"irene" poems
The frost is still there,
Throttling the rhododendron leaf,
And ice stalls the dissolve
Of the stone-like snow,
Yet I am happy.
The sun-rays are almost Etruscan,
Filtered low through lace and blind,
Like that ***** of sunset on Irene’s hair
Sad “couleur de feuille-morte”.
Yet it is sultry.
I can open a window
And breathe the warming air
Finches flock close, careless,
Now desperate for food
And pluck menescent fruit
Off an ice-bound branch.
In the distance, a cardinal sings.
Thick drapes are drawn aside
And geraniums strain toward the light.
In a nook outside the door,
An old cat basks on a corner of sun.
He yawns, seeing me, and strolls across the snow.
All nature seems to wait, but poised,
For the final unfettered token.
Will it be a sudden, favonian breeze?
Or the robin’s unrelenting noise?
Telling us, “Winter is broken”?
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
I am last season's remains
a cracked, dry petal
fallen off a prinses irene tulip.
I beg for attention,
for human affection
much like a plant demands
water to live. Please tell me the lonely
winter is over.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 1:43 PM UTC
it's hard to predict
the course of coming
destruction,
wide or narrow
I ponder the future path
as waters
will always find a way
my father said,
if she's angry in her wrath,
see the ones
that had never
breached their banks
that swell up
surging ***** water
fast within,
just a few brief minutes
before,
it comes
in such
high waters again,
all is flooded quickly
everything in sight,
then just...
g...o...n...e
all is just
gone without a fight,
yes including,
my dear old parents
sweet abode
in the terrible flood
of that ***** Irene
an if anyone had been there
that day at their home
they likely would have died
it's like nothing I have ever
really seen,
an today, as
the worst storm
in the history
of what we know
recorded,
is bearing down
on our lovely crying planet?
so I ask- what do you think
you can do
when the fire comes raging,
will you put it out or fan it?
I think,
to myself
I am seeing
many new animals
especially the birds,
rare ones,
insects and plants,
an some look just quite absurd
it is exciting but scary
but seriously different weather
well
i say why are you not wary?
becuz
if you don't believe
in climate change
or global warming
NOW?
well God please help us all.
Ma Cherie © 2017
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 9:03 AM UTC
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An ****** vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night!
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice-drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringed lid
’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep;
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals—
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood many an idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
4.3k
~Why you do dis, Sherlock?
Why you fall in love with Irene Adler??~
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
~
October 2023
HP Poet: Maddy
Age: 65
Country: USA
Question 1: We welcome you to the HP Spotlight, Maddy. Please tell us about your background?
Maddy: "Retired Teacher now Media and Digital Literacy Educational Consultant and writer."
Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?
Maddy: "Been writing since I was eight. Three years now as an HP member."
Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).
Maddy: "Poetry wakes me in the middle of the night on airplanes and when I walk. It is still one of my best friends other than my husband, sister, and Best BFF Irene."
Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?
Maddy: "It is my friend and companion and is a precious asset. Without it my life would be empty."
Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?
Maddy: "Thoreau, EE Cummings, Sappho, MAYA Angelou, Carole King, Emily Torres, Mary Oliver, Millay, and many here on HEPO."
Question 6: What other interests do you have?
Maddy: "I love Travel, Photographer, Nature, Cooking, Theatre, Concerts, and Reading."
Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for giving us an opportunity to get to know you, dear Maddy! You are a wonderful addition to the series!”
Maddy: "Thanks and looking forward to it and your review of my book on Amazon."
Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed getting to know Maddy a little bit better. I indeed did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez (aka Mr. Timetable)
We will post Spotlight #9 in November!
~
Oct 1, 2023
Oct 1, 2023 at 3:33 PM UTC
**~~~~~Spoilers Ahead~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**
Didn’t know SH was so amazing,
A second degree mind palace,
He was keeping.
What we watched in an hour,
And were perplexed by, for days,
Had taken place in his mind,
In mere 300 seconds!
Baffled with the news of return of Moriarty,
He decides to solve a similar case,
That had occurred 120 years ago.
He recreates his whole life,
Complete,
With Irene’s photograph,
In his pocket watch.
Fits all the pieces in 1895,
All,
Including John’s witty wife,
Then enters the ‘cleverer one’,
And fatter this time,
Having already made a theory,
He asks Sherlock to do the leg-work,
Because Mycroft himself is busy,
Trying to beat his little brother.
The game is afoot again,
All in Sherlock’s complex brain,
He exposes the truth,
Of Mrs. Ricoletti’s death,
Just as he was about to know about Moriarty’s,
He’s is woken by his friend.
But he goes back again,
To complete the story.
To solve the mystery,
He goes to the Falls,
To again finish the problem,
The final problem.
