Sunday, September 25, 2011
During the past couple years I've had the honor and exciting experience of
having a few poems published here and there. Initially I was elated!! I quickly
became so confident that I began submitting works all over the place! Well
Poetry is no different than a book, you either love it, or can't get past the first five pages! There are poets whose poetry I could listen to for hours, and others I don't care to listen to at all! Sometimes it's not the work that isn't worthy of print more so than the person reading it just doesn't feel the same connection -
as in reading a book. Hey...that's ok! Some poems I love are by well known poets and some are from poets not too unlike myself. Some simply fulfilled a life long dream. So why not celebrate them? Which is what I've decided to do. So here is my "SUNDAY OFFERING" A poem, or two, each Sunday.
Some by poets who never thought or even grasp the concept of the world wide web (not in their time!) And, a poem here and there by myself. To share with
friends and family, and those who may connect.
This first poem is from R. Canard - the preface tells the story. There is no other information about the author in the book. It simply reads: The following verses were written by a dear friend now passed away. "sometimes as a relief to a burdened and tried mind, sometimes as pleasant recreation," and were never designed by her for publication; but it is believed these effusions of chastened spirit will find acceptance with her friends as a grateful tribute to her memory. The poet died in West Chester, Pa., April 1st, 1875. Interestingly, inside the book I found an invitation address to a
Gertrude Steiner. It was an invitation to the 'grand opening' of a hat store called Marks Bros. on Tue., April 2nd, 1889. Perhaps this Gertrude may be the wife, or daughter, of the "friend'. I took note of the date on the invitation, which was exactly fourteen years and one day after the poet's death. Hmm, it may be fun
to see where this trail may lead!
Here is the first poem in the book: A tribute to her mother.
To My Mother - on her 83rd Birthday
80 years had come and gone
and two more added to the past
But still thoust journey faintly on
As each day may be thy last
May He, who has prolonged thy stay
And watched thou trembling steps til now,
Guard well the evening of the day,
and smooth thy care worn brow.
And when the messenger shall come
Gentle may he summons be,
And glorious thou final home
There to rejoin the multitudes
That safely on Mount Zion stand,
Clad in their pure and spotless robes
Each one with palm, and harp in hand.
This is a recent poem I've been working on. I really do like writing by
candlelight sometimes...it can be very relaxing. Yet Sometimes the flames will begin to flicker wildly..as if they were expressing their critique!
I write poetry
pen in hand
I scatter words
and seek a simile
no one has heard.
A sudden glow
as fickled flames
in playful manner
and even twice
if I should stammer
I read poetry
in the dark
to a candlelight critic
sometimes a friend
sometimes a cynic.