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Creative Corner For sharing of poetry, artwork, verse and other creative things. |
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07-07-2017, 12:40 PM | #31 | ||
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Magnate
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Nigel,
Thank you for enlightening the reader beforehand the basics of a Sonnet. Really puts a smile on my day to read the words, then giving an extra moment or two to put all the thoughts together. Now the realization gives way to knowledge and the beauty combined. Each Sonnet with its own meaning. Beautiful!!!!!!!! Gerry |
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"Thanks for this!" says: | PamelaJune (07-07-2017) |
07-07-2017, 01:34 PM | #32 | |||
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Senior Member
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How beautiful this was to read on a cold dark and lonely night, fraught and racked with pain, your sonnets bought back memories of school English Literature learnings many long years gone by. Thank you. Gods gift is we can find beauty, love, & solace in anything when we pause to try.
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I can still remember what life was like before pain became my life long companion |
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"Thanks for this!" says: | ger715 (07-07-2017) |
08-23-2017, 04:23 PM | #33 | ||
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A cherished gift
* To awake at each and every new dawn as sleepy eyes, the night’s loss mourn and realise with a furious wonder that just for you is another day born, is to know of gratitude’s true import and be tightly bound by the thought of what cherished gift you’ve been lent and that the time of it’s loan is short. field of whispered sighs * Meet me there in the field of whispered sighs where rest all the missed ‘Goodbyes’, and all the tears that in secret have been wept, there amongst the grass are kept. I will wait for you til heavy lids I can not hold and my body gives into wilful cold, listening to the field trapped sounds gently rise, to wander lost under changing skies. Meet me there in the field of whispered sighs and set free our missed ‘Goodbyes’. A Slight chance of love I read in the paper that the omens were good, as foretold by the pattern of stars up above, I know it’s all rubbish but I still think we should as long as you agree there’s a slight chance of love. Scientists say ……… ‘There will be sadness no more it’s dying out due to something, we’re quite sure We’ve measured smiles, laughter and even giggles and though our work may have a few niggles, our figures and data prove only one thing, the coming centuries will happiness bring. Darwin was right it’s evolution you see sad people die younger so happy’s the key, so we’ve worked it out and what comes next, is we’ll evolve to be ‘smileys’ and live in* text. Then no one will understand what’s been said so instead of angry they’ll feel nice instead. A kiss blown I remembered most how we kissed so across the room I blew you one and now send ‘X’ in case I missed Late evening by the Loch * Before me lies such a canvas divine that surely must I, my heathen soul doubt and see as some great Architect’s design this place that makes my Poet’s heart shout. Spread before me lies a liquid gloss sheet blue black with sapphire droplets of star flash, snug with shadowy dark leaves that then meet in the sky a sepia summer moon splash. Over yonder glints a croft’s amber light swaying to a lone piper’s mournful keen, there to honour the sultry Highland night that’s by darkness still a beauty serene. Lake edge water, toys sand with kitten laps within the solemn stillness of approaching sleep, while heady floral scent around me wraps and a voice whispers a part of you we’ll keep. Mad by degree I left the Doctor’s feeling quite glad, he’d said “ I’ve decided on a diagnosis, I’m sorry but you’ve got a psychosis, in other words you’re quite mad. *I replied “Oh dear is it very bad ?” “ not as a box of frogs if you please, but if pushed I’d say mad as cheese so there’s really no reason to be sad.” I said “what makes you think so” “well you teach wasps to make jam keep several goldfish in a pram and think god made the sky too low.” *“Oh, so it’s just something I said, not that I think I’m a shark or understand every dog’s bark and keep biscuits under my shed” “Not in the slightest old fellow why I often think I’m a bat while reading books to my cat and I keep my trifle in a cello ” |
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08-25-2017, 02:07 PM | #34 | |||
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Grand Magnate
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Nigel, you are always so positive your words flow and sing. It makes the day lighter.
