Imagism is the name given to a movement in poetry aimed at clarity of expression through the use of precise visual images. The early period often written in French form was Imagisme.Use the language of common speech, but employ exact words, not the nearly exact, nor the merely decorative word.
An example: Autumn by T.E. Hulme
A touch of cold in the Autumn night –
I walked abroad,
and saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge
like a red-faced farmer.
I did not stop to speak, but nodded,
and round about were the wistful stars
with white faces like town children.
Try your hand at connecting with the Imagism spirit. Be descriptive and paint the visual picture. Good luck.
MARIE ELENA’S IMAGE:
A Little Girl’s Dream
She dreamed of grace through ballet – Tulle layered to below her calf Satan ribbon crisscrossing at her ankle Waltzing on toe. Ballet was offered only paired with tap, For which she had no desire. No desire until she acquired a taste For black patent leather shoes. Became enthralled with Brush step, patter tap Clicking rhythm On hard surface beneath her feet. Decades later, as she sees herself In elderly women who Shuffle Lumber Trudge, She once again dreams of grace.© Copyright Marie Elena Good – 2013
WALT’S IMAGININGS:
FROSTFUL DAWNING
Mists hang low, clutching the grass
with moist fingers. Lingering
for the feel of the warmth of
sunrise’s first heated breath,
knowing the rising sun spells
its demise. It would be wise
for the mist to remain prone.
If left alone it will remain.
© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2011
Responses
True Bravery
The hospital was packed;
Everywhere there were kids, who were sick,
Needing help.
One surging
Mass of humanity, a haze;
Nurses, patients, doctors,
Everyone converging
Into a faceless blur.
And I felt alone in a torrent of noise and action;
Alone in a sea
Of conversation;
A nine-year-old
Alone,
Frightened,
Wondering why,
Wondering how we would endure this;
Sure there was nobody feeling as
Hurt,
As miserable
As me.
Not even concerned that the one
Who should feel this way was right beside me,
And he was brave;
He was brave, the one who had
To endure the pain and
Medications, the hurt:
True bravery.
He was brave, and I was not.
He was brave,
I was lost.
My eyes are misting. In part for what you endured – strongly expressed here – and in part for who you are. Your momma must surely be proud.
Marie Elena
Thank you, Marie. It was a lot for a little girl to think about…and at times I was so selfish. It still rankles.
Seen through the eyes of one who doesn’t understand… until much later. I really like this Erin. It is concise yet speaks volumes.
Marie Elena, your poem was beautiful. I never took dance but your description made me feel as though I did. Your last five lines-brilliant.
Thanks, Debi! I appreciate your words.
Your words indeed took me to the experience. Well done and crushingly honest.
Thanks, Linda. Glad I was able to do so much with my few words. And I’m also glad I can be honest about it…believe me it took a couple years.
I bet it did. Perhaps that is why you seem so mature for your age. ❤
Aw, thanks so much, Linda! ❤
Erin, this is wonderful and powerful and beautifully written. I’ve read others you’ve written about your brother, but I love this one the best.
Thank you! I just figure I’ll keep writing them until I can’t any more…we’ll see when that is. 😉
Didn’t take the time last night to comment on the brilliance here already … Marie Elena, your ballerina-tapper leapt off the page and with grace shuffled into old age so beautifully, I could see her vividly; Walt, your depiction of autumn is so honest and tactile, I can feel the moisture, smell the scents … a lovely tribute to that season’s dawn…and last but definitely not least, Erin – you write out your pain with such courage, it’s palpable – don’t ever stop.
Thank you, Sharon! I won’t…
Erin…this is so full of emotion and is beautifully heart-filled…I second what Marie said to you. ♥
Thanks, Hannah. ❤
You’re welcome, Erin. ♥
Hugs, Erin…
Thanks! Hugs are appreciated. ❤
Wonderful piece. Really wonderful.
Thank you, Misky!
Wonderful!
Sunset
She floats upon the mist, like veil`ed bride
and mid the purple light of evening glows.
She wavers so between the candled light;
a many-rainbowed heaven now she shows.
There’s mauve and peach among her silken folds
Look! flutterings of ruffles there she glides…
and ivory, her face back-lit with gold!
And peace within a shiny backdrop hides.
She whispers that the day has slipped away
and soon the color fades to somber tune
a greying majesty begins to sway
as sad, and sadder sings the deep`ning gloom.
