Writing Poetry | Jodiweitz

New Day With Diamonds

Diamonds on black velvet
Danced between the fingers
Bursting with brilliant light
In a summer
Breezy
Cool
Starry night

Rahmanov classical music
Born gracefully
Out of a silver box
Enveloping
Marrying
The hearts and
The minds

Crocodile decorated skin
Rest on a Persian carpet
Marking the entrance to
An arched bended passage
Mysteriously
Half Darkened
Faintly Lighted
With lamps
On each side

Roses blouses shirts and bushes
Suddenly shine reflecting light
When everyone moves
Side by side
A little tight
As the place
Filled with
“Excite”

The lower part of the heavenly dome
Brushed with a touch of pale light
Signalling silently the approaching
Dawn
Droplets dews on stems and
Petals
Moves down with birds
Songs
Singing Greeting Blessing and Telling
That a new day is
Surely
Coming

Altawell

17 February 2008

Altawell 2008

Diamonds on black velvet were part of the main scene in an old large country house.

The fingers belonged to a bride where a wedding celebration took place. The poem was written eight months later remembering that special day.

The meaning for a new day and a new life, especially for the new “bride and groom” was clear on that memorable summer dawn, as the dawn was approaching fast but the celebration was still going on in full.

When asked by one of the guests how do I feel watching the sunlight gradually replacing the darkness, the answer came clear, quickly and without thinking “A new day has been given to us with a new opportunity in life. Live every moment with all your senses and be part of it, and never waste it by thinking about the past or the future, as the future is created from the present - that mean the present is the mother of the future and that is why you should live the present to the full, as that is all you have in this life”.

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Posted on Aug 7, 2008 in Writing Poetry | Comments Off

Poetry for Children

Poetry is one of the first interactions with literature that young children have. Nursery rhymes and silly songs give children the foundation for reading by helping them understand the relationship of sounds and letters through rhymes. As children get older, poetry helps them understand how to express complex thoughts, feelings, and ideas through words.

Poetry can be introduced to children as early as infancy. Simple rhymes recited in a singsong manner are great for small children. Babies enjoy these fun songs and, by the toddler years, she will begin to sing along. During the toddler and preschool years, introduce your child to a variety of poetry that rhymes. Recite and memorize classic Mother Goose poems, like The Cat and the Fiddle or Little Boy Blue, and read rhyming books, like those by Dr. Seuss.

Provide your child with a selection of poetry books designed for children as well as their other books. Guidecrafts creative selection of bookshelves make a great place to store your childs books and poems. Continue to change the poetry selections with the other books as your child gets older. Encourage her to read poems about things that interest her, like poems about horses or poetry about nature.

Encourage your preschooler to create her own poems. Help her by providing sentence prompts for silly limericks, like There once was a ______, who lived in a _____. Help her complete the blanks with funny words that rhyme and read the poem together. Make up simple rhymes together about various events as well.

Kindergartners and first graders can enjoy more complex poetry. It is still a good idea to expose children to plenty of poetry that rhymes as they are learning to read, but they can also learn that not all poetry needs to rhyme. Read poetic books together, like those by Shel Silverstein, and work on memorizing a few favorite poems of various styles and lengths.

Begin to introduce your kindergartner or first grader to a few simple forms of poetry and encourage him to write his own. Cinquains are a great form to begin with. A simple cinquain consists of five lines with the number of syllables increasing in each line, then returning to the beginning form. To compose a cinquain, your child should choose one two syllable word for the poems title. The next line will be two words or four syllables that elaborates on the name of the poem. The third line will express an action that related to the title, and will consist of three words or six syllables. For the fourth line, your child should express a feeling about the title using four words or eight syllables. He final line of the cinquain is similar to the first line with only one word or two syllables relating to the title.

As your child gets older, continue to broaden his knowledge of poetry. Introduce new poets, especially those noted for their work, and explore different techniques poets have used through time. Examine and compose a variety of poetic forms with your child, including haikus, acrostics, and concrete poetry that is written in a form to resemble the poems topic. Encourage your child to create their own free verse poems as well as structured forms of poetry throughout their childhood.

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Posted on Aug 6, 2008 in Writing Poetry | Comments Off

Release the Emotions that Hold You Back

Release the emotions that hold you back
From being the person you should be.
Let the healing wave bring to you what you lack
And help you more clearly to see.

The path may be hard and steep,
But you know it is the right way.
At times you may even weep,
But on the right path you must stay.

As you surrender the pain
You make the best gain.
Towards the goal you must work
From this path you dare not shirk.

As you feel the release
So you gain a new peace
And the vision becomes clear
As you let go of the fear.

For that fear is an infliction
Which causes you restriction.
It keeps you away
From your true pathway.

Disappointment you have known
But to you has been shown
That you must not stand still,
You must climb up that hill.

You need to be healed
From the thick walls that you build.
Such walls make you repressed,
And you may become depressed.

You can change, do not fret,
From this path of regret.
The way that lies ahead
Is the path on which you are led.

So give up the ways of the past
For true riches that will last.
With positive thoughts firm and strong
You can life that way life-long.

