By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Dennis_Siluk_Ed.D.]Dennis Siluk Ed.D.
Ode to the Tender Grape
I am sick, of hate (and)
I am sick, of love...
I wait until day breaks
Until the shadows stray away (to go my own way)
It is safer that way-
This is the voice of a tired old man.
We look to love for everything
And when we receive it, it is less than nothing-;
The pessimist warns: "All are evil women!"
or, "All are evil men!"
Neither one knows the way of the condor in the air,
Or, the scorpion on a desert rock-
How then can either one know, ever know,
the way of the heart?
Perhaps it is better to marry than to burn
(as it has been said, and written)
And rejoice at the lack of understanding,
And let her and him love as they please! Let their
Bodies be one's reward; relish in the day and moment
And let love and hate-bitter as they can be-
Drink early to late, staring at one another's face-
In some lonely vineyard-with the tender grape!
Note: an ode is a lyric poem in essence, usually celebrating someone or something, often addressed to its subject. In this case exalting the grape, to keep love and hate, busy, avoiding its destructive powers. No: 3044 (8-30-2011)
AmericaForsaken
(In Poetic Prose)
Why does America flourish and ignore and blaspheme God? (And fitfully Europe too...) Why else do most other countries of the world eat dust, live in desolation, captivity?
Why, why, why? What can one say of such a God?
America no longer retains its piety to God; perhaps that is why He has allowed Satan to heap a variety of calamities upon her (trying to call her back!)
In time her fortitude will break (internally throughout and worldwide),she willwithin her inners-commit suicide, and she will bitterly reproach God, for forsaking her.
And I heard God's words, from the echoes of His angels:
"You are the people, wisdom has died inside of. I gave you abundantly. My eyes have seen all; you are no longer of any value. There is no longer hope in that you will sprout again.
Thus, I give you over to my Adversary. If you prosper, it is by his wishes, his darkeneth counsel. Grind up now your loins, for He will soon demand of thee, he has laid the foundations-thereof, know a thick darkness has entered through your gates, and death be opened unto thee!"
No: 3045 (8-30-2011)
See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Two-Poems-of-Vividness-and-Force&id=6534688] Two Poems of Vividness and Force
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Thursday, December 29, 2011
The Prose Poem
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Dennis_Siluk_Ed.D.]Dennis Siluk Ed.D.
((Poetic prose and the Prosodic Unit) (a commentary or essay))
Part I
What is Poetic Prose?
The prose poem (poetic prose) is as old as the hills-well at least as old as poetry itself; that is to say, it is not a new invention as many would have you believe.
It is, in its most oversimplified definition, a short story, a fable. In its more complete form, it is an image centred, or cantered on an object. It is often expressed in layers. It nourishes the spirit, or should. To make, or create it, it is a work of art, and most difficult, more so than a metered poem-so I feel, in that a metered poem is a click to a box. Whereas, the prose poem has two tails-each different than the other; the poets mind has to adjust to this. Here the mind cannot leave the subject, and the poet's mind cannot be concealed.
Part II
Poetic Prose Form!
Often the poetic prose poem-has the same subject throughout; it is like a one-way highway. Another form, one sets the tone in the first sentence, and then alters it as s/he descends, as the mood changes in the poem. Thus, the mind with the words is set. Let me repeat, the focus is on an unchanging element or subject-in the prosodic unit, it is not the stanza but the sentence. Let me give you an example:
A good haiku is evidence the poet has overcome polarities (large and small, human and animal, etc). Now let me create right here and now, a haiku for an example:
The wood in the hearth
this also
gave home to a bird.
'Wood-bird 'Haiku ((No: 3040) (8-29-2011))
The writer or poet usually uses, or writes such divisions or polarities, when creating haikus in the presence of the object-if you want to know where the bird came from, you have to know the tree it perched on; or build its nest on. Saw the branch, this kind of observation opens the mind to give human surveillance and understanding, in the right way. In this case the wood in the hearth is more than wood, it was part of a bird's home, a tree that had life, now it warms the body and the room that the body is in. This information cannot be made up, it is processed through the mind, and a creative mind says you have an active soul. You have created something much more than what you originally had-when the mind and the soul began working together.
Part III
Creative Senses in Poetic Prose
In prose poems, the poet can stay close to his creative senses for a lengthy time, in a tranquil setting (similar to a painter, as often I've seen, on the bridges crossing over to Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, painting away as if in another world)instead of a metered storm (trying to put the perfect rhyme schema to an accentual meter form or syllabic meter form; example: dimeter, trimester, tetrameter, hexameter, and so on and so forth, which refers to lines of verse based on a syllabic length or duration in time-this can be a storm...) example:
I want to say what deaths love have come and gone,
I know only, that winter sang in you
A long while, that now sings in me as well.
'Mother's Winter' Accentual-syllabic meter ((No: 3041) (8-29-2011))
In the poem 'Mother's Winter' one is forced to give attention to certain words, the first line for example, creates less force, because death has come and gone for many people the poet has loved-now in lines two and three, the force becomes stronger, because the poet is saying, in essence, all previous loves are nil compared to his memory of her loving mother's love for winter (as we see in the name of the poem: in particular). And now, that memory sings in the poet as well. The lines are fixed, to a ten syllabic meter, as in a sonnet.
The prose poem helps to balance the non-figurative; there are more freedoms for detail in the prose poem, more room for description, intimacy-the object is more exposed. What metered poetry cannot do, poetic prose can. In metered poetry, the mind often gives up and accepts what it has done...
The sonnet, although lovely in its structure, is too impersonal for poetic prose. I need not explain this if you have ever written a sonnet. Thus, it has many ancestors to please.
Part IV
The Mind and Poet's Responsibility (conclusion)
The first to second sentences of a prose poem, usually sets up the rhythm or sounds of the poem (the dynamics),the syllables are set in line, in motion. And as for reading the poem your mind expects this process to satisfy it.
The poet must pay mind to the reader, s/he expects it, and density demands it. A good poet will please the reader, or try-and in the process have an effect on the reader (is this not one of the main purposes for the poet?)
Let's us hope no self-proclaimed mastermind or wiz-kid, tries to standardize the prose poem, with rigid patterns that may stagnate the poet's mind, so it no longer expects excellence, and accepts mediocre: giving it boundaries and hurdles to crossover.
On the other hand, that does not give a licence for the poet to be sloppy in form, and to accept the middle-of-the-road (what we write and what the reader reads, goes into the mind and we are responsible for that, so let's not put in garbage, or something putrid that causes a meltdown for a younger mind). The reader wants elegance and this is part of the poet's job.
Dennis L. Siluk (Poet)
Written 8-27-2011
Article (8-282011)
See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?The-Prose-Poem&id=6534680] The Prose Poem
((Poetic prose and the Prosodic Unit) (a commentary or essay))
Part I
What is Poetic Prose?
The prose poem (poetic prose) is as old as the hills-well at least as old as poetry itself; that is to say, it is not a new invention as many would have you believe.
It is, in its most oversimplified definition, a short story, a fable. In its more complete form, it is an image centred, or cantered on an object. It is often expressed in layers. It nourishes the spirit, or should. To make, or create it, it is a work of art, and most difficult, more so than a metered poem-so I feel, in that a metered poem is a click to a box. Whereas, the prose poem has two tails-each different than the other; the poets mind has to adjust to this. Here the mind cannot leave the subject, and the poet's mind cannot be concealed.
Part II
Poetic Prose Form!
Often the poetic prose poem-has the same subject throughout; it is like a one-way highway. Another form, one sets the tone in the first sentence, and then alters it as s/he descends, as the mood changes in the poem. Thus, the mind with the words is set. Let me repeat, the focus is on an unchanging element or subject-in the prosodic unit, it is not the stanza but the sentence. Let me give you an example:
A good haiku is evidence the poet has overcome polarities (large and small, human and animal, etc). Now let me create right here and now, a haiku for an example:
The wood in the hearth
this also
gave home to a bird.
'Wood-bird 'Haiku ((No: 3040) (8-29-2011))
The writer or poet usually uses, or writes such divisions or polarities, when creating haikus in the presence of the object-if you want to know where the bird came from, you have to know the tree it perched on; or build its nest on. Saw the branch, this kind of observation opens the mind to give human surveillance and understanding, in the right way. In this case the wood in the hearth is more than wood, it was part of a bird's home, a tree that had life, now it warms the body and the room that the body is in. This information cannot be made up, it is processed through the mind, and a creative mind says you have an active soul. You have created something much more than what you originally had-when the mind and the soul began working together.
Part III
Creative Senses in Poetic Prose
In prose poems, the poet can stay close to his creative senses for a lengthy time, in a tranquil setting (similar to a painter, as often I've seen, on the bridges crossing over to Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, painting away as if in another world)instead of a metered storm (trying to put the perfect rhyme schema to an accentual meter form or syllabic meter form; example: dimeter, trimester, tetrameter, hexameter, and so on and so forth, which refers to lines of verse based on a syllabic length or duration in time-this can be a storm...) example:
I want to say what deaths love have come and gone,
I know only, that winter sang in you
A long while, that now sings in me as well.
'Mother's Winter' Accentual-syllabic meter ((No: 3041) (8-29-2011))
In the poem 'Mother's Winter' one is forced to give attention to certain words, the first line for example, creates less force, because death has come and gone for many people the poet has loved-now in lines two and three, the force becomes stronger, because the poet is saying, in essence, all previous loves are nil compared to his memory of her loving mother's love for winter (as we see in the name of the poem: in particular). And now, that memory sings in the poet as well. The lines are fixed, to a ten syllabic meter, as in a sonnet.
The prose poem helps to balance the non-figurative; there are more freedoms for detail in the prose poem, more room for description, intimacy-the object is more exposed. What metered poetry cannot do, poetic prose can. In metered poetry, the mind often gives up and accepts what it has done...
The sonnet, although lovely in its structure, is too impersonal for poetic prose. I need not explain this if you have ever written a sonnet. Thus, it has many ancestors to please.
Part IV
The Mind and Poet's Responsibility (conclusion)
The first to second sentences of a prose poem, usually sets up the rhythm or sounds of the poem (the dynamics),the syllables are set in line, in motion. And as for reading the poem your mind expects this process to satisfy it.
The poet must pay mind to the reader, s/he expects it, and density demands it. A good poet will please the reader, or try-and in the process have an effect on the reader (is this not one of the main purposes for the poet?)
Let's us hope no self-proclaimed mastermind or wiz-kid, tries to standardize the prose poem, with rigid patterns that may stagnate the poet's mind, so it no longer expects excellence, and accepts mediocre: giving it boundaries and hurdles to crossover.
On the other hand, that does not give a licence for the poet to be sloppy in form, and to accept the middle-of-the-road (what we write and what the reader reads, goes into the mind and we are responsible for that, so let's not put in garbage, or something putrid that causes a meltdown for a younger mind). The reader wants elegance and this is part of the poet's job.
Dennis L. Siluk (Poet)
Written 8-27-2011
Article (8-282011)
See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?The-Prose-Poem&id=6534680] The Prose Poem
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Midnight Poems V
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Dennis_Siluk_Ed.D.]Dennis Siluk Ed.D.
1
Beasts,
Inside the Vietnam War(1969)
All around me men are protesting;
but I am stubborn, I take no part.
Here is the difference:
I welcome the Beasts of war!
-Mr. Before
I went to war completely clothed,
and I have returned half naked.
The Beast gave, and the Beast took,
I am part of the Beast.
-Mr. After
No: 3043 (8-29-2043) Midnight Poems V
Brief commentary: like all wars, the war in Vietnam was costly for its time, $220-billion dollars. The U.S. Military dropped 6.5 million tons of bombs on Vietnam. It killed two-million Asians, and we lost 58,000 men and women (and it created neurological issues for soldiers for the following half century, not to mention maimed soldiers). The United States Government airlifted some 10-million military personnel, by commercial aircraft to the war. We lost 5000-helicopters. Millionaires because of military contracts became billionaires; one star generals became three and four star generals (that's what the war was about).
2
Irene (August, 2011)
The Storm goes on through North Carolina, Virginia-
My breath grows slow and heavy, in the melancholy.
Pulling up from far above, where the storm is born;
Thus, spreading ruin, tomb like ruin, on rocky shores-
My breath grows slow and heavy, in the melancholy.
No: 3037, August 27, 2011-08-29 Midnight Poems V
3
The Father Teeth of War
((Iraq and Afganistan) (commentary on Vietnam))
Let us drive those
Fighter jet bombers down
There light beams
Down
To the chambers of
Hell, and dismantle them!
And live inside of peace
For a while-
That falls on the brow
Of our president (Obama)
Tied to his desk
With empty promises,
And the whims of generals
And merchants...!
As he sits in the White House
In Washington
Watching our Nation's Youth
Die one by one, in a crisis
That has nothing to do with the
U.S...
Bring our solders-home!
Return them to earth
As now they live
Inside of fear and sweat
Waiting to die a useless death
In the far-off deserts of Iraq
And Afganistan!
No: 3041 (8-28-2011) Midnight Poems V
4
The Farm Orphanage
((North St. Paul, Minnesota; Kiddie Corner) (Poetic Prose))
In my mind I can see--still see-the farm (orphanage);children and adults on the side of the wooden fence standing, gossiping-where I and my brother had lived as a child ((more on than off)(for five plus years)(back in '48 thru '52)).
Here I am, a boy, feeding the cows and horses with grass through the fence, even giving them a delightful little tap on the snoot-in the light dusty heat of a summer's day.
No: 3020 (8-12-2011) Midnight Poems V
5
Nothing to Something Poem
There is a bit of nothing that flies above my head
It is like a dark shadow, a condor all-encompassing
the sky-nothing distinguishable!
Something out of the fragments of my dreams
I do believe.
What amazes me is this: it was a bit of nothing that
Somehow became something(a large bird, so it seems):
once it reached my cranial...?
No: 3022 (8-17-2011) Midnight Poems V
6
First Things First
If you want to drive across the desert
you do two things: first you kill the
scorpions; second, you build the roads.
No: 600 (2004) Midnight Poems V
7
No One sees it!
It is always lighter just before the dark
There is always calmness just before the storm
Pride always comes just before destruction
A weed in a flower garden is always out of place
In all such cases, no one sees it before it comes!
No: 3024 (8-22-2011) Midnight Poems V (10:11 p.m.)
See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Midnight-Poems-V&id=6534698] Midnight Poems V
1
Beasts,
Inside the Vietnam War(1969)
All around me men are protesting;
but I am stubborn, I take no part.
Here is the difference:
I welcome the Beasts of war!
-Mr. Before
I went to war completely clothed,
and I have returned half naked.
The Beast gave, and the Beast took,
I am part of the Beast.
-Mr. After
No: 3043 (8-29-2043) Midnight Poems V
Brief commentary: like all wars, the war in Vietnam was costly for its time, $220-billion dollars. The U.S. Military dropped 6.5 million tons of bombs on Vietnam. It killed two-million Asians, and we lost 58,000 men and women (and it created neurological issues for soldiers for the following half century, not to mention maimed soldiers). The United States Government airlifted some 10-million military personnel, by commercial aircraft to the war. We lost 5000-helicopters. Millionaires because of military contracts became billionaires; one star generals became three and four star generals (that's what the war was about).
2
Irene (August, 2011)
The Storm goes on through North Carolina, Virginia-
My breath grows slow and heavy, in the melancholy.
Pulling up from far above, where the storm is born;
Thus, spreading ruin, tomb like ruin, on rocky shores-
My breath grows slow and heavy, in the melancholy.
No: 3037, August 27, 2011-08-29 Midnight Poems V
3
The Father Teeth of War
((Iraq and Afganistan) (commentary on Vietnam))
Let us drive those
Fighter jet bombers down
There light beams
Down
To the chambers of
Hell, and dismantle them!
And live inside of peace
For a while-
That falls on the brow
Of our president (Obama)
Tied to his desk
With empty promises,
And the whims of generals
And merchants...!
As he sits in the White House
In Washington
Watching our Nation's Youth
Die one by one, in a crisis
That has nothing to do with the
U.S...
Bring our solders-home!
Return them to earth
As now they live
Inside of fear and sweat
Waiting to die a useless death
In the far-off deserts of Iraq
And Afganistan!
No: 3041 (8-28-2011) Midnight Poems V
4
The Farm Orphanage
((North St. Paul, Minnesota; Kiddie Corner) (Poetic Prose))
In my mind I can see--still see-the farm (orphanage);children and adults on the side of the wooden fence standing, gossiping-where I and my brother had lived as a child ((more on than off)(for five plus years)(back in '48 thru '52)).
Here I am, a boy, feeding the cows and horses with grass through the fence, even giving them a delightful little tap on the snoot-in the light dusty heat of a summer's day.
No: 3020 (8-12-2011) Midnight Poems V
5
Nothing to Something Poem
There is a bit of nothing that flies above my head
It is like a dark shadow, a condor all-encompassing
the sky-nothing distinguishable!
Something out of the fragments of my dreams
I do believe.
What amazes me is this: it was a bit of nothing that
Somehow became something(a large bird, so it seems):
once it reached my cranial...?
No: 3022 (8-17-2011) Midnight Poems V
6
First Things First
If you want to drive across the desert
you do two things: first you kill the
scorpions; second, you build the roads.
No: 600 (2004) Midnight Poems V
7
No One sees it!
It is always lighter just before the dark
There is always calmness just before the storm
Pride always comes just before destruction
A weed in a flower garden is always out of place
In all such cases, no one sees it before it comes!
No: 3024 (8-22-2011) Midnight Poems V (10:11 p.m.)
See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Midnight-Poems-V&id=6534698] Midnight Poems V
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Four Poems
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Marieta_Maglas]Marieta Maglas
MY SOUL IS GUILTY OF LOVE
My soul is guilty of love,
That love devastating my life
To create a new better one.
My love tastes my flesh,
That painful part of me
Continuously and little by little
Dieing.
I still feel this need for temporary things,
But love will never be a thing.
It will never be temporary.
I still try to reconcile
My individual part of world
With my Christian faith.
I still live between
Primitive and humble animals,
Trying to understand my solitude,
Trying to save my unfulfilled desires,
Thinking that
The whole past human glory
Is enough for me.
I try to understand
Its delicate dazzling dream
Of reaching the eternity in ephemeral.
I'm overwhelmed with
Its fossil coral thought and its wet reality.
CANEPHOR WITH A BASKET
Your voice is a
Canephor with a basket for songs
Coming towards me like a blue dream.
Delicate but strong,
My silence beats your ears,
Leaving a trace of love
Like a fog carved in the air
Or unlike a name carved in an oak tree.
My silence and your voice
Weave new vibrations.
It's like an embrace.
Whatever I'm touch'd from,
It clutches my mind.
THE FLOWER'S SCENT (SONNET)
The flower's scent for the moon's highness
Is like red of hero leaving his battle far away!
Forever he lives with his induced blindness
'Cause his courage disappeared in the spring of May!
