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INDELIBLE CARVINGS

 From skies we enter here 

And into skies will go

Leaving only invisible scrapes

On sands and seas

But indelible carvings

On the Human soul 

What is a poem, REALLY?

We see some words arranged on a piece of paper, or screen. Sometimes they are sappy, soapy, sentiments written by café lizards looking to get laid. Other times it’s a few words, positioned exactly where they need to be.

Then suddenly, something else happens, something greater than the sum of words. 8 -16 – 32 symbols (words) transcend time and space, rising above cultures and nations, event and form, even language itself and cuts through 1000s of years of human experience, speaking to ever-new generations, like a diamond glistening in a field of common coal.

It creates an “emotional impact,” a response, yes.  It “communicates,” yes it does, The Art Series answers many a profound question about art. But we are talking about a few symbols defying time and space, language and cultures and more. So the question stands.

How can this be?  Poetry means: “to create,” and Poet, “one who creates,” but create WHAT, in fact.

History has proven that 16 lines of verse, constructed just right and Humanity bows, humbled at the feet of the poet. They proclaim him/her a Sage! (Emerson) a Revolutionary! (Whitman) Romantic! (Kahlil Gibran) a Master!(Rumi) Grand Observer (Shakespeare) Godsend and more.

It’s poetry, they say, and in its most sublime it is “of the gods.”

But how can such a phenomena possibly be created, with something so basic as a few symbols, scribbled on a piece of shredded wood?

Or, perhaps we should ask the more revealing question, directly: Is it possible that poetry, at its best, really is “of the gods” after all?

We would be wise not ask the poet; the poet is CAUSE creating the EFFECT. His/Her viewpoint is suspect to humility, ego, dire need, even skills, abilities and observations far in advance, or too high above anything the current inhabitants of Earth could hear and experience with any degree of comfort.

Surely, a more immediate answer rests with the RECEIPT POINT, the lone beneficiary of the wonders unleashed by the masters of poetic trade, not the Spellbinder him or herself, busily conjuring the spells (poems) that bedazzle Humankind.

29-8-15

For when a man sings

With wings on words

His openhearted melody

How quick the soul brings

The secret chords

To voice the perfect harmony

Ren

(Looking forward to your thoughts / comments / creative postings)

95 thoughts on “Poetry & Candles – Vol V

  1. Acrostic Poem 1

    T is for Trustworthy, your word is good as gold
    H is for Happy, a bundle of joy
    E is for Essential, you are important to us

    P is for Passionate, in all your pursuits
    O is for Organized, you always have it together
    E is for Engaging, winning others over
    T is for Thoughtful, considerate towards all

    R is for Reassuring, a comforting presence
    E is for Earnest, ever sincere
    N is for Nice, a sweet soul

    Acrostic Poem 2

    T is for Talented, gifted with ability
    R is for Ravishing, an entrancing beauty
    A is for Alluring, so attractive
    N is for Noble, an honorable heart
    S is for Sanguine, always looking up

    F is for Fantastic, you are amazing
    O is for Open-minded, able to consider new perspectives
    R is for Ravishing, an entrancing beauty
    M is for Merry, abundant joy
    A is for Analytical, breaking down problems simply
    T is for Trustworthy, your word is good as gold
    I is for Indefatigable, a tireless spirit
    O is for Optimistic, ever upbeat
    N is for Nutty, full of wackiness

  2. Everyone is quiet on this topic, Ren. Wonder if they are busy, or if the topic is a little daunting…

    When I was a teenage student I took a Creative Writing class for a year. We did a lot of poetry and I came to really enjoy communicating with poetry.

    At the time I was a fairly troubled soul. My parents had recently divorced and I was shuttling back and forth between households, and hating it. My mother had a new boyfriend, which was a real affront for me. And I had my 15/16 year old hormones running wild in a way that I was having real trouble controlling, with mood-swings that were a roller-coaster and causing significant trouble for me. I had not had any auditing at that point, so my service facsimiles were getting a great work out on a daily basis.

