Welcome to my personal web site!

Welcome to my page of poetry and other things. I intend to put some of my own poems here and some favorite poems by friends and by favorite poets of the past and present.

Please go to this site and click to do your part to help save the rainforests of the world before it is too late:

http://www.care2.com/

Favorites by others:

Nothing Gold Can Stay


by Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.


----------------------------------------


In School Days

by

John Greenleaf Whittier


Still sits the schoolhouse by the road,
A ragged beggar, sleeping;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry vines are creeping.

Within, the master's desk is seen,
Deep-scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife's carved initial;

The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
Its door's worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delayed
When all the school was leaving.

For near it stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled,
His cap pulled low upon a face
Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left, he lingered; --
As restlessly her tiny hands
The blue-checked apron fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes, he felt
The soft hand's light caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault, confessing.

"I'm sorry that I spelt the word.
I hate to go above you.
Because,"-- the brown eyes lower fell, --
"Because, you see, I love you!"

Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl! The grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing!

He lives to learn, in life's hard school,
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumph and his loss,
Like her, because they love him.



-------------------------------------

SELECTED POEMS of My Own


---------


October...

When the frigid fingers of Jack Frost
Flash out to shrivel the cringing leaves...

Swaying branches drip tears of scarlet, yellow,
And flaming orange...

Weeping forests wail silently
Spreading swaths of cascading foliage,
Piling swiftly in mounds of
disintegrating debris --
Shuffling and whispering in gusting
eddies of wind.

Sometimes, like the ghost of summer-past
Returning to the scene of its poignant demise,
'Indian Summer' unfurls in soft, peaceful days
And warm, caressing breezes.

Then autumn rushes back
To reclaim its intrinsic birthright...
Handmaiden to the coming
Ice King.



-------------------------------------
Stanley Kunitz, referring to the proliferation of free verse that sounds like prose paragraphs chopped up into lines:

"Poetry has become much easier to write ... and much harder to remember." --

-------------------------------------

villanelle

ADDRESSING THE DEMOCRATIC NATIONAL CONVENTION, 1996: CHRISTOPHER REEVE -- A WILL OF STEEL

"You can't be Superman", I thought,
As your wheelchair slowly spun around;
But the crowd ate up the words you brought.

The frustration and the pain you fought
Made quicksand out of solid ground --
"You can't be Superman", I thought.

The attention of the crowd was caught,
Though you didn't exit with a bound --
The crowd ate up the words you brought.

The understanding that you sought
Relaxed you as the night unwound --
Still, "you can't be Superman", I thought.

Your gallant words won't go for naught;
We'll search until a cure is found ...
The crowd ate up the words you brought.

The lesson that your courage taught
Grows stronger with each ringing sound.
"You can't be Superman", I thought;
But the crowd ate up the words you brought.


THE TUCUMCARI LITERARY REVIEW, June/July, 1997

-------------------------------------


IN DREAMS

It's midnight now -- portentous hour --
With time unfolding like a flower ...
While deep in dreams, I toss and turn;
And in my heart strange fires burn:
A sultry heat that, truth to tell,
Not even Death can hope to quell.
I dream of piercing, smouldering eyes,
Electric shock of cheeks and thighs --
Nights of love, entrancement, wonder,
Lightning flash and roll of thunder.
In memory, I live again
A sweet embrace, a careless grin.
While on the roof, a drumming rain
Recalls old joys and searing pain.
Ah, wondrous dream -- nostalgic giving --
That lets the dead embrace the living;
While lovers, ripped from out my grasp,
Entice my touch, and dreaming clasp.
Alas, if only I could take
That dream ... concrete ... as I awake.


DREAM INTERNATIONAL QUARTERLY, Fall, 1992

-------------------------------------



L'ESSENTIEL EST INVISIBLE AUX YEUX *


If race becomes important,
Then some deny ties,
While in the night, eyes
Ominous with portent
Mark things superficial
Which estange and divide us.
How can Heaven abide us?
Yet traits, artificial,
Serve only to show
That stupidity shines --
And just how far we will go.
So the standard declines;
But honest people know
Discriminations designs.


* (The essential is invisible to the eyes), a quote from "The Little Prince" by Antoine de Saint Exup鲹.

-------------------------------------

villanelle

A CALL TO ARMS

The die was cast with Earth's first dawn ...
Defend the right in spite of circumstance.
Long ages since, the battle lines were drawn.

In struggle, Good and Evil meet head-on ...
With luck and skill, your ideals will advance.
The die was cast with Earth's first dawn.