The honest Helen of Troy in her inner fire bent
Her strange memory there wanting forever to lye!
Don't blush her truth and the flower's scent
Don't ever stir the scent of any opened lie.
The indifference and the hate usually can twist
The power of the Rainbow-Queen with a false tear
The rose of the flower's sense maybe don't exist
Even when looking after them very, very near!
The realistic cruelty of any clever black heart
Is to make the sense of any blame a work of art.
THE EYE OF SILENCE
My eyes were ringed with darkness
And the dew of sadness
Blanketed my genes.
Your words of love
Were on the left angle of my lips.
I wanted to be able
To continue this story of love,
But the chestnut leafs yellowed
So dramatically in autumn,
The wind really tortured itself
In the cold air
And the cold penetrated forever
The spine of my loneliness.
Only with you
I have seen the unseen
And I understood
The meaning of unmeaning.
Only you can make love
To have a deep sense.
You became my cherished memory,
My longing aches
Inside my wet polished stone,
Seemingly shining
In the wave of my life river.
My eyes of silence
Drip the tears of time.
I still close them in deep moments
To feel my existence.
I open them again
Into another world.
I see the birds flying and I understand
That my spiritual flight must be
Upwardly sensed forever.
Marieta Maglas
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Four-Poems&id=6537260] Four Poems
MY SOUL IS GUILTY OF LOVE
My soul is guilty of love,
That love devastating my life
To create a new better one.
My love tastes my flesh,
That painful part of me
Continuously and little by little
Dieing.
I still feel this need for temporary things,
But love will never be a thing.
It will never be temporary.
I still try to reconcile
My individual part of world
With my Christian faith.
I still live between
Primitive and humble animals,
Trying to understand my solitude,
Trying to save my unfulfilled desires,
Thinking that
The whole past human glory
Is enough for me.
I try to understand
Its delicate dazzling dream
Of reaching the eternity in ephemeral.
I'm overwhelmed with
Its fossil coral thought and its wet reality.
CANEPHOR WITH A BASKET
Your voice is a
Canephor with a basket for songs
Coming towards me like a blue dream.
Delicate but strong,
My silence beats your ears,
Leaving a trace of love
Like a fog carved in the air
Or unlike a name carved in an oak tree.
My silence and your voice
Weave new vibrations.
It's like an embrace.
Whatever I'm touch'd from,
It clutches my mind.
THE FLOWER'S SCENT (SONNET)
The flower's scent for the moon's highness
Is like red of hero leaving his battle far away!
Forever he lives with his induced blindness
'Cause his courage disappeared in the spring of May!
The honest Helen of Troy in her inner fire bent
Her strange memory there wanting forever to lye!
Don't blush her truth and the flower's scent
Don't ever stir the scent of any opened lie.
The indifference and the hate usually can twist
The power of the Rainbow-Queen with a false tear
The rose of the flower's sense maybe don't exist
Even when looking after them very, very near!
The realistic cruelty of any clever black heart
Is to make the sense of any blame a work of art.
THE EYE OF SILENCE
My eyes were ringed with darkness
And the dew of sadness
Blanketed my genes.
Your words of love
Were on the left angle of my lips.
I wanted to be able
To continue this story of love,
But the chestnut leafs yellowed
So dramatically in autumn,
The wind really tortured itself
In the cold air
And the cold penetrated forever
The spine of my loneliness.
Only with you
I have seen the unseen
And I understood
The meaning of unmeaning.
Only you can make love
To have a deep sense.
You became my cherished memory,
My longing aches
Inside my wet polished stone,
Seemingly shining
In the wave of my life river.
My eyes of silence
Drip the tears of time.
I still close them in deep moments
To feel my existence.
I open them again
Into another world.
I see the birds flying and I understand
That my spiritual flight must be
Upwardly sensed forever.
Marieta Maglas
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Four-Poems&id=6537260] Four Poems
Friday, December 23, 2011
Angela Gheoghiu's Fall
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Gianni_Truvianni]Gianni Truvianni
My Angela Gheorghiu Of Fall
My Angela Gheorghiu of fall
as summer comes to an end
nature's cheerless leaves
auburn, golden and crimson
start their descend on to ground
in the cool winds do they swirl
all in freshness's twirl
as arrival of another season
takes hold of all reason.
It be tweed of autumn
in shades of season
to adorn figure of sensuality
as skirt of wool wrap
caress about legs of beauty.
It be in autumn's splendorous charm
that I bestow my sight upon
delight of Angela Gheorghiu
as eyes of sparkle greet mine
whilst hands pass feelings warm.
Mane of black silk does cascade
with loveliness upon visage of pale
as scarf marks fashion of season.
Mine being enchanted
to render emotions of ye
ever tender as lips of scarlet
do grant homage on scene
of returning chestnuts
whilst with chant of howl
wind does caress crisp
about my Angela Gheorghiu.
Delicate body be covered
in wares of elegance
as wool takes form of thee
to decorate sweet femininity.
As deity of season with boots
to take liberty to thine knees
does ye stroll in autumn's leaves.
As fantasy does appear
as lady divine to with warm spirit
take place in gardens of Autumn.
Angela Gheoghiu Nude
My Angela Gheorghiu's grace
autumn's sun descends in sky
as scarlet glow of flames decorate
all about in wonder of season
fire burns upon log
as dusk sets on day
whilst desire of evening
rise in expectation.
My Angela Gheorghiu's grace
be with eyes all ablaze
upon mine as in gaze
of star a bright in blackness
does seek sweet tenderness.
Black mane of silk cascade
whilst pale delicate skin
acquire sensual dream
as mounds of femininity
arise in beauty's silhouette
as crimson to entice appetite.
My Angela Gheorghiu's grace
delightful aroma be as lace
of fragrance lovely of thine
captivate in form divine.
My Angela Gheorghiu's grace
emotions a grand as with sight
does admirer caress sensuality
of paleness in white sexuality.
Pearl as rose does enhance
splendor of thine femininity
as ardor of fireplace shines
all virtues of ye.
Candle In The Window
Poetic phrases connected to Angela Gheorghiu and the grace of her romance in these season of falling leaves.
November's cold rain bears down with force upon window while cloaking of misty fog decorates landscape. This as chill of night surrounds trees and all in picturesque views. Candle bright shines as vision of star in the distance yet in warm tenderness I see glow of loveliness in my Angela Gheorghiu. It being her eyes to sparkle with glee in desires of sensuality and friendship.
Romantic expression of adoration be as with emotion I see my Angela's lips in fashion of delicate smile. It being my Angela to capture warmth of relaxation as with care she take my hand as we share a while in spirits of season of falling leaves.
My Angela Gheoghiu's Hand Upon Fall
Autumn's leaves decorate
as they glide on season's breeze
picturesque view of browning trees
as my Angela Gheorghiu's hand
do I capture with delicate ease
gentleness does my skin caress
as smoothness of silk sooths
delicate gaze of eyes warm
in fall's splendorous charm
whilst bench of romance
does our sweet emotions enhance
My Angela Gheoghiu's Lips Of Fall
Warm tender sensual red
soft loving sweet caress
kiss of delicate flesh
does my Angela press
Do I with emotion sense
as gentle sensations call
about me do they flow
as our delight of adoration
In tongues we communicate
ardor of our sparks
embrace of hidden longing
all majestic passion growing
Battle of our flames
fires in rage of desires
touch of true adoration
to Angela of my creation
My Angela Gheorghiu Under Autumn's Moon
A poem inspired by the golden light of the moon and Angela Gheorghiu.
Stunning silhouette of Angela Gheorghiu
statuesque in caressing yellow moon
struck by adoring beam of delicate light
shinning upon pure femininity
ever sensual in vision's of night
oh, graceful delight of deity
Oh, my Angela Gheorghiu
bright mane cascading in darkness
falling on thine breasts divine
capturing glow of golden moon
passion enflamed in dreams mine
luminosity to rose of sweet tenderness
Angela Gheorghiu, Voice Of Season Of Fall
A poem inspired by Angela Gheorghiu's lovely voice and its connection to the beauty of the fall.
Voice of autumn's winds
breeze of fresh beauty
melody of passion in season's clarity
emotions from thee, oh diva
traveling as cool sensations
of tender sentiments
casting delight upon
russet and golden leaves
Voice of autumn's winds
harmonies of season's foliage and trees
turning as to shades of wonder
as lyrical desire resonates
in splendorous music
Voice of autumn's winds
nature of season perfumed
by delicacy of soprano
in scent of breath delightful
Voice of autumn's winds
melodies of ye float about
as charm of opera performance
decorate season in laments
of dramatic art to culminate
with conclusion tragic
as Traviata falls
Gazing In To Angela Gheorghiu's Eyes In The Fires Of Fall
Some phrases inspired by looking upon Angela Gheorghiu's photograph.
It is in this season of fall that I gaze upon my Gheorghiu's photo and imagine that I with care might stroke her hand if permission be offered upon me that I with warmth should hold this delicate part of her beauty. To be so close to my Gheorghiu as to gaze in to her eyes with messages of emotion as to allow her to see my admiration for sheer splendor as fire place keeps us in her blaze. It being my Gheorghiu's smile to bring brilliance as I with devotion in my eyes capture hers that she might share my passions as embers burn to our harmony.
My Gheorghiu, how my imagination creates visions in a chamber ruled by crimson flames in height of ardor to celebrate the loveliness of freedom shared by our desires. It being with sweetness that I gaze on lips so delightful on lady of elegance as I see in thee and await that they be lent upon my own with grace of thee. Blissful act of clashing in a kiss of passion to create sensations beyond words as bodies experience and express hidden lusts.
Angela Gheorghiu, Porcelain Bath Of Fall
A poem inspired by Angela Gheorghiu's bath in waters of delight.
My Angela Gheorghiu in the porcelain bath of fall
be exquisite vision of pearly bliss
as delightful shape of lady
in waters ever pristine be caressed
soothing warmth of nature upon splendor
of thine flesh as foam with gentle valor
embrace treasures of thine femininity
My Angela Gheorghiu in the porcelain bath of fall
goddess of black mane
glee in eyes of princess
does ye cleans silken ivory
of tender mounds ever grand sight
of crimson peaks charm upon bosom
as salts of fragrance enhance
My Angela Gheorghiu in the porcelain bath of fall
delicate strokes of gentle waves
mysterious in majestic ways
upon flower of ye divinity
dark rose of ye caring
sweat gem of sensuality
savor does princess sexuality
Glare Of Starry Night Upon My Angela
A poem inspired by Angela Gheorghiu's nude body in the light of stars.
Angela in light of stars
bright glare of blue night
gazes upon our chamber's darkness
capturing delicacy's sensual desires
figure of femininity's silhouette
Angela in light of stars
passion's shade of radiance
all in view of sensual delight
pale sensuality captures light to glow
angelic vision of thee
My name is Gianni Truvianni, author of many an article to be found on the internet along with the book "New York's Opera Society". My works also include the books "What Should Not Matter", "Love Your Sister" and several others which still remain unpublished though I am presently looking to change this.
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Angela-Gheoghius-Fall&id=6545735] Angela Gheoghiu's Fall
My Angela Gheorghiu Of Fall
My Angela Gheorghiu of fall
as summer comes to an end
nature's cheerless leaves
auburn, golden and crimson
start their descend on to ground
in the cool winds do they swirl
all in freshness's twirl
as arrival of another season
takes hold of all reason.
It be tweed of autumn
in shades of season
to adorn figure of sensuality
as skirt of wool wrap
caress about legs of beauty.
It be in autumn's splendorous charm
that I bestow my sight upon
delight of Angela Gheorghiu
as eyes of sparkle greet mine
whilst hands pass feelings warm.
Mane of black silk does cascade
with loveliness upon visage of pale
as scarf marks fashion of season.
Mine being enchanted
to render emotions of ye
ever tender as lips of scarlet
do grant homage on scene
of returning chestnuts
whilst with chant of howl
wind does caress crisp
about my Angela Gheorghiu.
Delicate body be covered
in wares of elegance
as wool takes form of thee
to decorate sweet femininity.
As deity of season with boots
to take liberty to thine knees
does ye stroll in autumn's leaves.
As fantasy does appear
as lady divine to with warm spirit
take place in gardens of Autumn.
Angela Gheoghiu Nude
My Angela Gheorghiu's grace
autumn's sun descends in sky
as scarlet glow of flames decorate
all about in wonder of season
fire burns upon log
as dusk sets on day
whilst desire of evening
rise in expectation.
My Angela Gheorghiu's grace
be with eyes all ablaze
upon mine as in gaze
of star a bright in blackness
does seek sweet tenderness.
Black mane of silk cascade
whilst pale delicate skin
acquire sensual dream
as mounds of femininity
arise in beauty's silhouette
as crimson to entice appetite.
My Angela Gheorghiu's grace
delightful aroma be as lace
of fragrance lovely of thine
captivate in form divine.
My Angela Gheorghiu's grace
emotions a grand as with sight
does admirer caress sensuality
of paleness in white sexuality.
Pearl as rose does enhance
splendor of thine femininity
as ardor of fireplace shines
all virtues of ye.
Candle In The Window
Poetic phrases connected to Angela Gheorghiu and the grace of her romance in these season of falling leaves.
November's cold rain bears down with force upon window while cloaking of misty fog decorates landscape. This as chill of night surrounds trees and all in picturesque views. Candle bright shines as vision of star in the distance yet in warm tenderness I see glow of loveliness in my Angela Gheorghiu. It being her eyes to sparkle with glee in desires of sensuality and friendship.
Romantic expression of adoration be as with emotion I see my Angela's lips in fashion of delicate smile. It being my Angela to capture warmth of relaxation as with care she take my hand as we share a while in spirits of season of falling leaves.
My Angela Gheoghiu's Hand Upon Fall
Autumn's leaves decorate
as they glide on season's breeze
picturesque view of browning trees
as my Angela Gheorghiu's hand
do I capture with delicate ease
gentleness does my skin caress
as smoothness of silk sooths
delicate gaze of eyes warm
in fall's splendorous charm
whilst bench of romance
does our sweet emotions enhance
My Angela Gheoghiu's Lips Of Fall
Warm tender sensual red
soft loving sweet caress
kiss of delicate flesh
does my Angela press
Do I with emotion sense
as gentle sensations call
about me do they flow
as our delight of adoration
In tongues we communicate
ardor of our sparks
embrace of hidden longing
all majestic passion growing
Battle of our flames
fires in rage of desires
touch of true adoration
to Angela of my creation
My Angela Gheorghiu Under Autumn's Moon
A poem inspired by the golden light of the moon and Angela Gheorghiu.
Stunning silhouette of Angela Gheorghiu
statuesque in caressing yellow moon
struck by adoring beam of delicate light
shinning upon pure femininity
ever sensual in vision's of night
oh, graceful delight of deity
Oh, my Angela Gheorghiu
bright mane cascading in darkness
falling on thine breasts divine
capturing glow of golden moon
passion enflamed in dreams mine
luminosity to rose of sweet tenderness
Angela Gheorghiu, Voice Of Season Of Fall
A poem inspired by Angela Gheorghiu's lovely voice and its connection to the beauty of the fall.
Voice of autumn's winds
breeze of fresh beauty
melody of passion in season's clarity
emotions from thee, oh diva
traveling as cool sensations
of tender sentiments
casting delight upon
russet and golden leaves
Voice of autumn's winds
harmonies of season's foliage and trees
turning as to shades of wonder
as lyrical desire resonates
in splendorous music
Voice of autumn's winds
nature of season perfumed
by delicacy of soprano
in scent of breath delightful
Voice of autumn's winds
melodies of ye float about
as charm of opera performance
decorate season in laments
of dramatic art to culminate
with conclusion tragic
as Traviata falls
Gazing In To Angela Gheorghiu's Eyes In The Fires Of Fall
Some phrases inspired by looking upon Angela Gheorghiu's photograph.
It is in this season of fall that I gaze upon my Gheorghiu's photo and imagine that I with care might stroke her hand if permission be offered upon me that I with warmth should hold this delicate part of her beauty. To be so close to my Gheorghiu as to gaze in to her eyes with messages of emotion as to allow her to see my admiration for sheer splendor as fire place keeps us in her blaze. It being my Gheorghiu's smile to bring brilliance as I with devotion in my eyes capture hers that she might share my passions as embers burn to our harmony.
My Gheorghiu, how my imagination creates visions in a chamber ruled by crimson flames in height of ardor to celebrate the loveliness of freedom shared by our desires. It being with sweetness that I gaze on lips so delightful on lady of elegance as I see in thee and await that they be lent upon my own with grace of thee. Blissful act of clashing in a kiss of passion to create sensations beyond words as bodies experience and express hidden lusts.
Angela Gheorghiu, Porcelain Bath Of Fall
A poem inspired by Angela Gheorghiu's bath in waters of delight.
My Angela Gheorghiu in the porcelain bath of fall
be exquisite vision of pearly bliss
as delightful shape of lady
in waters ever pristine be caressed
soothing warmth of nature upon splendor
of thine flesh as foam with gentle valor
embrace treasures of thine femininity
My Angela Gheorghiu in the porcelain bath of fall
goddess of black mane
glee in eyes of princess
does ye cleans silken ivory
of tender mounds ever grand sight
of crimson peaks charm upon bosom
as salts of fragrance enhance
My Angela Gheorghiu in the porcelain bath of fall
delicate strokes of gentle waves
mysterious in majestic ways
upon flower of ye divinity
dark rose of ye caring
sweat gem of sensuality
savor does princess sexuality
Glare Of Starry Night Upon My Angela
A poem inspired by Angela Gheorghiu's nude body in the light of stars.
Angela in light of stars
bright glare of blue night
gazes upon our chamber's darkness
capturing delicacy's sensual desires
figure of femininity's silhouette
Angela in light of stars
passion's shade of radiance
all in view of sensual delight
pale sensuality captures light to glow
angelic vision of thee
My name is Gianni Truvianni, author of many an article to be found on the internet along with the book "New York's Opera Society". My works also include the books "What Should Not Matter", "Love Your Sister" and several others which still remain unpublished though I am presently looking to change this.
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Angela-Gheoghius-Fall&id=6545735] Angela Gheoghiu's Fall
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
The Nature of Humans, Trees and the Elements
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Graham_Shelley]Graham Shelley
Tree of Life
Eyes closed, explore the places beneath your bark of worldly knowledge and unknown rhythms, buried in your heart.
Your feet root in darkness, into the mysteries of moist, saturated ground. Anchoring at Earth's center, you are deep in womb's hearth.
Guided along the inner rivers and streams, you flow effortlessly, sensing and observing, as above, so below.
You look up from here, a kaleidoscope of branches and diffused light overhead; reaching to cradle the stars, meeting heaven's night.
Morning opens quietly, like tiny blue pearls of light dancing on your leaves, you feel your trunk breathe and then sigh, it softly heaves.
Whispering and windy, spirit flows in, swirling gently around your core, weaving through thousands of hidden memory rings.