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Posted on Aug 6, 2008 in Writing Poetry | Comments Off

Man Tell Me Who You Are

I was a child, knowing nothing at all
Mother concentrated to make me happy
I found the world so simple and easy
Had no one else around;
Seeing i am yet to understand
Many things which man can do
I need someone else to be close to me
Someone to drive me to explore

Adolescence is completed,
Man tell me where to find you.
In the church, in the school?
I have a need, and it is like that
It is time to live life another way
Not to feel lonely anyway
Man tell me, just tell me
Who you are

The world looks so complicated
So many things i am coming to pass through
But found i cannot do anything alone
Have come to know how others overcome
It is so natural and so interesting
This is where you are protected
I need someone who can stand by
And it will be a man, my real man

I do not want to stay alone so cold
let me reach out to somewhere else
The place i was surpose to be-
Find fulfillment to my dreams.
I do not want to wait anymore
It will be truly unnatural
Man, If you know you are true to it
Just tell me exactly who you are

Nicholas Thaddaeus was born in Lagos, Nigeria in 1977. he attended some college in the state, he is also creative in home interior design finishes and spends the rest of his time in writing article(poem-prose)

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Posted on Aug 5, 2008 in Writing Poetry | Comments Off

Interview with Judith Dupree, Author of Poetry Collection "Living with What Remains"

Judith Dupree is with us today chatting about her recently published book of poetry that focuses in an unusually prescient way upon the losses we face in our complex society. Welcome to Reader Views.

Juanita: Judith, you have written a lovely book of poetry. What inspired you to write living with what remains?

Judith: Well, Id offer a pot full of reasons, but the over-riding one is decidedly my mix of hope and despair: an anticipation that buoys me constantly but, always eating at it, my grief over the unraveling of our world.

And, as a citizen of the first of the first-world peoples, my nibbling sense of shame. So many
factors impel it: our dysfunctional cultural mindset (In greed we trust.), our political rabidity, our
increasing polarization and dismemberment. This covers a lot of different aspects, but all of the
causes are interrelated, of course. We are watching our environment unravel, and know deep down
that were all participants each of us has received the charge to live differently (Less is more) in
light of what we know, and to address the convoluted issues that pertain. We rarely do more than
shake our heads and point fingers, and fuss about it all (or deny it) trying to live comfortably with
that elephant in the living room. Or the oil tanker in the swimming pool? Thats a major aspect of
my need to write this book. I guess you could call it a jeremiad of sorts? Anyway, theres a lot of yin
and yang in the book.

Juanita: Why do you think so many people are in denial over the unabashed dysfunction plaguing
these times?

Judith: Ah, another pot full! I have to say this: it is hard to be human. It is difficult to lift ones
head and look beyond ones own needs and yearnings, and absorb the harsh realities that lie around us
and respond to them sensitively, effectively. That alone significantly accounts for the ostrich
effect. (The poor bird got a bum rap with this one!) Playing into that are our individual prejudices and
pretensions, both of them largely unrecognized or unacknowledged, and of course our fear of
anything that threatens our steady course through life. We dont want to be challenged in such
dreadful ways! We dont want to know that life is so tenuous, and that we have harsh choices to
make particularly because the right choices were not established by our fathers and their fathers. If
we can blot out future woe (as did our political/corporate grampas) and cling to what we have with
tenacity, maybe we wont lose our grip on it. Close your eyes, click your shiny red heels and spin!
We have lived largely in Oz.

Its scary growing up, for us grownups. Add to this stew a ladle of self-indulgence that has
congealed into greed. Our corporate mentality, our CEO complex. Them what has, gets. In spades.
And, finally, considering all this (and all Ive omitted), we dont really want to know that God, to
whom we pay such pallid lip-service, is watching us . . . and, only if we choose, watching over us.
Which are two far, far different matters. If we dont believe this, our elaborate fig leaves wont shield
us. (Nor will the emperors clothes)

Juanita: Is this a book of Christian poetry and if so, will it only appeal to a Christian audience?

Judith: It is indeed Christian in context; I am a disciple of Christ. But that isnt or shouldnt be an
impediment to the reader. Alongside that foundation, and predating it, is my response as one member
of humanity to the whole of it. I have always experienced, perhaps as a basic instinct, a deep sense of
the woundedness of mankind. Long before my overt spiritual awareness began, I fed upon works of
past writers their acute observations and laments and their dreams of something better, greater, than
what they saw before them. Rumi comes to mind. The Greek philosophers, of course. And Latino
poets. I literally inhaled their expirations throughout my college years, and have spent a lifetime
sorting and shifting, adopting and adapting. And when the message of Christ became more than
intellectual persuasion, it all gelled. So to ask about the appeal of this work, Id say Read it as the
cry of humanity itself. In writing some of this, I felt that I was standing naked before the world,
saying Shrug it all off all the filthy rags; lets go skinny-dipping. (And this from a rather old lady!)
We are all in this together, and I suspect well sink or swim together, ultimately. I believe, therefore,
that this is not merely a Christian book in the sense in which we often weigh and measure concepts.
I dont write with that concept as a focus.

Juanita: What is the theme that ties your book of poetry together?

Judith: Id say that would be an over-riding sense of both the sacred and profane. How they come
before us endlessly. And how they rub against each other, how they both balance and unbalance each
other. There is no phenomenon without its counterpart: thesis, antithesis. We walk through life on a
tightrope, in a way, trying for steadiness. Truly, we dont always recognize what unbalance really
is. I have tumbled off the thin strand of reality many a time, of course. It is primarily a sense of the
sacred that has held me in a kind of stasis, providing a point to fix my eye upon. Something to walk
toward. All this is thematic for me. These poems are my walk, what I take with me, what I see ahead:
The growing darkness, and the incredible largeness of life, and the wonderful stubbornness of the
human soul toward renewal. And ultimately, the personalness of God invades, pervades, provides
shelter for us when it gets rough.

Juanita: How did this collection unfold onto paper?