Black night has come again for this old crone
God save us ’til the light of morn be borne!
Jacqueline your sonnet pleases me to no end. Beautiful.
“Ivory” tripped me up for just a moment, as I tend to speak it as two syllables. When I flipped it to I-vo-ry, it flows perfectly.
Marie Elena
Marie Elena: your poem took me back quite a few years:
“shuffle, hop, step and step”… remember? Oh, those wonderful tap dancing days! I thought I was a star at age 5!
A perfect sonnet, with perfect sunset imagery. Wonderful Jacqueline.
Beautiful, Jacqueline! I love the way you write sonnets!
I love sonnets, and this one’s perfect for imagism!
I agree with the rest…a sensational sonnet, truly – images are magnificent and word choice careful and perfect
This is so ethereal…I love the colors and somber tone. Beautiful!!
Thanks, everyone for enjoying my sonnets…
This sonnet as the air of a classic – well done.
Lovely…
Gosh, this is a stunning piece of work. Well done!
Beautiful sonnet.
MORNINGS AS USUAL
Three bruised fruits
emptied from
a house inhospitable
Shiver at the end
of the lane
Listening hard
for the strains
of sunrise
Praying just
a little too
Truth be told
That no sound
slinks up behind them
At last, as golden as corn
on the cob
The sun begins to rise,
Shiny, over the hill
Finally, draws to a stop
Right before them
The bus doors open
Unfold and welcome
them inside
Warm as a Grandma’s arms
Protective as a cop’s
They clamber up the steps
Exhale safety as they
stumble down the aisle
find their seats
“Three bruised fruits” … oh my … your ending put it all into perspective. Wow, Sharon. Just wow.
Marie Elena
Very clever, Sharon. I also loved the “three bruised fruits”.
Your poem is such a lesson in how to use imagery to tell the story. So well done, here… you make it impossible not to see.
Wow Sharon! This is amazing! You kept me intrigued throughout the poem, waiting to see what the ending would be. Nicely done!
Perfect images to show the story and the mood–I felt glad they were safe, at least for one more school day. Beautifully done.
Wow, I love how this story unfolds line after line it transforms into something new in one’s mind. Very good!!
wonderful imagery, which is so difficult to do without exaggeration.
Oh, Sharon… I am so hurting for the three of them…
Me too!
Marie, how did you see into my soul so clearly? Tears came to my eyes as I thought of my ballet tap early childhood and the tottery, clumsy old dame I have become. And it was your imagery that did the trick: criss-crossed satin ribbons, black patent shoes….
And Walter, a different kind of imagery, universally .beautiful…..
Thanks Viv. Universal, indeed. Marie’s image raked its fingers through my memory as well. I had too trudge along with my older sister for her ballet/tap classes and a that point I heard shuffle-ball-change in my sleep. My first crush on a graceful waif made it “bearable”. That like everything else had passed. Walt.
Thanks to both of you, Viv and Walt. I’m sorry my piece brought tears, Viv. Yes, I can completely relate to what you are saying. It has just been this year that all of a sudden I find my body betraying me – left hip, right knee, bottoms of feet – ugh …
And Walt, that’s so charming … and sad.
Warm smiles to you both.
Marie Elena
(I, on the other hand, was the clumsy ballerina who spun to the left when the others spun to the right…!) Wonderfully evocative, both of you, and I do love your style of rhyming, Walt.
Meg, beautiful truths; Walt, soo ethereal…
Walt, I agree with Henrietta. “Mists hang low, clutching the grass
with moist fingers” Lovely.
I couldn’t agree more!
Me too!
Wintry Night
The sky is black and endless
with pinholes of light
that flicker
glimmers of white and blue.
The air is shivery cold
forced into lungs
with short painful gasps
of needlelike stabs.
The snow kicked up
by a stray gust
swirls a tiny tornado
of diamond dust.
The wind moans a fey song
in the trees, limbs sway
like a deranged dancer
moving only from the waist.
The silence is sudden, stark
filling the night with expectation.
A frozen branch cracks-
a cannon’s boom.
This wintry night,
breathtaking, lovely,
wild, alien
is crushingly lonely.
Debi, you have used your words perfectly to take me to that place that is both terrible and beautiful. I hate winter, but your poem reminds me also of its wonder and beauty. Remarkable.
Hauntingly beautiful…. I love it!