Each battle fought, engaged with brain or brawn --
Strength of character and honor will enhance.
Long ages since, the battle lines were drawn.

Each one of us a player, King or pawn --
Be alert ... don't sleepwalk in a trance.
The die was cast with Earth's first dawn.

The board the world ... and most a hanger-on;
But some, Evil's minions will entrance.
Long ages since, the battle lines were drawn.

Weigh each choice with care, both pro and con --
The world is fraught with misstep and mischance.
The die was cast with Earth's first dawn --
Long ages since, the battle lines were drawn.


The TUCUMCARI LITERARY REVIEW, May/June, 1995

---------------------------------------


A GRIFFIN PROFILE OF BARE-BREASTED WOMEN
To decipher emotions doesn't take a machine,
Though emotional roller coasters might leave you green.
The mathematics are simply so far from immutable --
It's not easy at all to "unscrew the inscrutable". *
Wild women warriors sweep through the night,
Riding the storm like the Norns in their flight;
Great jagged bolts of lightning flash by
Silhouetting a goddess athwart the dark sky.
Bold brigands of battle riposte sword to sword
In bright, blazing lights that illumine the horde;
Clouds rent and tattered show glittering stars
As red as the War God who calls himself Mars.
Like Valkyries soaring on carpets of sound,
Fluctuations and differences wildly abound.
Windbursts through the treetops whistle and hiss --
As strong as the arc of a goddess' kiss.
Through tumult and turbulence, warrior-maids sail,
Dark Queens of Inferno who ride on the gale.
Wild wingbeats flutter and soar through a mist,
Dodging and weaving with each turn and twist.
Lesser beings that cower in cellar and cave
Can postpone many years their descent to the grave;
But the shame of it all is the guilt that they feel
In denying that anyone thought it was real.


* Robert Heinlein in "Time Enough For Love."

STAND ALONE, July, 1998
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Here is one of my favorite poems, a villanelle by Dylan Thomas:




DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT


Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

___________________________________________________________

I began to write villanelles after reading Judson Jerome's final column in Writer's Digest, "Can The Villanelle Yet Save Literature"? I am sure that it was partially inspired by his condition (dying of cancer) since the above poem was written by Dylan Thomas for his father who was dying of cancer. At any rate, I wrote my first villanelle the following day, with a dedication to Judson Jerome. It has been published a number of times to date:

AFTER THE STORM

Rainwater stands in rippling pools, or trickles by.
Sharp fusillades of hail pelt down...and glance --
Far distant thunder calls, and echoes a reply.

Sunshine, streaming through the clouds, lights up the sky;
Like sunlight, shattered by a prism, rainbows dance --
Rainwater stands in rippling pools, or trickles by.

In search of worms, a daring robin, keen and spry --
As warbling songbirds greet a pristine world, entranced.
Far distant thunder calls, to echo a reply.

The earth seems, here and there, to nearly liquify --
Stray raindrops falling, glisten...happenstance.
Rainwater stands in rippling pools, or trickles by.

In full glorious bloom, wildflowers revivify...
Like tiny armies, windswept, sway and prance;
While distant thunder calls, to echo a reply.

Rows of thunderheads, arraigned, withdraw on high --
While shadows flee -- daylight makes swift advance.
Rainwater stands in rippling pools, or trickles by;
While distant thunder calls, to echo a reply.


LYRICAL IOWA, 1993

I had researched the villanelle a bit in the meantime and found that it was originally a French pastoral poem, so my first effort was a pastoral poem inspired by the aftermath of a thunderstorm.

I have since written a number of villanelles, and certainly will write more eventually.

___________________________________________________________
Here's one of my poems which was in the Writer's Digest top 100 in 1995:


OEDIPUS WRECKS

On occasion I feel
That life is a prison --
The punishment is measured
By how much your parents
Have taught you
To hate yourself...
Childhood conditioning
Stripes you in shades
Of black and blue --
Sentenced by fate
To regret lost opportunities...
Caged with your destiny
By striated memories
That eat your insides
Like an ulcer
Grown cancerous...
Yet, sometimes,
Love can open a window
For light to illuminate
That stygian shadow land
Of draconian disciplines
Where regrets and mistakes
Spontaneously combust
In a blaze that
Heats your heart --
Molten gold,
Forged in a blast furnace:
Pristine and pure...
A covenant that links
All your yesterdays
To a shining
Tomorrow.