Judith: As I leafed through the growing pile, I felt something developing mulching within it. My
personal manifesto, perhaps? A way of saying (with Martin Luther) Hier Ich stehe! Honestly, I was
a bit scared to put it out there, with all the pain it contains. But it was the beauty of life the holy
antithesis that gave me the push I needed.

Juanita: When did you start writing, and is this your first book?

Judith: I started writing when I started putting words on paper. Terribly, of course. My earliest
efforts were simply ways of getting words to rhyme, which I thought was the whole of it.
Throughout my youth and young adulthood, I blurped out occasional, rather innocuous or dreadful
poems love and existential despair, etc.. The usual. And I was seesawing between art (I did
portraits.) and writing. I loved both, but had no direction. I finally got serious about words when the
Fearsome Forties loomed before me. Ultimately it gave me a book: Going Home,1984. My next book
actually began in 1976, prompted by our BiCentennial and I wrote at it sporadically over the
decades, between other projects. Its a long historical narrative a prose-poem titled I Sing America
rather Whitmanesque. (I played on his title, but the content is much different.) I didnt feel it resolved
coherently until about four years ago. It ends with 9/11. I sent out some review copies, and got a few
fine comments, but never really marketed it. Its in revision now, and I will release it through Quiddity
Press when its ready. An unusual journey.

Juanita: Tell us about the cover of living with what remains and what it represents.

Judith: The cover picture on this book is simply an ancient, enormous dead oak in our small village.
It is one of multiplied thousands in CA lost over the past few years to drought and disease. A common
symptom of our times. This skeletal tree represented to me our centuries of covering, and how
exposed we are now. Loss and survival again.

Juanita: What are some of your favorite gems that fill the pages of your book?

Judith: Well, beauty is famously in the eyes of the beholder, but the poems that haunted me most in
the process are probably my favorites, if only for that reason. They may not be the best, of course.
Coveting It All was one that kept urging me on, feeding my greed to experience and encapsulate
nature. The poem The Mantis was a remarkable transcendental experience. My husband and I were
both a part of it, and my sense of identity with all earth-life was truly affected. The poem I consider
most awkward is also probably one that fits here: Dear World. I literally didnt know how to put it
on paper, and finally left it stumbling along to the end. One of my most poignant experiences was the
finale of I Bring To You. It literally fell together before me. The owl, eyeing us with his unending
Whooo? as if we could answer him. As if we can answer each other.

Juanita: What would you like your readers to come away with after reading your book?

Judith: I guess to share both the shame (even vicariously) and the hope. Taking a long look at
humanity and its frailty and strongholds . . . and stepping up to the benchmark that is always before
us, seen or unseen: Do unto others. That means to do unto those who are coming behind us,
not simply around us. Were leaving our grandchildren a potential disaster. If it is largely unavoidable,
by now, let us leave a repository of hope. For me, its the Kingdom of God, an inner territory we
desperately need to inhabit. Blessed are the gentle, and merciful, and pure in heart, etc., for they
shall inherit the earth. And perhaps, Deo volente, they shall renew it. But it is my adamant principle
that we try. Each of us, in some small, incremental way.

Juanita: Judith, what would you say to people that think all hope has been lost for humanity?

Judith: Id say we dont really understand hope. Hope is anything but pie in the sky, or a magic
reversal or retrieval. It is a personal attitude-into-act that grows from one choice after another. It
comes to us as an understanding a whisper, soul-deep, that says You can do this. Or DONT do
that. And we know, really. We always have the choice to create hope, to welcome hope. One step
forward, or back, and were on solid ground. Sacred ground. Something happens, something is
effected and affected that is true and good and we will recognize what we have actually done by this
[perhaps] smallish choice. We will realize that it takes us forward even if, perhaps especially if, we
have stepped back from some slight precipice. (Precipices can fool us with their slanted depths!) An
inch of life has been restored by this. Hope is restored by inches.

Believing and receiving on behalf of our better self, thought by thought, we can engender hope even in
the midst of despair, and despite gargantuan loss. We move away from frantic survival into a kind of
Genesis mode. There, others find us and come alongside, and we welcome each other as a part of this
new creating. This is not fatuity; it is practicality and perseverance and preservation: the timeless
Kingdom of God among us.

Juanita: What writers have been your inspiration?

Judith: Those I mentioned before, in my student years. Off the top of my head: initially I found a lot
of fodder in Frosts elegantly simple and rustic look at life and nature. His impact remains. Emily
Dickinson, of course. Some of Millays work, particularly Renascence, written at so young an age!
Denise Levertov and Mary Oliver: stunning! Some great guy poets, known and unknown: Whitman
was a break-through person, of course, for all who follow after. Contemporarily, John Leax (i.e., Out
Walking), a strong voice; Robert Wrigley, very accessible. And anything Wendell Berry says, poetry
or prose. Solzhenitsyn, non-poet, for timeless reasons. And, among gifted unknowns, I have a poet
friend in Oregon, David Kopp, who must be discovered. (Hes a book editor, busy churning out
everyone elses writing.) There are a lot of Davids and Judiths out there. Ive read a number of them,
eager for their witness to life. (Small poetry journals are a rich deposit. Rock & Sling and IMAGE
come to mind. They know good poets when they see them, and give them a hand.)

Juanita: Tell us about AD LIB and your endeavors teaching poetry and creative writing?