I felt the cold! And I especially love “the wind moans a fey song.”
So many distinct words used…I love this image:
“The snow kicked up
by a stray gust
swirls a tiny tornado
of diamond dust.”
I always enjoy this sight.
Loved: “… swirls a tiny tornado/ of diamond dust…” And, your last stanza is a painful, soulful song…
Thank you all so much.
This is so good, it howls, winter.
Loss
The news of his death caused the glass to drop
from her hand to the cold ceramic floor.
The shattered, glistening shards
twinkled like the pieces of her life;
strewn in a sharp yet random mass,
tumbled through a void of shredded dreams,
never again to be whole.
My first husband died when our child was 18 months old. This says so clearly how I felt then.
Debi, I am so sorry. What a blow that must’ve been!
That must have been terrible, Debi. My feelings are always left on paper…that is how I cope.
Oh, Debi, I am so very sorry for you…
Oh my gosh! Linda, this is so descriptive! So painful and sad.
Linda, perfect… and Debi, I’m so sorry.
Oh, wow…sharp indeed…this is well done and yes, Debi, I’m also sorry for your loss.
Linda… I could Feel the pain…
The Golden Trees
Along the roadside’s graveled edge
A row of poplars lift their limbs and spread
Their roots to where secret water hides
In the shallow pools of dried stream-beds.
A thirsty summer, hot and dry
With sudden storms that made green leaves fly
From nervous branches, all shaken down
Beneath the scorching sun in an empty sky.
Today, as the heat-stricken hours fade
Each tree now casts its golden shade
water trickles through the once dried stream
Clouds arrive, though few have stayed.
I stand, immersed in the golden glow
Beneath the poplars’ royal row
Through long winter nights I’ll return in dreams
While the poplars sleep in their robes of snow.
This is beautiful on so many levels, Marian. The description in the first stanza is perfect, and each following stanza takes me to a different feeling. Nice!
Beautiful. I love it all but the first verse and the last are sheer poetry (I mean it though it does sound punny – it is so lovely).
Love this, Marian! Poplars are such beautiful trees. You have captured that beauty with your words.
Oh, another one that puts me right there! Lovely.
Beautiful, Marian!! I love the last two lines especially.
Gorgeous!! Especially, “…While the poplars sleep in their robes of snow.”
One of the most beautiful poems I’ve ever read.
Marie Elena
The last stanza was stunning.
Spring’s Reign
She wraps her mantle round the earth,
Settling herself for her reign,
Eyes twinkling with joyful mirth,
Happy tears drench the earth in rain.
She hugs herself in glee, and she
Rejoices in the bright sun’s rays;
Causing trees to change their wintry
Garments to fresh new green, to stay.
She casts her eyes on the buds and
They open petals to greet her,
Clothing themselves in colors grand,
Happy at the end of winter.
You so perfectly captured the way I feel about spring! I can’t wait!
Thanks, Linda! I can’t wait either!
I totally agree with Linda!! Well done, Erin!
So Lovely!!
Thank you, Hannah and Hen!
Measured
Her life was measured in teardrops,
Ill-advised decisions
That left her hollow and broken,
Discarded burgundy kisses
On discount tissues…
Her spirit ragged and worn
Like a crumpled dollar bill
Stuffed into a lost and found wallet,
Her value forgotten
Until someone peered inside
And discovered her hidden worth.
Beautiful!!
Breathtaking and yet so relateable, Mary.
“Discarded burgundy kisses
On discount tissues…”
Perfect, as is the rest of the poem.
Thank you both so much!
I love the carefully chosen images here, all contributing to the mood… and then the resolution!
Beautiful thought at the end. Lovely poem.
Oh, Mary… those last two sentences… could we ask for anything more?!
Mary, this is brillliant!
Mountain Day
Warm breeze caresses
virgin pines that
whisper through
granite holes, which
whistle eerily to
red-shouldered hawk that
circles above peaks that
protects valley below, which
basks in brief sun’s light.
I have never experienced the Mountains. Until just now. Awesome.
Aw, that’s such a cool compliment. Thank you so much, Linda.
Lovely! We live within sight of Mt. Rainier, the biggest mountain in Washington. This poem reminds me of it. Nice one, Clauds!
Thanks, Erin. I’ve seen Ranier so often on trips through Washington. I’ve just never gotten up close and personal yet. I’m glad you liked it.
