the sea.
I only belong in the happiest of salty tears.
I can’t belong where I’m too afraid to face my fears.
I won’t belong in broken gears.
I’ll not for a moment belong in heartbroken wares.
I’ve never belonged in them, but they live inside me.
They have and always will be
My demons and my skeletons
Yet you will always see them on my sleeves
So everyone can see they do not devour me.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
Daughters,sisters and brethren in the African womenfolk
Hail you, you are blessed among all the diversities of nature
You are blessed for all peace and love beahviour in all of your times
You are blessed for resilience and spiritual energy to soldier on
By being a woman,wife,a girl , a mother and a grand mother
In the African conditions which have no time for the women,
Daughters of Africa both at home in Africa and the diaspora
In Americas , Cuba,Brazil,or the whole Caribbean
Be blessed for your virtue of love and forgiveness
That swells your hearts as you ever treat to oblivion
Those who **** you whether in war or in peace
Even in marriage and the the offices
On the platter of polygamy, rituals and crudeness of culture
In the selfish farm labour where your spouse
Gives you a remote encounter with brutality of bourgeoisie culture
You always pick up the pieces and go for your stitches
Whatsoever the number, like the appalling one
Of above six stitches for the **** victims of Congo wars,
You have always consolidated poor Africa from
Smithereens of war and terrors of selfish male war,
You have often mocked the cult of dictatorship on its face
You have enticed social inclusions as societal virtue
You have snooked to tribalism,racism and class bigotry on the face
Them the cultic vices that have cemented Africa’s cult of dictatorship,
Daughters of Africa stand up and make Africa the a temple of God
Entice humanity with your wholesome fibre
Restore Liberia to a national state in the song of Sirleaf
Restore central Africa to a national family in the song Catherine
Restore art and poetry to Africa in the arms with Marriama Ba and Micere Mugo
Sire and Nurse African ecology unbowedly in the spiritual realm of Wangare Mathai
Restore and forge Africa forward you dear daughters
For the strength of your beauty my dear ladies
Has a global testimony in the prime of your motherhood.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
Welcome Back To This, Your Isle
The rabbits beneath the deck,
Even the pesky deer who eat the shrubbery,
Sea creatures, living and spirits of the dead,
Lying on the paths and in the creeks of Silver Beach,
All inquire:
Was it better wherever you went?
Were the:
Bears, hiding in the forests outside Berlin,
Eagles, double headed, of Russia
Herring, fried, creamed, wined,
From the vendors on the docks of
Helsinki, Riga, Visby and Tallinn,
Salmon, smoked and cured in Stockholm,
More impressive,
Tastier than our striped bass,
Island cohorts of yours, who waited patiently
For their chronicler to return?
Did the Little Mermaid and her Dolphin
Guardians of the Port of Copenhagen
Welcome you more warmly than your friends,
The ospreys, lizards, turtles and owls
Who overwatch your steps and safety
When hiking in Mashomack Preserve?
Are the interlacing tidal creeks,
Woodlands, fields, salt marshes and the ragged,
Irregular but charmed coastline of this cherished island
Any lesser than those of Scandinavia?
Are the sea-going ferries that transverse the
Baltic Sea and the Gulf of Finland,
More poetic than the Menantic or the Lt. Joe,
Who carry you swiftly home to us?
The National Geographic people say that in
Tivoli Gardens, The Amerikaner (ha!) waffle ice cream cone
Is one of the ten best in the world.
Guessing they have not made it yet to the
Tuck Shop for some Moose Tracks!
Were you unaware that our isle settled before
Peter the Great ever envisioned creating the grand
Boulevards of his capitol, St. Petersburg,
Route 114 was a traveled forest path,
By settlers and Indians, not serfs.
Of the Treasures, the Gold Room of the Hermitage,
The Amber Room of Catherine's Palace,
Wrote not a single word, we observe.
Your attentions, they did not deserve?
The answers all, self evident.
Here, surrounded by the gentle breezes of
Long Island Sound and Gardiners Bay,
Sweet and salty flavors of the Peconic atmosphere,
Words unlocked, from your eyes to the page fall,
Smudged by joyous tears, for the muses of the island
Have embraced you yet again and rebirthed
Inspiration, within their comforting, sheltering grasp.
Silver Beach
July 22, 2012
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
The Gospel. Not an easy message to state or hear. Who wants to repent? Hardly anyone these days. Who wants to believe in a God who many believe irrelevant to modern life? Hmmm?
