A special place to post Poems, Drawings, whatever is your means for expressing yourself.

Wonderfully written - I have been published...
what you may have disliked in school taught poetry was called - "Form"
that was suppose to be a rule of poetry style
the reason why I love Emily Dickinson -she made her own style...
poetry is art -art is in the hand -eye and mind of the Artists...

and you are a Word Artist...
and Wren - You too have an artistic gift...
Bravo to you both!

thankyou dear Alfee & dear Curious! ~~~ :hugs:


this a quote from Einstein
It is important for the common good to foster individuality: for only the individual can produce the new ideas which the community needs for its continuous improvement and requirements—indeed, to avoid sterility and petrification."

—From a message for a Ben Schemen dinner, March 1952; Einstein Archive 28-932; Expanded, p. 286

dear poets and poetry lovers -
I was very tired and had too much shakey shakey pain today -
so I will post now --- perhaps I am the midnight writer?
for you youngin's that was a pun on a old song sung by the Allman brothers band, it was my older brothers song era... my high school daze had disco and Queen? etc. feels like a century ago - probably because it almost is?


I am concentrating on healing emotions
I still have scarsz - don't we all...it's evidently what we do with the pain
that helps us heal instead, and with that I submit these two poems...



Sunset Blue
Out across my minds eye
I am sailing to sunset blue
An island hidden far away
where my heart ran away with you

I see you there so handsome
I feel you like you are there
and I hear your voice, and laughter
The passions from everywhere

Oh my love what happened?
Please tell me where you have gone?
I searched for our life,
till midnight broke the dawn

Was your love a fable?
Were your words untrue?
Tell me someone if your able?
While I sail to Sunset Blue
_______________



In the twilight garden
one eagerly awaits
amongst the blooms of ardent flowers
and past wrought iron gates

Her loving heart skips a beat
While breathlessly she sighs
And his steps are quicked by
The love light in his eyes

Glancing past the summer rose
Trail the honey suckle vine
With passions kiss upon their lips
That taste of vintage wine

Amongst the floral envelope
Wild fantasies collide
The night of hot passions rage
will now, no longer be denied

Hence those nights now are past
And colder went my bones are chill
Yet like a beacon in the night it's search
My heart is shining still
written by: tena
__________________

Here is another Ellen Bass poem from The Human Line

Gate C22

At gate C22 in the Portland airport
a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed
a woman arriving from Orange County.
They kissed and kissed and kissed. Long after
the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons
and wheeled briskly toward short-term parking,
the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other
like he'd just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island,
like she'd been released at last from ICU, snapped
out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down
from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing.

Neither of them was young. His beard was gray.
She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine
her saying she had to lose. But they kissed lavish
kisses like the ocean in the early morning,
the way it gathers and swells, sucking
each rock under, swallowing it,
again and again. We were all watching -
passengers waiting for the delayed flight
to San Jose, the stewardesses, the pilots,
the aproned woman icing Cinnabons, the man selling
sunglasses. We couldn't look away. We could
taste the kisses crushed in our mouths.

But the best part was his face. When he drew back
and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost
as though he were a mother still open from giving birth,
as your mother must have looked at you, no matter
what happened after - if she beat you or left you or
you're lonely now - you once lay there, the vernix
not yet wiped off, and someone gazed at you
as if you were the first sunrise seen from the Earth.
The whole wing of the airport hushed,
all of us trying to slip into that woman's middle-aged body,
her plaid Bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse, glasses,
little gold hoop earrings, tilting our heads up.