Comments on: Sunday Poem #6

By: Lochlomondo

Lochlomondo — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 21:07:43 +0000

I love the peoms Amy. Thanks for sharing.
Lochlomondo´s last post … Tullie Inn Balloch

By: Hiro Boga

Hiro Boga — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 02:15:32 +0000

Thanks, Amy! I’m off to listen to it now. :-)
Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem #6

By: amypalko

amypalko — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 20:28:35 +0000

As I said I might, I’ve recorded an audio of my poem as I felt the rhythm and repetitions were probably better suited to the spoken rather than the written word. I hope you enjoy: http://tinyurl.com/inchcailloch
Amy
xx
amypalko´s last post … Inchcailloch

By: Martie

Martie — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 20:42:48 +0000

From a Jar of Air

Marbles and bells
time
worn

listen and feel
how they travel along the crease

to iron the fabric left by hunger
by war and irreverence

magic to air and land
dirty and dented hope

tumbled and warn
with tint of frolic and peace

gather a treasure from one small boy’s pocket
then listen any Sunday

By: elizabeth

elizabeth — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 17:24:12 +0000

sparkles
of light
dancing across the waves

i turn my face
up
to the sun
to the Light

and laugh
elizabeth´s last post … feeding fear

By: Julie Jordan Scott

Julie Jordan Scott — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 15:23:02 +0000

Where the Exchange Occurs

At the intersection of Hawthorne and Linden Avenues
Memory bounces in the unnaturally yellow tennis ball

70′s era girl scout uniform dangles from a red hanger
“On my honor, I will try” lives in the “11″ troop label as

Death in red leaves fall from the Maple’s aging arm
Her fingers check my pulse, ears listen, eyes

praying for anything except this spacious silence
Without a pillow, I beg for the next ending, anything

except… Paradox, its meeting point where the exchange occurs
for meanness is them, not me, my job is to stay me like a

barren tree, leafless, somehow full of protective life at
my feet, grounded, rooted, below the path separated by

Hunger’s emptiness isn’t an insistent Audrey 2 “Feed me!!!”
Wrap it in whatever meaning you elect I notice, I see

her hair is a slip knot riding snugly against her neck
Claw foot pedestal table holds up her elbows I watch

wondering, curious, last night’s question still hanging
like the uniform dangling from the plastic red hanger

anachronism, out of sorts, out of time, a blizzard
of thoughts cover my sand buried toes

my legs, looking like marble reflecting moon rays
I settle back, tucking my red purse beneath my head

Someone will cover me with a colorful quilt when I am cold

By: Hiro Boga

Hiro Boga — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 15:17:32 +0000

I’m blown away by the beauty and depth of these poems. Thank you so much, Leigh-Anne, Douglas, Amy. What a rich, Sunday morning feast!

Love, Hiro
Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem #6

By: amypalko

amypalko — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 15:10:37 +0000

This poem is about an island that I love to visit, which is situated in Loch Lomond and was the home of St Kentigerna. It feels like a deeply spiritual place to me, and I often dream of walking the paths that wind their way through the oak forested isle. An immensely special place.

Inchcailloch

Before my face,
the butterflies,
dancing between sunshine and sunshade,
share in the joy of each step.
soar in the rise of each dawn.
sway in the breath of each breeze.
As I am drawn onwards and inwards
to the heart of the myth.
to the heart of the isle.
to the heart of myself.

Beneath bare feet,
the rich dark earth,
malleable with persistent mists,
responds to the shape of each sole.
replies to the depth of each print.
relates to the height of each hope.
As I am drawn onwards and inwards
to the heart of the myth.
to the heart of the isle.
to the heart of myself.

Beyond my flaws,
Kentigerna,
offering sweet, serene sanctuary,
bestirs in the sleep of my soul.
begins in the breadth of my being.
belongs in the flame of my love.
As I am drawn onwards and inwards
to the heart of the myth.
to the heart of the isle.
to the heart of myself.
amypalko´s last post … A Birthday Less Ordinary

By: Douglas Buchanan

Douglas Buchanan — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 14:48:48 +0000

When I consider how my life is spent
The omnipresent in a point confined,
I think of how my aching back is bent,
How cataracts are making both eyes blind.
I look at arms that once, not long ago
Could lift with ease two hundred pounds or more,
Yet now can’t lift a chair or shovel snow
Without a stabbing pain not felt before.
Such powers I had to focus hand and mind;
As craftsman, teacher, writer, athlete I
Could work with ease at many tasks combined.
What use these powers as strength and vision die?
And yet, one thing I know whate’er befalls
I am the Temple’s God and not its walls.

By: Leigh-Anne Tyson

Leigh-Anne Tyson — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 13:26:10 +0000

even in the darkness
the asphalt shines
hopeful and longing
for the day

street lamps reflecting
in the gathered rain below
pockets of water flow
into one another

the wind stirs
the maples trees
from their slumber
quiet songs
winding
their way
through

we are waiting
the rain and I
for the morning

waiting for the light

to spill slowly
across the sky
until the last trace
of night
fades

la tyson