Judith: My motto could be: Make lemonade. You know the old adage. When it became apparent that
I was on a lonely trail, and I failed too many times to count, I realized I was, in part, a symptom of a
larger problem: The state of the arts in America. Too many good artists and writers struggle on for
years without encouragement or recognition. Maybe I could pull together a small outreach to reach
just a few of them, giving them something of a home base. We have, with Ad Lib, done just that for
10 years. We meet in the Colorado Rockies every fall. Nothing spectacular, simply people coming
together to share their arts-journeys and gulp the lemonade, so to speak. A couple of speakers and
workshops. The principle I mentioned earlier, Less is more, actually applies here in a different
context. Theres no shame in being in a small place with a large talent, when you have fellowship to
sustain you. I try to celebrate Gods diversity and daily Grace in ways that mend and heal and offer
hope.

As far as teaching poetry/creative writing is concerned, I have availed myself of offers to
do this off and on throughout the past quarter-century at workshops and conferences, in retirement
homes and schools. Keeping the edges honed. Now Im developing a full arts network in our county,
which incorporates a number of fairly small and scattered villages. Well see where it goes, what we
do together. Fun stuff!

Juanita: You and your husband have developed Quiddity Press, a small publishing company. Please
tell us more, and how your readers can contact you.

Judith: Well, QP is another glass of lemonade. I really wanted to offer others like me a voice a
creative, low-key way of structuring a publishing experience. It is stalled right at the moment for lack
of funds, primarily due to a need for someone with marketing skills (hardly my forte) to come
alongside, part-time, and get our small [pending] inventory out there. If that should happen, we can
continue to move forward. Check the web site: www.quidpress.com, and youll see what we want to
bring to the table. Maybe someone out here can give us a new idea of how to make this Dream
viable.

Juanita: Judith, thank you for your interview. Are there any last thoughts you would like to share
with your readers?

Judith: Maybe this: We each have a reservoir within. Go skinny-dipping. Let the encumbrances
sink. Find out what floats to the top, and be faithful to it. Thats where the Hand of God will reach you

Juanita Watson is the Assistant Editor for Reader Views
http://www.readerviews.com

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Posted on Aug 5, 2008 in Writing Poetry | Comments Off

The Wedding

Went to the wedding last weekend.
Everyone new, I knew, was there.
But you were not, not even in my thoughts.
Looking back, I just realized,
You were not even present in my thoughts!
I watched, and listened as my friends were married,
On a grassy knoll, in the park, at the beach,
Just as the sun was going down over the ocean.
I let my heart listen, and my mind was free,
And I never gave a thought to the past, or you and me.
It seems that finally, I am starting to let go of you,
And getting a hold again on the real me.
Everyone tells me Ill get over things,
If I can just learn to keep it simple.
And when I think of you,
I think of you as a major complication.
It was really something, being so close,
To two people so much in love,
And my heart did not break,
It did not even faintly ache,
For what I wished we could have had,
And I knew that we never would.
I wish you nothing but love and hope for you and yours,
And I wish for the same for me.
I will always love you, you know I will.
But I think Im finally ready to let go and let live,
For both of us.
Blessed be.

Deborah Coss, has been writting since 8 years old, getting published off and on since 15, and finally realized her child hood dream, of carrying press credentials, working for womanmotorist.com. A diverse writer, publishnig several business type sites, she now publishes her own site, http://www.1kindthing.com, creates some fine arts, and loves photography, commenting she is a social portraiture photographer and prefers the medium of black and white. In art, she has a very constructionist attitude, and enjoys making masks, and other 3 dimensional objects. On a personal side, she survived an extremly violent childhood, some serious trauma, including being crushed by a car at age 3 and half. Thus, her site 1kindthing.com, tells of overcoming hardships, in her many styles of writing. She is a baby boomer, raised in Southern California, bi-lingual in Spanish, descened from French, German, English and American Indian bloodlines. Coss finds words fun, and communication an art.

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Posted on Aug 4, 2008 in Writing Poetry | Comments Off

Invasion of the Body Snatchers

Please ignore the aliens

They are taking over my brain

Impulses come and Impulses go

Hoping that my soul will still remain.

My soul is slowly dying

Remembering my past

The life and love I hold within

If only they would last.

The aliens within

Strip me of my Hope,

My Smile, My Strength, My Determination

I forget the tools to cope.

I know that I am worth the fight

I dont like to admit

I can not do this on my own

As I reach up from this pit.

This pit of isolation

Desperation and Dispair

I want to find my inner strength

To grow and become aware.

Aware of possibilities,

A life where I am free

Free to Learn, Love and Live

A life where I can see.

My truth that comes from within

I can see my outer strength

Strength to reach out, for your support

I will go to any length.

You are stronger, than this monster

That works to control my brain

With your hand, support and truth,

My soul will still remain.

Note: The only way to keep the aliens from getting in is to reach out to others. Find the truth within yourself and you will find and love the “real you”. The real you that lives in your heart, deep within your soul, the you that wants to finally be free of fear, and of doubt. What will become of me, how will I survive, will I sink or will I swim, it might be easier just to dive.

