CastingPearls
Go Big Or Go Home
I didn't feel it was resentful either. I loved it. Thanks for posting it.
Favorite Poem?
- Thread starter eightyseven
- Start date
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Remembrance
by Ray Bradbury
And this is where we went, I thought,
Now here, now there, upon the grass
Some forty years ago.
I had returned and walked along the streets
And saw the house where I was born
And grown and had my endless days.
The days being short now, simply I had come
To gaze and look and stare upon
The thought of that once endless maze of afternoons.
But most of all I wished to find the places where I ran
As dogs do run before or after boys,
The paths put down by Indians or brothers wise and swift
Pretending at a tribe.
I came to the ravine.
I half slid down the path
A man with graying hair but seeming supple thoughts
And saw the place was empty.
Fools! I thought. O, boys of this new year,
Why dont you know the Abyss waits you here?
Ravines are special fine and lovely green
And secretive and wandering with apes and thugs
And bandit bees that steal from flowers to give to trees.
Caves echo here and creeks for wading after loot:
A water-strider, crayfish, precious stone
Or long-lost rubber boot --
It is a natural treasure-house, so why the silent place?
Whats happened to our boys that they no longer race
And stand them still to contemplate Christs handiwork:
His clear blood bled in syrups from the lovely wounded trees?
Why only bees and blackbird winds and bending grass?
No matter. Walk. Walk, look, and sweet recall.
I came upon an oak where once when I was twelve
I had climbed up and screamed for Skip to get me down.
It was a thousand miles to earth. I shut my eyes and yelled.
My brother, richly compelled to mirth, gave shouts of laughter
And scaled up to rescue me.
"What were you doing there?" he said.
I did not tell. Rather drop me dead.
But I was there to place a note within a squirrel nest
On which Id written some old secret thing now long forgot.
Now in the green ravine of middle years I stood
Beneath that tree. Why, why, I thought, my God,
Its not so high. Why did I shriek?
It cant be more than fifteen feet above. Ill climb it handily.
And did.
And squatted like an aging ape alone and thanking God
That no one saw this ancient man at antics
Clutched grotesquely to the bole.
But then, ah God, what awe.
The squirrels hole and long-lost nest were there.
I lay upon the limb a long while, thinking.
I drank in all the leaves and clouds and weathers
Going by as mindless
As the days.
What, what, what if? I thought. But no. Some forty years beyond!
The note Id put? Its surely stolen off by now.
A boy or screech-owls pilfered, read, and tattered it.
Its scattered to the lake like pollen, chestnut leaf
Or smoke of dandelion that breaks along the wind of time...
No. No.
I put my hand into the nest. I dug my fingers deep.
Nothing. And still more nothing. Yet digging further
I brought forth:
The note.
Like mothwings neatly powdered on themselves, and folded close
It had survived. No rains had touched, no sunlight bleached
Its stuff. It lay upon my palm. I knew its look:
Ruled paper from an old Sioux Indian Head scribble writing book.
What, what, oh, what had I put there in words
So many years ago?
I opened it. For now I had to know.
I opened it, and wept. I clung then to the tree
And let the tears flow out and down my chin.
Dear boy, strange child, who must have known the years
And reckoned time and smelled sweet death from flowers
In the far churchyard.
It was a message to the future, to myself.
Knowing one day I must arrive, come, seek, return.
From the young one to the old. From the me that was small
And fresh to the me that was large and no longer new.
What did it say that made me weep?
I remember you.
I remember you.
by Ray Bradbury
And this is where we went, I thought,
Now here, now there, upon the grass
Some forty years ago.
I had returned and walked along the streets
And saw the house where I was born
And grown and had my endless days.
The days being short now, simply I had come
To gaze and look and stare upon
The thought of that once endless maze of afternoons.
But most of all I wished to find the places where I ran
As dogs do run before or after boys,
The paths put down by Indians or brothers wise and swift
Pretending at a tribe.
I came to the ravine.
I half slid down the path
A man with graying hair but seeming supple thoughts
And saw the place was empty.
Fools! I thought. O, boys of this new year,
Why dont you know the Abyss waits you here?
Ravines are special fine and lovely green
And secretive and wandering with apes and thugs
And bandit bees that steal from flowers to give to trees.
