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Lots of Members: Not Much Action
Hi all you writers and poets. I keep coming back to the
group occasionally just to see if things have livened up.
But no, last message was about a month ago, and B4 that a
few months. I keep posting my Stricken Angel to be with
the drawing...even that seems wasteful. I love to write,
and doubt not that many in the group love it as well. So,
should I keep peeking back for more frequent activity, or
give it up as a waste of time, since I'm with other, much
more active, groups interested in artistic endeavors?
group occasionally just to see if things have livened up.
But no, last message was about a month ago, and B4 that a
few months. I keep posting my Stricken Angel to be with
the drawing...even that seems wasteful. I love to write,
and doubt not that many in the group love it as well. So,
should I keep peeking back for more frequent activity, or
give it up as a waste of time, since I'm with other, much
more active, groups interested in artistic endeavors?
Stricken Angel
STRICKEN ANGEL
There sits an angel
With a broken wing.
She pipes quite well,
But she can’t sing.
A guardian angel
Who broke her wing
While ringing her bell
To good luck bring...
To some poor one
Who’s down and out,
So fortune will come,
And relieve a pout.
Her pipe lifts a soul
To float on high,
And that’s her goal,
But she can’t fly.
For good deeds bring
Bad luck sometimes.
Though she can’t sing,
She pipes for dimes.
She doesn’t need much...
Just a coin or two...
For a doctor’s touch
‘Twill likely do.
For so life often goes...
Look for my drawing in the photo album.
Urban
There sits an angel
With a broken wing.
She pipes quite well,
But she can’t sing.
A guardian angel
Who broke her wing
While ringing her bell
To good luck bring...
To some poor one
Who’s down and out,
So fortune will come,
And relieve a pout.
Her pipe lifts a soul
To float on high,
And that’s her goal,
But she can’t fly.
For good deeds bring
Bad luck sometimes.
Though she can’t sing,
She pipes for dimes.
She doesn’t need much...
Just a coin or two...
For a doctor’s touch
‘Twill likely do.
For so life often goes...
Look for my drawing in the photo album.
Urban
Fragments
FRAGMENTS
The sun was shining, 'twas dark as night...
With open eyes...I fell downstairs,
And broke my neck, but felt all right,
So I ran outside and got my spare.
'Twas then I saw that my arm was gone...
I'd left it back behind the stove.
I clapped my hands to fetch a bone...
Halfway through a walnut grove.
It hurt both feet partway up one knee
When I tripped over one half of a hole,
And bumped my nose on the coconut tree
That broke my mother's mixing bowl.
Such an awful sight there in the dark,
With the blinding sun so wicked bright
That I couldn't see the slightest spark,
Because lightening flashed all night.
I hadn't dressed (my clothing loose...)
My shoes too tight with no laces.
My shirt-tail out, I dropped my juice,
Then lost my pants in various places.
Now stark naked I felt real shame;
I'd become the focus of attention!
Then I spotted the one to blame
For this fractured mystification.
It mattered not with light so bright
As the sun shone down so dark...
The evil that befell me that night
While I stumbled through the park.
Then came the most hideous attack
That caused me to kick both feet!
My toes were being bitten by cats...
So sharply that I couldn't sleep!
I kicked them off away from me,
But they charged back for more.
I kicked against the wall with glee,
And screamed out loud galore!
Opened my eyes just then and saw
True morning had arrived at last.
My feet still ached as did my jaw,
Being clenched tight by the blast.
None of it made any sense to me...
'Twas all a late night silly dream
To keep me fast asleep, you see.
Things aren't always as they seem.
(C) Urban R. Coombs 2007
The sun was shining, 'twas dark as night...
With open eyes...I fell downstairs,
And broke my neck, but felt all right,
So I ran outside and got my spare.
'Twas then I saw that my arm was gone...
I'd left it back behind the stove.
I clapped my hands to fetch a bone...
Halfway through a walnut grove.
It hurt both feet partway up one knee
When I tripped over one half of a hole,
And bumped my nose on the coconut tree
That broke my mother's mixing bowl.
Such an awful sight there in the dark,
With the blinding sun so wicked bright
That I couldn't see the slightest spark,
Because lightening flashed all night.
I hadn't dressed (my clothing loose...)
My shoes too tight with no laces.
My shirt-tail out, I dropped my juice,
Then lost my pants in various places.
Now stark naked I felt real shame;
I'd become the focus of attention!
Then I spotted the one to blame
For this fractured mystification.
It mattered not with light so bright
As the sun shone down so dark...
The evil that befell me that night
While I stumbled through the park.