    At the time I wrote a series of poems that got my teacher so worried that she referred me to the school counsellor for help. One was called “House of Walls” and described living in a household where communication was inhibited, where feelings were unspoken, and where protest and upset and conflict was rife. It was not a true reflection on my home life, but it was how I saw it at the time.

    I wrote another poem called “I am an Island” that used the metaphor of an island with golden sands, clean waters, treasures of all kinds, but isolated from all others by extended bodies of water, and left undiscovered and alone. It described how I felt cut off from the world of others at the time.

    The last one was called “Loneliness”. I don’t have copies the of the others, but I still remember the words of this last one. It was so dramatic that the teacher was worried I could be thinking of self-harm (which I was not). Writing the poetry was a way for me to “vent” at the time, and I still have the goal to pick it up again and explore it with a higher toned perspective on life.

    LONELINESS

    Loneliness steps in,
    like a dreaded disease,
    it takes hold of my soul and drags me down.
    In a world now to strange,
    I find I’m lost, all alone
    and nobody seems to come near.

    And I stand in despair,
    as my friends disappear,
    and my life falls apart
    and crumbles away.

    No one seems to care.
    It just doesn’t seem fair,
    as I stand here… all alone.

    In an empty house,
    I listen to the silence.
    It echoes through my ears
    and pounds in my brain.

    I long for a voice
    A voice to stop the emptiness
    Another voice sounding
    Other than my own

    And I stand in despair,
    as my friends disappear,
    and my life falls apart
    and crumbles away.

    No one seems to care.
    It just doesn’t seem fair,
    as I stand here… all alone.

    • Acrostic Poem 3

      L is for Lively, the life of the party
      A is for Artistic, adding beauty to the world
      N is for Noble, an honorable heart
      A is for Alluring, so attractive

      M is for Merry, abundant joy
      I is for Important, an asset to society
      T is for Tenacious, not one to give up
      C is for Candid, your honesty is valuable
      H is for Honorable, full of virtue
      E is for Easygoing, a breeze to get along with
      L is for Light-hearted, free from worries
      L is for Laudable, your accomplishments are most commendable

    • ” Wonder if they are busy, or if the topic is a little daunting…”

      Lana, I can honestly say that I have very little artistic ability in my thetan :). I have other abilities, but art aint one of them, sorry to say. Although, I can appreciate a good piece of art, of whatever kind.

      I have wondered if artists, maybe, are thetans who have arrived later on the time track of thetans caught in the physical universe, and thus, are more able to communicate and create.

      • Acrostic Poem 4

        F is for Fantastic, you are amazing
        O is for Optimistic, unbeaten by adversity
        U is for Unflappable, nothing keeps you down
        R is for Rebellious, going against the grain

        A is for Able, succeeding in all you set out to do

      • Yeh, right 4a. Sorry, but I beg to differ. I think all of us have artistic talents, but sometimes our interests have just been focused elsewhere. Like anything, if one knows the tech of something, and practices, you can become good at anything.

        I am lucky this life, as my parents had a lot of focus on art/music/literature, and this rubbed off on me. I think if there was any artistic endeavour that you choose to play in, and you learnt the tech and practiced, you would find very quickly that you are talented and capable of great creativity.

        Art is just another wavelength for communicating, for a being 🙂

        • “Sorry, but I beg to differ. I think all of us have artistic talents,”

          You havnt heard me try and play the guitar Lana, it sounds like it is screaming for assistance 🙂 But I get your point, I can see there are areas which Im pretty good at and have been admired for!!

      • 4a: I knew a girl once who invited a group of over to her dumpy little apartment for dinner. She cooked us fried chicken. That was 30 years ago and to this day not only have I not forgotten her chicken, I still dream of it with pleasure to remind. Nobody,no company, no southern raised grandmother of the Deep Chicken Fried South has ever even come close to the taste of that little girls, “Honey, Sesame Chicken” to date. Was she an artist? You bet your finger lickin’ life she was in my books. That’s all art is really. Some of us just like sweating over a piano instead of a hot stove, timing honey dips and salting sesame seeds.

