| Topic Summary |
| Posted by imec on Oct 24, 2009, 2:16pm |
Pretty pink shrimp, plump and sweet
Sit atop silky pasta, cooked just right.
The olfactory gods voice their displeasure;
Shoulda left out the asparagus |
| Posted by lola on Nov 24, 2009, 3:35am |
What do you want to learn? (Inquires the banner ad.) As if we had only to ask.
I'd like to know how life can be sweet sometimes with oblivion so near.
A patient and wise man meditates, waits in his cubicle, keyboard at hand.
Oh, you so eager to teach: I want to learn how to ask the right question.
|
| Posted by casimira on Nov 24, 2009, 3:48am |
very inspiring lola,thanks.  |
| Posted by bixaorellana on Nov 29, 2009, 4:44pm |
| Lovely and thoughtful, Lola. Thank you. |
| Posted by lola on Dec 5, 2009, 3:05pm |
Snow falls on Alabama,
and Casimira's town has sleet.
Last night I got a message:
Firewood delivery this week. |
| Posted by lola on Dec 5, 2009, 3:11pm |
Hannah's taking the SAT this morning,
sitting in a roomful of strangers, pencilling circles.
A timer can count each remaining second,
but nothing can measure my daughter's worth.
|
| Posted by bixaorellana on Dec 5, 2009, 9:14pm |
| You have such a talent for this, Lola -- so succinct and poetic. I love how you compress eighteen years worth of maternal love into four short lines. The first one captures the inevitability of the seasons and scans beautifully, besides. |
| Posted by lola on Dec 7, 2009, 4:40pm |
| Ambitious to get on The Scroll = me. |
| Posted by kerouac2 on Dec 7, 2009, 5:49pm |
Yesterday afternoon I went to the clinic
since you have to see the anesthesiolgist first.
Wednesday's child is full of woe.
The clinic has a door and a service exit. |
| Posted by lola on Dec 7, 2009, 7:07pm |
| Lots of succint and poetic there, not to mention pathos. Sorry, k, in case this is an autobiographic poem. |
| Posted by lola on Dec 22, 2009, 3:33am |
Someone said once that sex is the opposite of death;
Or was it love that is? No, he must have said sex.
I don't really understand the poignant Donne poem,
But I feel that love is not the opposite of anything. |
| Posted by spindrift on Dec 23, 2009, 4:47pm |
| or was it that an orgasm is a little death? |
| Posted by lola on Dec 23, 2009, 7:57pm |
Okay, I looked it up:
In Streetcar named Desire, Blanche tells Mitch that desire is the opposite of death. Tennessee W. was an interesting character. I'd like to read his collected letters, published fairly recently; the excerpts I heard read on NPR were frank, funny, poetic. |
| Posted by bixaorellana on Dec 27, 2009, 4:34pm |
| No transferring anything to the scroll until I get back home -- sorry. |
| Posted by lola on Dec 27, 2009, 6:55pm |
| I would rather share scroll with many more other poets anyway. Let no one call me a scroll hog. |
| Posted by bixaorellana on Dec 27, 2009, 7:07pm |
| We shan't. |
| Posted by kerouac2 on Dec 31, 2009, 11:54am |
The old year creeps away leaning on its cane.
Friendless and alone it disappears in the mist.
What's all that noise and brightness coming our way?
Is it the apocalypse or just new year's merrymakers?
|
| Posted by casimira on Dec 31, 2009, 12:45pm |
The bright golden light of year's end
Now,faded,diminished and gray.
She tends her garden of flowers.
They know not the loss of her light. |
| Posted by casimira on Jan 2, 2010, 11:21am |
Sleepless in my bed I lie.
Moonlight gently creeps in.
Soon the sun's early glow
Merges into the new day. |
| Posted by kerouac2 on Jan 2, 2010, 7:59pm |
A friend returned from Brazil today
Enthusiastic about the wonders he had seen
A little girl just spent a horrible holiday season
Her mother refused to answer calls from Brazil |
| Posted by spindrift on Jan 2, 2010, 11:32pm |
The earth is frozen, silent and still,
Earthworms comatose, moles asleep,
Cosily she reads the catalogue, deciding,
This summer sweetpeas scramble up trees. |
| Posted by lola on Jan 3, 2010, 1:59am |
| Nice, all. |
| Posted by bixaorellana on Jan 3, 2010, 7:56am |
What wonderful, contemplative poems from everyone.
Spindrift, your poem is a jewel, from the gentle surprise of the comatose earthworms and slumbering moles, to the "development of the plot", to that final exquisite line. |
| Posted by spindrift on Jan 4, 2010, 10:51am |
Thanks Bixa...the earth seems so dead now. Evergreen plants are frozen and bowed over but I know they will spring into life; and I recall the warm sun on my face on summer mornings and know that it's only a matter of a few months before I feel it again. Only sleeping, not dead  |
| Posted by kerouac2 on Feb 18, 2010, 9:49pm |
Winter clutches the stiff ground
Sending ice down through its claws
Beautiful flakes dance in the sky
Contradicting the cruelty of the season |
| Posted by bixaorellana on Feb 19, 2010, 5:09pm |
| Wow, Kerouac ~~ I could actually see a late afternoon winter's day, with hunched-shouldered people scurrying home from work, and one or two of them glancing up to see the snowflakes glitter as the streetlights come on. |
| Posted by lola on Feb 24, 2010, 11:56pm |
Disperse your collections, you amassers of precious things,
You hoarders and estate builders, while there's still time.
The old man next door died the other day,
Still clutching, intact, his set of antique grudge. |
| Posted by bixaorellana on Feb 25, 2010, 2:11am |
| Love it, just love it, Lola! |
| Posted by kerouac2 on Feb 25, 2010, 9:30am |
| Excellent, Lola! |
| Posted by kimby on Feb 25, 2010, 5:43pm |
Dec 23, 2009, 4:47pm, spindrift wrote:| or was it that an orgasm is a little death? |
|
I believe SLEEP is le petit mort no?
|
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