Mary Pat Nally -Founder/Facilitator — Learn, Lead and Serve –Experiential Leadership Consulting
LET YOUR LIGHT SHINE! Toll Free - 1-800-801-7132 learnleadandserve@yahoo.com
http://www.authenticallyme.com
Author of:Reflecting Grace: How one woman found life on a quest to outrun her eating disorder
Available on Amazon.com

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Posted on Aug 3, 2008 in Writing Poetry | Comments Off

Haiku - A Collection

Love tickles
with erect pistil:
hibiscus

Oleander and
hibiscus blaze with passion
making love in sun

Suspended
on the spiders web
a hibiscus

Narrowly escape
the midair web of spider
perched on hibiscus

The lone hibiscus
waits for the sun to bloom:
mornings first offering

Red oleander and
hibiscus calling morning
to Kali

Without washing hands
he touches hibiscus for worship:
her frowning glance

After little rain
lilies smile with hibiscus–
the sun in May

Too short
cant reach the height:
hibiscus

To reach the branch
raising her other arm
twisted hibiscus

Chrysanthemum
on the mossy roof
deeply rooted

Too big for its web
between two roses
a yellow spider

In their webs
spiders racing to spin
their meatless prey

Around falling leaves
a lone dreaming flower
mid-February

Stands alone in
the assembly of flowers
Valentines Day

Not sad to die
blooming after a days rain–
the mushroom

Fresh mushrooms
hidden in decaying leaves:
missing the season

Shrouded in fog
the lone pomegranate
in the courtyard

Lying in the dust
a guava bitten off
by the parrots

Pausing between bites
on the guava tree
the parrots

Ravined inner shell
of the walnut
his face

Her shapely figure
in orange blouse and blue jeans
strained at the hips

Taking a nap
on oranges in his shop
a fruit vendor

He stands before
the nude Venus awaiting
her gown to drop

Diving in the sky
apsaras on the stone caves
God-touch in motion

December morning
the first roses in the lawn:
fragrance in passing

Leaves sway
to fly like birds
free in the sky

Waving down
a leaf settles between
her breasts

Veiling her breasts
with the seasons first snows
the hill blushes

All night trees wave
with roaring winds:
autumn in the courtyard

The autumn flame
infects his reverie:
panic in the leaves

Raising her saree
above the thighs bends to ease
and blocks my way

Rising early
to make tea for everyone
the newly wed wife

Mouth opened
to lick her ice cream
brown tongue

Dissatisfied with
each other the two of us
in an empty house

In the grey of dusk
sway between hope and despair
their dream promises

Leaning sideways
she looks at mango pickle
caries ache

Basking in the sun
files nails in garden chair
my wifes friend

No joy in lighting
the candles this Diwali:
both the children away

Awaits his sons
phone call from the border:
dogs and cats wail

His sons voice
not relayed by wire:
tense borders

His first winter
inside a fibre-hut
swirl of snowflakes

With sweated smile
stands behind the broken fence
his aged father

Not age but
years of worries
his furrowed face

Shadow of age
on the wall
second full moon

Whiteness of the moon
and rocks howl with the wind
December in the veins

A star shines bright
beside the crescent moon
she fakes a smile

A crescent
in the western horizon
missing the moon

A thin fog
hides the wintry moon
rising slowly

The half moon
on her neck reminds of love
before departure

Enveloping
all of the moon at night
white chrysanthemum

The sky couldnt retain
all of the moon now enveloping
my house through windows

Setting moon
leaves behind sparkle
on the waves

Noisy birds
dont let me sleep:
midnight moon

Through the window
gaze at the moon hid behind
cloud after cloud

Fearing allergies
he misses full moon party
savours white light

Wet bodies
of bathing women:
full moon night

Squeaking
under the blue moon
the dry sky

They all look for
a little more moon coming
back from movie

Standing behind
the window bars observes
darkness in shapes

Unmoved by the wind
he sits on a rock wearing
peace of the lake

Night bombing
leaves the garden
white as death

An A-bomb victim
from behind the window bars
bowing to the sun

Vultures waiting
for the leftovers
of the sacrifice

In the ruins
searching her photo:
evening

Alone
on her bed rings
the cell phone

A dead voice
calling up at dawn:
drowsy eyes

Waiting for the train
alone on the platform
swatting mosquitoes

Without humming
mosquitoes alight and bite
all night awake

The lone poet
watching his interview
two minutes fame

Nights rumblings
prayers add wings to breezes
mornings serene calm

Meditating
in the morning sun
his long shadow

Unmindful
of the bodys joy
the ascetic

A young couple
under the red umbrella
rejoicing privacy

Awaking
before the climax
the other woman

Between virgin curves
he deep-breathes evening mist
rests in the hollow

Shell-shocked or frozen
he stands in tears on hill top
craving nirvana

The lone mushroom
a pregnant woman
stares out of the window

Facing the sun
the lone flower
dying to bloom

A dead leaf hangs
by a spiders thread
invisible in sun

Under the tree
in meditation sunken
a lone stone

So many headlights
and my myopic vision
walking difficult

Setting ablaze
Muslim houses and children
seekers of Ram

White-yellow trail
the Mirage on mission:
ten souls buried

Amidst roaring guns
clouds blossom snow lotus:
light hilly terrain

On the margin of
home-to-work-to-home routine
lifes achievements

Shivering in the cold
young boys sell balloons late night
New Year revelers

Half-fleshed faces
track from behind the windows
rawness of journey

Journeying tries
to raise his silence
to prayer

Never enough
the earths hunger for graves:
peace barricaded

The red light is on:
they all have secrets to hide
no use peeping in

Disposable blades
one over the other
dusty switchboard

Seismic lab
a network of cobweb:
no earthquake for long

No Zen thought
scribbling haiku with
gun in hand

With her breasts bobbing
up and down she challenges
the moon as she walks

Sees the eyes
in walls as I rise
to kiss her

Drowned
in empty whiteness:
love

Wiping tears
from each others eyes