Caves echo here and creeks for wading after loot:
A water-strider, crayfish, precious stone
Or long-lost rubber boot --
It is a natural treasure-house, so why the silent place?
Whats happened to our boys that they no longer race
And stand them still to contemplate Christs handiwork:
His clear blood bled in syrups from the lovely wounded trees?
Why only bees and blackbird winds and bending grass?
No matter. Walk. Walk, look, and sweet recall.
I came upon an oak where once when I was twelve
I had climbed up and screamed for Skip to get me down.
It was a thousand miles to earth. I shut my eyes and yelled.
My brother, richly compelled to mirth, gave shouts of laughter
And scaled up to rescue me.
"What were you doing there?" he said.
I did not tell. Rather drop me dead.
But I was there to place a note within a squirrel nest
On which Id written some old secret thing now long forgot.
Now in the green ravine of middle years I stood
Beneath that tree. Why, why, I thought, my God,
Its not so high. Why did I shriek?
It cant be more than fifteen feet above. Ill climb it handily.
And did.
And squatted like an aging ape alone and thanking God
That no one saw this ancient man at antics
Clutched grotesquely to the bole.
But then, ah God, what awe.
The squirrels hole and long-lost nest were there.
I lay upon the limb a long while, thinking.
I drank in all the leaves and clouds and weathers
Going by as mindless
As the days.
What, what, what if? I thought. But no. Some forty years beyond!
The note Id put? Its surely stolen off by now.
A boy or screech-owls pilfered, read, and tattered it.
Its scattered to the lake like pollen, chestnut leaf
Or smoke of dandelion that breaks along the wind of time...
No. No.
I put my hand into the nest. I dug my fingers deep.
Nothing. And still more nothing. Yet digging further
I brought forth:
The note.
Like mothwings neatly powdered on themselves, and folded close
It had survived. No rains had touched, no sunlight bleached
Its stuff. It lay upon my palm. I knew its look:
Ruled paper from an old Sioux Indian Head scribble writing book.
What, what, oh, what had I put there in words
So many years ago?
I opened it. For now I had to know.
I opened it, and wept. I clung then to the tree
And let the tears flow out and down my chin.
Dear boy, strange child, who must have known the years
And reckoned time and smelled sweet death from flowers
In the far churchyard.
It was a message to the future, to myself.
Knowing one day I must arrive, come, seek, return.
From the young one to the old. From the me that was small
And fresh to the me that was large and no longer new.
What did it say that made me weep?
I remember you.
I remember you.
Jim Miller
Well-Known Member
From the songs of Tom Bombadil:
Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow,
Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.
None has ever caught him yet, for Tom, he is the master:
His songs are stronger songs, and his feet are faster.
From Emily Dickinson:
A WORD is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.
Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow,
Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.
None has ever caught him yet, for Tom, he is the master:
His songs are stronger songs, and his feet are faster.
From Emily Dickinson:
A WORD is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.
bbwlibrarian
possibly revolutionary
Resurrecting this thread, in lieu of making a new one.
I've just discovered (rediscovered?) the poetry of Adrienne Rich, and I'm loving it. Here's what I'm digging so far:
"A Valediction Forbidding Mourning"
My swirling wants. Your frozen lips.
The grammar turned and attacked me.
Themes, written under duress.
Emptiness of the notations.
They gave me a drug that slowed the healing of wounds.
I want you to see this before I leave:
the experience of repetition as death
the failure of criticism to locate the pain
the poster in the bus that said:
my bleeding is under control.
A red plant in a cemetery of plastic wreaths.
A last attempt: the language is a dialect called metaphor.
These images go unglossed: hair, glacier, flashlight.
When I think of a landscape I am thinking of a time.
When I talk of taking a trip I mean forever.
I could say: those mountains have a meaning
but further than that I could not say.
To do something very common, in my own way.
"Living in Sin"
She had thought the studio would keep itself;
no dust upon the furniture of love.
Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,
the panes relieved of grime. A plate of pears,
a piano with a Persian shawl, a cat
stalking the picturesque amusing mouse
had risen at his urging.
Not that at five each separate stair would writhe
under the milkman's tramp; that morning light
so coldly would delineate the scraps
of last night's cheese and three sepulchral bottles;
that on the kitchen shelf among the saucers
a pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own---
envoy from some village in the moldings . . .
