I hope that you like reading the poems that I write,
That this tiny little corner, can make your day start right.
I can turn my fuzzy brain to write a load of rhymes,
But your praise is what I’m wanting - it makes up for bad times.
I rose at five this morning - my body don’t belong!
Not mine to do my bidding, my head wires are all wrong.
Do this! Do that! I’m ordered - by this speak-thing in my head,
When all I want to do, is sleep again in bed.
You are all there resting, why can’t I do the same?
Dreaming pleasant dreams, not playing this daft game!
I feel so very lonely, I’m here but not for real,
My head is in Australia, my feet in boots of steel.
Tell me that I’m not alone, that you’re along with me,
Take my chains and silly games and help me to break free.
Your S.O.S is answered,my thoughts now as I type
Feel just the same as you do,always on a hype
Ping!!,soon as eyes are open,thoughts flooding through my head
Totally impossible to stay asleep in bed
Roll out with body creaking,getting dressed is such a pain
Mind full of fancy verses,It's really quite insane
It's knowing that I'm not alone,and not only me and you
There are probably others out there that feel the same way too
So,with all of my meds taken and breakfast on my knee
I'm sitting at this glowing screen as quiet as I can be
Skimming through my favourite sites to see what I can find
Whilst randomly constructing fresh poems in my mind
So be strong now Lin,and please accept this praise I send your way
You inspire me with your words her,that's why I visit every day
Today I had my meds review it was such a waste of time the nurse was bored as much as me, so I thought I'd make a rhyme!
Dear professional persons your not dealing with a slob if you don't like what your doing then get another job.
I don't want to be here either, I know it is a bore, but please smile and don't make it obvious that the whole thing is a chore!
In short you asked me to come and I got there on time, despite it being in the strangest place without benefit of a sign.
The nurses here are just terrific
they smile and laugh and welcome all
I do not want to be too specific
but there always on hand and take the call
This is the second PD nurse I've seen
I am filled with total admiration
but you are right to vent your spleen
I just hope it was an abberation
Dear Bogman don't be at a loss because I'm feeling rather cross I'm normally the biggest fan of my PD nurse an her clan.
But if you arrange clinic without warning don't greet us like your in mourning.
If your day is going bad don't greet us like we make you sad! The cuts an changes aren't our call we like you may feel the fall of standards for one and all.
But my wish for her is a clue into another's view of Monday from another angle then with me no need to tangle!
Thanks for everyone's forbearance of a grumpy day!
We have done this before - in discussion with titan - we challenged each other to write about something - this time a famous or favourite work of art.
[u]The Execution of Lady Jane Grey
by Paul Delaroche 1833[/u]
Tragic Queen kneels at wooden block,
A child dressed in silk,
A puppet, a toy discarded,
Blind man’s bluff
In a world of cruelty and greed.
A cold throne,
A meagre banquet,
A grim cell!
Tragedy on canvas a mile high
Stand before in awe
Dress of heavy silk softly shining,
Reach out to touch folds of cloth
Pleats of flowing fabric
Bury cold fingers in fur…
STAND BACK MADAM,
STAND AWAY FROM THE PAINTING
Strikes with a force
As the executioner stands ready with his axe!
I saw this work of art in the National Gallery. It is a stunning portrait of a girl of seventeen about to be executed. Lady Jane Gray was Queen for nine days in 1553 until Queen Mary I(the rightful heir/daughter to King Henry VIII)and her followers seized her place on the English throne.
The textures used in the painting made me want to touch it.
Search web for National Gallery Lady Jane Grey - to see the painting and hear a commentary.
It is quite a picture. had not heard of the painter. Sort of a pre-pre-raphaelite.
Excellent,a powerful interpretation of the painting,answered now with my flowery response concerning a painting by an artist that I admire.
View on my Wall
On my wall is a painting,it takes me away
From the humdrum and turmoil of living each day
When the walls closing in seem to block the sun out
With a head full of screams,yet you can,t even shout
I gaze at this painting and my mind is at ease
It's by Reginald.D.Sherrin and boy does it tease
Delving into the view to that warm hazy tor
Along that path that just beckons you on to explore
Each contour,the brush strokes,the beautiful sky
Are brooding yet transfer a light to the eye
As you realise the sun which is hidden in cloud
Is waiting in ambush to radiate from its shroud
The artist has captured this scene,pure delight
With colours so vibrant which capture the light
So strong was the impulse,just too much to bare
That soon after purchase made the long journey there
With a tent in the boot and walking gear in the back
Plus essentials that fit in my trusty back pack
We embarked as a family for a weekend away
Camping in Dartmoor on a Sunny bright day
With a copy of the view safely housed with the map
This mysterious vision and the need to unwrap
All thats hidden around corners,that I wanted to find
Envisaged so clearly and held in the mind
The artist was born on the same date as me
Produced work till his death at the age of Eighty
Mainly fair views of Dartmoor,but also the coast
Amongst artists like "F.J.Widgery"as friends he can boast
The prices of his well regarded paintings have soared
His keen eye for detail on his scenes are adored
So with all this in mind and the need to know more
We embarked on a walk to locate"Belstone Tor"
The weather was glorious,so with sun lotion on
The scenery there was just second to none
As we followed the paths with co-ordinates set
With that old constant question"Are we nearly there yet"
When finally reaching that path to the view
Instant recognition then of the painting I new
When comparing the scene to the view in my hand
Each bump,dip and contour,each last grain of sand
The image before me,there captured in time
But now mixed with sweet smells and quaint sounds so sublime
Bringing the painting to life,with deep breath,still recall
The time when I visited that view on my wall.