two souls in love

100

Writing with strands of
watery hair on her back
a love haiku

101

Shedding bitterness
of the tiff in sex act
she and I

102

Moist lips parting
on a tea cup promising
expectation

103

Tastier my tea
with her one sip
I keep the cup

104

Bending down to pick up
apple she presses
piercing embrace

105

Looking lovingly
she bends his head down to hers
twines like a creeper

106

She preys the body
behind obsidian sheath
fatuous flap

107

After burns
leaving the body
the dead skin

108

Rain-soaked sun
sheds its sultry light:
her bare back

109

Crouching out of the bath
with hand on the genital
his new tenant

110

A pregnant woman
bending over the mushroom
bloomed under a tree

111

Awaits the bloom
of love in her womb:
silent action

112

Lovely with hope
the glow in her eyes:
no need of sun

113

Her body
the nights perfection
in dim light

114

Seeing her
a liquid sensation
between the thighs

115

On a canvas
a poet in twilight
painting her skin

116

Sensing her presence
he stares down the street
lingering perfume

117

A star in making
but an island appears:
the palm amuses

118

Sipping gin with lime
he says he loves sex each night
but hates the smell

119

Looking for Taj in grains
through sand-storm find history
trapped between toes

120

Bleeding fingers draw
new domes of betrayal in
windy matrices

121

He walks down the aisle
looking for the nave in her
to kneel and slide out

122

His tongue
between the teeth
sudden sneeze

123

Fed up with my sex
she threatens to move
to our daughters room

124

Leaves him alone
to escape daily rape
in bed his wife

125

The bedroom altar
no substitute for temple
sacrifice of sex

126

Winters chill
sweating under the gown
her thighs and breasts

127

Scanning
her stooping breasts
the first night

128

Measuring life with
ejaculatory rhythm
envies sparrow sports

129

Her thighs
resting place for my head
on bed

130

Trying to decipher
the complex curves on my palms
in the morning rays

131

Fondling her breasts
I incite a poem
on her body

132

A film of mist
between my eyes
and her image

133

Locked in her eyes
the bright glow
of the goddess

134

Melting in
the colour of the heart
the sun in the west

135

A lizard shrieks
before the climax:
love making

136

The blood passes through
green veins I hear the heart play
melody of dews

137

Every breath
love in action
fire in the hole

138

No bottom reader
but the shape and the lines do tell
she can stir the soul

139

The aching limbs and
blood dripping between the legs:
love-making postponed

140

With his head between
the knees he squats and smells
the bodys sweat

141

Bones rattle to make
a song of flesh in the night—
togetherness

142

Insomnia
blaming her
not old age

143

Lies with her
in freezing cold:
an empty tube

144

Invisible
jangles odours presences–
twinges in bed

145

Drying on the line
pork venison and beef–
the room smells their vests

146

Dont know their tongue
the stars beyond the mountains
whisper among themselves

147

While I lie alone
shapeless fears rest on my eyes
heavier than time

148

Searching salvation
a moth flies into the lamp:
oily burial

149

Colours sparkle in
the mornings dew on the blooms
my breathing changes

150

Nobody cares
burial of my dreams
in coal dust

151

Besides allergies
so many other complaints:
sudden weather change

152

Bronchial breathing
the only sound audible
in the soulless space

153

Noisy birds
dont let me sleep:
midnight moon

154

Sparrows couple
on a withered creeper
peep of day

155

He sweeps yellow leaves
or gathers years in a heap
burns to merge with dust

156

Cleaning dusts from
the old sandals for a walk:
again the same pain

157

Peeling paint
from the drawing room
shaows flicker

158

Seeing no image
in the mirror of time
foggy blankness

159

Hot bath or no bath
the cough persists unmindful
of the New Years eve

160

Sees in a flash
opening the eyes
takes a long time

161

Linked with anxiety
my comfort at his home:
Ph.D. viva

162

Fear of forgetting
car insurance premium
paid a month ahead

163

Fears the approach
of night with him
twisting tassels

164

In the lone room
prefers haiku to yoga
drinking scotch

165

My bedroom
a maze of cobweb
spiders breed

166

Sunday afternoon
waving into gin
two drops of lime

167

Difficult to change
I am what I have disowned
dressing down salads

168

The bed is short
and the covering shorter
crouching alone

169

Unruffled
by passions and clamours
Buddhas calm

170

Seeks Buddhas stone bowl
to win the bamboo princess:
she dwells on moon beams

171

Her heart
a thousand doors of
oneness

172

Standing behind
the window bars observes
darkness in shapes

173

Disappears
into dust her last
photograph

174

Trying to read good news
I look at the lines taking
new turns on my palms

175

Looking for riches
in her left hand shortening
days on the pavement

176

They sculpture psyche
in the city of dumb dreams:
idols sweat in sun

177

Pulling out white hairs
she reminds increasing age:
times fragrance unchanged

178

Still a child
embracing a breast
sleeps her man

179

Exchanging
anger with roses:
petals fall

180

They all walk
like shadows in night
for themselves

181

Lying on his table
a few unanswered letters
and unrealized dreams

182

A little child
chases the painted dreams
on butterfly wings

183

Two butterflies
racing with each other
perch on the wire

184

A childs fingers feel
the butterfly lying
one with yellow leaves

185

Sudden rain drops wet
the wings of a butterfly
lying at the basil

186

Lost my way again
asking for direction:
a pleasant change

187

Locked between the cracks
cockroaches in the alcove
dropping their eggs

188

Awaiting their turn
to feast on a dead dog
crows in a circle

189

A crow hits
the scare crow and cracks
its earthen head

190

A crow picking
at the ripe papaya and
another waiting

191

A yellow spider
on the blooming marigold
weaves tiny webs

192

Two lizards fight
to mate on the wall
balancing act

193

Swiftly passes by
a yellow snake on the grass
moistened trail of love

194

