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Message 1319942 - Posted: 25 Dec 2012, 19:11:32 UTC

A day of Joy


When your day is full of joy
and your happiness is found,
when a sunbeam warms your heart
and your friends are all around.

Please extend that warming beam,
share the warmth, pass it through.
Make a heart glow that is near,
it completes happiness for you.


Julie Detavernier (2012)
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Message 1322515 - Posted: 31 Dec 2012, 4:35:52 UTC

One way to try to peer into the New Year . . .
(Happy New Year, by the way.)


Fortune Told


I spun a coin on table-top --
Impulsive plan, to view my lot.
A blur of metaphors was seen --
a strobe-light image, on a screen.

The Future, Past, both laughed at me --
a whirling dervish symphony.
Dispair was mine, to take a chance
on spinning coin, inducing trance.

Euphoria took hold, of me --
and, tempted with predestiny.
But, images returned to haunt,
or other journeyed landscapes, gaunt.

To my dismay, awaiting pledge,
Its final stop, was on its edge.

* * *

j. r. martin
30 Dec. 2012

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Message 1323352 - Posted: 1 Jan 2013, 19:13:54 UTC

Telling tales with noname


I was told a little tale
that's locked inside my head
but don't forget to knock
or ring the bell instead.

A tiny little creature came out
with an old piece of parchment.
It asked me what I pleased,
I wasn't sure what it meant.

I would like to know the future,
I told the tiny little thing.
Unknowing as it was,
it announced itself as a king.

Then it's brother came along
and stood by its side.
I already know the future,
it said, loud and with pride.

A third one came along
and asked about the tale.
It was the creature's task
and so it will not fail.

Everyone gathered around,
a few minutes well spent.
Not a word and not a sound
until the very end.


Julie Detavernier (2012)


(Happy New Year, Jim:)
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Message 1325151 - Posted: 6 Jan 2013, 3:34:45 UTC

A Most Beautiful House


Weathered wood, white paint peeling --
no two windows the same size.
Children gone, to live their own lives;
parents gone -- to live their's.

The lawn -- a lush study in native perennials
of varying shapes and colors;
birds and insects gladly inhabited it.
"We won", the rabbits might have said.

The garden had gracefully reverted
to nature's offerings --
reflecting, still, the previous caretaker's
tender, loving care.

Dust and old dog-hairs
carpeted the wooded floors and rugs.
Plants long dried,
as if for Autumn bouquets.

A perfect solitude pervaded the interior --
if only there were inhabitants to
startle it awake.
It was not to be so.

The tears shed were not enough
to wash away the sadnesses
within its walls;
but, faint echoes could be heard. . .

Melodies created by violin, cello, clarinet . . .
"Hot chocolate!", after a day's
cross-country skiing expedition . . .
Chopping of vegetables, in the kitchen . . .

sawing of wood, from the basement workshop . . .
"Trick or Treat!", from the front door . . .
Guests' chatter, during Thanksgiving dinner preparations . . .
Christmas carols and masses
from the family room . . .

"We'll never get this gear into the car!" . . .
a lament never realized,
before every camping trip.
But, then --

The silences . . .
missed opportunities, when solutions
to growing family estrangement,
could occur.

Brief, but increasingly prophetic
premonitions of absolute tragedy --
easily dozed through, during
evening family-room times.

Children asleep,
unaware of the coming
final tearing of the family fabric --
blissful, innocent sleep.

Helplessness --
as on a raft
heading toward
a waterfall.

Predestination
is an
incomprehensible
word.

* * *

j. r. martin
26 September 2011

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Message 1325573 - Posted: 7 Jan 2013, 19:39:11 UTC

Time will tell


When you get older,
you get wiser,
so they say...

Your past,
your childhood
doesn't describe
who you are now
but who you were.

I know I'm not
the same anymore

Now I know
which way
I wan't to go.
I just don't know
who I'll go my way with.


Julie Detavernier (2013)
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Message 1325596 - Posted: 7 Jan 2013, 21:04:49 UTC

. . . Certainly (for starters), with music and poetry, Julie!