A God who preordained a Messiah who tells people they must DIE TO LIVE. Well. That's the message. Luke 14. Look it up. Jesus has attracted thousands of followers. He turns to them and says YOU must hate your mom, dad, sis, bro... everyone! YOU MUST DIE TO THIS WORLD TO LIVE!
They must pick up their cross and follow him. Thousands left. All who remained were twelve men. Jesus asked if THEY also wanted to go. They said, NO. You alone hold eternal life.
Folks, I LOVE YOU. So i am simply going to say this...
REPENT. BELIEVE. TRUST.
That's all God asks. He wants to reconcile you, A SINNER, to Himself. YOU ALL ARE NOT RIGHTEOUS. Only Jesus, who was born of a ****** NEVER SINNED IN HIS LIFE, preached the Good News of the Kingdom so boldly he infuriated a lot of self- righteous people, was brutally beaten, then crucified, DEAD. BURIED. ROSE AGAIN ON THE THIRD DAY TO A NEW LIFE. He CAN take your place as sinful flesh, so YOU can GAIN HIS RIGHTEOUSNESS. Only then can you be reconciled to a Righteous God.
I'm saying all this because
I LOVE YOU.
I just died today. Care to join me?
♡ Catherine
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 3:47 AM UTC
That season again; familiar fragrances:
of flowers and of emotions.
On shortening evenings
graying skies paint the earth in shades of
anticipation; Snapshots,
joyous memories, of
distant years roll out of catherine wheels
and sparkle-pots, rare
treats and new clothes
for the year; rolling wheels of time, how
loves change, people's
priorities change, events
drive everyone further and farther away.
But memories awaken
from vaults in the heart;
Familiar fragrances, blessed resurrections
always chase
all the doubters away
Yes, this season again; blessed fragrances.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 1:06 PM UTC
On April 10th, 1846 on the ship Devonshire from Liverpool,
one Catherine McCarty, age 17 arrived in New York during times most cruel.
She made this long journey to escape the famine occurring in her native Ireland.
We don't know if she arrived alone or with family
or whether she was married or accompanied with a boyfriend.
The passenger arrival manifest has her listed a servant as the occupation she did.
Based only on her age and her name, many historians have speculated and proclaimed
that she's the mother of BILLY the Kid.
Billy's mother died on September 16th in the year of 1874.
She was 45 years old according to her obituary.
Combine the above information and we know one thing for sure.
Immigrant Catherine shared the same age and name as did the true mother of Billy.
It seems that due to health reasons, Catherine McCarty's life had gone onto
searching for dryer climate out west as a single mother of two.
One of her sons would live a full life and then fade into obscurity.
Her other son would die very young and become one of the greatest legends to ever be.
No one knows anything about the boys' father or whether they shared the same one.
Did he/they die or abandon the family? Your guess is as good as anyone's.
Catherine was a strong, independent, gregarious lass
whom everyone seemed to like and enjoy very dearly.
She earned a living selling baked goods to customers she had amassed
and by also doing much of the neighborhood's ***** laundry.
She also dabbled in real estate, purchasing what little property she could afford,
and to earn extra income she'd often open the door to her home and welcome
all those willing to pay room and board.
It was clearly shown that she could take on the responsibility alone,
as far as providing and caring for her boys.
When she wasn't earning employment, she'd occasionally indulge in the enjoyment
that every good, loving mother enjoys.
After schooling her children, she'd take them to local dances
where she was known to be one of the grandest dancers on the dance floor,
but of all the dance partners she'd dance with
there was always one she could never resist
and he'd want to dance with her more and more.
"Of all my dance partners," she told him one night, "you are my favorite one."
To see her lovingly gaze into his eyes, it certainly would come as no surprise
to learn that William Henry was Catherine McCarty's favored son.
To Be Continued
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 4:47 PM UTC
i.
Pink doesn’t play into it, that delicate
petal of perfume & flower stuff.
She abhors it.
Red suits her better.
Red for Fridays & red for Aries.
Red for the blood her dagger could draw.
Her seal of wax is no
rosebud adhered to
fine paper.
Warrior, she escaped its letter.
With Roman candles & Roman sandals,
sword, wand & chariot,
defender of her Eden.
Seashells are her votive gifts, the
stars of her Atlantic.