After the quake
a dog sniffing his masters
presence in the rubble

195

Searching Christs sandals
in the pile of shoes at
the churchs entrance

196

Traffic snails through
the water-logged road I feel
a manhole cover

197

Dust mites devouring
the secrets preserved
in my diary

198

Seeing my shadow
three fish in the pond look
for a safe corner

199

In the well
studying her image
a woman

200

A hooker hides
behind the green letter box:
looking for a client

201

Cut wrongly
each body a slave
grey faces

202

Too heavy
these man-made machines
choking weight

203

Students murmuring
over the class test result:
the teachers curved lips

204

In the moving train
sleeping on his feet
the newspaperman

205

Flowers inviting
seeds of love scattered in
the perfumed garden

206

Looking for a prey
a snake slides through the fence:
warmth of the sun

207

Safe from sun
under nascent leaf
a gold fish

208

After sleepless night
a drowsy sun tears
the morning sky

209

With sunrise
gone to sleep
the morning moon

210

Two dreamy eyes
await the rising sun
through the fogged window

211

A sweating sun
after the midnight chill
changing hues of spring

212

The sun conceals
aeons of darkness planets
mirror in the sky

213

Closing its eyes
in the setting sun
the Ganges in autumn

214

A cloud-eagle
curves to the haze
in the west

215

A butterfly rests
on the butterfly tattooed
on her sunning back

216

The sun not yet set
but the full moon rises
as if in a hurry

217

Setting sun
leaves behind sparkle
on the waves

218

Suddenly rise
the sleeping waves from far off
quake in the sea

219

Swollen sea
boiling over the head
roars increase

220

The sun rolls
on the waving Ganges
whitens love-hope

221

On the waves crest
travels a fallen leaf
rot on the bank

222

Couldnt erase the winds
soliloquy from the waves
breaking on the shore

223

Traveling back
from the waves of bliss
a foam-leap

224

On the waves rise shells
in accents lie with love
beauty on the shore

225

A lamp floating on
river breast in bridal grace–
waves in the gloaming

226

Bathing in thousands
they float lamps on her breast
the river sparkles

227

Knee-deep in the pond
standing obeisantly
nude worshipers

228

Ends with ritual
one more morning
sun-worshipers in the pond

229

Awaits the sunrise
in the chilly Ganges
a nude worshiper

230

Sees visions
eating food of gods
mushroom

231

Fills the void
with illusions and self
names them god

232

December almost
over what new wish to add
to Christmas wish list

233

On Christmas eve
santa claus takes leave
mist on chairs in pairs

234

Standing
between flowers
Jesus on the cross

235

Making holes
in the wooden cross
white ants

236

Colours of envy
stick on their colleagues faces:
Holi revelry

237

Krishna offering
parijata to Radha:
Narada looks on

238

The temples dome
in the flooded Ganga–
empty kalash

239

Fermenting spring
in the arms of lovers:
a secret sin

240

The cherry pink
in the spring
a framed nude

241

Embrace
suffocates in bed
chill seeps through slit

242

Wintry chill
enters the cold bed:
skips morning walk

243

Winter allergies
I stay inside to escape
the wind in full moon

244

The long night passes
sleeplessly I deep-breathe
the December chill

245

Alone and sleepless
count hours by asthmatic bouts
the long winter nights

246

A part of the night
hidden in the morning moon:
the sun waves bye-bye

247

Nothing changes
the nights ugliness
in the lone bed

248

The first night
spots on the sheet:
clothes wake up

249

Long wintry night
opening the mail box
for a date

250

Vulnerable
darkness of the opening:
standing erect

251

Whiteness of the moon
and rocks howl with the wind
December in the veins

252

Seek my haven
where the sky arches the sea
a white gull leads

253

Stars mock his drinking
alone on the cement bench:
moon in the glass

254

Spend our short time
together after a long
watching the moon

255

Enveloping
all of the moon at night
white chrysanthemums

256

Seeking smell
in cactus flowers:
late monsoon

257

Awaiting rains
for the litchis to sweeten
in the dry backyard

258

Clouds dont rain
coldly come and go
icy bed

259

All night rain
the gaping roof
her shelter

260

Sudden rain
on the way home
a peacock

261

After the nights rain
the skys still overcast:
wet Christmas today

262

Through thick clouds
sees an arc of moon
her belly

263

Shadow of age
on the wall
second full moon

264

Lonely nights and
days of non-stop rains
depression mounts

265

Traveling
on the wings of winter
ill news

266

Celebrating
return of the light and warmth:
winter solstice

267

Feels the shadow
with wet fingers
in the fog

268

Mist surrounds:
the steel statue watches
few visitors

269

Morning fog:
her face invisible
even the sun

270

The evening fog:
invisible her hand
on my shoulder

271

Slowly clears
the morning fog
end of the year

272

Swollen fogs
ready to make way
for the sun

273

Her make-up spoilt
in the evening mist:
looking for light

274

After dust storm rain
alloy with cool colours:
rainbow in the west

275

Splendid with the moon
night in silver peace dreams
through folds of light

276

Sees beard
shining in the mirror:
morning on the face

277

In a flash
trapping eternity
the camera

278

Post-lunch solitude
filled with thoughts that couldnt become
even a haiku

279

The first night:
spots on the sheet:
clothes wake up

280

A sly lover
ejaculates poison
sting operation

281

With glittering diamond
on the navel swinging
an item bomb

282

The phone rings:
in the middle he rises
prayers unsaid

283

With a telescope
view the lunar eclipse
midnight shadows

284

Out of wood and stone
he carves his vision of peace:
nights secret visage

285

In the ruins
searching her photo:
evening

286

Suffer animals
with a peculiar smeel:
men in white khadi

287

Crossing the shadows
in the Indo-Pak match
the last ball

288

Drunken with force
spreading the centurys sore:
nine eleven

289

Freedom to kill
with faith in divine regime:
terrorists peace

290

Watches the snow rain
with finger on the trigger:
insurgence in Drass