Divine breath carries you deeper still, into the place where affinity rests, into your heart, the place where everything sings.
Loneliness disappears, slipping along the rivers inside, because here runs the blood and the prana, erasing all seeds of doubt.
As Within, so Without."
For Kathy
99 Bridges
Yesterday I stopped building bridges; today I awakened,
Remembering there was one more.
The golden bridge from my soul to yours,
The bridge that connects us through eternity.
No one walks here,
Though we stand at different ends looking, knowing, there is nothing more to do.
Time is non-existent as we see the limitless potential of all things.
From my heart to yours, sister to brother,
I built this last, this 99th Bridge.
Remember our journey together,
Touching the rail, lighting the way for us all, forever.
For my Brother.
Hanging in the Balance
Earth: embraced by sky.
A veil of gold floats over the Earth,
Sun illuminating Moon,
Exposing light in the darkness.
Feminine: a vessel for masculine.
Tumultuous and benign,
Sea reflected in sky,
Pouring from the heavens.
Soul: house of the heart.
A chalice, the container for divine remembering,
The record keeper,
Reminding the flower to open.
Spirit: breath that flows and anchors in the bones.
Ebbing from inspiration to expiration,
Connecting again,
Through the ethers on its way home.
You: the seat of your soul.
Always in love's embrace,
Forever illuminated on your journey back to the Sun
Listening to sounds of the sea in the sky.
For Humanity
I Love You Still
I can see your kindness--your heart--even when you're angry and enraged.
I can see your vulnerability, even when you are resistant.
When you are hard and protected, I see your softness.
I see that you are enlightened, even when you act unconsciously.
It doesn't matter to me if you make mistakes...I always know you are brilliant and intelligent.
When you forget who you are or pretend you are someone else, I will always be there to remind you.
I know your creativity is alive within you, even when you deny the joy in your heart.
I can feel your love for everything in this Universe, even when you hold grudges.
I will forever know your desire for communion, even when you are arrogant and disconnected.
I will always be here for you, no matter what, even when you cast me aside.
For Our Souls
See these and other similar prose by Graham Shelley at http://www.sacredbodiessacredrhythms.com/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?The-Nature-of-Humans,-Trees-and-the-Elements&id=6546063] The Nature of Humans, Trees and the Elements
Tree of Life
Eyes closed, explore the places beneath your bark of worldly knowledge and unknown rhythms, buried in your heart.
Your feet root in darkness, into the mysteries of moist, saturated ground. Anchoring at Earth's center, you are deep in womb's hearth.
Guided along the inner rivers and streams, you flow effortlessly, sensing and observing, as above, so below.
You look up from here, a kaleidoscope of branches and diffused light overhead; reaching to cradle the stars, meeting heaven's night.
Morning opens quietly, like tiny blue pearls of light dancing on your leaves, you feel your trunk breathe and then sigh, it softly heaves.
Whispering and windy, spirit flows in, swirling gently around your core, weaving through thousands of hidden memory rings.
Divine breath carries you deeper still, into the place where affinity rests, into your heart, the place where everything sings.
Loneliness disappears, slipping along the rivers inside, because here runs the blood and the prana, erasing all seeds of doubt.
As Within, so Without."
For Kathy
99 Bridges
Yesterday I stopped building bridges; today I awakened,
Remembering there was one more.
The golden bridge from my soul to yours,
The bridge that connects us through eternity.
No one walks here,
Though we stand at different ends looking, knowing, there is nothing more to do.
Time is non-existent as we see the limitless potential of all things.
From my heart to yours, sister to brother,
I built this last, this 99th Bridge.
Remember our journey together,
Touching the rail, lighting the way for us all, forever.
For my Brother.
Hanging in the Balance
Earth: embraced by sky.
A veil of gold floats over the Earth,
Sun illuminating Moon,
Exposing light in the darkness.
Feminine: a vessel for masculine.
Tumultuous and benign,
Sea reflected in sky,
Pouring from the heavens.
Soul: house of the heart.
A chalice, the container for divine remembering,
The record keeper,
Reminding the flower to open.
Spirit: breath that flows and anchors in the bones.
Ebbing from inspiration to expiration,
Connecting again,
Through the ethers on its way home.
You: the seat of your soul.
Always in love's embrace,
Forever illuminated on your journey back to the Sun
Listening to sounds of the sea in the sky.
For Humanity
I Love You Still
I can see your kindness--your heart--even when you're angry and enraged.
I can see your vulnerability, even when you are resistant.
When you are hard and protected, I see your softness.
I see that you are enlightened, even when you act unconsciously.
It doesn't matter to me if you make mistakes...I always know you are brilliant and intelligent.
When you forget who you are or pretend you are someone else, I will always be there to remind you.
I know your creativity is alive within you, even when you deny the joy in your heart.
I can feel your love for everything in this Universe, even when you hold grudges.
I will forever know your desire for communion, even when you are arrogant and disconnected.
I will always be here for you, no matter what, even when you cast me aside.
For Our Souls
See these and other similar prose by Graham Shelley at http://www.sacredbodiessacredrhythms.com/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?The-Nature-of-Humans,-Trees-and-the-Elements&id=6546063] The Nature of Humans, Trees and the Elements
Monday, December 19, 2011
The Silence of the Souls
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Kashif_Ali]Kashif Ali
In midst of the Lord of the weakest and strongest
We observe our silence dutifully,
For years of infinite count and times unknown
We've been doomed to meet our destiny,
By the hands of ill-doers, who strive to kill.
I'm father of two lovely babies; bless them Lord
Today is my daughter's birthday, and I've to be at home
Early to see her smile, to make her laugh, to hug her
And love her.
My wife's been waiting for me to throw a party
Ah! I see a big Satan coming toward me,
Bringing hate and terror
Yes, it is too close to hit and all I have in my mind
Is horror of not being there
For my child, my love, my daughter!
I'm an old man who pays visits to my wife here, and today
We plan to celebrate our long-lasting bond of marriage and love
I'm here to pick her up, and leaning from the window,
Hands in hands we see Oh my God!
We see a gigantic plane flying to bid us farewell forever,
My wife weeps for me and me for her,
Before it is blood everywhere
It is a peaceful day as I board the plane to see my Fiance,
one I dearly love
Her picture is in my hand;
my smiles are pure with my heart beating for her
In those moments of blessings,
I hear hue and cry within the plane,
as it was hijacked.
In moments, I see the twin jewels of my country,
But something is wrong, I realize soon enough
That it is my last ride, ride to the heaven, where I will meet
My love, my fiance which I am leaving here, protect her Lord!
I wish you could see our faces as we drew closer and closer,
Faster and faster, nearer and nearer to the climax of our fear,
toward the twin towers, to meet our creator.
Death is a blessing for pious, they say!
I am a blessed mother of five,whose five sons
are strong as an iron shield, loving as angels,
My sons! Never did I know what would happen,
World is a place of rest and moving on
Time is mechanics of life and death,
Whose first and whose at the end, does it matter?
Love is God, and God love! I just miss my five pearls.
In midst of the Lord of the weakest and strongest
We observe our silence dutifully,
For years of infinite count and times unknown
We've been doomed to meet our destiny,
We are dead now, but alive among hearts of all humans
Who remember us, love us, miss us and share our pain
And blessings; Love is God, and God love.
Regards
K
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?The-Silence-of-the-Souls&id=6396793] The Silence of the Souls
In midst of the Lord of the weakest and strongest
We observe our silence dutifully,
For years of infinite count and times unknown
We've been doomed to meet our destiny,
By the hands of ill-doers, who strive to kill.
I'm father of two lovely babies; bless them Lord
Today is my daughter's birthday, and I've to be at home
Early to see her smile, to make her laugh, to hug her
And love her.
My wife's been waiting for me to throw a party
Ah! I see a big Satan coming toward me,
Bringing hate and terror
Yes, it is too close to hit and all I have in my mind
Is horror of not being there
For my child, my love, my daughter!
I'm an old man who pays visits to my wife here, and today
We plan to celebrate our long-lasting bond of marriage and love
I'm here to pick her up, and leaning from the window,
Hands in hands we see Oh my God!
We see a gigantic plane flying to bid us farewell forever,
My wife weeps for me and me for her,
Before it is blood everywhere
It is a peaceful day as I board the plane to see my Fiance,
one I dearly love
Her picture is in my hand;
my smiles are pure with my heart beating for her
In those moments of blessings,
I hear hue and cry within the plane,
as it was hijacked.
In moments, I see the twin jewels of my country,
But something is wrong, I realize soon enough
That it is my last ride, ride to the heaven, where I will meet
My love, my fiance which I am leaving here, protect her Lord!
I wish you could see our faces as we drew closer and closer,
Faster and faster, nearer and nearer to the climax of our fear,
toward the twin towers, to meet our creator.
Death is a blessing for pious, they say!
I am a blessed mother of five,whose five sons
are strong as an iron shield, loving as angels,
My sons! Never did I know what would happen,
World is a place of rest and moving on
Time is mechanics of life and death,
Whose first and whose at the end, does it matter?
Love is God, and God love! I just miss my five pearls.
In midst of the Lord of the weakest and strongest
We observe our silence dutifully,
For years of infinite count and times unknown
We've been doomed to meet our destiny,
We are dead now, but alive among hearts of all humans
Who remember us, love us, miss us and share our pain
And blessings; Love is God, and God love.
Regards
K
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?The-Silence-of-the-Souls&id=6396793] The Silence of the Souls
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Priests Of Poetry
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Uche_Uwadinachi]Uche Uwadinachi
Poetry as therapy is reluctantly a new development in the expressive arts, however it is as old as the first chant sung around the tribal fires of the primitive people. Then it was used by some selected elders to bring healing to the sick ones. The word 'Therapy' came from the Greek 'therapia', meaning to cure through involvement in one of the expressive arts: dance, song, poetry or drama.
Poetry as a therapy uses the traditional techniques of poetry-rhythm, sound, metaphor etc but the focus is the person writing or performing the poem. When it is used for healing, expression and growth is used as a tool in the hands of the individual.
Of course every genre, civilization, forms have employed the use of the imagery, metaphor, rhythm and other literary devices to teach their stories, fable, drama, passing their information. Poetry in it condensed form, lyrical quality, and flitting thematic preoccupation is a typical evocative form of literature that can command surprising positive responses from people involved irrespective of ages, state and culture.
Poetry is very efficient in self purgation in this modern time when been conducted as a therapy in an interactive process. It releases catharsis, enhances self awakening, gives new thoughts and hope to the user.
Poetry therapy goes different ways with the so called highly intellectual and selective course of the English literature class. The essence of it process begins in reaching a poem to the facilitated discussion of the readers-response to that poem. The poem in question may be the reader's piece or someone else's own. When such poem is been talked about thoughtfully by the patient in question to the therapist (who not so necessary), the after effect is always so interesting as one realizes that the user feels more lighter and indifferent about his or her present troubling circumstance instead the attention is fixed on solving the poem which similarly relates to that of the patients. The puzzle goes around to take care of the player. The same and even more efficient result is seen when it is a poem written by the patient.
This is not using a ruler and an advance dictionary to analyze the metre and ideology of the elite poet who authors the book. This is neither an avenue to under-estimate or ignore the depth essence of the book as intended by the writer nor a total neglect of the cosmetic and historical meaning of a poem, it is instead a seeking to discover the reader's own intuitive understanding, connection with the story and application of the meaning to his or her present situation.
In present day poetry for healing, we become doctors to our sicknesses and irresolvable woes; it is a track to our own special contribution to the many recommended solutions we find in our world of lengthy prescriptions. Every tablets of drug, scripture, incantation or therapy must directly or indirectly depend on the will of a living being to be active. This thus gives us a major part to the certainty of our existence and fulfillment. The poems of our own stories, makes each and every one of us priests of our well-beings and possibilities.
�Uche Uwadinachi
A PRIEST OF POETRY-P.O.P Author of poetry collection "SCAR in the HEART of pain" and its Spoken Word audio Album. Winner of ANA Lagos (Association of Nigerian Authors) Poetry Performance Festival Prize 2006 and Pakistan June Poetrycraze contest 2009. 2nd Prize Poetry Winner of Ken Saro-Wiwa Contest, Houston(USA) 2010, won the June Loudthotz Poetry contest 2011 and directed the overall winning Poetry performance of district 5 Education Board for the Lagos State Jam Feast Competition 2011, his poems have been published in the 'Lime Jewel' collection-London 2010- a book for Haiti victims and other publications. Presently, an independent television presenter with Konto MUsic.
For more articles, visit http://priestofpoetry.blogspot.com/ http://flames777.blogspot.com/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Priests-Of-Poetry&id=6553828] Priests Of Poetry
Poetry as therapy is reluctantly a new development in the expressive arts, however it is as old as the first chant sung around the tribal fires of the primitive people. Then it was used by some selected elders to bring healing to the sick ones. The word 'Therapy' came from the Greek 'therapia', meaning to cure through involvement in one of the expressive arts: dance, song, poetry or drama.
Poetry as a therapy uses the traditional techniques of poetry-rhythm, sound, metaphor etc but the focus is the person writing or performing the poem. When it is used for healing, expression and growth is used as a tool in the hands of the individual.
Of course every genre, civilization, forms have employed the use of the imagery, metaphor, rhythm and other literary devices to teach their stories, fable, drama, passing their information. Poetry in it condensed form, lyrical quality, and flitting thematic preoccupation is a typical evocative form of literature that can command surprising positive responses from people involved irrespective of ages, state and culture.
Poetry is very efficient in self purgation in this modern time when been conducted as a therapy in an interactive process. It releases catharsis, enhances self awakening, gives new thoughts and hope to the user.
Poetry therapy goes different ways with the so called highly intellectual and selective course of the English literature class. The essence of it process begins in reaching a poem to the facilitated discussion of the readers-response to that poem. The poem in question may be the reader's piece or someone else's own. When such poem is been talked about thoughtfully by the patient in question to the therapist (who not so necessary), the after effect is always so interesting as one realizes that the user feels more lighter and indifferent about his or her present troubling circumstance instead the attention is fixed on solving the poem which similarly relates to that of the patients. The puzzle goes around to take care of the player. The same and even more efficient result is seen when it is a poem written by the patient.
This is not using a ruler and an advance dictionary to analyze the metre and ideology of the elite poet who authors the book. This is neither an avenue to under-estimate or ignore the depth essence of the book as intended by the writer nor a total neglect of the cosmetic and historical meaning of a poem, it is instead a seeking to discover the reader's own intuitive understanding, connection with the story and application of the meaning to his or her present situation.
In present day poetry for healing, we become doctors to our sicknesses and irresolvable woes; it is a track to our own special contribution to the many recommended solutions we find in our world of lengthy prescriptions. Every tablets of drug, scripture, incantation or therapy must directly or indirectly depend on the will of a living being to be active. This thus gives us a major part to the certainty of our existence and fulfillment. The poems of our own stories, makes each and every one of us priests of our well-beings and possibilities.
�Uche Uwadinachi
A PRIEST OF POETRY-P.O.P Author of poetry collection "SCAR in the HEART of pain" and its Spoken Word audio Album. Winner of ANA Lagos (Association of Nigerian Authors) Poetry Performance Festival Prize 2006 and Pakistan June Poetrycraze contest 2009. 2nd Prize Poetry Winner of Ken Saro-Wiwa Contest, Houston(USA) 2010, won the June Loudthotz Poetry contest 2011 and directed the overall winning Poetry performance of district 5 Education Board for the Lagos State Jam Feast Competition 2011, his poems have been published in the 'Lime Jewel' collection-London 2010- a book for Haiti victims and other publications. Presently, an independent television presenter with Konto MUsic.
For more articles, visit http://priestofpoetry.blogspot.com/ http://flames777.blogspot.com/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Priests-Of-Poetry&id=6553828] Priests Of Poetry
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Overeducated, Underemployed
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Santosh_Kalwar]Santosh Kalwar
It is hard to grab a job in today's complex and dynamic market,
more harder is to search for them,
much harder is to fight for them,
with your friends, colleagues and fellow human beings,
difficult especially, if you are middle class,
poor, unemployed, over populated and single bread-owner,
Some people can get with this problem,
they can solve their crisis by doing two-three jobs
but not one single permanent job,
there is nothing fixed for those kinda people, you know.
There is fear and anxiety of losing it
Losing your job,
losing your family,
losing your relationship,
losing your house, mortgage, love, employment,
and whatnot
Fear of flying,
fear of living,
fear of everything, almost, everything,
Nobody's got any security
of anything,
I just want you to know
that only thing that matters in life
is what you do
and how you do it
not what others are doing it, right now
others cannot be you
you have rights to deal with your poor situation
Nobody else can solve your crisis, except you, and you alone
Fear not, my dear friends
every new beginning will be problematic
every new act, plans and proposals will be hard
to cope-up
Every new law and legislation will
burden your soul,
It will not ease your problems but,
it will increase your problems
You have to face consequences of losing
something, before gaining something
Nothing is easy,
it never was
Living, by definition requires
lot of commitments of losing it, in first place,
losing your virginity,
losing your ethnicity,
losing your religion,
losing your rights,
Nothing can be achieved without you,
losing it...
Some people become educated,
by doing nothing
Others by losing everything's they've ever got
The world does not listens to talkers,
and fakers
There is nothing truthful except lies
If you are willing to work harder,
there are chances that you won't gain anything in life
but mere and status-quo
That's worth nothing
position
A poor middle-class boy is over-educated,
he's got xyz degree
But who cares?
When the society is based on knowledge
and entire society is highly competitive,
Who cares about position and status of your degrees
not all skills are achieved by your stupid degrees
yes, but your over education is just some piece of crap
lying in your archive file, a proof of your ignorance, and academic intelligence
BTW, who cares about that anyway?
The worse,
you are still unemployed.
Take a break,
and start enjoying, your limited life-span
Santosh Kalwar http://kalwar.com.np/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Overeducated,-Underemployed&id=6552646] Overeducated, Underemployed
It is hard to grab a job in today's complex and dynamic market,
more harder is to search for them,
much harder is to fight for them,
with your friends, colleagues and fellow human beings,
difficult especially, if you are middle class,
poor, unemployed, over populated and single bread-owner,
Some people can get with this problem,
they can solve their crisis by doing two-three jobs
but not one single permanent job,
there is nothing fixed for those kinda people, you know.
There is fear and anxiety of losing it
Losing your job,
losing your family,
losing your relationship,
losing your house, mortgage, love, employment,
and whatnot
Fear of flying,
fear of living,
fear of everything, almost, everything,
Nobody's got any security
of anything,
I just want you to know
that only thing that matters in life
is what you do
and how you do it
not what others are doing it, right now
others cannot be you
you have rights to deal with your poor situation
Nobody else can solve your crisis, except you, and you alone
Fear not, my dear friends
every new beginning will be problematic
every new act, plans and proposals will be hard
to cope-up
Every new law and legislation will
burden your soul,
It will not ease your problems but,
it will increase your problems
You have to face consequences of losing
something, before gaining something
Nothing is easy,
it never was
Living, by definition requires
lot of commitments of losing it, in first place,
losing your virginity,
losing your ethnicity,
losing your religion,
losing your rights,
Nothing can be achieved without you,
losing it...