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Kicker PPMS, DXed 2002 Queen of Maryland Wise Elder no matter what my count is. |
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"Thanks for this!" says: | Niggs (08-26-2017) |
10-28-2017, 05:33 PM | #35 | ||
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Member
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The lover’s first kiss
There is that moment, a pause, that does not trouble time with demands for days, hours or minutes. It is when a thousand pieces of jigsaw fall to earth as a picture whole, or when a single drop of rain bursts upon each and every leaf at once, and when eyes blacken, the pupils opening wide, offering mutual surrender, releasing lips to gently purse and touch. All around greys to a fade, and sound holds it’s breath as senses gather and focus on this one act. An act that can never be just so again. That love and passion, will always express themselves with a kiss is certain and always here after remains that knowing, only this one time can a kiss feel like this. Generations v2 Cake crumbs tumble from eager lips as small hands wipe buttercream, smears on school trousers, watched by dew laden pale eyes, that sparkle still under a creased brow and the lock of a white hair question mark, that seems to ask what he’s thinking. The old face, lights up as young legs tap in time to her favourite song. She loved to sing. He hears her still when the lad comes calling, asking to hear the old tunes , with tea & cake, sat in a well worn chair scented with strange pipe aromatics, the smoke resting, spent from working the heat of hot coal. Young eyes look again, hinting, at the box on the hearth. An old smile given consent and it’s opened. Bits and bobs placed with reverence on the chair arm, the beautiful singer, cap badges, cigarette cards, each has a story heard before, that young ears want to hear again and an old voice again wants to tell. I fear to miss her special day I fear to miss her special day, when all her beauty, without and within cannot be held, but leaps at life and is wondrous, wondrous as a kiss between sun and moon. She will turn Gothic stone into flawless marble that day, and the air will be filled with rose scent floating on the crackling static about the chosen few, as their heads swivel hoping to claim first sight. And I will smile, when alone, silently holding her favourite stuffed toy, watching her sleep one last time, in a room forever hers, before the morn. And the music will sing ‘Behold the bride !’ and I will see only my little girl, my beautiful child. I know on that day, the love she feels will not be for me alone, and though another man has stolen my throne, my blessing I will gladly give. A raindrop I caught a raindrop before the shower came, or maybe it caught me, my cupped hand I held out, so to tell if the storm was on it’s way. It’s landing left only the slightest touch, and in an eyelid flick of time, it ran, capturing odd tiny rays of light as it coursed around callous and crease on the miniature palm etched map . From how high had this perfect pearl fallen, only to be delayed in completing it’s mission by my unexpected hand. Undaunted, it slipped over my skin to the ground, disappearing into that beneath, to refresh the first crocus as it struggled to arrive in spring time. Last edited by Niggs; 10-28-2017 at 06:02 PM. Reason: set 2 |
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"Thanks for this!" says: | PamelaJune (11-10-2017) |
01-11-2018, 11:06 AM | #36 | ||
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Member
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“The richest man is he who sees wonder each time a bird takes flight.” N P Smith
I PICKED AN APPLE I picked an apple from the bowl, it was russet and hazel, uneven in shade. I bit into it and tasted it’s flesh exposing the seeds waiting in it’s core and I wondered. Awaking at midnight I saw the moon’s curiosity had got the better of her, as she had crept close under cover of night to sneak a peak at the sleeping world and I wondered. A river trout broke the surface, for a second free from it’s fluid prison, it gasped at a midge before breathing water again slowly it’s form undulating making me wonder. And a dove taking flight, denying gravity’s purpose, slipping loose from ties that prevent me from soaring aloft and swooping through the invisible seas above, always makes me wonder. Is that you Is that you I hear, at times, in the half light shade, a silken voice as though all the world’s songs of love are a single melody, caught and carried to me by precious memory. Is that your touch I feel, sometimes, in the morning mist’s promise of light to come, when time blinks and I feel a hand pass over my cheek leaving a tear’s ghost in it’s wake. And as I lay pleading for the night’s pity to grant mercy and take me to where all is possible, I place a kiss on the dark nothing beside me that is you. As sleep ebbed As sleep ebbed into dawn’s first touch, the morn still held fast by night, there above the snow gilded streets of a town’s first winter wake, flew a silent flock of creatures unknown, swift and with purpose, a ghostly grey shimmer against the dark’s dominion, tiny bodies and blurred wings caught by the ice mirrored lucency of fading moonlight. My Ghost is there still I loved the slight crunch of fallen needles underfoot, the seeping balsam hint, redolent of something past, just on the nose then gone, the secret glade of baize like grass, where drowsy with calm, I would sit against the thickest bark, just in the shade, to gaze at the contrasting glare of sunlight swatch before me. I would follow the beck, knowing where every foot needed to be placed, slow and deliberate as that place became me. And by the bridge, where clumps of violet Bluebells grew, their delicate petals bowed, shy or tired, vivid against the deep emerald of wild garlic. My ghost is there still. In the shadow of a smile I woke in the shadow of a smile from the Morning Star born, and as she leaned close and let slip a hush upon the waking world, I saw in that moment brief, that all the love once thought lost, was never lost at all, but drawn by her breath into the sapphire light, there ever to remain as the Morning Star’s bright. |
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"Thanks for this!" says: | ger715 (01-13-2018), PamelaJune (01-13-2018) |
01-13-2018, 12:15 PM | #37 | ||
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Magnate
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Nigel,
As always very thought provoking.... I PICKED AN APPLE; I had to read it a few times before I found myself "wondering". Sad; but beautiful, Is that you....? Reminded me of a place in time that still occasionally returns. And... where we have been in the past, our Ghost remains. Again; "thought provoking".. Thank you again for sharing. Gerry |
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"Thanks for this!" says: | Niggs (01-14-2018), PamelaJune (01-13-2018) |
01-13-2018, 05:40 PM | #38 | |||
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Senior Member
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Niggs your words are always thought provoking, I read them yesterday and came back again today.