Titan, that was excellent - I loved reading it. Now I will go back and read it again.
I am working on my next one!
by Edvard Munch 1893
This picture is weird, I don't like it at all,
It looks like the sea will crash over the wall,
No wonder he screams for heaven and hell,
Are all mixed together, so difficult to tell.
Look once again, the sea is not there,
He’s screaming aloud, it is splitting the air.
Resounding and echoing, black, red and gold,
Anxious and fearful, to the devil he’s sold!
He stands on the deck his head in his hands,
Ready to do what Satan demands,
In the distance are people, please save him from hell,
Be quick before Lucifer takes you as well!
No, this painting is dark, it fills me with fear,
Emotions so strong are not wanted here.
Please paint me some flowers, in a garden of light,
Leave Munch and his Scream to the dead of the night!
I hope you don't mind me contributing but inspired by your pictures at an exhibition theme I have penned a few lines on a picture entitled
‘ Garden Ghosts ‘ by Sharon Elphick
this is a picture which drew inspiration from the Ladybird book of birds.
As I sit and gaze in thrall at the pictures on my wall
My eye is drawn by the stark grace, of an exercise in negative space
Often when it is viewed its meaning oft misconstrued for strong emotions initiated
Either loved or berated.
It’s mysticism evokes the spirits of the wood and sky
It speaks to me of the dawn and species that we must mourn
Voices gone from the early chorus disappeared right before us,
From the early morning throng their solos missing from the song .
Those who no longer trill their shouts of love and war
With complex, orchestrated score
Raptors missing from the sky no longer glide, soar or fly
Through gardens in such profusion the colours and song gone
But the spirits remain they linger on.
The bodies absent no longer there but the impression lingers
ever the eye lights upon its space illuminated vacant place
It calls to us from our history and all the time retains its mystery,
For those who gaze in to the store of treasure, like those who did before, will
find the pull hypnotic or see in it nothing at all, but even if they cannot tell
within its visage the spirits dwell.
So be assured by your hosts we have seen the garden ghosts!
I looked at the picture - Garden Ghosts - it was quite a surprise - but very effective. You need to study it and read your excellent poem at the same time.
This one is Van Gogh's
Cafe de Nuit
There is a little café at the corner of the street,
A great place to go with friends you like to meet.
Maitre d' is always welcoming, his food and wine first class,
A cheerful sort of venue, difficult to pass.
I’ll see you there at seven, we could talk and eat till late,
If you can’t be there on time, I’ll just sit and wait,
Soaking in the atmosphere, I'll wave to all I know,
Anticipate the evening beneath a lamp's glow.
The music is entrancing, we can dance the night away,
Smoochy little number I’ll ask the band to play!
We can sit in pleasant silence, or maybe sing along,
Glad to be in company, feeling we belong.
The hour of eight approaches, I wonder where you are,
Maybe stuck in traffic, fuming in your car!
A distant clock is chiming. Nine times? Can that be right?
Lamps still shining brightly, of you, there is no sight.
The violins are packed away, the tables are all bare,
I sit and contemplate the reason you’re not there,
The Maitre d' stands watching, with concern etched on his face,
Staring at the chair that should have been your place.
There is a little café at the corner of the street,
A good place to be if friends you have to meet.
I sit there every evening, watch people come and go,
Staring at the empty chair, beneath the street lamp’s glow!
Vincent and me!
A beautiful day in Amsterdam
Wandering in places, you would not at night
Channels and waterways and getting lost
Windows to shop for exotic wares.
Tobacco drifting out of Café’s
Anne Franks, a street full of red lights
The sublime, the ridiculous, the obscene.
Out of boredom I suggested a visit,
To the gallery of Vincent Van Gogh’s
It’s not that I was that interested
I never thought it as something for me.
We were there at the front of the queue
In time for the song by McClean
Paid over our money and entered
The world that Vincent had seen.
Yellow sunflowers under Azur skies
A self portrait, his garret, his chair,
Montmartre, beer jugs and
Mixed flowers in a bright blue vase.
