User Poetry

[GeoffC]

Jim was his name,
The old man said,
As he sat with his cane
On his lap, he said
He was old, that Summer's day.
No one believed him,
He was young they said;
But the very next day,
At his funeral they came,
To pay their respects, to
A lonely old man; he was liked
By all, the children too,
But he died a lonely old man.
They carved his name by the
Epitaph; "Here lies a man,
Jim his name, who died
This day, The 10th of June,
On a bench in the park,
Where he used to sit;
God bless his soul,
And let him live,
Forever in the land of God.
And let him forgive us
For all our unkindness,
For he was, we admit,
A nice old man."
And so there he lay,
By the village church,
His name on the bench,
Will keep him known;
Oh, Why hadn't we loved him all the more?

© G. 1969

[WT Sharpe]

Thank you, GeoffC, for that well-written reminder to be kind while we may.

[GeoffC]

Thanks Tom - rather an oldie i'm afraid .....

[kennyc]

Both nice....and I noticed written some time ago.

Well Done.....I particularly like the second one.

[GeoffC]

Thanks Kenny ....

[kennyc]

Fish

You can relax,
but never rest
said the goldfish man

Time moves on
Fish have no feet
Surely you know the rest.


Kenny A. Chaffin - ~1992

(an old one from me)

[WT Sharpe]

That's a strange one, Kenny, but I like it. Kind of has a zen feel to it.

[kennyc]

Thanks Tom .... that was one from my "Possessed Period."

[GeoffC]

Yep - a strange one Kenny - almost haiku-like and certainly zen(ish) ....

[kennyc]

Nine Little Rocks


Young black shoulders carried the weight of history
that 23rd day of September, 1957. A weight placed there
by theNAACP. They were the nine, the chosen and
the weight borne upon those slim shoulders no less
a weight than that borne upon the scared shoulders of
their unnamed ancestors; bound to those ancestors by
their skin and by the stigma, the wrath and the fear
of those too afraid to reach out, too afraid to know
too afraid to accept that all men are created equal.

Ernest, Carlotta, Jefferson, Elizabeth, Terrance, Minnijean,
Gloria, Thelma and Melba were the names.
They were the few, the chosen, the nine. And in those
hot autumn days they were not unlike the young men
chosen a decade later to fight in the jungles
and steaming tunnels on the other side of the world --
a world far removed from their homes. As the nine were far removed
from theirs, from their past, from their comfort as the soldiers
escorted them up the steps of Central High that first day
and from class to class in the days that followed bearing their books
and their burden as did those young soldiers in ‘nam; soldiers
who shouldered their own responsibility and who upon their return,
like the nine received no hero’s welcome, no homecoming, no parade,
no praise, but instead were met with protests, anger and revulsion.
They were spit upon, profaned and abused -- as were the nine.
As were the nine.


Kenny A. Chaffin - 5/8/2010
(Revised 5/31/2010)


Please give your input, critique, comments on this one so I can finalize it....this is very much a first draft.

[GeoffC]

mmmm

[ had to google those names to work out what the background was ]


an emotive subject for you . and yet somehow there's little passion in the words in the way they are currently laid out . ( and I am at a loss on how to make any suggestions, at least you've said it's a first draft )

[kennyc]

Originally Posted by GeoffC

mmmm

[ had to google those names to work out what the background was ]


an emotive subject for you . and yet somehow there's little passion in the words in the way they are currently laid out . ( and I am at a loss on how to make any suggestions, at least you've said it's a first draft )

Thanks Geoff. I'll think on it. Appreciate your input.

[WT Sharpe]

Originally Posted by kennyc

Nine Little Rocks


Young black shoulders carried the weight of history
that 23rd day of September, 1957. A weight placed there
by theNAACP. They were the nine, the chosen and
the weight borne upon those slim shoulders no less
a weight than that borne upon the scared shoulders of
their unnamed ancestors; bound to those ancestors by
their skin and by the stigma, the wrath and the fear
of those too afraid to reach out, too afraid to know
too afraid to accept that all men are created equal.

Ernest, Carlotta, Jefferson, Elizabeth, Terrance, Minnijean,
Gloria, Thelma and Melba were the names.
They were the few, the chosen, the nine. And in those
hot autumn days they were not unlike the young men
chosen a decade later to fight in the jungles
and steaming tunnels on the other side of the world --
a world far removed from their homes. As the nine were far removed
from theirs, from their past, from their comfort as the soldiers
escorted them up the steps of Central High that first day
and from class to class in the days that followed bearing their books
and their burden as did those young soldiers in ‘nam; soldiers
who shouldered their own responsibility and who upon their return,
like the nine received no hero’s welcome, no homecoming, no parade,
no praise, but instead were met with protests, anger and revulsion.
They were spit upon, profaned and abused -- as were the nine.
As were the nine.


Kenny A. Chaffin - 5/8/2010
(Revised 5/31/2010)


Please give your input, critique, comments on this one so I can finalize it....this is very much a first draft.

Nice. The first part spoke of prophets without honor in their own country, the second of young men who served without the honor due. Courage and undeserved dishonor being the common thread. I'll be interested in seeing the final version and how you perhaps strengthen those links.

I would start a new paragraph beginning with the words, "And in those
hot autumn days they were not unlike the young men
chosen a decade later to fight in the jungles
and steaming tunnels on the other side of the world --".

[kennyc]

Originally Posted by WT Sharpe

Nice. The first part spoke of prophets without honor in their own country, the second of young men who served without the honor due. Courage and undeserved dishonor being the common thread. I'll be interested in seeing the final version and how you perhaps strengthen those links.

I would start a new paragraph beginning with the words, "And in those
hot autumn days they were not unlike the young men
chosen a decade later to fight in the jungles
and steaming tunnels on the other side of the world --".

Thanks Tom. I'm getting input on this at the poetry site I frequent as well. I not sure where it's going to go at this point.

Much appreciated!

[Vintage Season]

Most of my "poetry" was originally conceived as lyrics, so it shows a bit more deliberate rhyme and structure than some of the other offerings in this thread.

This one has never been recorded:

Let the Light-Bulb Speak for Itself

Only sitting in this palace
like the king of connoisseurs
who looks out on his sad existence
obfuscate and obscure
accused of outright introversion
heresy and worse
some folks I know could prob'ly quote out chapter and verse
but when I think on all the hours they might have rehearsed
I almost pity them for locking me away, cause I'm the only mink who sees...

They say all inspiration is a gratification,
but at least some small part of it's disease.

It's got me running from those salesmen
with their water-milkglass eyes
who'll sell you innocence and cobwebs
any colour shape or size
till I found diff'rent shades mascara
but they saw through my disguises
though their cobwebs didn't suit me
what you ought to realize is
I've known spiders well enough to let them customize their spinning-silks on me...

My mark is made upon each moment in a delicate aesthete
of arachnist whim and subtlety.

. . . . . . . .

Now my last communication from the outside world
came over specially delivered subdivided in thirds
by an apteryx, a phoenix and some other common bird
with an unfortunate tendency to hide all of my unsolicited mail...

The daily post was more transcendent before it became dependent
on the inside of my leather and my therapist's travail.

You see, I've never known the hangman's eyes to appear quite so grim
and the gleaming of his eyelids makes me wonder about him...
Up till now the light-bulb's always seemed a little dim.

—M. David Blake, © 1999 (with slight revisions incorporated on 8 January 2008)