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Poem of the Week (POtW)
A warm poem by Ambersand to celebrate not only this time of the year, but a special love. --PJ
"How Nice the Best Things Stay the Same"
by Ambersand
Wrapped in afghan
blue and tattered
I watch the night.
My thoughts are scattered.
Like the leaves
that crumple ‘cross
my patio,
I feel the loss
of summer’s end
and wonder why
these changes come;
and with a sigh
I draw my afghan
closely ‘round
my shoulders, making
not a sound.
The night air starts
to clear my head
and I begin
to think of bed
and he who holds me
while I sleep.
And though my pensive
thoughts are deep
I think I hear
him call my name.
How nice, the best things
stay the same!
"How Nice the Best Things Stay the Same"
by Ambersand
Wrapped in afghan
blue and tattered
I watch the night.
My thoughts are scattered.
Like the leaves
that crumple ‘cross
my patio,
I feel the loss
of summer’s end
and wonder why
these changes come;
and with a sigh
I draw my afghan
closely ‘round
my shoulders, making
not a sound.
The night air starts
to clear my head
and I begin
to think of bed
and he who holds me
while I sleep.
And though my pensive
thoughts are deep
I think I hear
him call my name.
How nice, the best things
stay the same!
Battered Children
Think of all the children filled with
cofusion and fear
How they cry inside,every tear they
must hide
A child that grows up this way
fear doesn't end at the end of the day
It is with them when they go to bed
Sleep doesn't come easy as they lay
down their head
There is never a time to breath a
sigh of relief,days of fear run into
nights filled with grief
Next time you walk into your house imagine
the fears of so many children as they open
their door,tormented minds and bodies that
can't take much more
As you lay down your head for a good night's
sleep,think of the children who find no
relief
days run into nights filled with grief
cofusion and fear
How they cry inside,every tear they
must hide
A child that grows up this way
fear doesn't end at the end of the day
It is with them when they go to bed
Sleep doesn't come easy as they lay
down their head
There is never a time to breath a
sigh of relief,days of fear run into
nights filled with grief
Next time you walk into your house imagine
the fears of so many children as they open
their door,tormented minds and bodies that
can't take much more
As you lay down your head for a good night's
sleep,think of the children who find no
relief
days run into nights filled with grief
MIRROR
Be my mirror. Show me myself.
Show me my faults, my virtues, my inadequacies.
Be honest with me.
Reflect my joy, my grief, my anger and my fear.
Show me my wrinkles, laugh-lines, smiles.
Show me the etchings of worry, the marks of sorrow.
Let my tears appear on your face, washing both yours and mine.
Let my happiness put lights in your eyes.
Smile with me, laugh with me, frown and weep with me.
When rage distorts my image show me plainly the ugliness of anger.
Show me how the ravages of time have added character.
Help me to understand that living has softened the sharp and unforgiving lines of youth's perfection.
Mirror me.
Share my face, my life, my feelings.
Show me in honesty all that I am.
Be my mirror.
Show me my faults, my virtues, my inadequacies.
Be honest with me.
Reflect my joy, my grief, my anger and my fear.
Show me my wrinkles, laugh-lines, smiles.
Show me the etchings of worry, the marks of sorrow.
Let my tears appear on your face, washing both yours and mine.
Let my happiness put lights in your eyes.
Smile with me, laugh with me, frown and weep with me.
When rage distorts my image show me plainly the ugliness of anger.
Show me how the ravages of time have added character.
Help me to understand that living has softened the sharp and unforgiving lines of youth's perfection.
Mirror me.
Share my face, my life, my feelings.
Show me in honesty all that I am.
Be my mirror.
Of Memories
Of Memories I often have
The bad ones seldom rise their ugly head
I think of all the sunsets
The smell of newly mowed grass
Watching the glow
Of fireworks exploding in the air
The smells of Fall
Rustling of leaves under my feet
The crisp feel of a first snow
Giving in to being a snow Angel
I thank the powers that be
My senses remember all these things
The power of the wind on my skin
The last few moments of childhood
I have retained my innocence
Incredible wonder of life's mysteries
I suppose we choose what we remember
We hold onto what pleases us
Things that make us whole
I could remember awful things
But choose fireflies and sultry nights
Sitting by the Ocean at midnight
Listening to her endless song
We all have those choices to make
I choose to sing
The bad ones seldom rise their ugly head
I think of all the sunsets
The smell of newly mowed grass
Watching the glow
Of fireworks exploding in the air
The smells of Fall
Rustling of leaves under my feet
The crisp feel of a first snow
Giving in to being a snow Angel
I thank the powers that be
My senses remember all these things
The power of the wind on my skin
The last few moments of childhood
I have retained my innocence
Incredible wonder of life's mysteries
I suppose we choose what we remember
We hold onto what pleases us
Things that make us whole
I could remember awful things
But choose fireflies and sultry nights
Sitting by the Ocean at midnight
Listening to her endless song
We all have those choices to make
I choose to sing
Light's Perspective
In the relentlessly uncompromising
fluorescent light of this dressing room
each imperfection of my body is
revealed for inspection and
mourning – the lost elasticity
of youth imagined.
My eye scans the mirror for clues
to this undoing, signs that it
just ain’t so – yet no drape of fabric
can hide the truth from such
relentless light, such intrusive
unveiling of age.
And then I see the other sign
brightly colored and lettered by
a youthful hand, its message
as hopeful as seventeen itself:
“Beauty is a matter of perspective”
On the shop counter, this sign and
others like it, laminate-preserved
to last forever and backed by
magnets to make them stick
fill an overflowing basket –
product of the Girls Project, and
yes, I say, yes!