Some people become educated,
by doing nothing
Others by losing everything's they've ever got
The world does not listens to talkers,
and fakers
There is nothing truthful except lies
If you are willing to work harder,
there are chances that you won't gain anything in life
but mere and status-quo
That's worth nothing
position
A poor middle-class boy is over-educated,
he's got xyz degree
But who cares?
When the society is based on knowledge
and entire society is highly competitive,
Who cares about position and status of your degrees
not all skills are achieved by your stupid degrees
yes, but your over education is just some piece of crap
lying in your archive file, a proof of your ignorance, and academic intelligence
BTW, who cares about that anyway?
The worse,
you are still unemployed.
Take a break,
and start enjoying, your limited life-span
Santosh Kalwar http://kalwar.com.np/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Overeducated,-Underemployed&id=6552646] Overeducated, Underemployed
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Packing Slippery and Sliding Mud in the Trenchant Walls of My Old Adobe Hut
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Gerald_Marchewka]Gerald Marchewka
Let them be modern
if they wish
But here I sit packing slippery and sliding mud
in the trenchant walls of my old adobe hut
On the border
in a land not so far from Santa Fe,
a billowing gale winds blows
as the briny salt begins to scour the tiny pappilae
that adorn my hard fast festering wounds
But what do I care
the gulf is in flux and I am safe and warm
Let the sea breeze strike with the wallop
of a giant humpback whale
It's dorsal fin brings me closer to the source
Near the entrance of your love
So let it rain as it will
You know where to get me if you must
But my spartan floor is only dirt
And the kitchen has no tasty food
Yet there is a sturdy chair if you should
decide to sit
A light bulb hangs from my sky
and I must admit that it is an invention
for which I continue to express my heartfelt thanks
I use it to illuminate my room because
there is no window from which I gaze
Yet I seem to have no difficulty
appreciating the beauty of the scenes
My mind is rich and the night is young
Shining stars always seem to surface
when my heart is full and my pants are dry
In a September wind I once saw a pretty
dark haired girl
Her head was bent
but her back was straight
From there I looked through her navel
until I could see a lecherous little man
He told me where to go
So I accepted his sagely advice
It led me to a place with white lights
and cotton fields,
dark bushes and welcoming trains
From there I could see the bright blue thatch
And above a thorny patch
it rang with the thundering sound of a crashing cymbal
wreaking havoc upon my brain
But it is only the nature of a primitive mind
when the sea shells shatter
and the clever dolphins reign
Cast me aside because a steely fish
has just begun to knock upon my door
There is a circle of ants surrounding my heart
and I am beginning to feel afraid
The night moon is upon us
I can even feel it in my bones
Please let some ice begin to gather
It is too hot and I need some urgent relief coming
An icecream cone would be splendid
but let it be vanilla
There is only so much of this that I can
always be forced to take
Gerald Marchewka is an American freelance writer currently living in Lviv, Ukraine. Gerald's most recent book,
"Straight from the Heavens: Li Bai's Poetry in Retrospect" featuring the Illustrations of Seb Fowler is now for sale on Lulu.com Questions about Gerald's other projects may be referred to [mailto:geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com]geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Packing-Slippery-and-Sliding-Mud-in-the-Trenchant-Walls-of-My-Old-Adobe-Hut&id=6552143] Packing Slippery and Sliding Mud in the Trenchant Walls of My Old Adobe Hut
Let them be modern
if they wish
But here I sit packing slippery and sliding mud
in the trenchant walls of my old adobe hut
On the border
in a land not so far from Santa Fe,
a billowing gale winds blows
as the briny salt begins to scour the tiny pappilae
that adorn my hard fast festering wounds
But what do I care
the gulf is in flux and I am safe and warm
Let the sea breeze strike with the wallop
of a giant humpback whale
It's dorsal fin brings me closer to the source
Near the entrance of your love
So let it rain as it will
You know where to get me if you must
But my spartan floor is only dirt
And the kitchen has no tasty food
Yet there is a sturdy chair if you should
decide to sit
A light bulb hangs from my sky
and I must admit that it is an invention
for which I continue to express my heartfelt thanks
I use it to illuminate my room because
there is no window from which I gaze
Yet I seem to have no difficulty
appreciating the beauty of the scenes
My mind is rich and the night is young
Shining stars always seem to surface
when my heart is full and my pants are dry
In a September wind I once saw a pretty
dark haired girl
Her head was bent
but her back was straight
From there I looked through her navel
until I could see a lecherous little man
He told me where to go
So I accepted his sagely advice
It led me to a place with white lights
and cotton fields,
dark bushes and welcoming trains
From there I could see the bright blue thatch
And above a thorny patch
it rang with the thundering sound of a crashing cymbal
wreaking havoc upon my brain
But it is only the nature of a primitive mind
when the sea shells shatter
and the clever dolphins reign
Cast me aside because a steely fish
has just begun to knock upon my door
There is a circle of ants surrounding my heart
and I am beginning to feel afraid
The night moon is upon us
I can even feel it in my bones
Please let some ice begin to gather
It is too hot and I need some urgent relief coming
An icecream cone would be splendid
but let it be vanilla
There is only so much of this that I can
always be forced to take
Gerald Marchewka is an American freelance writer currently living in Lviv, Ukraine. Gerald's most recent book,
"Straight from the Heavens: Li Bai's Poetry in Retrospect" featuring the Illustrations of Seb Fowler is now for sale on Lulu.com Questions about Gerald's other projects may be referred to [mailto:geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com]geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Packing-Slippery-and-Sliding-Mud-in-the-Trenchant-Walls-of-My-Old-Adobe-Hut&id=6552143] Packing Slippery and Sliding Mud in the Trenchant Walls of My Old Adobe Hut
Monday, December 12, 2011
How to Enjoy a Poem
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Paul_R_Cheney]Paul R Cheney
Back in 1992, a guy with a weird name wrote a book called Can Poetry Matter? His name was Dana Gioia.
Apparently, it made quite splash in the contemporary poetry world at the time. People are still talking about it.
You likely haven't read it.
I haven't read it either.
I haven't read it because I don't care if poetry matters.
In fact, I would say in the scheme of things poetry doesn't matter. We've all got lives to live. We've got work, school, families, etc. Those things (if they matter at all) certainly matter more than poetry.
The only thing poetry has to offer its readers is joy. If you as a reader don't enjoy reading a poem, it doesn't matter. Simple as that.
Now all that said, if you are a human, there are probably thousands of poems out there that you could enjoy. If you didn't think that was true to some extent, you wouldn't be reading this.
The trouble is, enjoyable activities of any kind require at least some amount of skill and training.
Take riding a bike for instance. In order to get the maximum amount of joy out of riding a bike, you need to learn how to do it. No skill, no joy. The better you get, the more joy you get. And the reason we learn to do it in the first place is because we see our friends enjoying it. We feel like if we don't learn to do it too, we're missing out.
Reading poetry is a skill. Luckily, it's a relatively easy skill and there's a lot of potential for joy. If there wasn't, I sure as heck wouldn't be wasting my time writing about it.
[Note: Or would I? *assuming fetal position*]
So because I like reading poetry and I consider myself OK at it, I'm going to tell you the process I use to get the most enjoyment out of a poem possible.
1. Read It To Yourself Silently
Ok. If you've ever read an introduction to a book of poetry, you know you're always supposed to read poems out loud.
While I generally agree, I don't usually read out loud the first few times around. I like to be able to skip around in a new poem until I understand the basics of what's going on.
Reading silently gives me the chance to absorb meaning, images, metaphors, etc. before I really get down to reading it.
2. Read It Over Until You Get It
One of the quickest ways to make a poet hate you is to read a poem of theirs and then say "I don't get it."
The truth is, if you can't see how brilliant a poem is, it's probably because it's not a good poem. Of course there are exceptions. If you don't understand or "get it" at first, try again. It usually takes me three solid read-throughs before I can start to make sense of a great poem.
If I read it five times, and I still don't get it, I've learned to either ignore it, or put it on the shelf for later.
3. Read It Out Loud
Typically, poems are meant to be read out loud. Something funny happens when you recite poetry. I think it has to do with the fact that a poem is physically coming out of you. It starts in your chest, passes through your mucusy vocal chords, and slides out through your mouth for all the world to hear.
Good poems tend to sound cool as well. That's definitely a plus. Whatever the reason, reading poems out loud takes the joy of a poem to another level.
4. Learn Some History
As humans, we love stories. We love them as poetry, sure, but we also love the stories behind poems. Knowing where a poem came from can sometimes be just as interesting as the poem itself. If not, it still adds depth and context.
If I really love a poem, I'm usually inclined to find out more about it. And I'm usually glad I did.
5. Learn Meter And Form
This is where enjoying poetry gets pretty hard for most people. Especially in a country where free verse reigns as the ultimate form. It helps to understand a little about rhythm and meter even for the most free of free verse poems.
I'll probably be talking more about this later, but for now, if you feel like reading up on it, I recommend thumbing through Poetic Meter and Poetic Form by Paul Fussell.
6. Poetry Doesn't Matter
I may be giving Dana G. a bad rap, but realizing this is probably the one thing that made poetry truly enjoyable for me. No matter how serious, or heartbreaking, or intellectually stimulating a poem is, it doesn't matter unless it brings you joy.
Don't be intimidated when you find one that doesn't do it for you. I used to get really down on myself if I read Shakespeare and couldn't understand or appreciate it. Don't do that. Sometimes poems don't hit us like they hit others. That's OK. Even when it's Shakespeare.
Paul is the author of 10 Poems, a free ebook of 10 poems available for download here: http://paulcheney.net/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?How-to-Enjoy-a-Poem&id=6567588] How to Enjoy a Poem
Back in 1992, a guy with a weird name wrote a book called Can Poetry Matter? His name was Dana Gioia.
Apparently, it made quite splash in the contemporary poetry world at the time. People are still talking about it.
You likely haven't read it.
I haven't read it either.
I haven't read it because I don't care if poetry matters.
In fact, I would say in the scheme of things poetry doesn't matter. We've all got lives to live. We've got work, school, families, etc. Those things (if they matter at all) certainly matter more than poetry.
The only thing poetry has to offer its readers is joy. If you as a reader don't enjoy reading a poem, it doesn't matter. Simple as that.
Now all that said, if you are a human, there are probably thousands of poems out there that you could enjoy. If you didn't think that was true to some extent, you wouldn't be reading this.
The trouble is, enjoyable activities of any kind require at least some amount of skill and training.
Take riding a bike for instance. In order to get the maximum amount of joy out of riding a bike, you need to learn how to do it. No skill, no joy. The better you get, the more joy you get. And the reason we learn to do it in the first place is because we see our friends enjoying it. We feel like if we don't learn to do it too, we're missing out.
Reading poetry is a skill. Luckily, it's a relatively easy skill and there's a lot of potential for joy. If there wasn't, I sure as heck wouldn't be wasting my time writing about it.
[Note: Or would I? *assuming fetal position*]
So because I like reading poetry and I consider myself OK at it, I'm going to tell you the process I use to get the most enjoyment out of a poem possible.
1. Read It To Yourself Silently
Ok. If you've ever read an introduction to a book of poetry, you know you're always supposed to read poems out loud.
While I generally agree, I don't usually read out loud the first few times around. I like to be able to skip around in a new poem until I understand the basics of what's going on.
Reading silently gives me the chance to absorb meaning, images, metaphors, etc. before I really get down to reading it.
2. Read It Over Until You Get It
One of the quickest ways to make a poet hate you is to read a poem of theirs and then say "I don't get it."
The truth is, if you can't see how brilliant a poem is, it's probably because it's not a good poem. Of course there are exceptions. If you don't understand or "get it" at first, try again. It usually takes me three solid read-throughs before I can start to make sense of a great poem.
If I read it five times, and I still don't get it, I've learned to either ignore it, or put it on the shelf for later.
3. Read It Out Loud
Typically, poems are meant to be read out loud. Something funny happens when you recite poetry. I think it has to do with the fact that a poem is physically coming out of you. It starts in your chest, passes through your mucusy vocal chords, and slides out through your mouth for all the world to hear.
Good poems tend to sound cool as well. That's definitely a plus. Whatever the reason, reading poems out loud takes the joy of a poem to another level.
4. Learn Some History
As humans, we love stories. We love them as poetry, sure, but we also love the stories behind poems. Knowing where a poem came from can sometimes be just as interesting as the poem itself. If not, it still adds depth and context.
If I really love a poem, I'm usually inclined to find out more about it. And I'm usually glad I did.
5. Learn Meter And Form
This is where enjoying poetry gets pretty hard for most people. Especially in a country where free verse reigns as the ultimate form. It helps to understand a little about rhythm and meter even for the most free of free verse poems.
I'll probably be talking more about this later, but for now, if you feel like reading up on it, I recommend thumbing through Poetic Meter and Poetic Form by Paul Fussell.
6. Poetry Doesn't Matter
I may be giving Dana G. a bad rap, but realizing this is probably the one thing that made poetry truly enjoyable for me. No matter how serious, or heartbreaking, or intellectually stimulating a poem is, it doesn't matter unless it brings you joy.
Don't be intimidated when you find one that doesn't do it for you. I used to get really down on myself if I read Shakespeare and couldn't understand or appreciate it. Don't do that. Sometimes poems don't hit us like they hit others. That's OK. Even when it's Shakespeare.
Paul is the author of 10 Poems, a free ebook of 10 poems available for download here: http://paulcheney.net/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?How-to-Enjoy-a-Poem&id=6567588] How to Enjoy a Poem
Friday, December 9, 2011
Take My Advice, Write Poetry To Increase Confidence, Creativity, And Ability
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Mac_McGovern]Mac McGovern
Poetry is one of those literary genres that instill a fear in students, particularly in the middle school arena. Metaphor, sonnet, acrostic, haiku, rhyme, prose, or free verse are examples of hundreds of poetry terms and forms. Confusing for a young impressionable mind to absorb, poetry is often a subject to avoid, and if unavoidable, often solicits a desire to cheat to succeed. Throughout the internet, are sites where students ask questions soliciting someone to explain or write them poetry to complete a homework assignment.
Poetry is not a written or spoken form to be feared, rather should be the educational tool that teaches reading, writing and the arts as no other single genre is capable.
Writing poetry ought to be fun allowing students to express their feelings, beliefs, and experiences without the restriction of initially teaching them to write and interpret forms of poetry that are difficult for most to understand and usually result in a lifelong hatred of the arts and poetry in particular.
Poetry is the absolute beauty of the human heart expressing emotion in a form that delights and leaves the reader with a feeling of contentment in one spectrum, and a feeling of remorse in another. No other form of writing has the ability and power to inspire the emotion created through poetry.
Teaching students to interject their thoughts and emotions in poetic verse earns enormous benefits which may be applied to virtually any subject. We do not normally think of poetry as a tool for understanding history, music, literature, art, or mathematics yet through poetry, learning may actually become fun.
Free Verse is the ideal form to use as the first poetic style to teach students. As they learn to express themselves and gain confidence, they may be introduced to the terms and other forms of poetry to increase their base of knowledge for future benefit.
What is Free Verse? It is a type of poetry that has no set pattern or style. Since there are no set rules for form, some may rhyme, use some rhyme or not rhyme at all. If rhyme is used, it is important to not stress the rhyme; do not rhyme for the sake of rhyming. Since most poetry written today is free verse and generally incorporates limited use of rhyme, many people are under the false impression, if the verse does not rhyme, it is not poetry. Poetry does not require rhyme to be poetry. The following is an example of free verse without rhyme.
The Mouse
When the owl screeches and the wolf howls,
the mouse lies quietly in the field.
Is it the influence of the moon,
a demonstration of anger,
or celebration?
For the mouse cares not
the reason.
His destiny the same,
whether the owl or the wolf,
he fulfills their need.
Free Verse poetry is evolving as patriotic, humorous, about nature, prior experience, as serious or complex, it matters not the subject; any theme may be written as free verse. This is a very flexible style of poetry and why people of all nations, educational backgrounds, and experience enjoy writing free verse and why it is so popular. As an educational asset, take my advice; use free verse to write poetry that increases confidence and ability, changing young minds into sponges of creativity.
Mac McGovern writes poetry, ezine articles, and blogs, visit his personal website at: http://allpoetry.com/mac_mcgovern for more free verse poetry.
"No matter what you write, someone will love it."
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Take-My-Advice,-Write-Poetry-To-Increase-Confidence,-Creativity,-And-Ability&id=6577978] Take My Advice, Write Poetry To Increase Confidence, Creativity, And Ability
Poetry is one of those literary genres that instill a fear in students, particularly in the middle school arena. Metaphor, sonnet, acrostic, haiku, rhyme, prose, or free verse are examples of hundreds of poetry terms and forms. Confusing for a young impressionable mind to absorb, poetry is often a subject to avoid, and if unavoidable, often solicits a desire to cheat to succeed. Throughout the internet, are sites where students ask questions soliciting someone to explain or write them poetry to complete a homework assignment.
Poetry is not a written or spoken form to be feared, rather should be the educational tool that teaches reading, writing and the arts as no other single genre is capable.
Writing poetry ought to be fun allowing students to express their feelings, beliefs, and experiences without the restriction of initially teaching them to write and interpret forms of poetry that are difficult for most to understand and usually result in a lifelong hatred of the arts and poetry in particular.
Poetry is the absolute beauty of the human heart expressing emotion in a form that delights and leaves the reader with a feeling of contentment in one spectrum, and a feeling of remorse in another. No other form of writing has the ability and power to inspire the emotion created through poetry.
Teaching students to interject their thoughts and emotions in poetic verse earns enormous benefits which may be applied to virtually any subject. We do not normally think of poetry as a tool for understanding history, music, literature, art, or mathematics yet through poetry, learning may actually become fun.
Free Verse is the ideal form to use as the first poetic style to teach students. As they learn to express themselves and gain confidence, they may be introduced to the terms and other forms of poetry to increase their base of knowledge for future benefit.
What is Free Verse? It is a type of poetry that has no set pattern or style. Since there are no set rules for form, some may rhyme, use some rhyme or not rhyme at all. If rhyme is used, it is important to not stress the rhyme; do not rhyme for the sake of rhyming. Since most poetry written today is free verse and generally incorporates limited use of rhyme, many people are under the false impression, if the verse does not rhyme, it is not poetry. Poetry does not require rhyme to be poetry. The following is an example of free verse without rhyme.
The Mouse
When the owl screeches and the wolf howls,
the mouse lies quietly in the field.
Is it the influence of the moon,
a demonstration of anger,
or celebration?
For the mouse cares not
the reason.
His destiny the same,
whether the owl or the wolf,
he fulfills their need.