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Message 1325671 - Posted: 8 Jan 2013, 4:13:15 UTC

"After The Dance"

my child is someone else
who i will never know
i know that he or she
will never hear of me
my child is just a dream
'cause i never took the chance
i knew way too much
i saw the future
after the dance

my child will never know
because i never told
i didn't want to share the pain
i just wanted to move on
my child is in my heart
because i understand regret
so i never i did grew up
to live the future
after the dance

all the stories my imagination bought and sold
the dreams that i have lived
the stories i have told
will not sustain me
because they never were made real
now the emptiness inside
is the only thing i feel

my child is someone else
who i will never know
i know that he or she
will never hear of me
my child is just a dream
'cause i never took the chance
i knew way too much
i saw the future
after the dance

(2012 db michel)


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Message 1327422 - Posted: 13 Jan 2013, 19:30:14 UTC

Two years without you


Now that the time comes closer
to the hour you left this world
two years ago. I feel numb, in
sadness and lost, for all that I know

We miss your shining light,
the fact you always wanted
to give more, even though you were
hurt sometimes, even though
through all you had to endure.

I wish there were more people
on this planet with a soul like yours,
so loving, kind and forgiving.
That would simply open doors.

You had a heart for children
and the child was inside of you,
you said 'it's all for love'
L.O.V.E, and that's what I'll do

Seppe, I saw your true self,
you showed more than a dance or a song.
I thank you for everything you gave us
now that you...no longer belong...


Julie Detavernier (2013)
4 Feb will be 2 years...




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Message 1327526 - Posted: 14 Jan 2013, 1:16:07 UTC

Where Seppe belongs, Julie, is where you -- and all of us -- will
belong, someday.


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Message 1328077 - Posted: 16 Jan 2013, 21:15:58 UTC

This might stimulate some comments . . .


Lesson Learned


A nearby orchard found old trees
with branches, low, with fruit.
I plucked a honeyed gem, with ease --
and took a bite, with guilt.

I did not see, on deck of house,
an old man raise his gun.
But, heard it roar, with load of salt --
and felt it sting my buns.

When I got home, I told my pa
about that cranky man.
But, pa told me about the law --
with evidence, in hand.

The moral of this tale is plain:
Oft, gain is fraught with pain.

* * *

j. r. martin
18 January 2013

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Message 1328079 - Posted: 16 Jan 2013, 21:25:48 UTC

Here's a haiku I wrote several years ago. I'm kind of afraid to post it in the NFL season thread.

Football. Men running.
Smush his face into the ground.
Then do it again.

____________
David
Sitting on my butt while others boldly go,
Waiting for a message from a small furry creature from Alpha Centauri.


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Message 1330846 - Posted: 24 Jan 2013, 19:16:15 UTC

Our Tree


We are growing branches,
spreading wide, blooming,
rooted deep within the earth.
Growing from east to west,
always searching for the best
soil to grow, to be our tree.

Beginning with mom and dad,
raising eight children here,
letting the tree blossom,
branches growing into the air,
various colors always welcomed
a melting pot, marked as our tree.

More than seventy souls we are,
the youngest born on new years day,
living as a family, near, far,
always in touch with all.
Foreign names are added to ours,
we blend in, assimilate, we must.

And as our leafs will fall,
our tree will grow further,
making its own branches,
adding names in our tree:
blond, brown,black or red-headed,
all part of our family tree.


Julie Detavernier (2013)


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Message 1330994 - Posted: 25 Jan 2013, 1:21:11 UTC

Well, Julie -- Your extended family appears to be similar to the USA, but
under one family roof. Good for you (all).


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Message 1332925 - Posted: 30 Jan 2013, 20:17:10 UTC

Soulmates


Soulmates flattered
down in green pastures
Gazing at the illuminated sky
Astonished by celestial magnificence
What this splendor does imply.

Feeling the grandeur of it all
Energies flowing through their veins
Souls entwined together
Only unconditional love remains.

No physical love, just heartfelt hugs
In love with eachothers soul
Inspired and in love with life itself
They see the beauty of it all.


Julie Detavernier (2013)

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Message 1333040 - Posted: 31 Jan 2013, 2:58:46 UTC

Cave Man Rock


Blow some tunes on Red Elk bones.
Sing of hunts, in glaciers' thrall.
Silhouettes, on fire-lit walls,
animating paintings' home.

Shadows bending to the ground,
then upright, and whirling 'round.
Keeping Cave Bear far away,
to their gods, did hunters pray.

Reading signs in star-lit sky.
Thrusting sticks in campfire coals,
that would capture stories, bold.
Embers freed, to heights, did fly.

Adding meaning, to the day --
safely stored in night-time's sway.