        R

    • This would resonate in the heart of any child whose second dynamic was experiencing upheaval. It is good that you wrote this.

  3. Lana: Thanks so much for your deeply courageous response to this week’s theme. I don’t know how an answer to such a lofty discussion as “What is a poem,” could be any more honest, as yours was.

    This piece “LONELINESS” being written by a 15-16 year old is really quite something, and for numerous reasons. A young lady dealing with pain, finding the words to express the feelings, yet, seeking to do so in a more aesthetic manner (than screaming at friends and stranger) and crying out for help in a way that poets have done for thousands/millions of years.

    These are but a few of the more obvious features in this poem. But it goes much deeper in value in many ways, not so obvious, perhaps.

    In lines 1 and 2 we have a tender child defining/positioning “loneliness” as a “disease.” Science might do well to ponder such possibilities for a moment.

    This “loneliness” is then being moved by the author from a subjective (abstract) to an objective (concrete) thing that can be seen (viewed) since it is able to “step in – like a disease…”

    It then “takes hold” of the SOUL.” Not brain, leg, ear, finger, or even mind or emotions or, or, or, but soul.

    So within a mere few lines of words our poet has begun to move out, from a deeply painful and confusing experience, toward a more objective, near exterior point of view, looking, looking again, describing, naming, comparing abstract concepts to concrete (duplicatable) things, looking some more. Until, at last she she concludes: “No one seems to care. It just doesn’t seem fair.”

    All of which was true, at least for her, according to her observations (Integrity) at that moment.

    Now if that is not the “power” of poetry, or some magnificent, spiritual, transformational part of it, then art is dead, Elvis was a foghorn with an itchy leg and all of Picasso’s paintings should be burned at dawn.

    That said, I do hope you do “pick it up again – and explore” as far into the past, present, future as you care to imagine. Should you do that I am confident, we the beneficiaries will enjoy an abundance of life and love, honesty and wisdom, enough to hook our wagons to and fly.

    R
    PS: I kind of thought this subject might be a bit too artzy-shmartzy for any blog. But I decided that if it got any kind of responses at all, the comments might serve some younger, or failed/wounded/confused artists who happen by Milestone Two, now or later. And if it serves any creative souls, we’ll call it a good day’s work.

    • I would advise patience, Ren.
      Everyone is a poet at heart.
      Give the shy poets a little time to come out of the woodwork.

    • Thanks Ren. It’s kinda weird having a critique of a poem I wrote so long ago. It is certainly not something that I consider was a great piece — just a way for me to communicate at the time. A way to as-is what was occurring. A way to look at something thoroughly and duplicate it exactly, so that ceases to exist. It was a brief period in my life when I felt so dire, thankfully. I will take your advice and work on something on my upcoming trip to Canada. Some travel, space, fun and relaxation is a great time and place to put pen to paper and have a play. 🙂

  4. I love this topic. I have written poems since I was a child. I guess that means that I am a poet. I would like to answer the question of “What is a poem?”, but I am thinking that the answer might be different for every being.
    When I was in college I saw a Poetry Class available. I said to my self, “Poetry Class! Oh, wonderful! I will sign up and really learn the art of writing poems!” …Much to my disappointment it turned out that the class consisted of reading the works of published poets and then writing an ESSAY describing what the poet was “trying to say”. I did try, but I just couldn’t do it.
    Finally I went to the professor and said something like, “Listen, these are great artists. They went to a lot of thought to say what they wanted to say in a few succinct words. …Who am I or anyone else to try to tell you what they “really” were trying to say. Just read the f—ing poem!” (yeah, I was a bit of a rebel)

    Luckily for me she agreed with me. But, she said, she had a syllabus which she was required to adhere to by the university so she couldn’t change the class. “However”, she said conspiratorially, “Write me a poem every week and I’ll give you a C.” ….”Deal!”, I said. 🙂