Free Verse poetry is evolving as patriotic, humorous, about nature, prior experience, as serious or complex, it matters not the subject; any theme may be written as free verse. This is a very flexible style of poetry and why people of all nations, educational backgrounds, and experience enjoy writing free verse and why it is so popular. As an educational asset, take my advice; use free verse to write poetry that increases confidence and ability, changing young minds into sponges of creativity.
Mac McGovern writes poetry, ezine articles, and blogs, visit his personal website at: http://allpoetry.com/mac_mcgovern for more free verse poetry.
"No matter what you write, someone will love it."
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Take-My-Advice,-Write-Poetry-To-Increase-Confidence,-Creativity,-And-Ability&id=6577978] Take My Advice, Write Poetry To Increase Confidence, Creativity, And Ability
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
A Conversation With God
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Steve_Wickham]Steve Wickham
A thoroughly awe-inspiring prospect in life is conversing with God, yet we hardly do it. Only when we dip to the bottom of the barrel do we often pray. How amazing it is that we can take God's hand at any time and enjoy a healing conversation.
Let's just imagine what the conversation with God might sound like:
***
Come with me on this trip, my child,
So you'll be free to see,
How I transform your problems to mild,
Happier you'll ever be.
I want to take you by the hand,
Just for a short excursion,
Visions of warm welcoming sand,
And seas of healing immersion.
I want to lead you by the heart,
To play among the field,
The fondness with which we can start,
Intimacy created and sealed.
I want to restore you deep in mind,
In order to communicate,
Many things in this world are kind,
With these I want you to relate.
I want to establish you deep in your soul,
In touch with your brightening relief,
Then it is you'll know your role,
Intrinsically part of belief.
Then you will come to understand,
Welcoming the means to an end,
Realising now I put faith in your hand,
Souls are mine to mend.
***
If ever we want the edge taken off our problems we go see God, spend some time, and spiritually things get better.
Using the imagination we go to a far away land in our minds - a calming beach scene or a beautifully furnished field. These images imply serenity and rest.
It's in these times that our investment in intimacy with God is richly blessed. We take our willingness to the Almighty and the Lord seals our wish.
God wants to restore the mindset of positivity. Of the many things of virtue perhaps we have polarised to those of vice. It is all too easy to forget the positive and only note the negative; there is, however, much kindness in the world. God wants us to relate with these.
Deeper even still God will take us, if we will allow, and suddenly revelation breaks through our awareness-our belief is buoyed.
Finally, the recognition of hope is felt deep in the conscious mind; our souls are God's to mend.
***
God wants to take us far away from the sharpness of our problems, and just a little obedient time with our Lord will restore us to the battle. Conversations with God are a universal need. It is in these that God heals our heads, hearts and souls. Then we are ready to launch into life.
� 2011 S. J. Wickham.
Steve Wickham is a Registered Safety Practitioner (BSc, FSIA, RSP[Australia]) and a qualified, unordained Christian minister (GradDipBib&Min). His blogs are at: [http://epitemnein-epitomic.blogspot.com/]http://epitemnein-epitomic.blogspot.com/ and http://inspiringbetterlife.blogspot.com/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?A-Conversation-With-God&id=6578576] A Conversation With God
A thoroughly awe-inspiring prospect in life is conversing with God, yet we hardly do it. Only when we dip to the bottom of the barrel do we often pray. How amazing it is that we can take God's hand at any time and enjoy a healing conversation.
Let's just imagine what the conversation with God might sound like:
***
Come with me on this trip, my child,
So you'll be free to see,
How I transform your problems to mild,
Happier you'll ever be.
I want to take you by the hand,
Just for a short excursion,
Visions of warm welcoming sand,
And seas of healing immersion.
I want to lead you by the heart,
To play among the field,
The fondness with which we can start,
Intimacy created and sealed.
I want to restore you deep in mind,
In order to communicate,
Many things in this world are kind,
With these I want you to relate.
I want to establish you deep in your soul,
In touch with your brightening relief,
Then it is you'll know your role,
Intrinsically part of belief.
Then you will come to understand,
Welcoming the means to an end,
Realising now I put faith in your hand,
Souls are mine to mend.
***
If ever we want the edge taken off our problems we go see God, spend some time, and spiritually things get better.
Using the imagination we go to a far away land in our minds - a calming beach scene or a beautifully furnished field. These images imply serenity and rest.
It's in these times that our investment in intimacy with God is richly blessed. We take our willingness to the Almighty and the Lord seals our wish.
God wants to restore the mindset of positivity. Of the many things of virtue perhaps we have polarised to those of vice. It is all too easy to forget the positive and only note the negative; there is, however, much kindness in the world. God wants us to relate with these.
Deeper even still God will take us, if we will allow, and suddenly revelation breaks through our awareness-our belief is buoyed.
Finally, the recognition of hope is felt deep in the conscious mind; our souls are God's to mend.
***
God wants to take us far away from the sharpness of our problems, and just a little obedient time with our Lord will restore us to the battle. Conversations with God are a universal need. It is in these that God heals our heads, hearts and souls. Then we are ready to launch into life.
� 2011 S. J. Wickham.
Steve Wickham is a Registered Safety Practitioner (BSc, FSIA, RSP[Australia]) and a qualified, unordained Christian minister (GradDipBib&Min). His blogs are at: [http://epitemnein-epitomic.blogspot.com/]http://epitemnein-epitomic.blogspot.com/ and http://inspiringbetterlife.blogspot.com/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?A-Conversation-With-God&id=6578576] A Conversation With God
Monday, December 5, 2011
No More Porcelain Cream
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Gerald_Marchewka]Gerald Marchewka
Of course she knows that vanity
is hardly an admirable trait
Afterall she never had any respect
for Dorian Gray
And sometimes it is just so hard to accept
But time will surely cut to the core,
furrowed lines and sagging jowls
bloated cheeks and plastered streaks
Certainly the facade has begun to crumble
Yet no wisdom seems to take its place
But how can she continue to be so shallow?
But maybe I have never suffered so much
And whether it is a conscious form of thought
or just an indelible torpid pain
It always seems to hang right there
A nagging insecurity
and a loss of self esteem
But was it ever a matter to be fancied
in the first place?
Because it has consistently failed to make her
anything that could even remotely be called human
A highly suspect air of superiority
has really begun to stink up this rotten joint
Youth will fade
and it is only on this that you can depend
So what will begin to fill this desolate void?
Emptiness hangs heavy in this rank musty room
A porcelain doll, a tempest in a tea shop
It is time to weather this god awful storm
You would think that she would take the high road
But a finely veiled cruelty darts like a highly poisonous snake
Of course it is a distraction
It is a way to avoid her tragic pain
Because humanity has never been her strong suit
Like a viper she will fight for anything that will feed her failing ego
And trampling on the downtrodden is just her only way
She always speaks like an aristocrat full of eminence and false pretense
But anyone can see right through it
But if you attempt to bring a light to her flat insipid character
you can be assured of a very violent response
She will go straight for the jugular vein
Because the means to feed her insatiable quest
has only become so much more difficult for her to obtain
You might call her a short-sighted junkie
And she has become disenchanted with her favorite mirror
Oh man! We wish we could help
But she rewards kindness with acrimony
And it is so difficult to be a dreadful donkey punch
Call it sadomasochism if you must
The need to belittle, to degrade and demean
are such a pathetic bag of tricks
But they only mask the great agony that she must be in
I certainly wish that an olive branch would help
But in the past such attempts at reconciliation
She has only chosen to turn away and spurn
Recognizing other alternatives is the only other option
But I am pessimistic dejected and dismayed
Wherever I look there appears to be no rational place
to which I can quickly turn
Gerald Marchewka is an American freelance writer currently living in Lviv, Ukraine. Gerald's most recent book, "Straight from the Heavens: Li Bai's Poetry in Retropect" featuring the Illustrations of Seb Fowler is now for sale on Lulu.com Questions abou Gerald's other projects may be referred to [mailto:geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com]geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?No-More-Porcelain-Cream&id=6567341] No More Porcelain Cream
Of course she knows that vanity
is hardly an admirable trait
Afterall she never had any respect
for Dorian Gray
And sometimes it is just so hard to accept
But time will surely cut to the core,
furrowed lines and sagging jowls
bloated cheeks and plastered streaks
Certainly the facade has begun to crumble
Yet no wisdom seems to take its place
But how can she continue to be so shallow?
But maybe I have never suffered so much
And whether it is a conscious form of thought
or just an indelible torpid pain
It always seems to hang right there
A nagging insecurity
and a loss of self esteem
But was it ever a matter to be fancied
in the first place?
Because it has consistently failed to make her
anything that could even remotely be called human
A highly suspect air of superiority
has really begun to stink up this rotten joint
Youth will fade
and it is only on this that you can depend
So what will begin to fill this desolate void?
Emptiness hangs heavy in this rank musty room
A porcelain doll, a tempest in a tea shop
It is time to weather this god awful storm
You would think that she would take the high road
But a finely veiled cruelty darts like a highly poisonous snake
Of course it is a distraction
It is a way to avoid her tragic pain
Because humanity has never been her strong suit
Like a viper she will fight for anything that will feed her failing ego
And trampling on the downtrodden is just her only way
She always speaks like an aristocrat full of eminence and false pretense
But anyone can see right through it
But if you attempt to bring a light to her flat insipid character
you can be assured of a very violent response
She will go straight for the jugular vein
Because the means to feed her insatiable quest
has only become so much more difficult for her to obtain
You might call her a short-sighted junkie
And she has become disenchanted with her favorite mirror
Oh man! We wish we could help
But she rewards kindness with acrimony
And it is so difficult to be a dreadful donkey punch
Call it sadomasochism if you must
The need to belittle, to degrade and demean
are such a pathetic bag of tricks
But they only mask the great agony that she must be in
I certainly wish that an olive branch would help
But in the past such attempts at reconciliation
She has only chosen to turn away and spurn
Recognizing other alternatives is the only other option
But I am pessimistic dejected and dismayed
Wherever I look there appears to be no rational place
to which I can quickly turn
Gerald Marchewka is an American freelance writer currently living in Lviv, Ukraine. Gerald's most recent book, "Straight from the Heavens: Li Bai's Poetry in Retropect" featuring the Illustrations of Seb Fowler is now for sale on Lulu.com Questions abou Gerald's other projects may be referred to [mailto:geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com]geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?No-More-Porcelain-Cream&id=6567341] No More Porcelain Cream
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Real Love for My Dark Sweet Lady
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Gerald_Marchewka]Gerald Marchewka
In the end it may be just too hard to understand
but you will certainly know
when it finally hits.
Thunder will strike and lightning will appear
but I would prefer to disparage the strength
and force of my adversaries first attack.
Yet it rings in my stomach and envelopes my throat
And my natural state of being
has been transformed into one of absolute selflessness
But this is the way it is
when my manacled perceptions are deftly opened
and my mind becomes an infinite gaffe
So let me look long into the cold gray well
to see what the future holds and crepuscular time
may soon sally forth
For I am courageous and warm
in the rigid confines of this small matted cavern
And as I look to her tender breasts,
I want to see how they mount and curve
A new day is upon me
A time for pleasure and endless play,
but it is much more than this
An infant nestled in the security of a cloth,
a velvet swath that caresses my skin
and brings sweet honey to my hungry emaciated mouth
So far be it
for you to intrude
I am in paradise and there is nothing more
that I shall want
The texture of her touch
flows like an ocean wave
It ripples in my mind as the thoughts ebb
in a full gale force eddy
Twisting and turning,
they lay hands upon my soul
They circle my obsessions and bring poetry to my mind
Words trickle as the sky becomes part of the ocean
And I am merely an empty mirage swimming in the tragic depths
of a horrid vacant wind
The darkness of her wave challenges
everything that I have always known
And the light will be allowed to overwhelm my heart
For I am in a vacuous sea
floating in a land with a beautiful ambience
The water supports my back as I dangle and unload the burden
that has yet to caress my rambunctious cankered feet
Yet it is the darkness that provides me with much comfort
Because I know that it is almost the end
So allow me to say goodnight to the daylight
For I know that it is a good time that's just about to come
The triumphs and tragedies of my life are almost clear
For in this wave I will travel
Until the morning glories stroke my recesses
and the daffodils will then appear
Free from logic and free from fear
the radiance is nowhere to be seen
And it is only your torrid taste and smell
that I have recently begun to hold quite dear
Gerald Marchewka is an American freelance writer currently living in Lviv, Ukraine. Gerald's most recent book, "Straight from the Heavens: Li Bai's Poetry in Retrospect" featuring the Illustrations of Seb Fowler is now for sale on Lulu.com Questions about Gerald's other projects may be referred to [mailto:geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com]geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Real-Love-for-My-Dark-Sweet-Lady&id=6568652] Real Love for My Dark Sweet Lady
In the end it may be just too hard to understand
but you will certainly know
when it finally hits.
Thunder will strike and lightning will appear
but I would prefer to disparage the strength
and force of my adversaries first attack.
Yet it rings in my stomach and envelopes my throat
And my natural state of being
has been transformed into one of absolute selflessness
But this is the way it is
when my manacled perceptions are deftly opened
and my mind becomes an infinite gaffe
So let me look long into the cold gray well
to see what the future holds and crepuscular time
may soon sally forth
For I am courageous and warm
in the rigid confines of this small matted cavern
And as I look to her tender breasts,
I want to see how they mount and curve
A new day is upon me
A time for pleasure and endless play,
but it is much more than this
An infant nestled in the security of a cloth,
a velvet swath that caresses my skin
and brings sweet honey to my hungry emaciated mouth
So far be it
for you to intrude
I am in paradise and there is nothing more
that I shall want
The texture of her touch
flows like an ocean wave
It ripples in my mind as the thoughts ebb
in a full gale force eddy
Twisting and turning,
they lay hands upon my soul
They circle my obsessions and bring poetry to my mind
Words trickle as the sky becomes part of the ocean
And I am merely an empty mirage swimming in the tragic depths
of a horrid vacant wind
The darkness of her wave challenges
everything that I have always known
And the light will be allowed to overwhelm my heart
For I am in a vacuous sea
floating in a land with a beautiful ambience
The water supports my back as I dangle and unload the burden
that has yet to caress my rambunctious cankered feet
Yet it is the darkness that provides me with much comfort
Because I know that it is almost the end
So allow me to say goodnight to the daylight
For I know that it is a good time that's just about to come
The triumphs and tragedies of my life are almost clear
For in this wave I will travel
Until the morning glories stroke my recesses
and the daffodils will then appear
Free from logic and free from fear
the radiance is nowhere to be seen
And it is only your torrid taste and smell
that I have recently begun to hold quite dear
Gerald Marchewka is an American freelance writer currently living in Lviv, Ukraine. Gerald's most recent book, "Straight from the Heavens: Li Bai's Poetry in Retrospect" featuring the Illustrations of Seb Fowler is now for sale on Lulu.com Questions about Gerald's other projects may be referred to [mailto:geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com]geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Real-Love-for-My-Dark-Sweet-Lady&id=6568652] Real Love for My Dark Sweet Lady
Thursday, December 1, 2011
The Most Powerful Words
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Ana_Gajic]Ana Gajic
People aren't the only ones who can sit, walk and run, there are many other species living under the Sun. These species can repeat almost every move we can make, although some of them blame their paws for not being able to easily take. If we can do the same as cats, dogs and birds, the real question is what makes us different from all these flocks and herds. The main difference between us lies in human ability to say words, to read books and name cats, dogs and birds.
We know foreign languages and a great number of letters; we have our words for pants, dresses and sweaters. We give titles, we call each other names, we describe our feelings, and we make the rules of our games. We like convincing each other and we like it when things are explained, but there really is no reason why we give our children the most unusual names. We like to talk about the things we truly believe in, and rare are the ones who never wanted to read news on the big screen. We talk about other people behind their backs, we tell our closest ones what makes us laugh. We have millions of words and to learn them we got our whole life, which is why most of us don't know how to call the handle of a knife.
We are unique in our ability to speak different languages, write paragraphs or pronounce abbreviations, but the fact is that all of us sometimes wished there was no communication. We are often better off without words, as we often misuse them and this can really hurt. Our problem is that we take words for granted, but what would happen if the words had to be rented. If you would have to earn or pay for your every word, people would not have a problem with not being heard, misinterpreted or misunderstood. This would leave people time to think before they actually speak, which would make every conversation they have rich, interesting and unique.
We have a habit to say the words we don't really mean, we like to talk about everything we have ever seen. In spite of the fact that we often don't know anything about science, we give our theories just to avoid silence. However, it seems as though we tend to forget what we really want - someone to share our feelings and thoughts with, but without a talk. Why not say only the words you truly want to say, even if this means you will talk most of your day.
After you find rhyme in these articles, they will be far more interesting to read.
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?The-Most-Powerful-Words&id=6582787] The Most Powerful Words
People aren't the only ones who can sit, walk and run, there are many other species living under the Sun. These species can repeat almost every move we can make, although some of them blame their paws for not being able to easily take. If we can do the same as cats, dogs and birds, the real question is what makes us different from all these flocks and herds. The main difference between us lies in human ability to say words, to read books and name cats, dogs and birds.
We know foreign languages and a great number of letters; we have our words for pants, dresses and sweaters. We give titles, we call each other names, we describe our feelings, and we make the rules of our games. We like convincing each other and we like it when things are explained, but there really is no reason why we give our children the most unusual names. We like to talk about the things we truly believe in, and rare are the ones who never wanted to read news on the big screen. We talk about other people behind their backs, we tell our closest ones what makes us laugh. We have millions of words and to learn them we got our whole life, which is why most of us don't know how to call the handle of a knife.
We are unique in our ability to speak different languages, write paragraphs or pronounce abbreviations, but the fact is that all of us sometimes wished there was no communication. We are often better off without words, as we often misuse them and this can really hurt. Our problem is that we take words for granted, but what would happen if the words had to be rented. If you would have to earn or pay for your every word, people would not have a problem with not being heard, misinterpreted or misunderstood. This would leave people time to think before they actually speak, which would make every conversation they have rich, interesting and unique.
We have a habit to say the words we don't really mean, we like to talk about everything we have ever seen. In spite of the fact that we often don't know anything about science, we give our theories just to avoid silence. However, it seems as though we tend to forget what we really want - someone to share our feelings and thoughts with, but without a talk. Why not say only the words you truly want to say, even if this means you will talk most of your day.
After you find rhyme in these articles, they will be far more interesting to read.
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?The-Most-Powerful-Words&id=6582787] The Most Powerful Words
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
A Baby or an Adult - You're Bluffing
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Ana_Gajic]Ana Gajic
Right after they are born babies start to cry, but they also start smiling after a while. Most babies, if not all of them have the same first words - mom and dad, but this is probably because these are the people they see every day above their bed. In addition to this, these two words are very easy to learn how to say, and maybe this is why parents aren't called a chopstick and a fiance. We learn new things from the moment we first open our eyes, and the younger we are the more we think of the world as one big surprise.