STAND ALONE, July, 1998

It was first published in a now defunct small press magazine in Des Moines called STAND ALONE, edited by John Gaps III, the author of a wonderful photo/poetry book called "God Left Us Alone Here". John was a photojournalist for the Associated Press at the time. The poem has been reprinted numerous times in several countries and on the worldwide web.

Here is a political poem which does not address the scarey situation we find ourselves in at the moment, with a rightwing, parvenu President who is busy trying to recreate the political situation here in the U.S. which brought about the downfall of the Weimar Republic and the rise of Nazi Germany. He has destroyed the abundance and freedom we enjoyed under President Clinton with the second Bush recession in my lifetime, and is now trying to get Americans to spy on each other the same way the Nazis did. What could be more unAmerican than that? Of course, he was not elected by the popular vote, he was anointed by the rightwing Justices on the Supreme Court who were appointed by his father in a shameful "payoff", a time which will "live in infamy" as long as the Republic survives. The rest of the world must think Americans are totally nuts.

Anyway, on to the poem:


"...they need to learn that excellent poetry may--in fact, almost always must--express politcal, religious, or social convictions that they cannot share."
Frank Kermode, quoted from the Atlantic Monthly, August, 1997


MAN IS A POLITICAL ANIMAL: THE ESSENCE OF BEING

Red-orange, golden pink sunsets
Bleed myopic sanguinaries,
Endlessly...
A rainbow or a sunset renders down
To the various ways that light
Refracts off of dust motes
Or tiny impurities in the air.
Both are expressed visually
By moisture and light.
Political spectrums suffer from the same
Tricks of the eye...
Conservatives mouth slogans which mean
"We will bury you..."
(Thanks, Mr. Krushchev.)
Liberals mouth slogans which mean
"You smell like you've been buried"
While moderates move to another table
And pretend they don't know either one.
Democracy is in a bad way.
'Red light, green light',
Put the pedal to the metal ...
Society is on a one-way trip to Hell
With the slide greased...
You may someday disagree,
From your jail cell...
Republican forms of government
Often fund bread and circuses
Until the workers die off or quit working.
Then the totalitarian nuts move in
And 'straighten things out.'
Are you an active political beam of light,
Or a passive dust mote?
Therein lies the question.
_________________________________________________________



-------------------------------------

Scheherazade

When the words stopped,
Scheherazade
stopped.

She heard the words,
sinking through layers of silence,

saw them
counter-weight the morning sun,

she could not feel
the air vibrating,
she had no sense
of spaces filling.

""I am dead, "" she said,
""I am dead and gone"".

Scheherazade knows.
She knows the light,
the weight, the threat,
of a morning sun;

knows that words
spoken
at breakfast
can eat you for lunch;

she knows a thousand
and one things
that cannot save her --

now that the light
has found Schahriah.

""I am dead,"" she says,
""I am dead and gone""

Scheherazade breathes,

She does not feel
the air vibrating
she has no spaces
which need filling

all that remains
is this quiet
breathing

""I am dead,"" she says,
""I am dead and gone""


Copyright ??ennis Greene 2000


____________________________________

Caps Turned Backward...

Caps Turned Backward...Cooks Hill.
Down the long causeways of pavement.
Passing in row the Federation housing.
Pastel colours rejuvenated after
earthquake.
The patchwork quilts of graffiti...
Picasso'd in phosphorus.
A sublime communiqu?
Trees upheaving the black bitumen
dismantle themselves.
Their leaves falling.
Crisp crinklers undertow a walkers papacy.
The children on rollorboards wear
brightly coloured clothing.
Their caps turned backward.
Weave cross-stitch in the patterning air....

Copyright ??avid Markey 1999

_____________________________________


NEWTON STEWART

You asked me, Shay, to spin a yarn
before your ears do chill,
so since the seas are calm tonight,
and you seem eager still . . .

We'll count my tally, this tale be true,
as all true stories go--
I'll tell you, friend, about a lass
that swept clean through my soul.

I bought a sloop, the "Thompsonpass",
and from Kinnaird's Head did sail.
For years along the Moray Firth,
I delivered up the mail.

At the Greenman's Pub in Kelvingrove,
that's where I met Lenore;
her father owned the tavern there
and lands to the western shore.

Black hair, blue eyes, a winsome smile--
no slimmer craft there be;
I drew her from father's door,
and she sailed away with me.

At Creebridge House in Wigtownshire
we dusted down through life;
three children raised--now grown and gone,
along with family strife.

Fair haired Edie was the first to fly,
her braids in Bill Durk's hands;
then Eric with his staves and hoops
in the cooperage trade did land.