Then came the most hideous attack
That caused me to kick both feet!
My toes were being bitten by cats...
So sharply that I couldn't sleep!
I kicked them off away from me,
But they charged back for more.
I kicked against the wall with glee,
And screamed out loud galore!
Opened my eyes just then and saw
True morning had arrived at last.
My feet still ached as did my jaw,
Being clenched tight by the blast.
None of it made any sense to me...
'Twas all a late night silly dream
To keep me fast asleep, you see.
Things aren't always as they seem.
(C) Urban R. Coombs 2007
The Mirror
THE MIRROR
I see in the mirror...the man I think I am,
Yet I often wonder...who you see in that man.
I know my look varies...with each soul I greet,
Because each one carries...differences as we meet.
How great would be one...who looks the same to all;
Who even when he's gone...would always stand as tall.
My mirror shows one face...a camera might agree,
But folks I meet displace...the one that's really me.
My wife sees me one way...my boss sees quite another,
A stranger thinks I'm gay...I'm not so says my brother.
The mirror shows the same...to each and every soul.
We're really not to blame...tis the way we play each role.
We have an attitude change...for everyone we're with
That's different as we range...from like to love to give.
We are all responsive...to what we see presented.
Our faces are reflective...of looks another has invited.
So while in the mirror
I see who I think I am
I cannot help but wonder
Who you see in this man.
(c) Urban R. Coombs 2007
I see in the mirror...the man I think I am,
Yet I often wonder...who you see in that man.
I know my look varies...with each soul I greet,
Because each one carries...differences as we meet.
How great would be one...who looks the same to all;
Who even when he's gone...would always stand as tall.
My mirror shows one face...a camera might agree,
But folks I meet displace...the one that's really me.
My wife sees me one way...my boss sees quite another,
A stranger thinks I'm gay...I'm not so says my brother.
The mirror shows the same...to each and every soul.
We're really not to blame...tis the way we play each role.
We have an attitude change...for everyone we're with
That's different as we range...from like to love to give.
We are all responsive...to what we see presented.
Our faces are reflective...of looks another has invited.
So while in the mirror
I see who I think I am
I cannot help but wonder
Who you see in this man.
(c) Urban R. Coombs 2007
Stricken Angel
I posted a photo of a drawing I've done
of a young lady I saw and photographed
at a fair. It inspired me first to draw what
I'd seen, then to write these verses to
describe the plite she portrayed. These
represent my latest creative efforts to date.
STRICKEN ANGEL
There sits an angel
With a broken wing.
She pipes quite well,
But she can't sing.
A guardian angel...
Who broke her wing
While ringing her bell
To good luck bring...
To some poor one
Who's down and out,
So fortune will come,
And relieve a pout.
Her pipe lifts a soul
To float on high,
And that's her goal,
But she can't fly.
For good deeds bring
Bad luck sometimes.
Though she can't sing,
She pipes for dimes.
She doesn't need much...
Just a coin or two...
For a doctor's touch
'Twill likely do.
For so life often goes...
of a young lady I saw and photographed
at a fair. It inspired me first to draw what
I'd seen, then to write these verses to
describe the plite she portrayed. These
represent my latest creative efforts to date.
STRICKEN ANGEL
There sits an angel
With a broken wing.
She pipes quite well,
But she can't sing.
A guardian angel...
Who broke her wing
While ringing her bell
To good luck bring...
To some poor one
Who's down and out,
So fortune will come,
And relieve a pout.
Her pipe lifts a soul
To float on high,
And that's her goal,
But she can't fly.
For good deeds bring
Bad luck sometimes.
Though she can't sing,
She pipes for dimes.
She doesn't need much...
Just a coin or two...
For a doctor's touch
'Twill likely do.
For so life often goes...
Thinking of Spring
SPRING DREAM
Spring will always bring
The dream of a stream...
That trickles and sings
'Neath golden sunbeams.
It's my dream of fishing
That comes every year.
In my dream I'm wishing
That I could be there.
What a glorious sound
Is a babbling brook,
With moss green ground
all around underfoot.
To follow a twisty trail
Through dappled wood
As it trickles down vale
Makes me feel so good.
A wasted old sawmill
With broken down dam,
Shadowy, rotting sills.
A dark-water log jam.
Deep holes are haven
for the biggest trout!
Ovehead caws a raven
As I'm fishing one out.
Forget the blackflies.
I'll not dream of them,
While seeking what lies
Around the next bend.
It's true too. I have this dream...very bright and colorful
at least once in May or June every year. And it's always the
same brook, mentally materialized in dream form from the
many brooks I've fished in the past...the ideal trout stream.