Making your first steps, singing, walking, talking and running the fastest you can, all of these simply perfect things are what defines any man. There are, however, two things that describe us better than any other characteristic we might possess - we need knowledge and other people in order to make progress. People need other people so as to feel complete, as they also need someone to share their knowledge with. We need to know why it snows, define things that are edible and discover why elephants are afraid of mice; we need to discover new planets, design new clothes and explain how water turns into ice.
We have a definition for every word that exists, and it would be impossible to count all the items from this list. So, we start learning about the world that surrounds us, we learn about love, nature, sorrow, joy, punctuation - we learn, we seek, we crave and even start to make up new information. The problem today is that people act as if they have found out everything there is to know, but they fail to open their doors when these are covered with snow.
Therefore, another adjective must be added to the description of a man just to make things interesting enough - it is in our nature to bluff. We put our serious faces on and nod at things we know nothing about, just to be taken seriously and be nothing less than smart. Even if you don't feel like bluffing you have to play the game, as everyone around you is doing exactly the same. It seems as though it has become meaningless to ask a question, when you can pretend you know it all and hope that the things you don't know won't be mentioned. We are all amazed with how come there is so much wrongful information, but we forget that we have replaced knowledge with bluffing and rather odd gesticulation.
Look at the babies, they feel alone so they start crying as if they were sad, but they stop crying as soon as you take them into your hands. At the risk of sounding tough - that is nothing but a little baby bluff.
After you find rhyme in these articles, they will be far more interesting to read.
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?A-Baby-or-an-Adult---Youre-Bluffing&id=6584061] A Baby or an Adult - You're Bluffing
Right after they are born babies start to cry, but they also start smiling after a while. Most babies, if not all of them have the same first words - mom and dad, but this is probably because these are the people they see every day above their bed. In addition to this, these two words are very easy to learn how to say, and maybe this is why parents aren't called a chopstick and a fiance. We learn new things from the moment we first open our eyes, and the younger we are the more we think of the world as one big surprise.
Making your first steps, singing, walking, talking and running the fastest you can, all of these simply perfect things are what defines any man. There are, however, two things that describe us better than any other characteristic we might possess - we need knowledge and other people in order to make progress. People need other people so as to feel complete, as they also need someone to share their knowledge with. We need to know why it snows, define things that are edible and discover why elephants are afraid of mice; we need to discover new planets, design new clothes and explain how water turns into ice.
We have a definition for every word that exists, and it would be impossible to count all the items from this list. So, we start learning about the world that surrounds us, we learn about love, nature, sorrow, joy, punctuation - we learn, we seek, we crave and even start to make up new information. The problem today is that people act as if they have found out everything there is to know, but they fail to open their doors when these are covered with snow.
Therefore, another adjective must be added to the description of a man just to make things interesting enough - it is in our nature to bluff. We put our serious faces on and nod at things we know nothing about, just to be taken seriously and be nothing less than smart. Even if you don't feel like bluffing you have to play the game, as everyone around you is doing exactly the same. It seems as though it has become meaningless to ask a question, when you can pretend you know it all and hope that the things you don't know won't be mentioned. We are all amazed with how come there is so much wrongful information, but we forget that we have replaced knowledge with bluffing and rather odd gesticulation.
Look at the babies, they feel alone so they start crying as if they were sad, but they stop crying as soon as you take them into your hands. At the risk of sounding tough - that is nothing but a little baby bluff.
After you find rhyme in these articles, they will be far more interesting to read.
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?A-Baby-or-an-Adult---Youre-Bluffing&id=6584061] A Baby or an Adult - You're Bluffing
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Forget Esoteric: How to Get Your Poetry Out of the Closet and Into a Book
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Maggie_Ball]Maggie Ball
Poetry is an esoteric art isn't it? There's no point in getting caught up in base things like publishing or pandering to an audience - it's only the work that matters, right? Wrong. Writing superbly crafted works of art full of rhythm and insight is a magnificent thing to do for oneself, but if these works aren't shared with others, they will disappear into the vacuum of certain death without trace. Of course there is always the chance that, like Emily Dickenson, your masterpieces will be discovered post-mortem. The chance is higher however, that this work won't have reached its potential, since it won't have gone through the stringency of refining, grouping, and structuring that publication involves, not to mention the opportunity of working with a professional editor. The poet has a responsibility not only to his or her art, but to the world, to publish, and to have publication as an end goal for the work.
That's easy to say, but how do you get your poetry published as a collection? Speaking from personal experience, getting a chapbook or full length poetry book published isn't easy, but it isn't actually that hard either. Small collections like chapbooks are cheap, and relatively easy to sell, and there are many quite a few publishers that specialise in poetry. There are a few tricks though.
Group your work into a common theme. One of the key ways to get a collection published is to work within an overall unifying theme. This doesn't necessarily mean you have to write to a theme at first. But you might find yourself attracted to a specific area which will ultimately form your framework. For me, I found myself increasingly drawn to Cosmology, and a number of my poems were pivoting around that. I did some work with a writing coach who convinced me to produce a full collection, and together we set a goal of two poems a week. I began to read journals like New Scientist and whenever something caught my eye, I would use that as the basis for a poem. That's the way Quark Soup took shape and it was surprisingly quick.
Find a publisher who is looking for work on a theme and write to it. If you don't seem to be naturally gravitating towards a theme, look for one. What hobbies do you have? When I saw a publisher calling for sports poetry, I wrote a few poems about swimming, and then sent them a query with those poems, asking if they would be interested in a book of interviews with professional sportspeople, with an original poem for each included sport. It's a concept that with a low time investment initially that could work for any publisher, on any topic. Just find a call for submissions on a specific concept and build a query or series of poems around that. Another publisher friendly theme is to write about where you live, and submit the work to a local publisher. There are tons of poems about Paris and New York, but what about Morebath or Poughkeepsie? You're sure to find something historically interesting, and the local council and library might buy up your first print. Periods in history are also good. Karen Knight's Under the One Granite Roof is a terrific collection of poems built on Whitman's Civil War Years. Pick a period in your own history and write a series of poems around that topic. The possibilities are limitless, and it's much easier to let your creative flow rip when you've got a theme to work to. Finding a publisher is also easier, as the market for your work will be ready made.
Get Out There. Or get your work out there. Go to poetry slams; read your work, talk about your work, network. One of the nice things about publishing poetry is that pre-published poems are more likely to be accepted in a collection than poems that haven't been published, so you can submit each poem immediately when you finish writing it, even as you are pulling poems together into a collection. You get double benefit for your work, and increase your odds of getting a collection published every time you publish a poem. Publishers are much more likely to take on your book if they recognise your name, so make sure your name is familiar by making it familiar!
Create a Market Database. Research the different poetry publishers and create a database of those that are likely to be right for your work. Build your manuscript and once it's ready, follow the guidelines and submit your queries. Does this sound basic? It is! Local Writer's Market yearbooks are excellent sources of publishers and guidelines as is the Internet - just do a Google search on poetry publishers (and watch out for the sharks-never pay to have your work read or published and be especially careful about anthologies). Think small. Most legitimate poetry publishers are small and don't offer advances, but on the upside, small houses tend to provide more individual editorial attention. Having your poetry edited is well worth the trouble of seeking publication- it will make you a better writer. There also isn't the time pressure that you get with a large house. You can expect to continue selling your book for years, rather than months, and since most small publishers use POD (print on demand) technology, you don't have to fear being "pulped".
That's all there is to it. Don't let a fear of failure stop you. The only way to publish a collection of poetry is to set a goal and work towards it, at whatever pace your schedule allows. Poetry is particularly suited to this method, as it doesn't take that long to write a single poem and the satisfaction of completion comes regularly as you're building the collection. Good luck!
Magdalena Ball runs The Compulsive Reader and is the author of Repulsion Thrust, Sleep Before Evening and many other books. Visit her at http://www.magdalenaball.com/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Forget-Esoteric:-How-to-Get-Your-Poetry-Out-of-the-Closet-and-Into-a-Book&id=6590282] Forget Esoteric: How to Get Your Poetry Out of the Closet and Into a Book
Poetry is an esoteric art isn't it? There's no point in getting caught up in base things like publishing or pandering to an audience - it's only the work that matters, right? Wrong. Writing superbly crafted works of art full of rhythm and insight is a magnificent thing to do for oneself, but if these works aren't shared with others, they will disappear into the vacuum of certain death without trace. Of course there is always the chance that, like Emily Dickenson, your masterpieces will be discovered post-mortem. The chance is higher however, that this work won't have reached its potential, since it won't have gone through the stringency of refining, grouping, and structuring that publication involves, not to mention the opportunity of working with a professional editor. The poet has a responsibility not only to his or her art, but to the world, to publish, and to have publication as an end goal for the work.
That's easy to say, but how do you get your poetry published as a collection? Speaking from personal experience, getting a chapbook or full length poetry book published isn't easy, but it isn't actually that hard either. Small collections like chapbooks are cheap, and relatively easy to sell, and there are many quite a few publishers that specialise in poetry. There are a few tricks though.
Group your work into a common theme. One of the key ways to get a collection published is to work within an overall unifying theme. This doesn't necessarily mean you have to write to a theme at first. But you might find yourself attracted to a specific area which will ultimately form your framework. For me, I found myself increasingly drawn to Cosmology, and a number of my poems were pivoting around that. I did some work with a writing coach who convinced me to produce a full collection, and together we set a goal of two poems a week. I began to read journals like New Scientist and whenever something caught my eye, I would use that as the basis for a poem. That's the way Quark Soup took shape and it was surprisingly quick.
Find a publisher who is looking for work on a theme and write to it. If you don't seem to be naturally gravitating towards a theme, look for one. What hobbies do you have? When I saw a publisher calling for sports poetry, I wrote a few poems about swimming, and then sent them a query with those poems, asking if they would be interested in a book of interviews with professional sportspeople, with an original poem for each included sport. It's a concept that with a low time investment initially that could work for any publisher, on any topic. Just find a call for submissions on a specific concept and build a query or series of poems around that. Another publisher friendly theme is to write about where you live, and submit the work to a local publisher. There are tons of poems about Paris and New York, but what about Morebath or Poughkeepsie? You're sure to find something historically interesting, and the local council and library might buy up your first print. Periods in history are also good. Karen Knight's Under the One Granite Roof is a terrific collection of poems built on Whitman's Civil War Years. Pick a period in your own history and write a series of poems around that topic. The possibilities are limitless, and it's much easier to let your creative flow rip when you've got a theme to work to. Finding a publisher is also easier, as the market for your work will be ready made.
Get Out There. Or get your work out there. Go to poetry slams; read your work, talk about your work, network. One of the nice things about publishing poetry is that pre-published poems are more likely to be accepted in a collection than poems that haven't been published, so you can submit each poem immediately when you finish writing it, even as you are pulling poems together into a collection. You get double benefit for your work, and increase your odds of getting a collection published every time you publish a poem. Publishers are much more likely to take on your book if they recognise your name, so make sure your name is familiar by making it familiar!
Create a Market Database. Research the different poetry publishers and create a database of those that are likely to be right for your work. Build your manuscript and once it's ready, follow the guidelines and submit your queries. Does this sound basic? It is! Local Writer's Market yearbooks are excellent sources of publishers and guidelines as is the Internet - just do a Google search on poetry publishers (and watch out for the sharks-never pay to have your work read or published and be especially careful about anthologies). Think small. Most legitimate poetry publishers are small and don't offer advances, but on the upside, small houses tend to provide more individual editorial attention. Having your poetry edited is well worth the trouble of seeking publication- it will make you a better writer. There also isn't the time pressure that you get with a large house. You can expect to continue selling your book for years, rather than months, and since most small publishers use POD (print on demand) technology, you don't have to fear being "pulped".
That's all there is to it. Don't let a fear of failure stop you. The only way to publish a collection of poetry is to set a goal and work towards it, at whatever pace your schedule allows. Poetry is particularly suited to this method, as it doesn't take that long to write a single poem and the satisfaction of completion comes regularly as you're building the collection. Good luck!
Magdalena Ball runs The Compulsive Reader and is the author of Repulsion Thrust, Sleep Before Evening and many other books. Visit her at http://www.magdalenaball.com/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Forget-Esoteric:-How-to-Get-Your-Poetry-Out-of-the-Closet-and-Into-a-Book&id=6590282] Forget Esoteric: How to Get Your Poetry Out of the Closet and Into a Book
Friday, November 25, 2011
An Interchanging Poetry Expression Of Haiku In The Past, Present, And Future
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Mac_McGovern]Mac McGovern
Haiku is both a type of poetic pattern and a way of experiencing the world. This short, 17-syllable form, usually written in three lines with a 5-7-5 syllable count, focuses our attention on a single, insightful moment. (1)
Nature is the most popular theme of Haiku lovers and many believe it describes the purest form intended for writing Haiku. I believe Haiku is the reflection of what I see at a particular time related to any theme or subject. I write Haiku because it is simple yet complex in its ability to describe the past, present and future. Haiku is my way of expressing in 17 simple syllables what my mind's eye describes as the event occurring in the moment.
As the past, how does Haiku relate to history? From the days of slavery to the present Haiku reminds prejudice in today's world is thriving; allowing that:
Hate Survives.
Prejudice learned
now encapsulates willing souls
only hate survives
When I wrote this Haiku, my thoughts were specific to how prejudice is taught to young impressionable minds willing to accept the teaching. They are willing because the teaching comes from those they trust the most, their family members. Once learned, the hate of prejudice remains the fuel spreading its influence generation to generation until it is the only emotion that survives.
In the present, the educational requirements in our primary and secondary school systems change daily. The controlling factions for educational development are more politically orientated toward curriculum that satisfy psychological and sexual orientation leaving little time for courses related to the arts, science, and in particular:
Basic Skills.
basic skills decline
educational collapse
society fails
We see the lack of basic skill everyday on the internet, texting, general communication, reading and writing. The decline in basic skill is devastating resulting in what is being referred to as "the dumbing down of America." This Haiku demonstrates the critical relationship between basic skill, education and society as a whole.
In the future, as an American, I am torn between the right for someone to burn our flag and my personal belief the burning is more than just a protest, but is a much deeper problem that is not considered. I am convinced, we should remember the relationship between freedom and our...
American Flags.
American flags,
the right to destroy is yours;
as is your freedom
Throughout our history, the flag has been the symbol under which freedom is proclaimed. Burning the flag may be a right, but is it a right we want to exercise? I wonder, with a flippant attitude toward allowing the desecration of our most cherished symbol of freedom, what is the prognosis of freedom for future generations?
As we progress through life, we live our experiences through actions and deeds of histories past, our present related through books, our educational opportunities, and genealogy and our future a reflection of what we reserve moving forward.
Based on these experiences, and the beauty of diversity of experience, we receive the gift of all existence written as Haiku.
(1) Haiku History: rel=nofollow http://www.cranberrydesigns.com/poetry/haiku/history.htm
Mac McGovern writes poetry, ezine articles, and blogs, visit his personal website at: http://allpoetry.com/mac_mcgovern for more Haiku Poetry.
"No matter what you write, someone will love it."
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?An-Interchanging-Poetry-Expression-Of-Haiku-In-The-Past,-Present,-And-Future&id=6598074] An Interchanging Poetry Expression Of Haiku In The Past, Present, And Future
Haiku is both a type of poetic pattern and a way of experiencing the world. This short, 17-syllable form, usually written in three lines with a 5-7-5 syllable count, focuses our attention on a single, insightful moment. (1)
Nature is the most popular theme of Haiku lovers and many believe it describes the purest form intended for writing Haiku. I believe Haiku is the reflection of what I see at a particular time related to any theme or subject. I write Haiku because it is simple yet complex in its ability to describe the past, present and future. Haiku is my way of expressing in 17 simple syllables what my mind's eye describes as the event occurring in the moment.
As the past, how does Haiku relate to history? From the days of slavery to the present Haiku reminds prejudice in today's world is thriving; allowing that:
Hate Survives.
Prejudice learned
now encapsulates willing souls
only hate survives
When I wrote this Haiku, my thoughts were specific to how prejudice is taught to young impressionable minds willing to accept the teaching. They are willing because the teaching comes from those they trust the most, their family members. Once learned, the hate of prejudice remains the fuel spreading its influence generation to generation until it is the only emotion that survives.
In the present, the educational requirements in our primary and secondary school systems change daily. The controlling factions for educational development are more politically orientated toward curriculum that satisfy psychological and sexual orientation leaving little time for courses related to the arts, science, and in particular:
Basic Skills.
basic skills decline
educational collapse
society fails
We see the lack of basic skill everyday on the internet, texting, general communication, reading and writing. The decline in basic skill is devastating resulting in what is being referred to as "the dumbing down of America." This Haiku demonstrates the critical relationship between basic skill, education and society as a whole.
In the future, as an American, I am torn between the right for someone to burn our flag and my personal belief the burning is more than just a protest, but is a much deeper problem that is not considered. I am convinced, we should remember the relationship between freedom and our...
American Flags.
American flags,
the right to destroy is yours;
as is your freedom
Throughout our history, the flag has been the symbol under which freedom is proclaimed. Burning the flag may be a right, but is it a right we want to exercise? I wonder, with a flippant attitude toward allowing the desecration of our most cherished symbol of freedom, what is the prognosis of freedom for future generations?
As we progress through life, we live our experiences through actions and deeds of histories past, our present related through books, our educational opportunities, and genealogy and our future a reflection of what we reserve moving forward.
Based on these experiences, and the beauty of diversity of experience, we receive the gift of all existence written as Haiku.
(1) Haiku History: rel=nofollow http://www.cranberrydesigns.com/poetry/haiku/history.htm
Mac McGovern writes poetry, ezine articles, and blogs, visit his personal website at: http://allpoetry.com/mac_mcgovern for more Haiku Poetry.
"No matter what you write, someone will love it."
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?An-Interchanging-Poetry-Expression-Of-Haiku-In-The-Past,-Present,-And-Future&id=6598074] An Interchanging Poetry Expression Of Haiku In The Past, Present, And Future
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
The Resourceful Africa
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Fred_Ogilo]Fred Ogilo
Mama Africa
This land is warm and fine,
It is the best to be in all the time,
An ideal home when you need a rest,
The breeze is fresh and cool.
Wake and look to the east,
See the golden look of nature,
The rising sun in sight,
Presents a brand new day of light,
Like a call,
A call from mama Africa,
For peaceful wake in time,
Of her loving children to toil,
and better her beautiful environs,
to protect and preserve her nature,
with unrelenting efforts of work,
blended with spirit to achieve,
Thanks for being mama.
A word from emotion and pain
Far in the past your children were enslaved,
Ripped from the land and shipped away,
Irresponsibly treated but we survived,
Cared for all and inspired to carry on mama,
A natural treasure and a rich resource mama.