    • Acrostic Poem 5

      E is for Excellent, of the finest character
      S is for Sacred, a dear treasure
      P is for Playful, so fun to be with
      I is for Inspirational, the ability to motivate
      R is for Reassuring, a comforting presence
      I is for Important, an asset to society
      T is for Tenacious, not one to give up
      U is for Uplifting, so inspiring

      • Mabu,

        How do you DO that?! 🙂

        I’ve been enjoying your acrostic verse.
        I had never heard of this form of poetry before.
        I had to look up the word “acrostic”.
        I admire your ability to duplicate, illuminate, and then communicate theta qualities.
        I am honored that you dedicated one to me.
        You have inspired me.
        Here comes my first one:

        M is for Multifaceted with many abilities.
        A is for Always just being yourself.
        B is for Bigger than the whole physical universe.
        U is for the Understanding that you give to others.
        🙂

    • OMG Espiritu! What a story! That is a bit like English classes in my high school where were were handed famous novels, told to read each, and then interpret what the author was trying to say.
      I enjoyed reading great books like “Fahrenheit 451”, “Animal Farm”, “To Kill a Mockingbird” and “Of Mice and Men”, but the analysing of the books afterwards really ruined the experience.

    • Love that story, it demonstrates why the simple enjoyment of this great, ancient art form has been lost to generations of students. I am delighted you cleared the path and look forward to your sharing more of your works with us. God Bless “service fac free” teachers everywhere…

      R

    • E:

      Gag me with a spoon! I hated my college English 201 class for this reason. And I went to the instructor/professor with much the same complaint. Unfortunately, he was fully inured to the whole field of “literary criticism”, and so tried to convince me that my enjoyment/understanding of literature would be considerably enhanced by such pursuits. I disagreed and still do. One takes “meaning” from art as one likes, but “meaning” is not necessarily the reason we pursue or create art. As LRH points out, a piece of art may simply be a piece of technical excellence to us, enjoyable in the experience regardless of meaning, message, aesthetic wave or anything else. Or we may pursue it to a greater depth, trying to divine the aesthetic out of the physical representation itself.

      I have written poetry from time to time in my life, but I confess to being a true snob in the field. I revere the great masters of poetry, like Edgar Allen Poe. They are the ones who can construct a long form work with rhythm, rhyme both interior and exterior, and do so with such expertise that it almost takes your breath away. Free verse, though, mostly offends me. Free verse requires a tremendous skill to come out right. It requires a mastery of simile, metaphor, vocabulary, tone, shade etc. It is delicate as glass and when done right is a true joy. And when done wrong (usually). it is an inexorable pile of rubble. (The above is my opinion. And for what it’s worth, I don’t do either form of poetry particularly well.)

      So my deepest apologies to those who contribute poetry here. I will likely not comment, as you are all my friends and I do not want to discourage or invalidate your contributions. As I say, I’m a huge snob on the subject and you really don’t need my searing analysis getting in the way of your creative impulses.

      I’ll also say, ignore critics (including me). Critics don’t buy movie tickets or books of poetry. The audience does. And if they like it, you can toss into the rubbish bin the words of every critic out there.

      Finally, art is not the province of a select few. You may not have come here to this planet because of your art, but that doesn’t mean you have no art within you. Thetans are natively creative, and most art is simply a matter of practice. The great dancer and fine artist alike start clumsily but get better as they steep themselves in the work. And if you prefer not to pursue art, that’s okay as well. Just know that at any time you can change your mind.

      Paul

      • Acrostic Poem 8

        S is for Skillful, ever up to the task
        C is for Coherent, clarity of mind
        A is for Attentive, taking care of everyone’s needs
        T is for Truth, living life with honesty
        J is for Joyous, full of bliss
        A is for Altruistic, putting others before self
        P is for Peaceful, exuding a gentle calm
        P is for Patient, understanding towards others
        E is for Entertaining, a source of endless fun
        R is for Reflective, always thoughtful
        S is for Steady, a loyal pal

      • Scat… Your comment is a nice contribution to what’s going on here at Poetry & Candles. You are obviously a talented writer and this space is about anything art, culture creativity in any form, crafts, stories and a good ‘ol Rock N Roll jam now and then.