But this time John interrupts,
In 1895,
And kicks Moriarty off the cliff,
To let Mr. Holmes happily, alone,
Complete the fall.
Now he returns to the present,
With a smile conveying I-know-it-all,
And he does know all about the villain,
His death, his plans,
And the rest.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 3:19 AM UTC
Your home in White Rocks Marina you sat; always there to greet your crew before a voyage. Your red sails standing out among the rest. Silently awaiting your Skipper, our own George Hay Kain, as you rested in your slip, anxious to get underway. You wouldn’t make a sound as you patiently waited for your crew to load their gear down below. After quick yet thorough engine checks your Yanmar engine would roar to life, never failing to put a smile on your Skipper’s face. Your stern lines would come off. Your excitement would rise but you would remain still waiting to be completely free. Your bow lines would come off. You then would gracefully back out of your slip, ready for yet another adventure. Onto the Bay you’d go, wondering where you’d end up next. No matter the challenges you faced, whether in the open ocean, or in the Chesapeake Bay; you always brought your crew home safely; you always prevailed.
My personal experiences aboard never left the Chesapeake Bay, however, the Bay was all I needed. Each moment I spent on board; each trip I attended; will remain with me always: My First Voyage with our Skipper, Branson, DJ, and Sam; Chestertown; simply preparing you for the winter; Long Cruise; Hurricane Irene; Your Final Voyage.
So faithful you would be for your crew, for your Skipper; harsh conditions or not. You may not be resting in your slip in White Rocks Marina, anxious to get underway, but you will always be in the memories, and the hearts, of Skipper George Hay Kain, and the crew of Sea Scout Ship 25.
May you now sail freely across the horizon, out on the open ocean,
Kuan Yin.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 2:43 AM UTC
A Mean machine in obscene gang green
The Candlelight flicker in busted T V screen
Scream queen Ilene in paralyzed dream
Dean Irene exploded her spleen
It seems when she ate some beans
Kathleen drank from a canteen of benzene
Said sardines soaked in saline make the best cuisine
Eugene came between Kristine and Janine
When they went to the ravine in Racine
Teens hopped up on caffeine convene
With Thirteen marines on Halloween
On routine to clean and preen the latrines
I’m keen to notice the things that you’ve seen
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What if you could unseen what you've seen
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 9:54 PM UTC
The thumping and darkness in the bowels of Irene
sit lugubriously on the edge of serenity
the pounding and the tears through all these years
languishing in turpitude and solace from her knowledge
unceremoniously, recklessly and without feeling
while listening to her tongue lashing and
harshness of her venomous and thoughtless words
cracking like a whip, “do you think I’m an idiot”
Not once but twice while searching through black clouds
of disappointment and destitution … no rhyme…no reason.
All due to confusing north from south and east from west
reality from fantasy as we all feel the sound of her thunder
Irene crashes on and above the banks of New Haven,
Guilford, Fairfield and the Housatonic
lapping and licking at the shores while throwing
her magnificent weight in her favor, and the swells explode
the question, “how can she possibly know the children”
Even though downgraded and ebbing
the uneven strength and fortitude asks the question
and all my determination fades in the wind.
Trees weakened as we begin to dig out and explore
power lines and internet down, hampering communication
flooded streets and nervous bridges impeached
yet Irene serves notice with an ace of her own
dressed in her sheer-like vest and turquoise ring
her hazel eye filled with scorn and distain
while brightness and candor follow her path
with her feline temperament scratched and clawed
the tears begin to taper amidst her howling breath.
Irene begins to move northward stoically away from me.
I’m not a victim so I pick what remains of my heart
and begin to reattach my churning stomach
with the threads of her words of disbelief
bringing the force she was most capable of exerting
as the storm continues her long, unforgiven journey
hatred and disdain replaced by disinterest and apathy
as the breath disappears, the light becomes brighter
and Hurricane Irene decides to leave Connecticut
impact in place, on the broken bows of the sturdy trees
perhaps she was right, after all was said and done.
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 2:43 PM UTC
Lucinta slams fist against her breast
Cerberus three-headed dog howls
In unison screams, either side of dream
“Take his body from this place!”
Christians march sewers of Rome
Mauritanian archer recognizes his face
Sebastian’s body is resumed
And buried at the feet
Of Peter and Paul, ground so hallowed
Irene and maidens weep
Her herbs, tincture not swallowed
This time it is for keeps
Diocles murdered twice
This Patron Saint of Athletes
Piercing arrows, which were undone
By Irene’s tender grace, now replaced
With blows of clubs by Emperor
Of a Rome which begins to waste
He saw it coming, plague of plagues
And knew the Christ was Risen
He ****** all from Milan to Gaul
And Christians were so imprisoned
And each convinced another man
Of this immaculate and pristine vision
So on it goes unto this day
Athletes wear insignia on silver medal
And delivery to us a new plague
While good veiled Italian women do peddle
The famous artists nouvelle vague
Will this martyrdom ever not settle?