Natural wonders stays here within,
A home to wild life,
Adored by the world,
The land of gold and green,
Africa is so fresh and clean,
And everyday there is a bright light,
This place is so cool and nice,
make visit and feel it in your heart.
One must forget but we cant forget to give thanks to Creator,
everyday we walk with our faces shining bright,
waving the flag of our homeland to unite,
and carry higher the pride we have.
In my homeland am feeling so a live,
Her hubs from trees,
The curative solution to my health,
Her siblings are strong and beautiful,
skin is so dark and brown,
that you cant pass without another glance,
Hospitable and welcoming,
Mama Africa has so much to offer.
A blessed land of good morals,
Guarded by strong religions and beliefs,
Mama Africa,
your children are humble and loyal,
treated and cleansed with your traditional ways.
From a distance
I hear a call from many nations,
A call of peace,
A call of unity,
A call of oneness.
Here at home there is peace,
A peace of unity and leisure,
where nature is at its stake,
fresh and left at its original state,
Providing home to many.
Many wildlife that Africa feeds,
Feeds freely with her plenty resources.
Mama Africa,
The best world store of natural resources
Think of Africa, think of dense forest,
And colorful costumes,
A continent of cultural vibrant,
Inhabited by communities under customary law,
Presided over by age old wisdom.
Dear Mama,
Thanks for your provisions,
Your children rely on your natural resources,
for livelihood,
We've developed a unique insight into nature's law.
Dear Africa your accommodation,
is overwhelming with unique love.
I am an ambitious and resourceful Kenyan, laid back and sociable. I have great passion for hospitality and human resource in general. i have critical and important information about Kenya and Tanzania and ready to help friends and travelers from all over the world especially those who would like to visit Kenya and Tanzania parks and game reserves.
Currently I work with Adventure Panorama Safaris, a reliable and affordable Kenya and Tanzania tour company with offices in both Nairobi and Arusha.
For more information, see this: http://www.adventurepanoramasafaris.com/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?The-Resourceful-Africa&id=6596626] The Resourceful Africa
Mama Africa
This land is warm and fine,
It is the best to be in all the time,
An ideal home when you need a rest,
The breeze is fresh and cool.
Wake and look to the east,
See the golden look of nature,
The rising sun in sight,
Presents a brand new day of light,
Like a call,
A call from mama Africa,
For peaceful wake in time,
Of her loving children to toil,
and better her beautiful environs,
to protect and preserve her nature,
with unrelenting efforts of work,
blended with spirit to achieve,
Thanks for being mama.
A word from emotion and pain
Far in the past your children were enslaved,
Ripped from the land and shipped away,
Irresponsibly treated but we survived,
Cared for all and inspired to carry on mama,
A natural treasure and a rich resource mama.
Natural wonders stays here within,
A home to wild life,
Adored by the world,
The land of gold and green,
Africa is so fresh and clean,
And everyday there is a bright light,
This place is so cool and nice,
make visit and feel it in your heart.
One must forget but we cant forget to give thanks to Creator,
everyday we walk with our faces shining bright,
waving the flag of our homeland to unite,
and carry higher the pride we have.
In my homeland am feeling so a live,
Her hubs from trees,
The curative solution to my health,
Her siblings are strong and beautiful,
skin is so dark and brown,
that you cant pass without another glance,
Hospitable and welcoming,
Mama Africa has so much to offer.
A blessed land of good morals,
Guarded by strong religions and beliefs,
Mama Africa,
your children are humble and loyal,
treated and cleansed with your traditional ways.
From a distance
I hear a call from many nations,
A call of peace,
A call of unity,
A call of oneness.
Here at home there is peace,
A peace of unity and leisure,
where nature is at its stake,
fresh and left at its original state,
Providing home to many.
Many wildlife that Africa feeds,
Feeds freely with her plenty resources.
Mama Africa,
The best world store of natural resources
Think of Africa, think of dense forest,
And colorful costumes,
A continent of cultural vibrant,
Inhabited by communities under customary law,
Presided over by age old wisdom.
Dear Mama,
Thanks for your provisions,
Your children rely on your natural resources,
for livelihood,
We've developed a unique insight into nature's law.
Dear Africa your accommodation,
is overwhelming with unique love.
I am an ambitious and resourceful Kenyan, laid back and sociable. I have great passion for hospitality and human resource in general. i have critical and important information about Kenya and Tanzania and ready to help friends and travelers from all over the world especially those who would like to visit Kenya and Tanzania parks and game reserves.
Currently I work with Adventure Panorama Safaris, a reliable and affordable Kenya and Tanzania tour company with offices in both Nairobi and Arusha.
For more information, see this: http://www.adventurepanoramasafaris.com/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?The-Resourceful-Africa&id=6596626] The Resourceful Africa
Monday, November 21, 2011
Interchanging Poetry of Memory Recall Related to Undocumented History
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Mac_McGovern]Mac McGovern
The inability to recall from memory the act of being born is similar to what we are often unable to recall or begin to recall with less detail as we age. I believe the lack of recall is a protective mechanism of how the brain preserves itself against the two largest indubitable realities of life...birth and death. We have no way of knowing, but maybe the young mind and the very old mind are genetically programmed against recall.
Recall
I remember
every moment
I spent in the womb
and
being born;
I just cannot recall it.
From about three years of age we remember our accomplishments, the highs, lows, and defeats with vivid detail. Most of us will continue to recall memories until we finally achieve the status of elderly. As aging continues, we may experience difficulty with memory recall. We may reprioritize the importance of accomplishments or interest may decline causing our opinion about accomplishment to change.
Accomplishment
Accomplishment dictates,
there are winners,
and,
there are not winners;
in accomplishment,
there are no losers.
There are memories that become more vivid with age. We may not be able to recall what we had for breakfast, we can remember every moment of significant events that had long term consequences such as events in our children's lives, loss of family members and friends, or in too many cases war; of course, there are many others. These are the memories that must be documented for future generations. This is the stuff that defines a life, and is most frequently lost because of ignorance of its importance, or simply failure to listen and document their fleeting thoughts and forgotten memories.
Fleeting Thoughts
We write our thoughts not to forget,
but,
to record a moment of fleeting thought
shared from memory,
then gone forever.
Thoughts converted to memories as age surges
toward twilight;
expressed as vivid reenactments of history
and genealogy.
To let memory pass into obscurity
decry the sadness that exists
in the mind of man.
We write our thoughts,
not to forget,
but to record,
to learn what the mind is teaching as
fleeting thoughts flow through the mind,
soon lost forever.
Forgotten Memories
retain history
those forgotten memories
grown vivid with age
Of all things we experience or must experience in life, death is the most dreaded and feared. The fact that none of us will survive life does not lessen its impact. We question death as no other topic. Is there a continuation of life or only darkness of which there will never be memory? If I do not believe in a God, is there only darkness or is there eternal suffering in Hell? If God is merciful, even if I do not believe, will I be able to gain entrance into Heaven? The questions are never-ending; the only question we can answer about death, it will come to each of us in its own good time.
Yet leading to our last days, are ironies, waiting, aging, and memories.
Irony
More will attend your wedding,
than,
will attend your funeral.
Waiting
waiting for my time
until then,
I will enjoy
life with my children
Aging
As I age, memory fades.
As time passes,
I remember less
what was perceived.
I look into the mirror
several times a day
to remember.
Soon,
all passes into obscurity.
Memories
every generations memory,
of the way it used to be
fond memories of the past,
memories that never last
stored away in the mind,
triggered late in life,
one last time
every generation the same,
childhood experiences abound
forgotten for awhile,
later will be found,
as life ebbs,
a smile of contentment presides,
as memories flood into the light,
eyes close gently one last time,
as life ends,
new life begins
Finally comes the moment none of us looks forward to experiencing, our Death.
Never Again
The dead breathe not
the sweet taste of night air.
Silence betrays their presence
with the stagnant scent of decay.
In the cool evening,
heat no longer emanates
from the furnace,
that once was fueled
by the constant stream
of aerosolized gases,
exchanged with each respiration.
Coins no longer cover eyes
as payment for the boat keeper.
The dead lie enveloped
in silk lined enclosures
with silver tassels.
They breathe not the sweet taste
of night air again.
Forgotten
In death, a journey comes to an end.
Death's journey through life ends with
a gathering of family and friends
who reflect and comfort each,
saddened by the life lost to them.
The defining moment of worth on display,
no longer able to express emotion,
a waxen replica of what was.
Those who now pass reminisce
then weep the tears of loss;
laugh as they remember great times.
So many memories buried,
now surface for a time,
again will be buried in the same manner.
Mourned for a time,
memories fade with each generation,
until, no memory remains.
A journey has come to an end.
A piece of history lost again.
Memory and the ability to recall diminish as time passes; we take for granted the lives we live. The most fortunate are those who take time to document the history of their family members. As of May 2011, there were 2,079,000 of our warriors from WWII, dying at a rate of about 1,000 per day. Those remaining, not only from WWII, but from Korea, Vietnam, and all conflicts in which we have been involved have memories begging to be documented.
Memories are the legacy of those who were famous for the actions and deeds that defined their lives, including those we have been fortunate to know and love. Through the documentation of their experiences, their legacy is protected and passed generation to generation.
No matter what we forget, let us not forget our history departing on a new journey every day. When life ends, history is lost forever. This article is based on my experience with the elderly within my family group. For most, we did not document their experiences and those are now lost to us. It is sad to know within 50 years, there will be no one who will remember their name much less their life accomplishments. If we had written memories of their lives, it would be treasured and eventually become the story of generations of family members to be cherished as a part of history.
Mac McGovern writes poetry, ezine articles, and blogs, visit his personal website at: http://allpoetry.com/mac_mcgovern for more Interchanging Poetry.
"No matter what you write, someone will love it."
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Interchanging-Poetry-of-Memory-Recall-Related-to-Undocumented-History&id=6605861] Interchanging Poetry of Memory Recall Related to Undocumented History
The inability to recall from memory the act of being born is similar to what we are often unable to recall or begin to recall with less detail as we age. I believe the lack of recall is a protective mechanism of how the brain preserves itself against the two largest indubitable realities of life...birth and death. We have no way of knowing, but maybe the young mind and the very old mind are genetically programmed against recall.
Recall
I remember
every moment
I spent in the womb
and
being born;
I just cannot recall it.
From about three years of age we remember our accomplishments, the highs, lows, and defeats with vivid detail. Most of us will continue to recall memories until we finally achieve the status of elderly. As aging continues, we may experience difficulty with memory recall. We may reprioritize the importance of accomplishments or interest may decline causing our opinion about accomplishment to change.
Accomplishment
Accomplishment dictates,
there are winners,
and,
there are not winners;
in accomplishment,
there are no losers.
There are memories that become more vivid with age. We may not be able to recall what we had for breakfast, we can remember every moment of significant events that had long term consequences such as events in our children's lives, loss of family members and friends, or in too many cases war; of course, there are many others. These are the memories that must be documented for future generations. This is the stuff that defines a life, and is most frequently lost because of ignorance of its importance, or simply failure to listen and document their fleeting thoughts and forgotten memories.
Fleeting Thoughts
We write our thoughts not to forget,
but,
to record a moment of fleeting thought
shared from memory,
then gone forever.
Thoughts converted to memories as age surges
toward twilight;
expressed as vivid reenactments of history
and genealogy.
To let memory pass into obscurity
decry the sadness that exists
in the mind of man.
We write our thoughts,
not to forget,
but to record,
to learn what the mind is teaching as
fleeting thoughts flow through the mind,
soon lost forever.
Forgotten Memories
retain history
those forgotten memories
grown vivid with age
Of all things we experience or must experience in life, death is the most dreaded and feared. The fact that none of us will survive life does not lessen its impact. We question death as no other topic. Is there a continuation of life or only darkness of which there will never be memory? If I do not believe in a God, is there only darkness or is there eternal suffering in Hell? If God is merciful, even if I do not believe, will I be able to gain entrance into Heaven? The questions are never-ending; the only question we can answer about death, it will come to each of us in its own good time.
Yet leading to our last days, are ironies, waiting, aging, and memories.
Irony
More will attend your wedding,
than,
will attend your funeral.
Waiting
waiting for my time
until then,
I will enjoy
life with my children
Aging
As I age, memory fades.
As time passes,
I remember less
what was perceived.
I look into the mirror
several times a day
to remember.
Soon,
all passes into obscurity.
Memories
every generations memory,
of the way it used to be
fond memories of the past,
memories that never last
stored away in the mind,
triggered late in life,
one last time
every generation the same,
childhood experiences abound
forgotten for awhile,
later will be found,
as life ebbs,
a smile of contentment presides,
as memories flood into the light,
eyes close gently one last time,
as life ends,
new life begins
Finally comes the moment none of us looks forward to experiencing, our Death.
Never Again
The dead breathe not
the sweet taste of night air.
Silence betrays their presence
with the stagnant scent of decay.
In the cool evening,
heat no longer emanates
from the furnace,
that once was fueled
by the constant stream
of aerosolized gases,
exchanged with each respiration.
Coins no longer cover eyes
as payment for the boat keeper.
The dead lie enveloped
in silk lined enclosures
with silver tassels.
They breathe not the sweet taste
of night air again.
Forgotten
In death, a journey comes to an end.
Death's journey through life ends with
a gathering of family and friends
who reflect and comfort each,
saddened by the life lost to them.
The defining moment of worth on display,
no longer able to express emotion,
a waxen replica of what was.
Those who now pass reminisce
then weep the tears of loss;
laugh as they remember great times.
So many memories buried,
now surface for a time,
again will be buried in the same manner.
Mourned for a time,
memories fade with each generation,
until, no memory remains.
A journey has come to an end.
A piece of history lost again.
Memory and the ability to recall diminish as time passes; we take for granted the lives we live. The most fortunate are those who take time to document the history of their family members. As of May 2011, there were 2,079,000 of our warriors from WWII, dying at a rate of about 1,000 per day. Those remaining, not only from WWII, but from Korea, Vietnam, and all conflicts in which we have been involved have memories begging to be documented.
Memories are the legacy of those who were famous for the actions and deeds that defined their lives, including those we have been fortunate to know and love. Through the documentation of their experiences, their legacy is protected and passed generation to generation.
No matter what we forget, let us not forget our history departing on a new journey every day. When life ends, history is lost forever. This article is based on my experience with the elderly within my family group. For most, we did not document their experiences and those are now lost to us. It is sad to know within 50 years, there will be no one who will remember their name much less their life accomplishments. If we had written memories of their lives, it would be treasured and eventually become the story of generations of family members to be cherished as a part of history.
Mac McGovern writes poetry, ezine articles, and blogs, visit his personal website at: http://allpoetry.com/mac_mcgovern for more Interchanging Poetry.
"No matter what you write, someone will love it."
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Interchanging-Poetry-of-Memory-Recall-Related-to-Undocumented-History&id=6605861] Interchanging Poetry of Memory Recall Related to Undocumented History
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Alphabet Soup
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Gerald_Marchewka]Gerald Marchewka
For many years I probably failed
to look down
Nonetheless they were always there
Circling at the surface of my tasty
tomato soup
And I don't mean to say that I ever
took them for granted
In fact, I slurped them up with the greatest
of ease
Often accompanied by a salami sandwich,
mayonnaise, lettuce and cheese
They became a primary staple with
a tall glass of homogenized milk
Of course those were the days
I remember them well
Waiting for the school bus and struggling
with my math
A trip to the ice rink
and time for a quick skate
But I seldom thought of the endless opportunity
that these small Roman letters could even
begin to present
But somehow, somewhere they must have begun
to nourish my head
Of course I should thank Mrs. Sands, Mrs. Dollard
Sister Reginald and Mrs, Nary
They were all great teachers indeed
Yet it took me years to understand the full value
of these consonants and vowels
But it didn't mean that I had no appreciation
in the first place
Because it always seemed that I hated
to make a silly mistake
But many years have passed
yet I have continued to remember them well
But I must admit that the words have
often been given new meaning
What was once quite simple is not necessarily so
The noodles still sit well in my stomach
but somehow they have acquired
a different taste
But most importantly the meaning is real
and while they may transport me to distant lands
In the end they always bring me back to you
However this is not to say that I am always mired
in sweet nostalgic memory
Nor do I want to be a man who has a bitter appetite
It would seem that my visions have expanded
but it doesn't mean that I could love you any less
For my dreams have become richer
and my palate more refined
but how could this have happened
if it were not for you
So I guess I am a nostalgic man afterall
And right now I have chosen to remember
only the good
So take me back to orchard park
so that I can remember the lovely trees
Before I forget my friends
and what they once meant to me
But this is the past
so I must get on with my life
Yet I will always think of the freezing wind
and how I once experienced it with an open heart.
Gerald Marchewka is an American freelance writer currently living in Lviv, Ukraine. Gerald's most recent book, "Straight from the Heavens: Li Bai's Poetry in Retrospect" featuring the Illustrations of Seb Fowler is now for sale on Lulu.com Questions about Gerald's other projects may be referred to [mailto:geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com]geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Alphabet-Soup&id=6592005] Alphabet Soup
For many years I probably failed
to look down
Nonetheless they were always there
Circling at the surface of my tasty
tomato soup
And I don't mean to say that I ever
took them for granted
In fact, I slurped them up with the greatest
of ease
Often accompanied by a salami sandwich,
mayonnaise, lettuce and cheese
They became a primary staple with
a tall glass of homogenized milk
Of course those were the days
I remember them well
Waiting for the school bus and struggling
with my math
A trip to the ice rink
and time for a quick skate
But I seldom thought of the endless opportunity
that these small Roman letters could even
begin to present
But somehow, somewhere they must have begun
to nourish my head
Of course I should thank Mrs. Sands, Mrs. Dollard
Sister Reginald and Mrs, Nary
They were all great teachers indeed
Yet it took me years to understand the full value
of these consonants and vowels
But it didn't mean that I had no appreciation
in the first place
Because it always seemed that I hated
to make a silly mistake
But many years have passed
yet I have continued to remember them well
But I must admit that the words have
often been given new meaning
What was once quite simple is not necessarily so
The noodles still sit well in my stomach
but somehow they have acquired
a different taste
But most importantly the meaning is real
and while they may transport me to distant lands
In the end they always bring me back to you
However this is not to say that I am always mired
in sweet nostalgic memory
Nor do I want to be a man who has a bitter appetite
It would seem that my visions have expanded
but it doesn't mean that I could love you any less
For my dreams have become richer
and my palate more refined
but how could this have happened
if it were not for you
So I guess I am a nostalgic man afterall
And right now I have chosen to remember
only the good
So take me back to orchard park
so that I can remember the lovely trees
Before I forget my friends
and what they once meant to me
But this is the past
so I must get on with my life
Yet I will always think of the freezing wind
and how I once experienced it with an open heart.