Your beautifully written words took me to to ponder the words sad and whimsical. To consider how each emotion can influence the readers every thought. Words are amazing they can lift you up, hold you there and sometimes drop you without a care. Is that you took me to a place where I imagined my long lost nana who used to care for me as a child, she passed on my 14th birthday. Beautiful words, cleverly crafted together. Thank you
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I can still remember what life was like before pain became my life long companion |
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06-01-2018, 07:19 AM | #39 | ||
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Member
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Firefly jars
The days fading heat melts the air. into the amber wash of twilight fall and with a brush like breeze so fair. then thinly paints the cottage wall, as across the bay escapes a song, almost lost upon the water stilled, to weave amongst shadows long, as all with summer's scent is filled. While above, the darkening sweep, can now reveal those early stars, glittering facets dispensing sleep and infant dreams of firefly jars. Beech The colour of limes, cooling in shade, appears, seemingly as watched, to feather the venous cradle of branchlets with downy leaves, that hint of suede, and curl up or back when buffeted by winds of late spring. Some flashing their modesty, their underside, while others part gently, like a child's hair being combed by a doting mother, startling the sparrows and finches about their work within, who are rendered briefly quiescent, until the lunge and parry of their beaks returns. Beach storm As if tethered to the above, the sea was drawn back, back beyond sight and sound, until there was nothing but sand yielding to footprints, which blurred, and sank between blinks, and bits of errant sea caught in shallow dips while others formed rivulets to hasten after the rest. Into this nothing the sky dropped, smothering all with shades of steel and iron, weeping rain such that soon it may leave no room for the returning tide, its fury tumbling the spray laden air, lips glanced by its salt spiced edge, darkening dunes until they caked and fell. I have seen fog congested forest and sheets of sleet cutting across pasture, and found beauty, I could not honour this place so. Lover or friend Would you leave tomorrow's tale a virgin sheet, on which no pattern of life, by hand encrypted, will lie, and future meet........ such that I must ask of others also, were you real?..... or has memory jumbled truth with wishful want, erroneous sight and false feeling. Your scent is freed as I press your clothes to my face, yet no print of a lover confused, stains them from garment into shroud of filigree lace. Perhaps it is I who would bring this story to its end, who would write a final chapter, if so, I would know with certainty whether the premiss past was lover or friend. Burden My burden is greatest at sundown, before evening smudges the sky with charcoal fingers, when Swift and Swallow, soar on warm summer risings, freer than silver bellied shoals that flare their brightness as one, in a dark that is as clay to air, and draw my sight to lift and fly amongst them............ and when dogs wonder about a last walk of the day, and mothers shout ten minute warnings to tired kids that won't come in, but marry the warm day's slowing, regaling past glories and games of endless playtimes,............. when life's set-backs did not exist, and the approach of night's vagaries, heavy with intention to make sport with troubled minds was a fear never felt. The sweetest drink She is delightfully lost to all, in her small garden kitchen as she makes dinner for a family waiting for time to catch up. It looks like pine cone stew she stirs, in between picking buttercups for afters, enjoying make-believe tea, with those I cannot see. Her tiny face tells the story as lips purse and pout in mime, telling proof of the way grown-ups can sometimes be. She then looks up with a start, a smile exploding before me, I'm offered an imaginary cup, and my first sip made me think, it was by far the sweetest drink. Dead bird Huddled kids await the moon, hoods tilted to the ground, there by the hopscotch rune, all forlorn without a sound. One grabbed a shed lent stick, to move the sky fallen form, with a silent funeral flick under the threatened storm A hole was scraped by spade for wings that no longer soar, stone marked in daisy shade the grave for a bird no more. |
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07-05-2018, 04:40 PM | #40 | |||
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Grand Magnate
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I counted 50 fireflies a minute last night.
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"Thanks for this!" says: | ger715 (07-25-2018) |
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