Ha! Been there! I like the way this is all one cascading sentence.
Aw, thanks, Kate. You know the whistle and the breezes caress against the cheek, considering where you are.
Oh, Claudsy…you put me right there…beautiful imagism!!
Thank you so much, Hannah. I’m glad you liked it.
You’re welcome, Claudsy.
I Love this… especially its cadence… !
Thanks so much, Hen. I’m glad.
Haircut (a Cinquain)
Staring
In the mirror,
Turning her head each way;
She’s still getting used to her new
Haircut.
Cute, and so true!
Thanks. I just got mine cut yesterday…pretty short. I like it, but it’ll take a little getting used to. 😉
It does take a few days!! Have fun with it…before you know it you’ll be looking to get it cut again…the nature of hair…I love how it’ll grow. 😉
Thanks, Hannah! My hair has always been short; this time it was only supposed to be a trim, but it got cut a little shorter than I wanted. I’m getting used to it though, and am really starting to like it! I think it looks chic and cute! 😉 And I have side bangs now. Yay! Always wanted them! LOL 😀
:)!! Spring-time always makes me feel like a new-doo!!
🙂 !
🙂 !
I didn’t write this just now, of course, but it seems to fit Imagism:
Rain, Rain
Relentlessly the icy rain swoops down.
The sodden earth, refusing, cries “No more!
Have pity on your prey. I weep; I drown.
Please show me now your mercy, I implore.”
New blossoms break; brave daffodils are bent,
Their sunny faces pressed into the mud.
Sweet pansies shredded, cheerful petals rent,
The apple trees now mourn each frozen bud.
But rain beats wings against the wintry gale
And stretches talons, needle-sharp and cruel.
We find no refuge from her keening wail
Nor have we any respite from her rule
‘Til sun, her master, calls and she obeys.
Now hooded, tamed, she broods on stormy days.
Caressing, soft, the gentle rain creeps down,
Now purring figure eights around our feet
And nuzzling cheeks. The shadblow dons her gown
While patient tulips wait, their petals neat.
Narcissi bow, so graceful, heads now weighed
By raindrops beading there like short-lived pearls,
And grasses wear a shine on every blade.
The glad earth drinks; the peony unfurls,
And rain comes dancing, watching flowers preen.
A playful tickle from her whiskers, then
She’s hiding and emerging, seen, unseen,
And running catlike over field and fen,
She’s gone. The sun emerges, but with cause
To be suspicious: kittens have their claws!
Wow! I love the contrast in this poem! First the cruel, and then the soft rain. Brilliant!
Katie!! Wow…so expressive …I love the characterization that you gave nature in its storm and the gentle easing up…I love that switch…the figure eights…love those and I really like how you used that image. Excellent read!
Thanks, Erin and Hannah!
Love the contrast!
Katie, you’ve got some wonderful and powerful images here. My grandmother used to call that figure eight cat walk, pussyfooting, a word I still find humorous, the cautious, shy, tenderness of kitten rain. Nice.
Thankee, Henrietta and Jane. They were fun to write.
A WOW on every level.
Marie Elena
Agree with Marie. Fits this prompt so well.
Harvest
She bent and pulled a tuber from ground
already loosened by her mattock,
red clay clotted on its blade,
her back creaking like a screen door
slapping against the door frame
on a summer night, a fleshy squeeze
of hands patting shoulders, waiting
for a slice of sweet potato pie.
Yes, Jane…just the imagery…beautifully written. Love the clay color and the sweet potato color, too…so pretty.
Yes… some of my favorite colors also… reminders of the desert Southwest…
“her back creaking like a screen door ….”
wonderful imagery here, more than sight and sound
Yes! And I like the economical way this tells a complete story, too.
Thanks, Hannah, Hen, Jac, and Katie. I think I’m becoming this lady…
Heh… me, too. But we could do worse…
So very beautifully written!
[…] Poetic Bloomings-In Form Poet-Imagism […]
All That Remains…
Cinder sprinkled on brick,
mortar and stone,
timber bones and wire veins-
borders, paint and plastic,
crystal glasses and taffeta shades,
Asian rugs and ancient chairs,
baubles and trinkets galore-
years of stored things;
extra added to excessive.
What really makes a house a home?
Sown seeds of good ol’ days,
fits of tendril reach to teach,
sprigs of emerald are anxious for light.
