POEMS - With Tongue In Cheek

[Eman]

Awesome poem by your daughter Rob. Love her use of imagery!!

[Rob H]

Thanks Eman

[Lena & Harry Smith]

Thanks to all of you who post these poems. They are very much appreciated by us both.

[Rob H]

THE TALL EMPIRE

High above the city that never sleeps,
I look down on the yellow cabs below,
The smell of hot dogs strong in the midnight air,
And up to the top of The Empire State Building I go,
Standing above the skyline she stands,
The flash of cameras,
The sound of people talking,
And the sight of The Brooklyn Bridge below,
I stare and stare far down below and I think,
I'm standing so tall,
I'm KING OF THE WORLD!'

[Eman]

Awesome Rob, A New York account on it's finest!!

[Rob H]

I was never this creative at school. I wonder if I could sit A Level English Literature again as a mature student?

[karl]

Go For It Rob, I can just picture the graduation!!!!!

[keithgood838]

How heartwarming to hear new poetic voices
making their presence felt on this thread -
well done, Niamh & Rob!
In discussing poetic inspiration recently I suggested
that, for me, it is emotional reaction. The following
new composition is perhaps a good example;
my response to an anniversary acknowledgement of
my late uncle-in-law, Edward (Teddy) Gabriel:

DREAMLAND
(On seeing a loving remembrance
of Uncle Ted in The Opinion)

The in memoriam was the cockcrow
that semi-roused a body of sleeping memories
like dreams overlapping into day; convivial social calls
to West Cork villages that included O'Leary
bread deliveries. Outgoing jaunts to jovial welcomes
in Kilbrittain and Timoleague etcetera, and Broadstrand
especially where a tiny general store huddled
in a homely hamlet that ran down towards the sea
as though in welcome.

The awakening recollections flashed back
nebulous images of clock-winding
enabling townsfolk to keep tabs on Time's movements
using the listening device of the quarterly chime;
of laying the fire for cosy day-closing conversations
or playing table games in the Bellringers' Room.
Of being chosen as the mascot (key)
to the all-Ireland, double-winning
Bandon Bellringers' 1951 Limerick glory,
and as a boy not long out of short pants selected to play
in a match as a member of the adult table tennis team.

Now breaks the mist-cleared, sun-bright memory-morning
of my adolescence in the agreeable company
of the communitarian, clouds-will-pass,
smile-warm, from the dark-and-handsome mould,
selfless, family and sports-loving man
it was good luck to be related to. My personal
archangel Gabriel who applied balm to,
but of course could not erase,
the fact of family dismemberment in Ballymodan Place.

Keith Good

[keithgood838]

Here is a eloquent evocation of autumn
exemplified by the Autumn Equinox Ritual,
the celebration of which commences on
22 September (my birthday):

Smoke hangs like haze over harvested fields,
The gold of stubble, the brown of turned earth,
And you walk under the red light of fall;
The scent of fallen apples, the dust of threshed grain;
The sharp, gentle chill of fall.
Here as we move in the shadows of autumn,
The night that brings the morning of spring;
Come to us, Lord of Harvest, teach us to be
thankful for the gifts you bring us.

A verse from my poem entitled, Calendar Characters:

September wins 'golden girl of the year',
bronze-beautified by summer's final fling;
gatherer of Nature's gainful fare:
returns on our investment of the spring.

[Eman]

Awesome Keith!!
Oh yes and advance Happy Birthday. Your birthday is the day before my parents anniversary. 55 years this year and going strong!

[keithgood838]

Thanks Eman. What the following lacks in poetic imagery
it makes up for in philosophy for living:

DESIDERATA

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious
to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become
vain and bitter; for always there will be greater
and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be critical about love, for in the face of all aridity
and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of years, gracefully surrendering
the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees
and the stars; you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive
Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations;
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all of its sham, drudgery and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be careful. Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann (1927)

[Eman]

Cool an appropriate poem Keith!!

[keithgood838]

Eman, you may have seen a news report of
a football stadium tragedy (96 lives lost) in Sheffield
which exposes appalling police public order negligence
and cover-up.
The following Liverpool Echo poem, written by our Poet Laureate
and widely reproduced on the internet, captures
the mood of the country in a way no other medium
perhaps could match:

The Cathedral bell, tolled, could never tell;
nor the Liver Birds, mute in their stone spell;
or the Mersey, though seagulls wailed, cursed, overhead,
in a language for the slandered dead ...
Not the raw, red throat of the Kop, keening,
or the cops' words, censored of meaning;
not the clock, slow handclapping the coroner's deadline,
or the memo to Thatcher, or the tabloid headline ...
But fathers told of their daughters; the names of sons
on the lips of their mothers like prayers; lost ones
honoured for bitter years by orphan, cousin, wife -
not a matter of football, but of life.
Over this great city, light after long dark;
truth, the sweet silver song of the lark.

Carol Ann Duffy

[Eman]

Wow, Keith, that's a pretty strong poem and full of
saddened and angered emotion. I've been hearing of the tragedy on the BBC news.

[mariana44]

It was a truly awful thing that happened--even more so , as it unfolded before our eyes on the TV. It is hard to believe that it has taken over 20 years to get some answers as to how this happened. Someone has got to be held responsible.