Meanwhile, he, with a yawn,
sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard,
declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror,
rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes;
while she, jeered by the minor demons,
pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found
a towel to dust the table-top,
and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove.
By evening she was back in love again,
though not so wholly but throughout the night
she woke sometimes to feel the daylight coming
like a relentless milkman up the stairs.
I've just discovered (rediscovered?) the poetry of Adrienne Rich, and I'm loving it. Here's what I'm digging so far:
"A Valediction Forbidding Mourning"
My swirling wants. Your frozen lips.
The grammar turned and attacked me.
Themes, written under duress.
Emptiness of the notations.
They gave me a drug that slowed the healing of wounds.
I want you to see this before I leave:
the experience of repetition as death
the failure of criticism to locate the pain
the poster in the bus that said:
my bleeding is under control.
A red plant in a cemetery of plastic wreaths.
A last attempt: the language is a dialect called metaphor.
These images go unglossed: hair, glacier, flashlight.
When I think of a landscape I am thinking of a time.
When I talk of taking a trip I mean forever.
I could say: those mountains have a meaning
but further than that I could not say.
To do something very common, in my own way.
"Living in Sin"
She had thought the studio would keep itself;
no dust upon the furniture of love.
Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,
the panes relieved of grime. A plate of pears,
a piano with a Persian shawl, a cat
stalking the picturesque amusing mouse
had risen at his urging.
Not that at five each separate stair would writhe
under the milkman's tramp; that morning light
so coldly would delineate the scraps
of last night's cheese and three sepulchral bottles;
that on the kitchen shelf among the saucers
a pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own---
envoy from some village in the moldings . . .
Meanwhile, he, with a yawn,
sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard,
declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror,
rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes;
while she, jeered by the minor demons,
pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found
a towel to dust the table-top,
and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove.
By evening she was back in love again,
though not so wholly but throughout the night
she woke sometimes to feel the daylight coming
like a relentless milkman up the stairs.
dharmabean
♥ ɢrÃ¥тıтuɗɛ
I LOOK AT YOUNG GIRLS NOW
jewel kilcher
I look at young girls now
in their tight crushed velour
skin tight sky blue
hip huggers with the baby doll
tank tops
and I think
I've been there.
God, have I been there.
Sixteen years old and
wrestling with an overwhelming
newfound sexuality.
Parading it in all its
raw and awkward charm.
I had a pair of vintage
burgundy velvet short-shorts
that laced up
the sides
from the 1920s
and I wore them
with a tight leotard
and plastic faux pearl
choker
showing off all my lanky
leggy blossoming
youth on the verge
of womanhood for all the
free world to see
with no idea how to keep
a secret, especially my own.
jewel kilcher
I look at young girls now
in their tight crushed velour
skin tight sky blue
hip huggers with the baby doll
tank tops
and I think
I've been there.
God, have I been there.
Sixteen years old and
wrestling with an overwhelming
newfound sexuality.
Parading it in all its
raw and awkward charm.
I had a pair of vintage
burgundy velvet short-shorts
that laced up
the sides
from the 1920s
and I wore them
with a tight leotard
and plastic faux pearl
choker
showing off all my lanky
leggy blossoming
youth on the verge
of womanhood for all the
free world to see
with no idea how to keep
a secret, especially my own.
bbwlibrarian
possibly revolutionary
Appropriate for this forum: the incomparable late, great Lucille Clifton reads "homage to my hips."
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost 18741963
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
By Robert Frost 18741963
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
bbwlibrarian
possibly revolutionary
I normally think of Erica Jong as a prose writer (her excellent "Isadora Wing" books being foremost in my mind--Fear of Flying, most notably), but I've been digging some of her poetry lately. She's not as skillful as, say, Anne Sexton, but I do enjoy some of her work.
"Aclestis on the Poetry Circuit"
The best slave
does not need to be beaten.
She beats herself.
Not with a leather whip,
or with stick or twigs,
not with a blackjack
or a billyclub,
but with the fine whip
of her own tongue
& the subtle beating
of her mind
against her mind.
For who can hate her half so well
as she hates herself?
& who can match the finesse
of her self-abuse?
Years of training
are required for this.
Twenty years
of subtle self-indulgence,
self-denial;
until the subject
thinks herself a queen
& yet a beggar --
both at the same time.
She must doubt herself
in everything but love.