Stir the soil -dirt neath your sole,
full, you’ll find your stores are spilling-
filled with the best that grandma’s invested;
morals, courage, her best recipes,
vestiges of green-apple jam…
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2013
I’ve written this poem to convey a feeling that this world is becoming exceedingly clingy to material things and that there’s a declining sense of worth in the values and great old-school ways of our predecessors.
The rose-hips pictured can be used: Compare the nutritional content of oranges to rose hips and you will find that rose hips contain 25 percent more iron, 20 to 40 percent more Vitamin C (depending upon variety), 25 times the Vitamin A, and 28 percent more calcium.
Just as one example of something common and usable…I remember my grandmother harvesting rose-hips…dandelion
greens, too.
Wow! You express yourself so well! I love this poem!
Thank you so much, Erin…I’m glad you enjoyed this. 🙂
its important the poet remind us…so some of grandma’s wisdom is not lost and forgotten.
Yes, thank you, Jacqueline. ♥
“morals, courage, her best recipes… ” All equally important. Sweet!
Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, Katie!! I’m glad that you think so to! 😉
*too of course…
Oh, Hannah, your tribute to your Grandmother is Beautiful!! I especially love: “…morals, courage, her best recipes…” 🙂 !!
Thank you, Hen! 🙂
Hannah, this is lovely. You’re right about rose hips. When I was a kid, my 4-H project one year was to make rose hip jam as it was made during WWII. It has a distinctly ‘floral’ taste, but it was just lovely. If we could remember the skills of our fore-parents and implement them ourselves, maybe we would not need so many things. I’d rather my house be empty and my heart and mind be full,wouldn’t you? Love the poem.
Me, too, Jane!!! Love these thoughts you’ve shared…thank you! ♥
Purple
He watched the way she handled fruit
this time a purple plum so ripe
its frosty skin dark as a bruise
and loose, its smell like her perfume.
She gently bathed and dried it to
perfection’s lovely purple shine
then took a bite, as juice ran down
her chin; she moaned and drank its wine.
Involuntarily he closed
his eyes and swallowed sweet desire,
and longing fed his mind’s embrace
of lusciousness, a gentle fire.
Had this sight stirred him to his core?
He sighed knowing he wanted more.
Oh, this is a delight. All the sensual images… perfect!
Yes… so very sensuous…
Thanks, Katie and Hen. I’m not sure if it’s imagism, but I got caught up in it, ha!
Very stirring poem, Jane. Love it.
Marie, your poem is so beautifully balanced…I love the transition in the end…sentimental and so well written, my friend!
The inner rhyme and images of your are a joy to read, Walt!! Excellent form.
:)’s to you guys.
I actually wrote this last May, but it just seemed to fit so well…
E
Storm
1
A temper tantrum of rain
stomps its feet
at being summoned to
wash away the grime of the city.
The wind, flailing its ill-mannered
arms hurls coke cans,
Chinese take-out cartons,
pizza boxes from street gutters,
lifting them to alley doorways
and corners behind the dumpsters
that should have been
their home addresses.
Plastic bags, the kites of the city
are transported, lifted,
kidnapped
only
To be snatched from
the fingers of the wind
by tree branches and telephone
wires.
Paper receipts, cigarette butts,
candy wrappers, sporadic
leaves, random coins and
bottle caps –- pushed and
pummeled, by a
wave of water as
strong as any
surge of ocean.
The daily detritus
of city life is evicted
as squatters and
deposited below,
Some to take up residence
there, and with more
being swept away in
the long journey to the sea.
2
Have you ever noticed
how the rainstorm differs
in the country?
Like its city cousin, there are
the basic ingredients of
water and wind, of course.
But in the country,
the storm seems less
visceral,
more welcome.
The trees, reaching their arms
high for the water,
while protecting
the more fragile life
down below,
standing together,
ready for
whatever wily
tactics the wind slings
at them
this time.
3
Meanwhile, back in the
city, I am in bed. I am
supposed to be sleeping.
I have to get up
for work in just five
hours.
And yet, I can hear the rain
on the tin roof of my porch,
thundering like a herd of
wild horses.
I can see their
muscles rippling, and
their manes and tails flying
in the wind as they
throw their heads
back and yell
to each other the joy
of their freedom.
And with all of this going on,
I should sleep?