        Well said by you and appreciated. All creative souls are welcome here, even fat cats with a big beautiful yacht who wants to take 50 -60 creative types for a cruise. We do parties (and funerals) if not otherwise booked. 🙂

  5. THREE POEMS FROM THREE GENERTATIONS

    This first one was written by my mother about her life growing up on a farm in Vermont in the 1930’s. Then next one will be one from me.

    The Faloupin’ Wind

    The first time I saw it,
    I was carrying wood for the kitchen range
    A long time ago. I stood, transfixed:
    Across the fields,
    Several dusty whirlwinds
    Were faloupin’ back and forth,
    Hopping, zig-zagging, in a dance.
    I marveled that the air,
    Wind is air, you know, —
    Could have such force and control
    As to choreograph
    That amazing performance!

    “Lois, what’s the matter with you?
    Look where you’re going!”

    Me, “That faloupin’ wind!”

    “There’s no such word as ‘faloup’ !”

    That was summer; autumn came:
    One day, a wild wind came up,
    Flailing the maples, the poplars, the pines;
    I saw it seize
    A frenzy of leaves and faloup them
    Into a glorious multicolored lace that it
    Let fall gently onto the ground.
    What an artist was that Faloupin’ wind!

    Then came winter, it happened again.
    It was one of those days when the crust on the snow
    Was glassy and strong, the wind was high,
    Ruthie and I got earmuffs, mittens, and sleds
    And gingerly,
    Skidded and slued our way to the meadow.
    We called it “sailing”.
    We stood on our sleds,
    Unbuttoned our coats
    And opened them wide to let the wind take us
    Wherever.
    At the edge of the meadow, we buttoned,
    Lay flat on our bellies on our sleds,
    And worked our way back to catch
    Another great gust of wind.
    This one
    Was like a blast of dynamite.
    It took us so fast we almost lost our sleds.
    It took us UP the hill! What a magic, faloupin’ wind!
    Three times! Then,
    Our fingers and noses freezing,
    We went back to the house,
    Where Ruthie Bubbled and glowed and blabbed about
    The faloupin’ wind.

    The wind most fabulous comes
    Near the first of March.
    When it has been cold for a long time,
    One day, a steady warm wind,
    Out of no where,
    Intoxicates,
    Makes you want to throw off winter clothes,
    Throw your head back and
    Reach out your arms.
    There was a place we called “The Rocks”,
    A thrust-up of little ledges
    With just enough soil to support
    A little grass and moss, two shrubs, and a stunted tree;
    There, we played “house” and “Tarzan”,
    “Cowboys and Indians”.
    And we practiced flying.
    The wind was right.
    We would pretend to be birds,
    We’d find a low rock,
    Flap our arms and, into the wind,
    Land in the melting snow.
    Even Billy tried:
    “I a robin! I a robin!” He leaped and missed,
    Landing in mud and banging his knee on some ice.
    He didn’t want to go home.
    We flew and flew until
    All the nearby snow was squashed
    And we were wet enough.
    Back at the house, we shoved Billy in the door
    “I fried! I fried! I a robin! I fried!”

    One windy night when I was supposed to be asleep,
    The wind was holding the whole house,
    Rocking it. The boards creaked.
    Suddenly, the house shook.
    I heard my father, “What was that? An Earthquake?”
    “No, my mother said, “That was only
    The faloupin’ wind”.

  6. When it comes to this art form I’m an audience, sometimes. It’s so bad in fact that in this life I’ve played thousands of songs and I’m such a slacker with the lyrics – the actual words of the thing – that I simply make up sounds for whatever it is that singer is really singing. I don’t really know what the heck they are saying so I just take snips and from there create something I hope will add to the overall effect.

    Too many overts on poets that I’ve come to not-know poetry.