291

Reaching nowhere
ideas flying from the minds
of top echelons

292

Himself doesnt
listen but teaches
communication

293

Her anger shifts
from manure to cellphone:
10 o clock soap

294

Winking at her
in the dark
power cut

295

Two peacocks
on a dancing spree:
see water

296

Dancing
a few muddied crocs:
the river returns

297

Nibbling a leaf
between her fingers
a dragon-fly

298

A small frog
leaping on my hand
from the pothole

299

Birds crouch in nests
along the snow-clad path
wheezing silence

300

Away from home
smell of frying fish
in the air

301

Swimming afresh
in the glass box
two gold fish

302

Peace in silence
of the heart and bodys cells:
Buddhas calm

303

Weaving its nest
Grass blade by grass blade
R.K.Singh

304

Sad and dull
his backyard poultry
fears of bird flu

305

Mooching about
a rose petal in the sun
a butterfly

306

An orgasmic view
from behind the cars window
the Taj Mahal

307

Perches nervously
on the fence a squirrel
nibbling its luck

308

Puppies groping
for the tits of our doggy
relaxing in sun

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Posted on Aug 3, 2008 in Writing Poetry | Comments Off

A Poem

Have you walked the road of darkness

feeling oh so very low?
Wondering how youll find tomorrow
cause you dont know where to go.
Walked with darkness and despair
keeping anger at your side
instead of loving with your heart
just feeling hope had died.

God is in your heart
He is always with you
God is in your heart
And his love is true

When you were a child
you were taught right from wrong,
Now that you are older
it is time to be strong
Take a look at yourself
make the most of who you are
Know that God is with you
And reach for that star
You cant live for tomorrow
if you havent lived today.

God is in your heart
Even if you stray
God is in your heart
And is there to stay

Measure life by moments
Take one step at a time
Cause if you jump for tomorrow
Youll see today is gone.
When you open up your heart
and let His love surround you
Youll find Hes been there waiting
And has always been around you.

God is in your heart
His Light will never dim
God is in your heart
Let your spirit find Him

When the sadness in your heart is gone
And your eyes are bright with hope again
the love you so missed will fill your soul
once you found His Light within

God is in your heart
Let his light shine through
God is in your heart
Know His Love for you

Athena Louise

http://www.athenalouise.com

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Connotation And Denotation: What They Are And How To Make Use Of Them In Your Poetry

Mom, you wont believe how cheap this outfit was! I declare as I wave the Bells Outlet bag like a victory banner.

My mother cringes, Inexpensive, not cheap, please.

When writing anything, word choice is a key component. Because of its compact nature, it is even more so with poetry. How the word sounds in relation to the words around it, the point you are trying to make to your reader, and the use of imagery are a few of the reasons why this is so. You can use both denotation and connotation to help you make affective word choices.

Lets start with the easy one: Denotation. Denotation is simply the dictionary meaning of a word. Both the word inexpensive and the word cheap mean not spending much money. However, they have differing connotations. But, lets get back to denotation for a moment before we tackle connotation.

Because the world has access to most written works, it isnt easy to be sure that the word you are using is how you meant it to be taken by your reader. To keep misunderstanding down, check words you arent absolutely sure of in your dictionary you have one of those beside you, right?

No? *gasp*

Well, youre in luck; you can find many free dictionaries online, too.

Connotation is trickier. Not what it is. Thats the easy part. Its is the implied meaning of a word. Its when you see a word and think of its dictionary meaning and start thinking about other meanings or feelings the word may trigger in your mind.

The hard part is using it. Again, the difficulty is taking into account that different regions, countries, and even decades may have different disguised meanings of words. To make the most of it you must consider your audience. Since you can never have everyone understand the implied meaning of each word you write, aim for the majority. If your audience is the teen crowd, and if most of them would understand your implied meaning, then consider it a good word choice. If parents are your audience, then consider if they would understand the hidden meaning of your chosen word.

Lets look at a couple of examples:

My favorites, and probably the easiest to see the connotation of, are colors. In America the color yellow has a connotation of fear, while the color red connotes anger, heat, blood and more. Can you think of some more color examples or does your region have different connotations for these colors? Try to use them to add extra meaning to your poetry.

Done well, connotations can aid in the imagery and add a wonderful depth to your poetry as well as your other written works.

2007 Holly Bliss. All Rights Reserved. This document may be freely redistributed in its unedited form and on the condition that all copyright references are kept intact along with the hyperlinked URLs.

About the Author: Using her writing as paint on the canvas of her life, Holly Bliss is an eclectic writer, newsletter editor and an author on http://www.Writing.Com/ which is a site for Poetry.

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Posted on Aug 2, 2008 in Writing Poetry | Comments Off

New Day With Diamonds

Poetry for Children

Release the Emotions that Hold You Back

Man Tell Me Who You Are

Interview with Judith Dupree, Author of Poetry Collection "Living with What Remains"

The Wedding

Invasion of the Body Snatchers

Haiku - A Collection

A Poem

Connotation And Denotation: What They Are And How To Make Use Of Them In Your Poetry

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