Ellen Knight
Wonderful rain poem(s)! Yes, I think it does fit, very well. I love “And with all of this going on,/ I should sleep?”
I Love this!! Especially, too: “…And with all of this going on, I should sleep?”
Love this, Ellen! Especially the last five stanzas! I could totally imagine the horses with their rippling muscles and flowing manes. So lovely!
A delightful cornucopia of gar`bage in the first section and how each piece is carefully playing its part. You personification is a real hoot!
“Plastic bags, the kites of the city
are transported, lifted,
kidnapped”
your city storm has more action than a freight train moving through…
nice work!
Sorry. Error: that’s “YOUR personification” and not YOU personification.
Thank you both for your kind words. Specific comments are sooo helpful. 🙂
Fierce Love
When a woman
longs for a baby
and learns she is pregnant,
love for her unborn child
washes over her,
growing exponentially
until the baby’s born
and forevermore.
A caregiver begins
with simple compassion
toward an adult with special needs
somewhat detached,
but then love grows
like and infant in the womb,
and when born
is fierce as a mother’s love.
❤
How sweet!
The Woman, The Dog, And The Glass
She carried a crystal glass of rosé
in one hand.
She held a red leash, for her aged, lumbering golden retriever
in the other hand.
A bark broke the air like a siren’s wail
across the street
The golden’s head whipped around, tugging her
in one direction.
The glass slipped from her fingers, shattering on sidewalk
in the other direction.
Rosé puddled at her feet, mixed with sunlit,
cracked crystal shards.
Deciding spilled wine was infinitely more intriguing
than another dog,
the golden tried to lap up wine with the tip
of her pink tongue,
and was tugged and forced in the front door
by the woman.
… oh, goodness…
Smart dog ;). The description of that rose’ puddle is, well, delicious.
Oh dear…
Thanks, ladies!
I don’t usually write to forms so I’m not sure if this is what is expected but anyway here it is…
On Reflection
The bright, lively blue eyes
stare back at me.
The face is worn,
ageing;
a few marks,
a few scars,
the usual signs of wear and tear.
The hair nearly blond where once
was a red mane.
The moustache, still flecked with ginger,
is grey and perhaps, needs a trim.
I ignore the teeth of the dentist-hater
and smother the physiognomy
with lather.
The eyes sparkle
in the bathroom light
and I allow myself a wink,
and a smile.
reflecting
on growing old
and feeling young.
Rinse, dry, apply the soothing gel
and stop the too, too, intimate examination
that comes with every shave.
Iain
Common to both sexes. The mirror is not my friend, she’s much too blunt. Your poem resonates with me – very descriptive.
Thanks Debi
… yes… we are all going there, Iain… and it’s Okay… especially love that you see eyes that sparkle and give a wink and a smile… a lovely, positive attitude is Wonderful!! 🙂
Thanks Hen
A dear poem, Iain. Don’t you just want to say, Hello, old face of mine? No matter the ravages of time, the familiarity of one’s own face is somehow discouraging and comforting.
Yes indeed! Thanks Jane 🙂
Nice one, Iain! The mirror is our biggest critic, and greatest comfort. Very well expressed!
Thank you Erin 🙂
[…] Poetic Bloomings asked us to write an imagist poem, something of which I seem incapable. This was the nearest I could get to the brief. […]
Imagery?
A snell wind bites ears and noses,
Eastern chill numbs fingertips
but Oh what delight the glow
of returning sun has brought ,
replacing late-lingered gloom
on winter faces with smiles.
Five unbroken days of golden light
transforms blue to bliss.
Sorry it’s taken me so long to come up with this.
Snell is a Scottish word meaning keen, sharp or severe.
Love learning new words- thanks. Wish it would warm up here in WV but I think another snow is headed our way. I need some smiles for this gloomy face. Your poem touched a nerve : )
It is still unbelievably cold here, but the sun has cheered everything and everyone immensely.
… sunshine can do that for us… Thank you for this, Viv.
I like it, Viv. I’m stealing “snell” immediately. A grand word.
Lovely, Viv! Nothing like sunshine to cheer you up!
Cry Of Flesh
swamped in doldrums of incessant pain
eyes soft and warm
guarding a precious secret
shapeless waves of anguish
gut-wrenching riptide
‘neath smiling facade
a mask painted with intrepid face
screams lurking behind
bright shards of laughter
adversities stone-chiseled grin
surrendering to its inevitable ends
pain sandwiched between
fragile flesh and grinding bone
midnight laps on slippered tracks
no longer guided by vanities ambitions
a sour-note flavored sucker
to match a shivering breeze
Can you hear it?
the cry of flesh calling itself
😦
Painful… 😦
Excellent images, Randy.