Maude, sweet Maude, our serious child
to black Ireland's shores did flee;
a schoolmarm and a spinster still--
no grandfather she'll make me.

Aye, we tasted from our fingertips
the salty Northern Sea,
but cold and damp a damned wind blew
between my love and me.

I breathed a sigh and held her tight,
she took a step or two,
then turned and cried--"I'll love you, Newt,
whatever we go through!"

Lenore, my wife of thirty years
went sickly on the vine;
she died of fever from the pox,
and passed before her time.

So my love, like no other love,
left me alone and free;
no, not of my own choosing,
for changelings are but we.

Copyright ??onald Somersett 2000


YALL! COME CYBERING WITH ME

I's a browser as I graze through
cyberspace,
Brushability is my game when I search throughout
For the whereabouts of brunizem

O away with dials yo' hold gainst' ears
Can grow old on hold as yo' utter
Words ya' hear:
Sneers, clicks, no tones, screeches,

Which causes jolts of brusquerie if you dare
Intrude, such arrogance this bucko
biz,' risk being
Cloned a brute to spin as a buffoon
Who suffers buck fever, or a bucksaw gnawing
On a bassoon.

But on the Net one can join a salsa set
Cyber to discuss da' Met
Meet Bill's as you scan through mates,
Chat thru spats
Can ignore a dull bloke faceless
Who tells jokes
As going sleeveless in Siberia
Chillin' out ta' smoke

OLE' grannies scan through Seniornet
To scout aah' cruise
Where either can do a buck-and-wing
Or join a karaoke partee' to sing,
"Nothing like an oldster"
Grown bolder da' tune
"I placed a bet on the Internet,"
Scroll a mouse, boot a lout
Who ignores a TOS

Surf murf, drink Smirnoff,
Cappuccino, tea or cocoa
Send e-mail, order a snail, swell a rat
Who clicks to chat
Gnaw and chew over the news,
Placate a simpering fool
Loop da' Web over Timbuktu and Tibet
Glance at Japan,
Taipan or Zululand
Scroll on da' way to Pakistan,
Rhoumidan,
Then surf to Togaland.

Perch on a chair anywhere
Be an elephant-tusk
Or donkeys-rear
Who can fart and not
Smell up the hemisphere;
While digits do da' trot
Whar' eyes reveal da' spots dat' sizzle
Drizzle or fizzle.

Ya'll can be aah' democratic nerd
A nude who sits before a screen
With a modem dat' broadcast
Wheezes, groans, with erratic stops,
Locks and pops.
If yo' choose, can be ah' looker
Who view a hooker
To gawk,
Salivate til' jaws lock.
Or shop for BVD's, motor-ease
Until yo' drop

I's aah' yowl yowl browser,
A download whizzer
On how to build a Kayak,
Control a Bat;
Seeking the denizens of the deep
>From the woo, woo world,
Accessing mo' mo' bytes
Than you can snake a pipe. <BR. Lol Lol! Y'all

From The Pinder Poet:

"COME TASTE THE SUGAR CANE--A View From The Staircase With Dialog."

Copyright ??. L. V. S. Hopson 2000

________________________________________

Final Reunion

For everyone my brother
there is this last migration:
kindled autumn leaves fall innately
to winters stroke,
continuance wafts in warm,
passage, across the stars,
beyond the residue of earths light.
In your final
fleeting flight, I knew with you,
I was carried within.
Cruel circumstance tore us apart
shattering hours, minutes
of our expansive occasions together.
And we acknowledged
the appointed seasons set on us
by our upbringing,
losses endured, our parallel lives.
Far-reaching
moments, our rendezvous'
short-lived reunion.
You traveled unclear paths
Years, to find seeds scattered,
and the trackless earth delivered
at the end.
And all that you sought in life
stood unearthed,
my brother,
family.

Dedicated to:Richard Henry William Barnes
1946 - 2000

David deBarnes July. 2000 -14

________________________________________

The Greatest Secret in Poetry

"Its like dirty socks' ...He said.
after reading my first concentrated effort at stanza and rhyme.
Tears formed in my eyes; I was absolutely speechless.
My whole body trembled as hurt turned to rage
ignited by anger.
I was unable to utter a word, before, he looked up and said:
"It is not your eloquent display of form or your execution of discipline,
it does sing a harmonic song ... with your usage of synonyms
and antonyms, but the element which separates good from
great does not exist ...
Without it ... it's like dirty socks
that you wash before wearing again.
It is only read once, then fogotten."