Later, in the soft golden light
of candles lit to bathe the walls
softly, indirectly – forgiving flaws
as readily as angels gently landed
I see the same body revealed
and revel in its curves and flow
in line with the richness of time:
woman’s grace and heat
a welcoming haven.
And in that light, too, I see the sign –
colors shadowed but its message clear
as it rests against my lamp’s base
proclaiming at all hours, in all light:
“Beauty is a matter of perspective”
fluorescent light of this dressing room
each imperfection of my body is
revealed for inspection and
mourning – the lost elasticity
of youth imagined.
My eye scans the mirror for clues
to this undoing, signs that it
just ain’t so – yet no drape of fabric
can hide the truth from such
relentless light, such intrusive
unveiling of age.
And then I see the other sign
brightly colored and lettered by
a youthful hand, its message
as hopeful as seventeen itself:
“Beauty is a matter of perspective”
On the shop counter, this sign and
others like it, laminate-preserved
to last forever and backed by
magnets to make them stick
fill an overflowing basket –
product of the Girls Project, and
yes, I say, yes!
Later, in the soft golden light
of candles lit to bathe the walls
softly, indirectly – forgiving flaws
as readily as angels gently landed
I see the same body revealed
and revel in its curves and flow
in line with the richness of time:
woman’s grace and heat
a welcoming haven.
And in that light, too, I see the sign –
colors shadowed but its message clear
as it rests against my lamp’s base
proclaiming at all hours, in all light:
“Beauty is a matter of perspective”
Welcome Back
Sky,clouds filled with rain wash over me,
wash away my pain
Bring back part of me I miss that I lost,
I can find it,for I've paid the cost
Feel myself coming back to me,making it's
way through shadows I created you see
Fear I've let block my own good,letting hurt
take away everything,even self worth
No more of this,Let God lead myself back to me
Light,no more shadows as he helps me see
So welcome back to myself I say
It's been a long time,I'm grateful I found my way
And this time I know I am here to stay
wash away my pain
Bring back part of me I miss that I lost,
I can find it,for I've paid the cost
Feel myself coming back to me,making it's
way through shadows I created you see
Fear I've let block my own good,letting hurt
take away everything,even self worth
No more of this,Let God lead myself back to me
Light,no more shadows as he helps me see
So welcome back to myself I say
It's been a long time,I'm grateful I found my way
And this time I know I am here to stay
STORYTIME Y'ALL...GATHER ROUND!!
I JUST POSTED THIS TO MY "FRONT PORCH"...BUT THEY LOVE EVERYTHING OVER THERE!! HAHAHA!
I WANNA KNOW WHAT MY FELLOW POETS THINK!! FIRST TWO VERSES HERE AND THE REST IN FIRST REPLY..KINDA LONG!!
COMMENTS WELCOME!! ENJOY...D
THE DREAMS
Many, many years ago
In a forest far away
Three trees stood on a hillside
Where breezes made them sway
As they grew and time passed by
They talked among themselves
Unheard except for fairies
And mischievous woodland elves
I WANNA KNOW WHAT MY FELLOW POETS THINK!! FIRST TWO VERSES HERE AND THE REST IN FIRST REPLY..KINDA LONG!!
COMMENTS WELCOME!! ENJOY...D
THE DREAMS
Many, many years ago
In a forest far away
Three trees stood on a hillside
Where breezes made them sway
As they grew and time passed by
They talked among themselves
Unheard except for fairies
And mischievous woodland elves
Waiting In ICU
Inside these
concrete walls,
in this antiseptic
room, is where
they have brought
a man to die.
Covered
with the cables
of EKG and EEG,
my father lies still
in a numbered room
without a window,
a tube thrust
down his throat.
The family meets
and weeps outside
his door. Some stand
around swapping
stories about him,
while others vacantly
stare into space,
their minds occupied
with thoughts of the man
on the bed through
the open door.
The end comes late
one night when
word comes that
the only life support
that mattered, his beaten
battered heart had beat
its last faint beat
into silence.
rs davis
concrete walls,
in this antiseptic
room, is where
they have brought
a man to die.
Covered
with the cables
of EKG and EEG,
my father lies still
in a numbered room
without a window,
a tube thrust
down his throat.
The family meets
and weeps outside
his door. Some stand
around swapping
stories about him,
while others vacantly
stare into space,
their minds occupied
with thoughts of the man
on the bed through
the open door.
The end comes late
one night when
word comes that
the only life support
that mattered, his beaten
battered heart had beat
its last faint beat
into silence.
rs davis
haiku - or 5-7-5, it 'is'
his voice took my words
leaving a river of tears
scoured clean, I was freed
2008-10-11 6:10pm windnsea
leaving a river of tears
scoured clean, I was freed
2008-10-11 6:10pm windnsea
Fall
I always look forward to fall.
When the leaves change from daily
I want to go out and bring some inside
To put in a book to keep them the same.
The heat of summer is gone, birds fly south,
Fall is indeed here to stay a while before
It brings in winter's cold short days.
It is awesome to experience my maker's glory.
All the flowers have lost their fragrance,
The world seems to be going still,
The colors of autumn are so brilliant
I just want the world to stand still.
The reds, oranges, and the maroons
Make the world seem so beautiful
I just want everything to be like autumn
And enjoy the painting that comes with fall.
When the leaves change from daily
I want to go out and bring some inside
To put in a book to keep them the same.
The heat of summer is gone, birds fly south,
Fall is indeed here to stay a while before
It brings in winter's cold short days.
It is awesome to experience my maker's glory.
All the flowers have lost their fragrance,
The world seems to be going still,
The colors of autumn are so brilliant
I just want the world to stand still.
The reds, oranges, and the maroons
Make the world seem so beautiful
I just want everything to be like autumn
And enjoy the painting that comes with fall.