She must choose passionately
& badly.
She must feel lost as a dog
without her master.
She must refer all moral questions
to her mirror.
She must fall in love with a cossack
or a poet.
She must never go out of the house
unless veiled in paint.
She must wear tight shoes
so she always remembers her bondage.
She must never forget
she is rooted in the ground.
Though she is quick to learn
& admittedly clever,
her natural doubt of herself
should make her so weak
that she dabbles brilliantly
in half a dozen talents
& thus embellishes
but does not change
our life.
If she's an artist
& comes close to genius,
the very fact of her gift
should cause her such pain
that she will take her own life
rather than best us.
& after she dies, we will cry
& make her a saint.
"Becoming a Nun"
On cold days
it is easy to be reasonable,
to button the mouth against kisses,
dust the breasts
with talcum powder
& forget
the red pulp meat
of the heart.
On those days
it beats
like a digital clock--
not a beat at all
but a steady whirring
chilly as green neon,
luminous as numerals in the dark,
cool as electricity.
& I think:
I can live without it all--
love with its blood pump,
sex with its messy hungers,
men with their peacock strutting,
their silly sexual baggage,
their wet tongues in my ear
& their words like little sugar suckers
with sour centers.
On such days
I am zipped in my body suit,
I am wearing seven league red suede boots,
I am marching over the cobblestones
as if they were the heads of men,
& I am happy
as a seven-year-old virgin
holding Daddy's hand.
Don't touch.
Don't try to tempt me with your ripe persimmons.
Don't threaten me with your volcano.
The sky is clearer when I'm not in heat,
& the poems
are colder.
"Aclestis on the Poetry Circuit"
The best slave
does not need to be beaten.
She beats herself.
Not with a leather whip,
or with stick or twigs,
not with a blackjack
or a billyclub,
but with the fine whip
of her own tongue
& the subtle beating
of her mind
against her mind.
For who can hate her half so well
as she hates herself?
& who can match the finesse
of her self-abuse?
Years of training
are required for this.
Twenty years
of subtle self-indulgence,
self-denial;
until the subject
thinks herself a queen
& yet a beggar --
both at the same time.
She must doubt herself
in everything but love.
She must choose passionately
& badly.
She must feel lost as a dog
without her master.
She must refer all moral questions
to her mirror.
She must fall in love with a cossack
or a poet.
She must never go out of the house
unless veiled in paint.
She must wear tight shoes
so she always remembers her bondage.
She must never forget
she is rooted in the ground.
Though she is quick to learn
& admittedly clever,
her natural doubt of herself
should make her so weak
that she dabbles brilliantly
in half a dozen talents
& thus embellishes
but does not change
our life.
If she's an artist
& comes close to genius,
the very fact of her gift
should cause her such pain
that she will take her own life
rather than best us.
& after she dies, we will cry
& make her a saint.
"Becoming a Nun"
On cold days
it is easy to be reasonable,
to button the mouth against kisses,
dust the breasts
with talcum powder
& forget
the red pulp meat
of the heart.
On those days
it beats
like a digital clock--
not a beat at all
but a steady whirring
chilly as green neon,
luminous as numerals in the dark,
cool as electricity.
& I think:
I can live without it all--
love with its blood pump,
sex with its messy hungers,
men with their peacock strutting,
their silly sexual baggage,
their wet tongues in my ear
& their words like little sugar suckers
with sour centers.
On such days
I am zipped in my body suit,
I am wearing seven league red suede boots,
I am marching over the cobblestones
as if they were the heads of men,
& I am happy
as a seven-year-old virgin
holding Daddy's hand.
Don't touch.
Don't try to tempt me with your ripe persimmons.
Don't threaten me with your volcano.
The sky is clearer when I'm not in heat,
& the poems
are colder.
Mishty
aluminum petunia
Friends -
I told my kids about an outing long ago, in which I induced a friend to come out early in the morning to see the five visible planets all lined up in the sky. Grouching and complaining, she did come out to see them, and was delighted. Later, she sent me this poem.
Like the sign at Caribou Coffee, "If you want to experience life, you have to stay awake for it."
Ho Ho Tai
Summons
Robert Francis
Keep me from going to sleep too soon
Or if I go to sleep too soon
Come wake me up. Come any hour
Of night. Come whistling up the road.
Stomp on the porch. Bang on the door.