I answered; ...Everything! ...I have been taught is there.
what element?
He pulled his glasses from his face and, spoke:
"Lean your head over here ... so I can whisper into your ear ...
the greatest secret in poetry."
When he had finished,I realized that he was right!
From that day to this,I have been writing as he said
On humor, jokes, love, death, nature ...
anything and everything.
Attempting to pull from the pith of my soul the missing element...
Awaiting..the day when the critic's say:
"He has STYLE!"

The Quill 1999

________________________________________


________________________________________
"ECLIPSE"

Midnight-
Dialogues in blue
Ascending to
The flying of hieroglyphics
Balancing purpler songs
Tossing flowers into the winds
Giving light
Into the nights
of
Magic
An enigma 22
You
Like some circus performer
with birds
Painting dreams
and
Pointing to infinity
and
Absolute endlessness
I wonder-
I wonder
who
Were the progenitors to
The cosmic confrontations
What were the dialogues
between
you
and
Some descending angel?
The view of life
From the emerald planet
Crab nebula man dissections
Playing in the clouds of
Your bubble dances
Poets won
and
Poets too
In awe of you
The astral thinking
projects
Farewell shots ringing
In my bed
How did you become
the ultimate
Kite flyer
Electric future man?
The sky exploding into dust
and
You
transcending into
Your
own
Eclipse-

Copyright Val Magnuson 2000

________________________________________

Reclining Figures

1.#
Overnight
High tide
carved sheer faces
across the coastline
Left
skeletal trees
upright once more
Marooned,
bleached reclined figures
against the Ink-streaked
Manuka skyline
Plangent winds
sculpt dunescapes
reduce headland
blood-red clay
to sand

2 .#
Skeletons arise
from shoreline
death beds
Tales of
cut the anchor and run
run the in-going tide
Smashed Hulls
Spanish Galleons
Dutch, English traders
Riding the channel bareback

3.#
The sea bed is
cruel fate
A sunken prehistoric
Kauri forest,
haunted
Screaming lostmariners stumble,
salt eye blind
The mighty Kaipara Bar
Harbinger of shipwreck

4.#
Low tide,
I walk this
ancient coastline
In footsteps of
Ancestors
Mariners
I feel you
I hear you
Tangata Whenua
those who lived the Kaipara
Pakeha
those who died
entering her

5.#
Now, resting
I search
Flotsam and jetsam
spindle pieces
Ovals with points
Vertebrae
And knife edges
Bleach boned
Soul cleansed

(Dedicated to the mighty Kaipara Harbour and Henry Moore)

Copyright Doug Poole 2000

________________________________________

NATURE'S CHILD

Blue herons fly on witches' wings;
the egret, on angels' feathers.
The black/the white, the day/the night,
who is to say one is better?

I live my life in sunshine;
fight hard for every ray.
I walk the straight and narrow;
But sometimes loose my way.

I ride the high, wide rainbow,
am struck by lightning bolts.
I wonder at the thunder,
wild-eyed like a colt.

I am a springtime spirit
locked fast in winter's frost.
I fight it though I fear it,
to be warm again at any cost.

For I live my life in sunshine.
Will not wallow in the dark.
To be and do 'til it's been and done.
I will have left my mark.

Copyright Karen R. Springer 2000

________________________________________

THE DRAGON SPEAKS FROM WITHIN

It's frightening how my brainwaves see
The truth both stark and real
How fantasy enlightens me
With visions I can feel
And often times in deepest gloom
I sit midst fleeting clouds
And listen as the thunder falls
In deafening sonic shrouds

The inner kingdom's vast domain
In lofty shouts conveys
A sense of hopeless destiny
From which I cannot stray
And when it's dark uncertainty
Conceals the light of day
I patiently await the wind
To blow my mind away

Oh can't you see the things I've said
Are not the works of men
They're not the fast enclosing world's
Commitments to the end
They're feeling hoping joy and love
For things I can't convey
The words cannot express the need
For living every day

I'm festering within myself
I'm blocked at every turn
By hypocritic pantomimes
Of lessons yet to learn
For education procreation
Both to one point lead
Fulfillment of a longing
An in-born basic need

Lord give me strength that one day soon
I'll break the chains that bind
And vomit forth in gushing streams
The dreams that fill my mind
That from these wastes the light shall grow
And wrench the blinding steel
From those who strive to hinder me
From saying what I feel

Copyright Ed Allen 1999

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Fortune City's worthless web gem provider does not respond, ever, so I have installed a guestbook from someone else. The drawback seems to be that you can sign it by clicking on the link above, but it doesn't show up on my page. When you sign it, I assume the previous signers' messages show up above yours.