Spring will always bring
The dream of a stream...
That trickles and sings
'Neath golden sunbeams.
It's my dream of fishing
That comes every year.
In my dream I'm wishing
That I could be there.
What a glorious sound
Is a babbling brook,
With moss green ground
all around underfoot.
To follow a twisty trail
Through dappled wood
As it trickles down vale
Makes me feel so good.
A wasted old sawmill
With broken down dam,
Shadowy, rotting sills.
A dark-water log jam.
Deep holes are haven
for the biggest trout!
Ovehead caws a raven
As I'm fishing one out.
Forget the blackflies.
I'll not dream of them,
While seeking what lies
Around the next bend.
It's true too. I have this dream...very bright and colorful
at least once in May or June every year. And it's always the
same brook, mentally materialized in dream form from the
many brooks I've fished in the past...the ideal trout stream.
Syllabels 5-7-5
LOST LOVE
Once upon a time
I saw a little blue bird
Singing in a tree.
And I knew that bird,
Whose song was bitterly sweet,
Was singing of love.
I knew all the signs,
Of heartache and awful pain,
That were in his song.
He sang of lost love;
I could feel it in his cry,
Shivering the leaves.
It echoed my own,
Equally gone when he flew,
Gone with him away.
A loss I can't hide;
My sweetest lover has gone,
And left me alone.
Once upon a time
I saw a little blue bird
Singing in a tree.
And I knew that bird,
Whose song was bitterly sweet,
Was singing of love.
I knew all the signs,
Of heartache and awful pain,
That were in his song.
He sang of lost love;
I could feel it in his cry,
Shivering the leaves.
It echoed my own,
Equally gone when he flew,
Gone with him away.
A loss I can't hide;
My sweetest lover has gone,
And left me alone.
Briefly
CHILDHOOD APPETITE
My mother baked
A cherry cake.
Eating it was a joy!
I ate so much,
My tummy ached;
I'm such a little boy.
TRUTH IS?
The sky is high;
The ground is low.
If when I jump
My head I bump...
Too high I go!
Hurt may be done,
Or maybe none...
Depends if up
Is high or low.
My mother baked
A cherry cake.
Eating it was a joy!
I ate so much,
My tummy ached;
I'm such a little boy.
TRUTH IS?
The sky is high;
The ground is low.
If when I jump
My head I bump...
Too high I go!
Hurt may be done,
Or maybe none...
Depends if up
Is high or low.
Hymn
OH HOLY GHOST, HELP OF MANKIND
Oh Holy Ghost, help of mankind,
Inspire us with righteous desire.
Fill each heart and touch each mind;
Let your tiny voice fill us with fire.
Oh how great thy beautiful spark...
That comes from God, your partner.
How wonderful to dispel the dark,
And shower us with gifts from Father.
Oh who but thee, thou Holy Ghost,
Least understood and oft forgot,
Can testify of Christ fhe most,
And guide us through this melting pot.
Come, call our names and tell us
Some knowledge unknown by man.
Tell us facts about the universe,
Help us to know everything we can.
We see thy works, thou Holy One,
By everything born of inspiration.
Tho' some claim what thou hast done
No faithful soul will e're believe them.
Testify of our Lord, Jesus Christ,
And help us each to do the same.
Then shout your praises and advice.
Til all of us will love His holy name.
Oh Holy Ghost, help of mankind,
Inspire us with righteous desire.
Fill each heart and touch each mind;
Let your tiny voice fill us with fire.
Oh how great thy beautiful spark...
That comes from God, your partner.
How wonderful to dispel the dark,
And shower us with gifts from Father.
Oh who but thee, thou Holy Ghost,
Least understood and oft forgot,
Can testify of Christ fhe most,
And guide us through this melting pot.
Come, call our names and tell us
Some knowledge unknown by man.
Tell us facts about the universe,
Help us to know everything we can.
We see thy works, thou Holy One,
By everything born of inspiration.
Tho' some claim what thou hast done
No faithful soul will e're believe them.
Testify of our Lord, Jesus Christ,
And help us each to do the same.
Then shout your praises and advice.
Til all of us will love His holy name.
Poor Donna
Poor little Donna,
The doctor's daughter,
Tried shoplifting
Until they caught her.
The loot was lost,
And Donna was tossed
In jail for a lesson
To be taught her.
The doctor's daughter,
Tried shoplifting
Until they caught her.
The loot was lost,
And Donna was tossed
In jail for a lesson
To be taught her.