Make me get out of bed and come
And let you in and light a light.
Tell me the northern lights are on
And make me look. Or tell me clouds
Are doing something to the moon
They never did before, and show me.
See that I see. Talk to me till
Im half as wide awake as you
And start to dress wondering why
I ever went to bed at all.
Tell me the walking is superb.
Not only tell me but persuade me.
You know Im not too hard persuaded.
I told my kids about an outing long ago, in which I induced a friend to come out early in the morning to see the five visible planets all lined up in the sky. Grouching and complaining, she did come out to see them, and was delighted. Later, she sent me this poem.
Like the sign at Caribou Coffee, "If you want to experience life, you have to stay awake for it."
Ho Ho Tai
Summons
Robert Francis
Keep me from going to sleep too soon
Or if I go to sleep too soon
Come wake me up. Come any hour
Of night. Come whistling up the road.
Stomp on the porch. Bang on the door.
Make me get out of bed and come
And let you in and light a light.
Tell me the northern lights are on
And make me look. Or tell me clouds
Are doing something to the moon
They never did before, and show me.
See that I see. Talk to me till
Im half as wide awake as you
And start to dress wondering why
I ever went to bed at all.
Tell me the walking is superb.
Not only tell me but persuade me.
You know Im not too hard persuaded.
At last - together again! All five planets visible to the naked eye are once again visible.
EarthSky // Astronomy Essentials, Science
Release Date: Jan 27, 2016
See 5 bright planets at once!
EarthSky // Astronomy Essentials, Science
Release Date: Jan 27, 2016
See 5 bright planets at once!
Been wanting to contribute something here for a while now, particularly this one that always seems to come to mind reflecting on how people inevitably float on out of our lives, although-still are never really ever quite gone. It's kind of long, so just bear with me; especially as maybe now it says something about this place as well, for some of you:
My fav for over 20 years
by e e cummings
......................
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
Yesterday was the 28th anniversary of the day that "she and I knew that we would be 'us'" - almost, but not quite, an engagement, but a moment of understanding that opened the door to the rest of our lives.
Not long after that, I devised the patterns for the tee shirts shown below, and had the shirts made up. It's a bit difficult to read but one shirt shows me peeping out the window of a heart-shaped little house. It has the caption "Annie's [Mrs Ho Ho's] heart, Bobby's house." The other is just the reverse. We pull them out occasionally and wear them - and yesterday was one of those days. I wish I could post the picture of us, together, wearing the shirts but that's a no-no.
It seems like the perfect complement to the cummings poem and a legitimate way to re-boot this wonderful thread.
View attachment heart shirts IMG_0994.jpg
Friends - I hope you don't mind my booting this thread yet one more time. I had occasion to share this with a friend and decided it would be new, and of interest, to many of you as well. My co-poet, Marsha Menard, was a beloved regular here years ago, who died in an effort to accomplish feats beyond her abilities. Would that this could be said of me some day.
With this preface, I sent it to my older son when he turned 40 (he of the hand-walking and pink flamingos).
The Big 40!
No, not mine, nor Mrs Ho Ho's either. I ran across something I sent to my oldest son a few years ago, when he turned 40. I post a modified version of it here, for whatever humor or wisdom it may contain.
"So - 40. Looking back, as I approached 40, I had just left one company and started with another. I had those anticipations and trepidations that, finally, I had to stop the denial and acknowledge that I was no longer a kid. I had entered the world of adulthood.
That feeling must have lasted a good six months.
If you are also facing running headlong into that wall, I know that - if you have led a well-balanced life - you NEVER really reach adulthood, at least, in the sense of leaving childhood behind. You acquire adult behaviors, you build on the sense of responsibility to yourself and others that has carried you this far. (If you didn't have some of that already, you wouldn't have made it.)
I don't know if I sent you the pair of poems, both entitled "Ice Blocking" that I wrote together with an on-line friend. If not (and even if I have) I'll send them to you. They got published in a local paper. But, given your re-developed talent for walking around the block on your hands, and inflicting the neighbor with a plague of pink flamingos, I think you have already 'gotten' this message.
I think I will append the poems here. The cap-and-bells icon is one I used on a bulletin board where I 'met' Marsha, the author of the first of the pair. Sadly, she died recently (circa 2006), the result of pneumonia acquired while attempting an endurance feat well beyond her capacity."