    Sorry about dat, poets 🙂

    • Jim: I get that totally. When drums were my main game it was exactly the same for me. Played it 100 times, could not tell you two lines of the song. It’s because we were so focused on the rhythmic structures, and rightfully so. So we are INNOCENT OF ALL CHARGES based on that technicality. 🙂

    • Jim,
      As you have probably figured out by now from my posts I am opposite and feel that lyrics are very important part of a song. I think of songs as a combination of music and poetry.
      That said, your innovations put you in VERY good company…..
      I read somewhere that in their early days the Beatles had a lot of gigs in Germany. At some point they realized that very few people in the clubs understood English (wouldn’t be true today), so to amuse themselves they started replacing their lyrics with non-sense syllables or non-sequitur words. 🙂

    • Me too Jim. I used to belt out Lola by the Kinks with gusto, it was only about 10 yrs ago I realized i was singing about one guy getting it off with another guy. I sing it a little quieter now 🙂

    • Acrostic Poem 7

      J is for Jocular, always entertaining
      I is for Immaculate, carrying out things to perfection
      M is for Moral, governed by ethics

      L is for Laidback, you have a relaxed charm
      O is for Optimistic, nothing keeps you down
      G is for Gentle, a kind soul
      A is for Ardent, fueled with passion
      N is for Noteworthy, having remarkable achivements

    • JL:

      Don’t feel too bad. The 60s was, I think, the beginning of the long era of “what was he saying in that song?”. Prior to that, the musicians and crooners were more precise in intoning the lyrics. I, too, remember growing up not even caring or knowing what most of the words in songs were. To me, the music was the thing. The driving base, the innovative drum line, the searing lead, the reliable rhythm guitar, the harmony and the melody. The words? Well, yeah maybe, after I was done wringing all the enjoyment out of that kick-ass arrangement.

      Paul

  7. The Eighth

    a glimpse of the infinite

    pierces the temporal
    and bestows to souls
    scrambling in this life’s
    contrived dream
    their forgotten delight

    and, so, recall

  8. Okay, I guess I’ll chime in on this one. I, too, wrote a lot of poetry when I was much younger (I still dabble from time to time). The oldest ones I have copies of (thanks, Mom!) date back to fourth grade. Most of my writing though was done in high school. Like Lana, some of it was pretty dark and a reflection of what was happening in my home life (parents constantly fighting, a brother getting into drugs and going to jail). It was one way for dealing with that. But here are three that are among my favorites — two short ones, and one rather long one.

    *Reflections* (written when I was 14)

    When I look into my mirror
    I see a reflection of my face.
    When I look into my writing
    I see a reflection of my mind.

    ~ ~ ~

    *Friendship* (written when I was 15)

    Between
    Joyful hellos and smiling eyes
    And
    Tear-stained faces and sad good-byes
    There grows friendship.

    ~ ~ ~

    *Whether ’tis Better to Live Life Alone* (written when I was 17)

    Often I have pondered,
    And often I have wondered,
    Whether ’tis better to live life alone?
    And the answer, you see,
    Comes back so simply to me,
    “Of course not, you silly old drone!”

    To make myself clearer,
    And bring you a bit nearer,
    I’ll explain my answer a little more.
    If you live by yourself,
    Just sitting upon a shelf,
    You might as well go through death’s door.

    To expand upon this,
    and to say with emphasis,
    A life lived alone is simply no fun.
    With no one to talk to,
    And no one to play with you,
    At the end of the day you’d be undone.

    When it’s time for the chores
    Who will help you with yours?
    Just imagine how tired you’d be.
    And who’ll be around
    When something needs to be found?
    You’ll be by yourself, mon ami.

    When all your books are read,
    And all your thoughts have been said,
    Who will supply the reason to your rhyme?
    And when you need a friend
    To stick it out ’til the end,
    Who’ll be there to save you in time?

    When the day turns to night
    Who’ll share with you the moonlight
    And sing to you a gentle lullaby?
    Then on the next morning
    Who will you be adoring
    As the sweet apple of your eye?