* * *

j. r. martin
30 January 2013

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Message 1333279 - Posted: 31 Jan 2013, 20:22:19 UTC

Darker of Better


In every corner
A shadow is cast
In every shadow
A crime has his past

Death is coming
Feel that it’s near
Sometimes you even feel
It soon will appear

People will murder
With knife, blade and gun
They will even strangle
Just for the fun

The pit and the pendulum
And the tell-tale heart
Both goosefleshly good
But it’s just the start

The fall of the house of Usher
Makes you want to squeal
The cask of amontillado
Feels so very real

There is no Romantic
At least none I know
Who writes better or darker
Than Edgar Allen Poe.


Julie Detavernier (2013)
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Message 1333407 - Posted: 1 Feb 2013, 4:10:23 UTC

Quoth the raven . . .
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Message 1333923 - Posted: 2 Feb 2013, 11:41:54 UTC

Pink Shy Blush


Pink shy blush,
She is like the sweetest embrace.
She is daylight inside your heart,
bursting into a caleidoscope flame.
Will she ever return?

To see her smile,
to watch her cry.
To be with her,
with all my heart.
To her I’ll surrender
with all that lies
inside the deepest
dungeons of my heart.

Ah, will she ever return?
My sweetest pink shy blush.


Julie Detavernier (2013)
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Message 1334695 - Posted: 4 Feb 2013, 20:16:38 UTC

It's you that I miss


I used to take you for granted
Never stopped to appreciate
that you were there
By now it’s too late
And it just isn’t fair

Every day that goes by
I force myself not to think
I can’t handle my emotions
I’m just trying not to sink

I can’t deal with the pain
of missing you every day
and it tears me apart
how you’ve been taken away

I wish I could trade places
Your life was supposed
to be longer than this
How can I ever manage without you?
When it’s you that I miss…


Julie Detavernier '2013
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Message 1335964 - Posted: 9 Feb 2013, 0:28:40 UTC
Last modified: 9 Feb 2013, 0:31:11 UTC

Tuesday, June 4th, 1991

(Billy Collins, 1941-)

By the time I get myself out of bed, my wife has left
the house to take her botany final and the painter
has arrived in his van and is already painting
the columns of the front porch white and the decking gray.

It is early June, a breezy and sun-riddled Tuesday
that would quickly be forgotten were it not for my
writing these few things down as I sit here empty-headed
at the typewriter with a cup of coffee, light and sweet.

I feel like the secretary to the morning whose only
responsibility is to take down its bright airy dictation
until it's time to go to lunch with the other girls,
all of us ordering the cottage cheese with half a pear.

This is what stenographers do in courtrooms,
alert at their dark contraptions catching every word.
When there is a silence they sit still as I do, waiting
and listening, fingers resting lightly on the keys.

This is what Samuel Peyps did too, jotting down in
private ciphers minor events that would have otherwise
slipped into the heavy, amnesiac waters of the Thames.
His vigilance paid off finally when London caught fire

as mine does when the painter comes in for coffee
and says how much he likes this slow, vocal rendition
of "You Don't Know What Love Is" and I figure I will
make him a tape when he goes back to his brushes and pails.

Under the music I can hear the rush of cars and trucks
on the highway and every so often the new kitten, Felix
hops into my lap and watches my fingers drumming out
a running record of this particular June Tuesday

as it unrolls before my eyes, a long intricate carpet
that I am waking on slowly with my head bowed
knowing that it is leading me to the quiet shrine
of the afternoon and the melancholy candles of evening.

If I look up, I see out the window the white stars
of clematis climbing a ladder of strings, a woodpile,
a stack of faded bricks, a small green garden of herbs,
things you would expect to find outside a window,

all written down now and placed in the setting
of a stanza as unalterably as they are seated
in their chairs in the ontological rooms of the world.
Yes, this is the kind of job I could succeed in,

an unpaid but contented amanuensis whose hands
are two birds fluttering on the lettered keys,
whose eyes see sunlight splashing through the leaves,
and the bright pink asterisks of honeysuckle

and the piano at the other end of this room with
its small vase of faded flowers and its empty bench.
So convinced am I that I have found my vocation,
tomorrow I will begin my chronicling earlier, at dawn,

a time when hangmen and farmers are up and doing,
when men holding pistols stand in a field back to back.
It is the time the ancients imagined in robes, as Eos
or Aurora, who would leave her sleeping husband in bed,

not to take her botany final, but to pull the sun,
her brother, over the horizon's brilliant rim,
her four-horse chariot aimed at the zenith of the sky.
But tomorrow, dawn will come the way I picture her,

barefoot and disheveled, standing outside my window
in one of the fragile cotton dresses of the poor.
She will look in at me with her thin arms extended,
offering a handful of birdsong and a small cup of light.

*

Included in "The Discovery of Poetry",
by Frances Mayes
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