Sebastian as Sadomasochist
Will you hear devotee’s prayer?
Or must I continue to pierce myself
With points from here to there?
End thine madness thyself
And show this world your care
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 6:41 PM UTC
You are Sherlock Holmes; cold, unyielding
I'm here just praying to be your Irene Adler
We match in intelligences, looks and laughs
I keep up with you while you spit theories and deductions
Even when you poke holes in mine
You make me better smarter faster stronger
....I make you soft...
There are alot of poems about unrequited love
This is not one of them
This is not one of them
I knew you loved me;
Since that day on bikes
Well aware of how the sun shone
Through my hair
But... Backed away at your advance
The rejection, to hard for you to handle
And as you peddled, away, uphill...fighting
With each pump of your legs
I wanted to say
I can't
Because just one kiss and I'll explode with love for you
I saw through your reasoning and never tried to fix you
This is not a poem about unrequited love.
This is a poem about when to realize some characters and some ideals are fiction for a reason
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
we buried my grandma today
she loved unicorns and reading
my grandfather, her husband of 61 years
sang to her over her casket one last time
Bobby Vinton's My Melody of Love
"*Oh, oh moja droga jacie kocham
Means that I love you so
Moja droga jacie kocham
More than you'll ever know
Kocham ciebie calem serce
Love you with all my heart
Return and always be
My melody of love*"
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 8:50 PM UTC
Dear Headache,
I see you're back again,
like you think that I'm your friend.
Like you think I enjoy your company.
Well, let me tell ya somethin', honey.
You need to go the **** away,
and don't come back another day.
The only time I let you in,
You're my excuse to eat a Vicodin.
No love,
Irene Saylor
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 6:55 PM UTC
A contrite flash of blue
Coolly coquettish whispers
Are a far cry from the temper
Tantrums of yesterday's
Heated tropical tears:
Torrential downpours amidst
Sultry sobs and gusts
Today's clear skies contrasted
With Irene's angry outburst
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
Were you always a killer,
commendable, expendable
secret agent girl?
Were you always a dancer, entrancer,
Irene Adler, romancer,
secret agent girl?
Were you smart or kind of heart,
lover of art, playing your part.
secret agent girl?
Were you feared or revered,
a pioneer of weird,
secret agent girl?
Were you a dream, beauty supreme,
eyes all agleam, more than you seemed,
secret agent girl?
Who lost you, tossed you
and at what cost due,
secret agent girl?
When did they rob you of your glory,
rewrite author, title, story,
secret agent girl?
Where did they take you, break you,
make you into something new,
secret agent girl?
Are you Cold War fossil lost in time,
too young to be old, past no prime,
secret agent girl?
Beneath the earth, above the sky,
not allowed to cry, to die, are you,
secret agent girl?
Who were you before your halo cracked,
before the fact, your devil's pact,
secret agent girl?
I'll kiss you, miss you,
this bliss is amiss,
secret agent girl.
It's time to go, leave me alone,
you broken hero,
secret agent girl.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC
Our lands collided, a volcano formed
our love built up until it erupted
messy and destructive our love burnt on
depositing our emotions on the desolate lands
our emotions nurtured the seeds
the seeds you had planted as we danced
dancing our dance of two we left our trail
our trail of memories, happiness and pain
As time went on the eruptions ceased
our love had ran its course
the forest grew and grew
but you were no longer there
lonely and frustrated I burnt it all down
you were meant to be there with me
in our forest, but you're not here
you're with him, a guy who loves with anger
while i loved you unconditionally
our love was eternal
The forest grew back...
you're still not here
I've explored every crevasse in our forest
there's no signs of you no more
but I still see you in our trees
in every river that flows
I still miss you
because after all this time i finally learnt
that any forest that's burnt down
will only grow back stronger
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
His uncle **** asked Benedict
if he would mow the lawn
of the old lady at the cottage,
which he did, then clean out
the cowsheds at the farm,
which he did, then take some eggs
to the local shop, which he did.
It was a hot day, he felt a thirst
so went to pub called the Battleaxe
and ordered a pint and sat and drank
it slow outside in the sun. He thought
of the clarinet he'd brought with him,
the jazz he played in the front lounge,
which his aunt Eileen said was very good.
Do you still have and play your accordion?
he asked her. No, she said not now;
I've not played for years. He remembered
her playing and singing Goodnight Irene
on it when he had stayed as a kid.
Long ago now, he thought, finishing his pint.