    As I said from the start,
    And this comes from my heart,
    Living by yourself is not all that great.
    So please take my advice,
    It’s a terrible price
    To sell your sanity to fate.

    Don’t take friends for granted.
    You may be disenchanted
    When you realize just how much they meant.
    Even when you’re mad
    Because they did something bad,
    Never forget they’re important.

  9. THREE POEMS FROM THREE GENERTATIONS

    Here’s one from generation II…..that would be me. 🙂

    “OLDER” EYES

    Dishpan faces in old skin, translucent,
    becoming more and more invisible
    by the day, the week, the year.

    Older eyes looking out from the veneer
    try to be near but too often they only peer,
    tired from the fear which is

    Reflected back from younger eyes
    as they dart away too soon in surprise
    …from visions of their own demise

    And loneliness left there then
    in the older eyes does waste
    into a wandering, hopeless place…

    And those now so very young,
    intuiting their unintended crime,
    can run only faster from Love and Time
    as they grow “older” with each step.
    ______________________________________________

    I kind of like that one, but I’d rather end off with one that I wrote after finishing the Solo I course which is more up-beat:

    “Just A Thought”

    Some people say
    in their dismay
    that I’m looking through rose colored glasses,

    “…..So many roses
    so close to one’s noses
    must be nothing but old mental masses…..”

    But I’ve got a thought
    which newly I’ve wrought
    despite the brays of those old horses asses:

    “The world IS our dreams
    and we can create it, so it seems
    like we’re looking through rose colored glasses!!!”

  10. The was a fine maiden from Milestone Two
    Who found a fair Gent from The Great White North

    Ok now, would someone please write the next two lines. The target will be to finish 3 verses of 4 lines each, as the finished poem.

    The game is on…

    R

    • There was a fine maiden from Milestone Two
      Who found a fair Gent from The Great White North

      The fine maiden used to be caught in a custody battle
      Reality used to be a staircase leading nowhere

  11. There was a fine maiden from Milestone Two
    Who found a fair Gent from The Great White North
    The fine maiden used to be caught in a custody battle
    Reality used to be a staircase leading nowhere

    So she, the Gent and a dog named wattle
    Left for the coast in their underwear

    • There was a fine maiden from Milestone Two
      Who found a fair Gent from The Great White North
      The fine maiden used to be caught in a custody battle
      Reality used to be a staircase leading nowhere

      So she, the Gent and a dog named wattle
      Left for the coast in their underwear
      They broke the world in the beach at midnight in a summer
      And then went to the closet to pick something to wear

  12. PICKLED PEACHES NAKED AND SWEET

    There was a fine maiden from Milestone Two
    Who found a fair Gent from The Great White North
    The fine maiden used to be caught in a custody battle
    Reality used to be a staircase leading nowhere

    So she, the Gent and a dog named wattle
    Left for the coast in their underwear
    They broke the world in the beach at midnight in a summer
    Then went to the closet to pick something to wear

    (Ok one more verse to go – somebody write the first two lines so MaBu can finish it)

    • PICKLED PEACHES NAKED AND SWEET

      There was a fine maiden from Milestone Two
      Who found a fair Gent from The Great White North
      The fine maiden used to be caught in a custody battle
      Reality used to be a staircase leading nowhere

      So she, the Gent and a dog named wattle
      Left for the coast in their underwear
      They broke the world in the beach at midnight in a summer
      Then went to the closet to pick something to wear

      She picked up a sweet something and said shyly, “Do I dare?”
      “It seems rather skimpy, perhaps a bit spare….”
      (Go for it, Mabu!) 🙂

      • PICKLED PEACHES NAKED AND SWEET

        There was a fine maiden from Milestone Two
        Who found a fair Gent from The Great White North
        The fine maiden used to be caught in a custody battle
        Reality used to be a staircase leading nowhere

        So she, the Gent and a dog named wattle
        Left for the coast in their underwear
        They broke the world in the beach at midnight in a summer
        Then went to the closet to pick something to wear

        She picked up a sweet something and said shyly, “Do I dare?”
        “It seems rather skimpy, perhaps a bit spare….”
        And it fueled them with Phrygian Fire
        And as they looked up, the stars were winking out, one at at time…

  13. When I first read this OP (original posting), I thougth to myself “What a boring theme! I don’t appreciate poetry, I don’t write it and I haven’t written it. (Besides, English is not one of my first languages). So, I’ll pass commenting”.