Gerald Marchewka is an American freelance writer currently living in Lviv, Ukraine. Gerald's most recent book, "Straight from the Heavens: Li Bai's Poetry in Retrospect" featuring the Illustrations of Seb Fowler is now for sale on Lulu.com Questions about Gerald's other projects may be referred to [mailto:geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com]geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Alphabet-Soup&id=6592005] Alphabet Soup
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Rhyming Poems - A Great Way to Ask for Forgiveness When You've Done Someone Wrong
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Polly_Pan]Polly Pan
HAVE YOU DONE SOMEONE WRONG?
Nothing feels worse than hurting the one you love. It can leave you feeling terrible and you'd gladly take it back, if only you could. Saying you're sorry sounds trite when you've shattered someone's heart. But there's something about rhyming poems that can break down a wall.
ORGANIZE YOUR THOUGHTS
Think of what you want to say. Write down every excuse about why this unspeakable thing happened. You were drunk, drugged, forced, abducted by aliens, whatever you can come up with. Then write down why you are sorry and how much the person you hurt means to you. Read it over and make sure you haven't left anything out. Now think how much better it would go over if you knew how to write rhyming poems for occasions such as this.
CAN YOU DO IT YOURSELF?
Take everything you listed in your letter and now try to rhyme it. Just doing this exercise might bring a few laughs into this attempted apology. Get help from a dictionary poets would use if need be. Just the fact that you went to all this extra effort is sure to impress the injured party. Trying to write rhyming poems shows how much you care,, how deeply sorry you are and the lengths you would go to express your remorse.
WHAT IF YOU REALLY NEED HELP?
Lucky for you there are professionals who write rel=nofollow rhyming poems for every occasion known to man, or woman. If you find that it's just impossible for you to turn out a clever rhyme that won't make the person even madder than they already are, hire a poet. Explain what you want and you will be amazed at the wonderful rhyme you get back. It's so convincing it will even make you almost forgive yourself. It will go a long way to helping your loved one forgive you.
YOUR SECRET WEAPON
Just think. From now on rhyming poems will be your secret weapon. And remember, they're not only useful for when you misbehave. You can have them custom-written for all sorts of reasons. Maybe a friend finally lands a job. Don't laugh, it could actually happen. Now in today's economy that would certainly warrant congratulations in clever rhyme. And there are all the usual occasions; birthdays, graduations, invitations, anniversaries, almost anything you can imagine. So guard your little secret and use it any time someone you care about has an important milestone. Everyone will think you're incredibly talented.
Polly Pan says go here for help with rhyming poems: http://www.rhymeshop.com/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Rhyming-Poems---A-Great-Way-to-Ask-for-Forgiveness-When-Youve-Done-Someone-Wrong&id=6611763] Rhyming Poems - A Great Way to Ask for Forgiveness When You've Done Someone Wrong
HAVE YOU DONE SOMEONE WRONG?
Nothing feels worse than hurting the one you love. It can leave you feeling terrible and you'd gladly take it back, if only you could. Saying you're sorry sounds trite when you've shattered someone's heart. But there's something about rhyming poems that can break down a wall.
ORGANIZE YOUR THOUGHTS
Think of what you want to say. Write down every excuse about why this unspeakable thing happened. You were drunk, drugged, forced, abducted by aliens, whatever you can come up with. Then write down why you are sorry and how much the person you hurt means to you. Read it over and make sure you haven't left anything out. Now think how much better it would go over if you knew how to write rhyming poems for occasions such as this.
CAN YOU DO IT YOURSELF?
Take everything you listed in your letter and now try to rhyme it. Just doing this exercise might bring a few laughs into this attempted apology. Get help from a dictionary poets would use if need be. Just the fact that you went to all this extra effort is sure to impress the injured party. Trying to write rhyming poems shows how much you care,, how deeply sorry you are and the lengths you would go to express your remorse.
WHAT IF YOU REALLY NEED HELP?
Lucky for you there are professionals who write rel=nofollow rhyming poems for every occasion known to man, or woman. If you find that it's just impossible for you to turn out a clever rhyme that won't make the person even madder than they already are, hire a poet. Explain what you want and you will be amazed at the wonderful rhyme you get back. It's so convincing it will even make you almost forgive yourself. It will go a long way to helping your loved one forgive you.
YOUR SECRET WEAPON
Just think. From now on rhyming poems will be your secret weapon. And remember, they're not only useful for when you misbehave. You can have them custom-written for all sorts of reasons. Maybe a friend finally lands a job. Don't laugh, it could actually happen. Now in today's economy that would certainly warrant congratulations in clever rhyme. And there are all the usual occasions; birthdays, graduations, invitations, anniversaries, almost anything you can imagine. So guard your little secret and use it any time someone you care about has an important milestone. Everyone will think you're incredibly talented.
Polly Pan says go here for help with rhyming poems: http://www.rhymeshop.com/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Rhyming-Poems---A-Great-Way-to-Ask-for-Forgiveness-When-Youve-Done-Someone-Wrong&id=6611763] Rhyming Poems - A Great Way to Ask for Forgiveness When You've Done Someone Wrong
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
iRIP to Steve
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Santosh_Kalwar]Santosh Kalwar
If I were Steve, I would never have cried for all bossy creeps;
I would never have cried for those people who do not believe
in the power of human mind. I would rather had always dwell among the wonders of human mind and creativity of human soul.
I would rather had always dwell upon childish curiosity of human soul.
All those who long for Steve, please do not weep, just be reminded that your time is short like everybody's else. Please do not live on material possessions, material life, material things, and connected world. For there are larger things to think and feel for; for there is beauty and creativity to ponder on; for there will be always, the sunshine, moonshine and butterflies to observe for.
No longer such a wonderful man will ever be created, again. No one will ever become Steve, no one will ever be such innovative, enthusiastic, and lovable like him.
He was true man, a man who had a vision to help contemporary human beings, a ray of sunshine that touched millions of people on earth through technical advancement, creativity, and mind-boggling innovation. Do not cry for Steve, he will not be happy if you cry. Smile for him, wave him a nice goodbye, say and covey your condolence to him..., just wave your hands and fingers like a child, a final goodbye, maybe.
Not only Steve was a beautiful soul, he changed the way we look, feel, experience, work with his innovation and imagination. He helped humanity by bringing technological innovation.
So, do not weep for him when he no longer dwell
among the wonders of the earth; for him larger
self is free, and his soul rejoices on the other
side of pain...
Somewhere on the other side of darkness. or maybe, whiteness or, blackness...
Please do not weep for anybody, for there is always a ray of hope
and sunshine across the East
That will someday touch your feet
a tropical breeze, on to your face, bringing you joy
and mesmerizing effect of comfort
Just remember that you are here no more
like Steve or any human soul
Remember that, there is nothing permanent in this blue earth
everything revolves and everything will eventually fall
why do you share tear when your time will someday finally, come
and there is no one to look for
Just be on peace, love, hope, learn, live
there are angels and beauty everywhere
do not weep for him or me or anyone...
but weep if you cannot resist
but weep if you think your tears will ease your heart
but weep if you have lost your loved ones
but weep if you no longer can stop
but weep if you are hopeless like rest of us
only for rise again
only for smile again
only for love again
only for hope again
only for shine again
only for move-on again
In humanly endeavors,
there will be disappointments
there will be dark shadows
there will be pain, always
but it is all there just to make us more
strong, more courageous and bold
Anyways, I hope to wish Steve,
iRIP for his all iCreations
Rest in peace, Steve and someday we all will join with you...
Santosh Kalwar http://kalwar.com.np/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?iRIP-to-Steve&id=6608376] iRIP to Steve
If I were Steve, I would never have cried for all bossy creeps;
I would never have cried for those people who do not believe
in the power of human mind. I would rather had always dwell among the wonders of human mind and creativity of human soul.
I would rather had always dwell upon childish curiosity of human soul.
All those who long for Steve, please do not weep, just be reminded that your time is short like everybody's else. Please do not live on material possessions, material life, material things, and connected world. For there are larger things to think and feel for; for there is beauty and creativity to ponder on; for there will be always, the sunshine, moonshine and butterflies to observe for.
No longer such a wonderful man will ever be created, again. No one will ever become Steve, no one will ever be such innovative, enthusiastic, and lovable like him.
He was true man, a man who had a vision to help contemporary human beings, a ray of sunshine that touched millions of people on earth through technical advancement, creativity, and mind-boggling innovation. Do not cry for Steve, he will not be happy if you cry. Smile for him, wave him a nice goodbye, say and covey your condolence to him..., just wave your hands and fingers like a child, a final goodbye, maybe.
Not only Steve was a beautiful soul, he changed the way we look, feel, experience, work with his innovation and imagination. He helped humanity by bringing technological innovation.
So, do not weep for him when he no longer dwell
among the wonders of the earth; for him larger
self is free, and his soul rejoices on the other
side of pain...
Somewhere on the other side of darkness. or maybe, whiteness or, blackness...
Please do not weep for anybody, for there is always a ray of hope
and sunshine across the East
That will someday touch your feet
a tropical breeze, on to your face, bringing you joy
and mesmerizing effect of comfort
Just remember that you are here no more
like Steve or any human soul
Remember that, there is nothing permanent in this blue earth
everything revolves and everything will eventually fall
why do you share tear when your time will someday finally, come
and there is no one to look for
Just be on peace, love, hope, learn, live
there are angels and beauty everywhere
do not weep for him or me or anyone...
but weep if you cannot resist
but weep if you think your tears will ease your heart
but weep if you have lost your loved ones
but weep if you no longer can stop
but weep if you are hopeless like rest of us
only for rise again
only for smile again
only for love again
only for hope again
only for shine again
only for move-on again
In humanly endeavors,
there will be disappointments
there will be dark shadows
there will be pain, always
but it is all there just to make us more
strong, more courageous and bold
Anyways, I hope to wish Steve,
iRIP for his all iCreations
Rest in peace, Steve and someday we all will join with you...
Santosh Kalwar http://kalwar.com.np/
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?iRIP-to-Steve&id=6608376] iRIP to Steve
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Japanese Calligraphy (Remembering a Giant Ocean Wave With Black Ink on a White Page)
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Gerald_Marchewka]Gerald Marchewka
With bold black strokes
the wet paint will flow like briolette gems
that fall upon my pillow
But it is the precious contact that matters,
as the sparkling acrylic produces tiny little pools
that form upon my parchment page
The collision may serve as an act of God,
as the unprecedented power of the universe
has yet to unfold.
Secret weapons to restore your soul
And with each passing rung that is deftly composed
with the bristles of a tall blonde horse's tail,
the mind of the painter begins to encounter
the resolute texture of a vast sandless dune
Of course this is not like the sea
but maybe it was really not meant to be
It is a picture of the Orient
A giant woman with a beautiful blue flower
in her short dusky hair
Yet the sea must contend
with a force that has no image
It is free-flowing matter
that can tranquilize my brain,
when I know it is time for me to sleep
And within my dreams I see a brush
with cobwebs that bend as they negotiate a reality
that will never fully mend
I hear it in the cries of young children
who scream for their mothers
as they crash and burn
It is a terror for which there are no words
as my eyes continue to search in vain
The color is amazing but somehow I see
only a dull stygian pitch
But I know there are tender hues that lie
out there somewhere, somehow, someway
But still I am stuck with my surface
The blackness is absolute
And it is on a stud that I ride;
With galloping hooves that leave fatal imprints
in the soft loess filled earth
Arguably it is a three-dimensional image
that has created new realms of meaning that surpass
the desolate number one
It is a reality that I understand deeply
but cannot even begin to describe
It has texture and meaning
And it is represented in the trembling stroke
of a few lines, horizontal and vertical
The neural network is concentrated in three lonely fingers
as she repeatedly dips it further
in the black ink that exists at the bottom of the well
But how can something so stark and simple
release the flooding of the gate
When bright waves begin to strike the beach
concrete begins to mangle,
as tire irons crack my forgotten skull
I can feel the emotion
but the relationship between structure, form
and my personal perceptions are in a riddle
that I cannot seem to uncover
I know what it means but somehow when
I rack my brain I can never deliver
Gerald Marchewka is an American freelance writer currently living in Lviv, Ukraine. Gerald's most recent book
"Straight from the Heaven's: Li Bai's Poetry in Retrospect" featuring the Illustrations of Seb Fowler is now for sale on Lulu.com Questions about Gerald's projects may be referred to [mailto:geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com]geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Japanese-Calligraphy-(Remembering-a-Giant-Ocean-Wave-With-Black-Ink-on-a-White-Page)&id=6598475] Japanese Calligraphy (Remembering a Giant Ocean Wave With Black Ink on a White Page)
With bold black strokes
the wet paint will flow like briolette gems
that fall upon my pillow
But it is the precious contact that matters,
as the sparkling acrylic produces tiny little pools
that form upon my parchment page
The collision may serve as an act of God,
as the unprecedented power of the universe
has yet to unfold.
Secret weapons to restore your soul
And with each passing rung that is deftly composed
with the bristles of a tall blonde horse's tail,
the mind of the painter begins to encounter
the resolute texture of a vast sandless dune
Of course this is not like the sea
but maybe it was really not meant to be
It is a picture of the Orient
A giant woman with a beautiful blue flower
in her short dusky hair
Yet the sea must contend
with a force that has no image
It is free-flowing matter
that can tranquilize my brain,
when I know it is time for me to sleep
And within my dreams I see a brush
with cobwebs that bend as they negotiate a reality
that will never fully mend
I hear it in the cries of young children
who scream for their mothers
as they crash and burn
It is a terror for which there are no words
as my eyes continue to search in vain
The color is amazing but somehow I see
only a dull stygian pitch
But I know there are tender hues that lie
out there somewhere, somehow, someway
But still I am stuck with my surface
The blackness is absolute
And it is on a stud that I ride;
With galloping hooves that leave fatal imprints
in the soft loess filled earth
Arguably it is a three-dimensional image
that has created new realms of meaning that surpass
the desolate number one
It is a reality that I understand deeply
but cannot even begin to describe
It has texture and meaning
And it is represented in the trembling stroke
of a few lines, horizontal and vertical
The neural network is concentrated in three lonely fingers
as she repeatedly dips it further
in the black ink that exists at the bottom of the well
But how can something so stark and simple
release the flooding of the gate
When bright waves begin to strike the beach
concrete begins to mangle,
as tire irons crack my forgotten skull
I can feel the emotion
but the relationship between structure, form
and my personal perceptions are in a riddle
that I cannot seem to uncover
I know what it means but somehow when
I rack my brain I can never deliver
Gerald Marchewka is an American freelance writer currently living in Lviv, Ukraine. Gerald's most recent book
"Straight from the Heaven's: Li Bai's Poetry in Retrospect" featuring the Illustrations of Seb Fowler is now for sale on Lulu.com Questions about Gerald's projects may be referred to [mailto:geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com]geraldmarchewka@yahoo.com
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?Japanese-Calligraphy-(Remembering-a-Giant-Ocean-Wave-With-Black-Ink-on-a-White-Page)&id=6598475] Japanese Calligraphy (Remembering a Giant Ocean Wave With Black Ink on a White Page)
Friday, November 11, 2011
A Meditative Walk
By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Anmol_Gupta]Anmol Gupta
Many a times I have heard that meditation does not mean to be in a state of different positions and doing different kinds of exercises for a definite period of time rather meditation should be your way of living. Your each and every work should be a part of your meditation even your life should be a meditative life. And after so much time I got it now. How can even a simple work like walking be meditative? And the answer to the question is Witnessing. As Osho said, "There is a difference. You watch television, you don't witness it. But, while watching television, if you start witnessing yourself watching television, then there are two processes going on: you are watching television, and something within you is witnessing the process of watching television. Witnessing is deeper, far deeper. It is not equivalent to watching. Watching is superficial.
So remember that meditation is witnessing."
It happened on a night that I started witnessing and then I got this poem.
So silent is the moon
So silent the sky
And in the utter silence
A poem is going by...
As I go on
My mind entered
The silence is gone
And the thoughts come on.
I let them be
As they are
They come and and go
Some near some far...
I was lost in them
I called the sky
The sky called me
And after some minutes with them
They got lost in me...
Now I was there
And they were not
As I got lost
The god appeared...
Now god was i
And god was the creation
I got the glimpse
And my life got a mission...
Only in the silence of world
I could find the right words
Which led me to the truth
And transformed my life
To blessings from curse...
Many of you may think that I have written utter non-sense but it is not. When, for the first time,you see a place filled with mountains,valleys and clouds, you got awestruck by the beauty but when you start living in such places then the beauty of the scenery get lost with time. The same happens with the sunrise,sunset,rainbows,moonlight. All these eternal beautiful things have lost their beauty in our lives because they have become a memory. And when you try to look at these things like you are watching them for the very first time in your life then only you will be able to connect with this poem and then you will get the meaning of it.
BY: Anmol Gupta
If you want to read more of my stuff then do pay a visit to http://www.impactofthoughts.blogspot.com/ and you can contact me at [mailto:bratanmol@gmail.com]bratanmol@gmail.com for any queries or work you have.
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?A-Meditative-Walk&id=6616239] A Meditative Walk
Many a times I have heard that meditation does not mean to be in a state of different positions and doing different kinds of exercises for a definite period of time rather meditation should be your way of living. Your each and every work should be a part of your meditation even your life should be a meditative life. And after so much time I got it now. How can even a simple work like walking be meditative? And the answer to the question is Witnessing. As Osho said, "There is a difference. You watch television, you don't witness it. But, while watching television, if you start witnessing yourself watching television, then there are two processes going on: you are watching television, and something within you is witnessing the process of watching television. Witnessing is deeper, far deeper. It is not equivalent to watching. Watching is superficial.
So remember that meditation is witnessing."
It happened on a night that I started witnessing and then I got this poem.
So silent is the moon
So silent the sky
And in the utter silence
A poem is going by...
As I go on
My mind entered
The silence is gone
And the thoughts come on.
I let them be
As they are
They come and and go
Some near some far...
I was lost in them
I called the sky
The sky called me
And after some minutes with them
They got lost in me...
Now I was there
And they were not
As I got lost
The god appeared...
Now god was i
And god was the creation
I got the glimpse
And my life got a mission...
Only in the silence of world
I could find the right words
Which led me to the truth
And transformed my life
To blessings from curse...
Many of you may think that I have written utter non-sense but it is not. When, for the first time,you see a place filled with mountains,valleys and clouds, you got awestruck by the beauty but when you start living in such places then the beauty of the scenery get lost with time. The same happens with the sunrise,sunset,rainbows,moonlight. All these eternal beautiful things have lost their beauty in our lives because they have become a memory. And when you try to look at these things like you are watching them for the very first time in your life then only you will be able to connect with this poem and then you will get the meaning of it.
BY: Anmol Gupta
If you want to read more of my stuff then do pay a visit to http://www.impactofthoughts.blogspot.com/ and you can contact me at [mailto:bratanmol@gmail.com]bratanmol@gmail.com for any queries or work you have.
Article Source: [http://EzineArticles.com/?A-Meditative-Walk&id=6616239] A Meditative Walk
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