September, 2013

The Old Saddle

POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 21, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Old Saddle

The old saddle
Carries the smells
Of well-worn leather,
Horses,
And the dusty
Scent of history,
Of countless
Rides across
Empty prairies,
Among the foothills
At their edges,
And along mountain streams.
The cowboy
Who owned it before
Left the stamp
Of his independent spirit,
Quiet solitude,
And inner strength.
When I sit
In that saddle,
I feel the connection
To the past,
To my horse,
To the land,
And to the truth
Of who I am.

 

 

 

 

Phil Ray Jack

Gentle Morning

POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 21, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gentle Morning

The gentle cooing
Of mourning doves
Greeted me
As I stepped outside
Into the warmth
Of the Colorado sun.
The pale blue
Skies are clear
This morning,
The late spring
Snow nearly melted.
I enjoy the peace
Of the moment,
Letting tranquility
Seep into the
Dark crevices
Of my wounded soul,
Knowing the quiet
Will soon be
Driven away
By the
Cacophony of life.
For now,
It is enough
To be standing
On the gentle edge
Of comfort,
A cup of coffee
In my hand,
Letting the peace
Of the morning
Wash over me.

 

 

 

Phil Ray Jack

The Open Plain of Possibility

POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 17, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Open Plain of Possibility

I inched up life’s rock-face
held on by my fingertips

out of a treacherous ravine;
I climbed to a safe haven,

a plateau where days unfurled
in tranquility, in the flow.

Times past, I have climbed
huge mountains of creativity

worked life’s simple joys into
troughs and peaks of ecstasy.

come, share our rich diversity
with those who crest life’s edge

yet know that the common touch
is a true measure of our humanity.

How I love to roam out there,
beyond the confines of myself.
 
exploring the vast open plain
of life’s infinite possibility.

 

 

 

 

Gael Bage

Why some poems are sad

POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 15, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why some poems are sad

“I like it when you write
Happy poems,” she said.
“Why don’t you write more?
Why are some of your poems so sad?”

I seek truth when I write,
And my poems
Are signposts that mark the way.

Sometimes I walk
In the bright sunlight
Feeling its gentle warmth
Against my cheek,
And my spirit soars among the clouds
Of ocean blue skies,
My heart filled with joy.

But sometimes my path
Takes me through
The darkness of
Sadness, sorrow, despair.
I have to face
The razor-sharp edge
Of loss that seems
To slash my heart
Into ribbons,
The fear that if I try again,
I’ll be hurt again.

I write about the darkness
Because it, too, is true.

And in so doing, I discover
That hope shines more brightly
In the darkness of despair,
That courage can only be found
When we face our fears.
That we cannot know true joy
Without understanding pain.

 

 

 

Phil Ray Jack

Soul burst forth sweet

POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 15, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soul burst forth sweet

Soul burst forth sweet
music that heart composed

with power to mesmerize
and gel in memories hide.

His varied repertoire
intricate and complex,

surprise change of tempo
to stretch high notes and low;

An artist who poured
all into the setting sun

through twilight hours
piped song to starlit sky

his voice transparent
pierced the covert night

In the nightingale’s song
a natural gift takes flight.

 

 

 

Gael Bage

“Go Back”

POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 13, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Go Back”

Reminiscences of a reluctant shepherdess.

 

A sheep sits huddled in a corner
of the paddock, as the rain pelts down
sinks lower in the sodden grass,
desperate to escape the all-seeing eye
of the working dog.

 

I yell in vain as Biddy rounds up the flock
turning them round and around, this way
then that way – no closer to the gate
confused by my conflicting commands:

 

‘Go back, go behind, no, no … back, good dog,
no, let it go, stay … for goodness sake, go back!’

Pregnant ewes cough and pant as they
race like horses on the track
but “they must be moved” and my heart
takes on a wild beat 
as the sheep whirl faster and faster; 

In despair, I scream at Biddy
with all my pent up frustration.

 

She looks at me in disbelief.
You sorry shepherdess you … have you no clue?
Just let me get on with it.
Stop shouting, pointing, cursing, running ….
You are no dog … let me be, I’ll do my job!

 

I wipe the muddied droplets from my eyes
shrug in hopeful resignation and decide to trust;
trudge in squelching footsteps through the mud,
to coax the Stubborn One to her feet.

 

She sees me coming, tries to get away
but I discover she is nearly cast, 
one leg half gone to sleep.
I roll her over
support her as she sways from side to side;
relieves herself in one grateful, steaming stream
then staggers off blindly towards the flock.

 

My dog comes running, her wild streak roused
the main mob forgotten, for here is One alone,
an easy prey, a chance to tease and torment.
In fear I shout, “Leave it, leave it … go back.”

With some reluctance Biddy returns,
her flock now calm,
pouring like cumulus clouds through the open gate
I slowly follow, jogging this way and that,
to guide the prodigal one back to the fold;
then pat my collie’s head for a job complete.

 

 

 

Amanda Edwards

Passion and Perseverence

POSTED IN contemporary poetry September 8, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Passion and Perseverence

I am not beaten and no one
can whip me into shape.A heart
laid bare, i’m free to discover
all that I am. Yes, I run deep.
It’s peculiar, how I can’t
help but notice similarities
in reactions and motivations.
On the surface we look diverse.

At heart, we are human, divine.
Unbowed: filled with curiosity,
we love, learn and make progress.
Self-directed, our full potential
is not auctioned to the highest bid.
No pile of money can buy the grit
that given the fullness of time
reveals  our most precious pearl.

 

 

 

Gael Bage

Good Bye

POSTED IN classic poetry September 5, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Good-bye

Good-bye, proud world! I’m going home:

Thou art not my friend, and I’m not thine.

Long through thy weary crowds I roam;

A river-ark on the ocean brine,

Long I’ve been tossed like the driven foam;

But now, proud world! I’m going home.

 

Good-bye to Flattery’s fawning face;

To Grandeur with his wise grimace;

To upstart Wealth’s averted eye;

To supple Office, low and high;

To crowded halls, to court and street;

To frozen hearts and hasting feet;

To those who go, and those who come;

Good-bye, proud world! I’m going home.

 

I am going to my own hearth-stone,

Bosomed in yon green hills alone, —

A secret nook in a pleasant land,

Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;

Where arches green, the livelong day,

Echo the blackbird’s roundelay,

And vulgar feet have never trod

A spot that is sacred to thought and God.

 

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,

I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;

And when I am stretched beneath the pines,

Where the evening star so holy shines,

I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,

At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;

For what are they all, in their high conceit,

When man in the bush with God may meet?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ralph Waldo Emerson