    Then, I had a hunch: I consulted my dear friend (Google). After a little “comm” with my friend, I realized that even though I don’t write poetry, I could flow some admiration to the commenters. So, I set up as my game-plan to flow some deserved admiration to each commenter.

    Since I felt good causing good effects on the commenters, then I thougth I could have some fun “writing” some non acrostic rhyme (for Pickled Peaches Naked And Sweet).

    Espiritu: “Mabu, How do you DO that?! 🙂 “

    Acrostic Poem Generators
    http://www.acrosticpoem.org/
    http://www.namepoem.org/
    I generated some acrostic poems, and then picked up the one I liked the most for the person I dedicated it.

    Heretical Rhyme Generator
    http://www.pangloss.com/seidel/Poem/
    I generated several verses, and then picked up the two lines more suitable for the previous lines and modified them accordingly.

    Modern and lilting
    Audited outgoing cupcake
    Barked deliberately but playfully
    Ultimately zigzagged

    🙂

    • There was a being that did not enjoy poetry
      His/Her lips sealed her/his journey before it was started
      Convinced he/she have lost the plot
      Transported to the dreams of the unaffected

      After reading The Garden Of The Gods
      In Poetry & Candles – Vol V
      She/he thought “But, what a heck, take a hike…”
      “Go back and bury thy face in the golden loins!”

      Like a green sturgeon rising to the mountain top
      Weeping for the love to set him/her free
      And jumping through big hula hoops
      With cosmic explosions of sweetened white goo

      She/He grabbed a twinkie, and began to play
      Where the mongooses eat varnish and the fiddling marmots play
      Up in the blue sky on delicate wings
      Everything seems just cool as can be

      Surely some revelation is at hand
      It might be completely and positively delish
      Life without excitement is like fishing without a net
      Now he/she enjoys writing poetry!!!

      This being is MaBű

      With

      to the original poster and all the commenters

      This poem was written with the help of Heretical Rhyme Generator

  14. Hey Ma & Esp… good fun and well done.

    And since unusual/unknown/mis-understood words are poetry’s “Criptonite” I will add, for those who may be unfamiliar with MaBu’s reference to “Phrygian Fire,” the following:

    PHRYGIAN

    adjective 1.of or relating to Phrygia, its people, or their language.
    noun

    2. a native or inhabitant of Phrygia.

    3. an Indo-European language that was the language of Phrygia.

    • When the ancient Greeks invaded Phrygia, the Phrygians defended themselves throwing fire bombs to the Greek navy. This is called the Phrygian Fire. Later, some people deified the Phrygian Fire and worshipped the Phrygian Fire God.

    • Ren, there is also a specialized definition in music which describes a “phrygian” scale (a.k.a. “mode”)
      This scale has different intervals between the notes than the do-re-me-fa-sol-la-ti-do that we are most familiar with.
      What does this scale sound like? If you go to a piano keyboard, start on “e”, and just go up the white notes to the next “e” you will hear what it sounds like (e,f,g,a,b,c,d,e).
      I guess this was supposedly used in ancient Phrygian. It is still used in the mid east and in also in other genres, including some rock’n’roll.
      Here is a link in case there are musicology buffs among us:
      https://en.wikibooks.org/wiki/Music_Theory/Modes

  15. Esp & MaBu..

    Thanks for giving our readers some clarification on that.

    This is one of my favorite musical scales, I use it often.

    I was not aware of the Phrygian Fire bombs. Amazing the stories words have to tell.

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