He also mused on his recent visited
to see the MJQ in the City and afterwards
he met the band on the coach at the back.
Asked questions, got autographs.
Then another visit to the City with his
two cousins to watch them do their martial arts
and afterwards showed them judo moves
he and his friends had done a few years before.
He took his empty glass to the counter
of the pub and walked out in the sunshine
wondering what his uncle **** would have
lined up for him next. There was talk of
digging trenches in the churchyard some
evening to lay pipes to the church and there
was that mowing of the grass he'd been
shown the other day. Yes, he'd do that now,
he thought, while the sun was out, the grass dry.
The mower was in a shed at the back, one
of those modern jobs, less work, less elbow grease,
less sweat. But also, those peas to pick
and shuck for his aunt. He wasn't done with his
chores for his keep, for six weeks, least not yet.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 3:23 AM UTC
I encountered your spiritless body swaying gently
as your dangling tiptoes longed to reach the tips of the dandelions
I found tacked to the tree, the christian leaflet with the sellotape crucifix that asked
HAVE YOU FOUND JESUS ? , then saying WELL, HE'S FOUND YOU and your Vermillion lipstick scribbling on the reversed side.
Poor you, I could imagine you frantically searching for the sticky notes
( they were on top of the refridgerator Irene)
Poor you, I could visualize you searching for a pencil, realizing that they needed to be sharpened (you coulda used my Swiss army knife Irene, it was in the rusting tackle box in the garage, sure it was covered in dried fish guts, but you coulda cleaned it)
Poor you, I could picture you finding the pen depleted of it's precious writing fluid, then exploding it's flimsy frame, beneath a lone rabid pink bunny assassin
WELL **** YOU IRENE, **** YOU FOR LEAVING ME
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC
Irene being a woman I worked with long time ago
She is my spotlight and the content of my show
However this is what you don’t know
Irene was a woman who had Cancer
When I think of her, it is as if it was yesterday
But I worked with Irene 32 years ago
Irene was my Boss as the Assistant Manager at Raven Press, a major publishing house
A company that got its name from “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe
Irene was the one that gave me opportunity
Her strength being my inspiration
Irene’s Cancer opened my eyes in valuing life
For me that is good advice
I will never forget Irene
A woman who was truly serene
I never ever saw Irene to ever be mean
I use the word opportunity strongly
Once when I applied for a job in the publishing house within the Promotion/Advertising Department
The Department needed a Clerk Typist and I took a typing test
Well I must confess
I was quite nervous when I took the keyboard test and anxiety set in
But Irene felt and believed in me and hired me on the spot
It was not a plot, but an opportunity in giving me a shot
Irene really left an impression on me
It’s a conversation about Irene for 32 years, but her spirit still lives within me
Irene I will never forget and I have no regrets.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 6:10 AM UTC
~ I woke early one morning
Turned to her and said
Irene i love you so
But i just have to let you know
The things you do are killing me
Even though it seems real slow
You say that you love me
And you'll never let me go
If thats true why are you as cold as winter snow
A queen of ice on a throne of bone
The winter palace you call your home
Unfortunately i hate the cold
And cannot live on thorn and bone
so it occurs to me
That you seem like a winter rose
Beauty for the looking glass
But not for me to hold
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC
Irene-Spring
Like
The spring
Thy radiance
Has befallen at sunrise
On all,but pulchritudinous flowers
And in reverence for thy elegance
They spin their colors so brightly
And beguile butterflies from motley races
Together,
Like a choir,
They croon sweet birthday melodies
Penciled on petals and sepals
Thy
Benign breeze
Prance on all surfaces
Of the earth,
And
At sunshine
It poise on the wild waves
And placidly vault their prowess
To sack ;then obligatory
They croon sweet birthday melodies
Penciled on the golden sands
At twilight
Even the vehement volcanoes
Clad themselves with serenity
With thy presence
And croon sweet birthday melodies
Penciled on the hearts of molten rocks
But
When darkness
Finally succumb twilight
Will moonlight invade their shacks
And allow the nightgale
Croon sweet melodies of birthday
Penciled on the slates of branches for thee
HAPPY BIRTHDAY SWEET HEART
IRENE-SPRING
©HISTORIAN E.LEXANO
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 2:57 AM UTC
Still the women wait in trembling hope
Near the old pit head in the valley;
The earth's turbulence has long abated;
"Let him live, dear God", each prays silently.
Still they linger, knees bloodied from kneeling
Hopelessly on the old cobbled main street,
Eyes ugly red from constant weeping.
Not daring to acknowledge the worst.
Still lies the sad morning after the vigil,
And now there are no more survivors.
**** this for a ******* waste of time,"
Yells Fat Irene as she waddles off to the pub.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 1:07 PM UTC