It is within her reign of Camelot.
At the edge of the Earth,
her kingdom dreams.
ii.
Blue maid
a curious ***** in her armour.
But she wouldn’t flinch
if an army of soldiers came crashing in.
They are hunting the witch.
A woman can never have such power.
It is reserved for the patriarchy
to wield at will.
Up it goes.
They can ***** steeples with it.
They are stoking the fires & sharpening
the axe with it.
But threats of torture
don’t make her beg, plead or recant.
She is guilty of nothing.
Even broken on the Catherine Wheel,
Athena still keeps her
bow & quiver intact.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 6:34 AM UTC
There was a poet on HP
Who had alot of ♡
He tried to stay
out of the fights
He kept himself apart
He had a love of poetry
He lived for his art.
Talented, he made "the grade"
As "minded" poets do
But he didn't try
to "people please"
And so mean writes
eschewed.
When he encountered
"lesser lights" he didn't
make them blue
But put ♡s on them as well
For their hearts were true.
Time went by... how it did fly!
As if given wings!
He found he had "The Daily"
(When there was
such a thing)
He tried to READ all poets
but could not, everything...
So he decided just to read
The small group
within his ring.
He would NOT be purchased.
He would NOT be sold.
He was TRUE to his beliefs
Of his Faith quite bold.
Not only did he ♡
He gave "thumbs up" as well!
He reposted and was good
In fact, the man was swell!
He had a grateful following
But, as fate is wont
He couldn't keep up
with the load...
Found his health was shot
But he tried to be a light
He tried to give folks thought.
His readership got smaller
It seemed like every day.
He still tried to be genuine
And true in every way
But nobody wanted
him no more
He began to fade away...
Where the
rubber hits the road
He began to PRAY.
If you don't know
who this is,
Replace the "he" with "she"
She believes
And truly grieves
*That poet would be ME.*
♡ Catherine
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 6:14 AM UTC
and bright knights
the phoenix spread
her smouldering wings
the Sphinx dethroned
future kings
the Queen of Hearts
a heartless nag
Baba Yaga the stilted
house . the hag
brave Beowulf
dragged down to drown
the monster Grendel
by him was slain
Io was a cow despised
watched by a creature
with one hundred eyes
the lawn is made
a land of gnomes
mushrooms grow
in garden homes
where are
all these things indeed?
they are in books
just look and read!!!
SøułSurvivør aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc
Catherine Jarvis
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
Cocoa. My mom's whole world. Her pride and joy. She's in real trouble folks. Last night she consumed over an ounce of dark chocolate. She also got into chicken bones. She needs divine intervention. We can't afford to take her to the veterinarian again. All prayers and good thoughts are appreciated. I am weeping. She's an important member of our family. She may only be a dog. The she is as important to God has anyone else. And my mother would be devastated by her loss.
I may not be able to read this morning. I'm going to be in My Sanctuary on the front porch praying. I'm not going to church because my job now is to watch after the dog. She is a beautiful little animal. A deer head chihuahua. The original breed of that dog. She was the companion animal to the Toltec. Very rare because she is also a brindle brown. I saved her from an abusive puppy mill ******* and raised her all on my own. I love her. I have no children. She's my baby. Please help. Thank you.
PLEASE REPOST THIS SO OTHERS SEE IT! I don't care about stats. But Cocoa needs all the good thoughts and prayers she can get! ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
Catherine :')
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 12:20 PM UTC
In my "Thought for the Day XLIII" (43), I spoke of poets that have been with me, and supported me for quite some time. Sally and Pradip have been with me since my first posting, "1894", nearly two years ago, and I have "adopted" Vicki, Catherine, Ryn, Deborah, Pamela Rae,and others along the way. There is Quinn, Phil, Pradip, Francie, Frankie J, Mike, John, Nat, SE Reimer, Sverre, "The 'Ole Storyteller!" and,"Larry, Moe, and Curly Joe!"
Unfortunately, I cannot list everyone, in fear of overlooking writers who, collectively, mean so much to me. Please forgive me for that.
I will continue to "do my best" for all of the poets/writers/contributors to the HP site. I do not write for monetary remuneration, but for relaxation and recreation, with the end result, hopefully, bringing a smile to my peers. I thank all of you for allowing me to attempt, and occasionally, reach that goal.
Sincerely
Richard Riddle- June 03, 2015
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 9:35 AM UTC