Dad
Ice Blocking
Marsha Menard (R.I.P)
A huge block of party ice, and one towel.
A semi-steep slope covered in recently-watered grass
It smells so sweet, looks so green, looks so perfect.
I plop the ice upon the top of the slope,
Sliding the ice a little to get it ready.
I cover the ice with a towel so that it does not stick to my butt. I sit, raising my legs, balancing on the big block of ice. "Wheeeeeee!" I shout joyfully as I summer-toboggan down the slope ice melting sliding slipping me off rolling at the bottom giggling hands and feet flying in the air as I bounce here and there upon the grass the ice zooming ahead of me.
I stand up catching my bearings laughing at myself and the supremely childish fun I'm having.
I catch up to the block of ice, and pull it by the towel that is now half frozen to it. I pull the ice back up the hill, feet happy, heart racing, and ready to slide again and again, to my heart's content, merrily crashing at the bottom of the grassy slope, eager to go again and again and again and again.
The ice melts slowly, eventually it is time to go. I am forced once more to become an adult again. "sigh"
Ice Blocking (the child you leave behind)
Ho Ho Tai
"Grow up!" my mother often said,
"Leave childish ways behind!"
I did grow up, or tall at least,
With longer legs, horizons to reach.
I walked too fast, and for a time,
I left my little child behind.
I had a long, hard run,
Horizons still just out of reach.
But now, I'm old and slow, you see,
And my child has caught up with me.
The one who runs through sprinklers
As we did the other day,
Or lugs an ice block up a hill
And slides down all the way (I wish I'd thought of that)
Moms are always right, I know.
(At least, in their own mind.)
But NO adult can be complete
Who leaves their child behind.
Ho Ho Tai (written a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away)
Marsha, I have a feeling that resting in peace is not what you are up to. I thought I got a glimpse of you sliding down a cloud.
__________________
Ho Ho Tai
"The greatest wisdom: Love and Laughter, Inter-twined."
With this preface, I sent it to my older son when he turned 40 (he of the hand-walking and pink flamingos).
The Big 40!
No, not mine, nor Mrs Ho Ho's either. I ran across something I sent to my oldest son a few years ago, when he turned 40. I post a modified version of it here, for whatever humor or wisdom it may contain.
"So - 40. Looking back, as I approached 40, I had just left one company and started with another. I had those anticipations and trepidations that, finally, I had to stop the denial and acknowledge that I was no longer a kid. I had entered the world of adulthood.
That feeling must have lasted a good six months.
If you are also facing running headlong into that wall, I know that - if you have led a well-balanced life - you NEVER really reach adulthood, at least, in the sense of leaving childhood behind. You acquire adult behaviors, you build on the sense of responsibility to yourself and others that has carried you this far. (If you didn't have some of that already, you wouldn't have made it.)
I don't know if I sent you the pair of poems, both entitled "Ice Blocking" that I wrote together with an on-line friend. If not (and even if I have) I'll send them to you. They got published in a local paper. But, given your re-developed talent for walking around the block on your hands, and inflicting the neighbor with a plague of pink flamingos, I think you have already 'gotten' this message.
I think I will append the poems here. The cap-and-bells icon is one I used on a bulletin board where I 'met' Marsha, the author of the first of the pair. Sadly, she died recently (circa 2006), the result of pneumonia acquired while attempting an endurance feat well beyond her capacity."
Dad
Ice Blocking
Marsha Menard (R.I.P)
A huge block of party ice, and one towel.
A semi-steep slope covered in recently-watered grass
It smells so sweet, looks so green, looks so perfect.
I plop the ice upon the top of the slope,
Sliding the ice a little to get it ready.
I cover the ice with a towel so that it does not stick to my butt. I sit, raising my legs, balancing on the big block of ice. "Wheeeeeee!" I shout joyfully as I summer-toboggan down the slope ice melting sliding slipping me off rolling at the bottom giggling hands and feet flying in the air as I bounce here and there upon the grass the ice zooming ahead of me.
I stand up catching my bearings laughing at myself and the supremely childish fun I'm having.
I catch up to the block of ice, and pull it by the towel that is now half frozen to it. I pull the ice back up the hill, feet happy, heart racing, and ready to slide again and again, to my heart's content, merrily crashing at the bottom of the grassy slope, eager to go again and again and again and again.