Dreaming Surprise, 18 February 2013
The snow wisps the rooftops
like the powdery confection
that blows delicately
through
my mind.
Pretty! I love the image this conjures up! ❤
Oh, thank you, Erin, the dream about him was soo sweet…
Aw! ❤
MORNING
the real-world clock like
a buzz saw topples timber
of night dreams
or morning’s a scorching summer’s
breath thawing the deep-freeze
of a suspended evening’s grace
or a red-haired heroine
dabbing ointment on closed eyelids
her soothing voice: “It’s only wind burn”
or morning’s a forest of vague trees
gray shrubs dark moss
a magic downpour of forgetfulness
or a hungry kitten in Real-Time
licking reminders onto eyelids
purring awake a night voyager
#
ooo, oooo, ooooo, Sal. Each one is as lovely as the last. Don’t stop!
Oh my goodness, Your brain and imagination astonish me. I love it.
Beautiful, Sal! Just incredibly beautiful!
Beautiful awakening…
`licking reminders onto eyelids’ – Wow, Sal. I love this poem.
Blooming Into Womanhood
She’s just beginning
To bloom into womanhood,
Still so much to learn.
The tiny petals of her
Girlhood are opening up,
Her face, the round part
Among the many petals,
Looking up to her
Mother, receiving
Her instruction, learning how
To be a woman:
A Godly woman, held in
The palm of her Father’s hand.
© Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013
Soo Beautiful, Erin…
Thanks so much, Hen! I’m glad you liked it. It pretty much sums up how I feel at this point in my life. 🙂
Demolition Men (a Fib)
walls
come
down in
tumbling
falls of rumbling
rubble and white floury dust
Psalm of the Mountains
By David De Jong
As I look at the mountains, tranquil tears flow down my face,
For I know where my help comes from, He is surely in this place.
Breath-taking beauty, indescribable, infinitely grand,
Created at the dawn of time, with a sweep of His hand.
Buffalo, beasts in the field, graze along lupine meandering at will,
Grandeur of granite, skulking glacier, simply beckons – “peace, be still”.
Blossoms wistfully button the trail, calling out His name,
Anthems lifted by any choir, couldn’t sound the same.
Joyful streams, glistening mirrors, to the expansive sky,
Eagles waltzing amongst the clouds, deepening the sigh.
No human fathomed in all his might,
Could imagine, yet create such a sight.
Sacred air, breathed slowly, tasting it best,
Stirring pulses, savored deep within my chest.
Fragrance of the meadow, dew on the pine,
Surely God is here – undeniable – this His sign.
This day will close forcibly, far too soon,
Songs from the wolf, whispers of the moon.
Reluctant I turn, to leave this moment, and forever its memory chase,
Yet my heart weeps in joy, for with my love – together – we stood in this place.
*sigh*
Wonderful.
Marie Elena
…Beautiful… !
Thanks all – Reflections after passing throught the Grand Tetons last fall with my wife.
A lovely portrait painted, especially… No human fathomed in all his might/ could imagine, yet create such a sight.
Marie, your poem is so filled with wonderful images.
Lost in Space
When your memory
is remiss at unearthing
much happiness from
your childhood,
When you have kept
those years roped off,
like a section
at the movies,
“All Seats Full”,
because to you,
the sign reads,
“Proceed At Your Own Risk”’
You read a beautiful poem,
which begins,
“The sky is black and endless
with pinholes of light…”
And it transports you
faster than any
time machine
to the fourth grade
Science Fair, where
your entry was
‘The Constellations’,
which you made by
Mapping out the sky,
white dots connected
by white lines on
black construction paper,
Then affixed to a large
cardboard box, each side
for one of the seasons
of the evening sky.
Then, before you placed
the box over a light bulb,
you pricked holes, to
represent the stars.
And this fond memory
enlightens you, that the
vastness of the stars
need not remind you of
The alone-ness you have
always felt, rather
the company
of angels.
Ellen Knight 2.24.13
from Debi (DebiSwim)’s poem Wintry Night (Imagism)
Ellen, did you post this in the wrong place?