"kitbag" poems
shred, dash, drop, pinch, soupçon, jot, iota, whit,
atom, smattering, scintilla, hint, suggestion, tinge,
a modicum of good works,
my endeavor, to serve and deliver,
man's bounty of good words
from my kitbag,
fresh, hot, n' crusty
just like me....
Hello Poetry!
Feb 2014
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
one more for the great lakes that divide and unite her
all on that day:
1. will be a treaty writ tween me and
the cosmos,
they permit me worship them,
even to join them as another
meaningless gleaming,
if i cease to write -
having used
every word
in my kindness kitbag possess -
twice
2. my trials will be certified as ended,
for the grifting/gifting
ability of a man to
give and dream, to fool himself,
man's obligatory gift, gone
the will to believe in
anticipation
3. a full on peace,
no mere armistice pretense
till the no more next one is the norm
for to the sun, submission,
uttering
a confession
already writ
*A generation goes, and a generation comes,
but the earth remains forever.
The sun rises, and the sun goes down,
and hastens to the place where it rises.
The wind blows to the south
and goes around to the north;
around and around goes the wind,
and on its circuits the wind returns.
All streams run to the sea,
but the sea is not full;
to the place where the streams flow,
there they flow again.
All things are full of weariness;
a man cannot utter it;
the eye is not satisfied with seeing,
nor the ear filled with hearing.
What has been is what will be,
and what has been done is what will be done,
and there is nothing new under the sun.
Is there a thing of which it is said,
“See, this is new”?
It has been already
in the ages before us.
There is no remembrance of former things,
nor will there be any remembrance
of later things yet to be among those who come after.*
Ecclesiastes 1:4-11
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 9:53 AM UTC
Foolscap
now I understand better,
the ironic humor of naming
the plain white paper before me,
where the construction commences,
the scratched surfaces, entrance ways into
the best I can hope to offer and having yet to write
foolscap
laugh out loud,
move over great ones,
this fool had tipped his cap,
betrayed his intention and attention,
he has a kitbag of raggedy jumbled words
as yet unassembled, and had all life to snap them
colored Lego pieces of his own design together in a way
that takes the un from unremarkable and so let this newbie
commencement be a beginning,
not an ending célèbre but a transition to
translating the heart and head and a storied vision
retained therein, treasure chested into an assemblage
pleasing to those who peek over the foolscap's shoulder
the snow has dappled doused my lower legs,
wet, does not creation commence in the wetness,
even slush that is the residue of the brilliance of snow
as a concept, even the slush, disdained and discarded,
***** grayed, from it will come my firsts, my births,
my ***** grayed, my beloved unbeloved,
sculpture of words that resound
across the better days to yet,
yet yet yet yet - a hundred
Yeats yets, sweet vets,
all I need is the first
word, so chosen,
so apropos,
foolscap
Foolscap - a type of inexpensive writing paper
Dedicated to those measured few here who have nurtured me with gentle pushes and sweet perfumed praise to push myself harder yet, push harder than I ever dared.
You know who you are.
Pray I please you.
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/596769/poet-in-trouble/
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
Many a times I have been to Harwood Point.
When the travel bug bites my feet
My eyes pine for the marine froth
In the May’s summer heat
I pack in my kitbag the barest cloth.
At Harwood Point
The river runs in turbulent progress
Maddened in the pursuit of the sea’s embrace!
From Harwood Point
The river would carry me to the sea.
When the sun spills blood on the river
The vessel would leave Harwood’s wooden jetty!
As that small port diminishes from my sea bound way
It sets me to brood.
Who was this Harwood?
Why this Point bears his name?
As the vessel picks up steam
I fall into a deep dream.
J.T. Harwood 1831.
Some British Surveyor
Lost in the pages of archived Register
Laid to rest in the dust of fame
But lives his name
To this day
On my sea bound way
A name without a face
Where the river runs for the sea’s embrace!
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 6:22 AM UTC
From behind smoke
scribes the words' kitbag
his mind reveals.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 12:37 PM UTC