I chanced on a painting of rooks
Flying above a fine field of corn
To me they were but blotches
The kind that my children had drawn.
In a short time I was disenchanted
And decided to visit the next floor
When a voice from behind said Richard
I turned and the rooks rose and soared.
Out of the picture they flew
In that moment I was transported,
The chains fell away, I could see
He gave me a gift beyond measure
When he painted the rooks in the fields.
For Bogman/Lin and Titan - Ophelia
Ophelia is a painting by British artist Sir John Edward Millet painted between 1851 and 1852. Currently held in the Tate Britain London, it depicts Ophelia, a character from the play Hamlet, singing before she drowns in a river in Denmark.
Tragic Ophelia where are you bound all for the love of sweet flowers
Your corpse perfumed by pure waters and petals essence
Wherever you be bound with your tresses flowing round your lifeless
Form died for love beauty.
In Denmark's flowing waters deep drifting as though in sleep
you dream? What spectres prance in your spirits eye
do you dream when you die?
The verdant flora around you flows, filling hair with lush green bows
Blooms which were your desire now forms a floating funeral pyre
Fair the well o beautiful maid by chance misfortune cruelly slain
as you pass serenely by your voice gone with a plaintive cry.
Sweet Ophelia go to your rest the fatal bloom clutched to your breast.
Wow!!!! I love this corner, so much talent from all of you, any more please
Hello PB - how's the weather on your street today?!
I think you might like this next poem. Last night I was discussing a certain urological problem with a friend and we got talking about ladies under-garments.
I said that I was sure a poem could be written about the subject. First thing this morning I opened an email and there was a great poem she had written.
This was my reply:-
The opening line is stolen from the Robert Frost poem -
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
which begins with the line:-
'Whose woods these are I think I know'
Whose pants these are I think I know,
On next door’s line I saw them blow,
Ten pegs it took to hold them there,
Full of wind, a largish pair!
Belong to her, that lady there,
Who over the fence can only stare,
At the knickers in my hand,
The biggest pair in all the land!
No, not mine I hear her say,
Joke left over from Christmas Day,
Mine are smaller, more refined,
Fit perfectly on my behind!
I saw her turn to go inside,
Large pants in hand, but not her pride.
Empty now her washing line,
And we can feel some warm sun shine!
Made me laugh Lin
very good Lin, you should do more humour (not that you should do less...oh dear).
We had two cats.Rocky brought home live birds, rats, small dogs. Dora triumphantly returned each morning with a sock (different ones each time). And a herbal teabag. But not knickers.
A Red rose given, an act of love and devotion, the expression of the deepest human emotion,. One that spans all time, in which you would give your life, the stirring in our spirit that causes such strife and joy and hurt and pride and reigns in our lust or desire, as purer emotions aspire to greater than transient entanglement.
But as oft occurs in modern times although our language may be frank it can also be devoid of sweet thoughts and sometimes rank. Take me back to clear declarations of intention that needed subtle thought behind the construction of how it was wrought and how it may be perceived anew, when received by those who may be closer to us as we pray with the passing of every day.
To add to the posy I give Anemone to remind you that my declarations thus once made are not in haste, and such love would never waste and may last throughout the years for your joy and tears I will be there to share your fears, whatever transpires all my affection will be dedicated to your protection.
Baby’s breath will symbolise the purity of my love for you, spread like a scattering of snow on a winters day, of my fidelity it will speak but also say that I am weak and mortal man who will be for you what he can.
A pink carnation you will find tells your forever of my mind wherever I’ve been or am want to go this, my dear always know my love for you, outshines the sun, you eclipses my life its true.
Jonquil and Lilac will also stay in the hope that you may return the esteem I have for you and an ardent wish for ever spoken for my heart to remain unbroken.
The bouquet should debate with blooms that speak of passion and acts of love and those of sharing. The Mallow love consuming and all taking, to the Lime blossoms passions, fire which once surrendered will clearly display the things that flowers will ever only say.
An olive branch to complete the spray to bring you peace through this day and every other for this is my wish for you my friend and lover.
Tim has been in Poet’s Corner!
He’s been in One and Two!
He’s left us all a message
But what did he forget to do?
He didn’t write a poem,
Not a single rhyme,
He said that we had done enough
Start new thread next time.
What punishment shall we give him?
Forgetting to write in verse,
Lock him in our cupboard,
Unless you can think of worse!
YES! Lock him in the cupboard,
Then line up one by one,
And read him every poem,
Until they all have gone.
Recite and sing and shout aloud
Every poem we have ‘wrote’!!!!!
And make that Tim remember
Next time - a rhyming ‘note’.
This is a friendly warning,
No malice meant at all,
But we hope that Tim will hear
When poetic muses call.