The ice melts slowly, eventually it is time to go. I am forced once more to become an adult again. "sigh"
Ice Blocking (the child you leave behind)
Ho Ho Tai
"Grow up!" my mother often said,
"Leave childish ways behind!"
I did grow up, or tall at least,
With longer legs, horizons to reach.
I walked too fast, and for a time,
I left my little child behind.
I had a long, hard run,
Horizons still just out of reach.
But now, I'm old and slow, you see,
And my child has caught up with me.
The one who runs through sprinklers
As we did the other day,
Or lugs an ice block up a hill
And slides down all the way (I wish I'd thought of that)
Moms are always right, I know.
(At least, in their own mind.)
But NO adult can be complete
Who leaves their child behind.
Ho Ho Tai (written a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away)
Marsha, I have a feeling that resting in peace is not what you are up to. I thought I got a glimpse of you sliding down a cloud.
__________________
Ho Ho Tai
"The greatest wisdom: Love and Laughter, Inter-twined."
moore2me
Lions don't need to spank
Dear Esteemed Master of the English Language (AKA Ho Ho Ta),
I have missed you & your handler (Ms Ho Ho). I bet you thought I had become a zealot or joined a cult. No, not again . . . been there, done that. I don't think the Amish will let me in again (long story) and Tony Alamo's is supposed to be shut down. I now where they live in Arkansas and the roads are still closed to the public. After all they did make some outrageously beautiful jackets.
I couldn't resist responding to your poems in your last few quotes to this thread. If you want my advice (no person with normal sanity would), I will hold back . . . would want to inflate a senior citizen's vanity. After all, it only makes them worse (or that's what they tell me). A few words of warning . . . Someone showed me how to count the number of words in a document using Word. The epic poems in your last post were 807, I know you can top that . . . so can I. Just thought you'd want to know that the younger Dimmers are watching and the machines can count now.
Will talk more later. I bet your mailbox is still full and not taking anymore posts.
Love (and I don't say that to many people), :kiss2:
M2M
moore2me
I have missed you & your handler (Ms Ho Ho). I bet you thought I had become a zealot or joined a cult. No, not again . . . been there, done that. I don't think the Amish will let me in again (long story) and Tony Alamo's is supposed to be shut down. I now where they live in Arkansas and the roads are still closed to the public. After all they did make some outrageously beautiful jackets.
I couldn't resist responding to your poems in your last few quotes to this thread. If you want my advice (no person with normal sanity would), I will hold back . . . would want to inflate a senior citizen's vanity. After all, it only makes them worse (or that's what they tell me). A few words of warning . . . Someone showed me how to count the number of words in a document using Word. The epic poems in your last post were 807, I know you can top that . . . so can I. Just thought you'd want to know that the younger Dimmers are watching and the machines can count now.
Will talk more later. I bet your mailbox is still full and not taking anymore posts.
Love (and I don't say that to many people), :kiss2:
M2M
moore2me
Moore to Me -
I had to bump this thread because I can't live without poetry (and this thread) any more than I can live without love (and thanks for yours. Dear Lady).
I don't really have a poem for you at the moment, but I can say that Mrs. Ho Ho and I are still very much in love as we approach our 28th year together. Our hearts still beat to the same meter, as our souls fill in the words. As I approach 80 y.o., nothing will ever match that gift.
I had to bump this thread because I can't live without poetry (and this thread) any more than I can live without love (and thanks for yours. Dear Lady).
I don't really have a poem for you at the moment, but I can say that Mrs. Ho Ho and I are still very much in love as we approach our 28th year together. Our hearts still beat to the same meter, as our souls fill in the words. As I approach 80 y.o., nothing will ever match that gift.
"Books are keys to wisdom's treasure.
Books are gate to lands of pleasure.
Books are paths that upward lead.
Books are friends -- come, let us read."
--Emilie Poulson
Books are gate to lands of pleasure.
Books are paths that upward lead.
Books are friends -- come, let us read."
--Emilie Poulson
My favorite is The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes. I first heard of it back in the 80s when watching Anne of Green Gables with Megan Follows. Singer Loreena McKennitt did a good job turning it into a song years ago...
https://youtu.be/Ixi4jz0Gn4E
https://youtu.be/Ixi4jz0Gn4E
