| |
| |
|
Poetry Information |
|
Ocean Heal Me
Ocean Heal Me Ocean heal my wounds Ocean renew me with your power Ocean keep me warm Ocean disperse my tears Ocean let me grow in your depths Ocean your spray anoints me Ocean be my friend Ocean, heal me. © 1983 Susan Bacon Susan Bacon is a researcher, author and teacher. You can contact her through http://www.ecoentrepreneur.org
MORE RESOURCES: Unable to open RSS Feed $XMLfilename with error HTTP ERROR: 404, exiting |
|
|
|
RELATED ARTICLES
Blind Designs [a Poem] and a Note by Rosa on The Other Door Blind DesignsBorn today, gone tomorrowLike a butterfly with no stomachBorn n the morning, dead by nightOh-let me whisperOh-let me cryWhat man has not learned?What man will not learn!In his pomposity, his rhetoric With his abstract conceptsWith his intellectWith his creativenessHe has become enslavedBy-them?By them all, he will fall. Ah! Yes-abstract conceptsBombast and rhetoric His intellectHis clevernessThis he leaves behindTo his decedents!. Four Poems: Grendels Nature...the Racetrack...Counting days...[Now in English and Spanish] English Version1) Grendel's DivorceYou must know that I do not hateAnd that I hate you,Because everything dead has twoSides;A sound is one arm of the quiet,Ice has its warm half.I hate you in order to start hating youTo begin life againAnd never to stop hating you:That is why I do not hate you yet. Mechanical Poetry; Part Two What do you do when you want to write poetry? I hope your answer is "I start writing." Even writing a bad poem is better than waiting for the "right words. Three Poems [Lima; Judges and Evils Creation] 1.Evil's CreationThou knowith evil clingsTo tender peace-;Nor does it heed one's drowsyUn-enthralled grief?But softly it darkens Twilight's dunes-;With sprinkling shadowsStraight from the moon. Article on Poetry and Two Poems Writing Poetry for TomorrowWhat does a man need to be a poet, or tomorrow's literary giant? Questions many a student has asked, from Harvard all the way to the community college in one's hometown. What is the answer? Well, I can give you mine, and I'm sure if you asked a hundred writers, or a hundred scholars, you'd get two hundred different answers. THe Monster Mash, A Graveyard SMASH (short story I wrote when I was 11) The Monster Mash The Graveyard SmashHave you heard of the Monster Mash? I suppose you know the story of how it came to be, right? Well, I'm here to tell the TRUE story to you.It sarted out late one night, when all monsters where out of human sight. Expressing an Emotion - The Art of Writing Poetry Writing poetry is an art, a way of expression, finding meaning in few words. A melody of passion flowing out onto the pages, words that flow into each other and yet express the inner most thoughts and feelings of those who read the words. I Saw the Universe I can see the cerulean blue of the skiesOr the indigo of the nightI can see the stars wink, the grin of the moonDuring the changes of it's monthly face**I am in awe**I see the sun on it's annual trekAlternately awakening the life in the earthAnd then fading away to allow it to sleepUntil the next spring**I am told the Universe is "out there"Beyond those stars, moon and sun,Yet the power of what I can seeIs a fathoming beyond my comprehension**I am in awe**"Out there" no time, no seasons passNo sense of age, hatred or loss existOnly the infinity0f the Universe**What IS "out there"?What IS the Universe that has no end?What IS the power that creates all this?I want to see it too**And then I remember.. I Shall Wait... I Shall Wait.. Here And There My eyes opened. I am still alive;Living on planet earth. Death & the Supernatural: Poetry/Five Poems Supernatural PoetryHere are five poems,-what I call-death and supernatural poems. Perhaps a bit bizarre, a few stanzas may be, but with unfailing subtlety of course, and a ting of acuteness, but we have to hag on if we want a good ride:1. Write Your Way to Fame Have you ever thought about how nice it would be to see your poem discussed in the New York Times? Think you have what it takes to become a famous poet? Well the unfortunate truth is that no one has what it takes to be a famous poet. Here's a little exercise: Name the most famous contemporary poet you can think of. Tsunami Day A Poem - By Lorraine KemberIt was a day like any other and mother, father, sister, brother, were carrying out the customs of their land.When suddenly without warning, Mother Nature came calling,shook the earth and stole the ocean from the sand. I Hate The Wait (Weight) I get up in the morningAnd want to stay in bedOh, so nice and warmLike fresh from the oven bread.My day is oh so busyI wish that I could stayIn the quiet of my houseIf only I could play. Life is a Fantasy LIFE IS A FANTASY!A pink-eyed rabbit, fuzzy whiteHops in bedrooms filled with frightA child of six with much to knowHer father's basest feelings showShe knows of LOVE, only through himHe satisfies his every whimHe leaves, she wipes himfrom her chin!Her mother NEEDS to see the bestHe answered her God requestTo have a roof to comfort bringA yard where all the birdies singTell me how she could really knowWhat source for learning could she go?Her mother regularly beaten if not worseThe cycle of violence - a woman's curseConflicting visions, dependenciesOne can endure many idiosyncrasiesShe could not make him defendant beDenial, avoidance? she disbelievesThe rabbit hides beneath tall trees.At thirteen a step-grandfatha'Finds a well-trained girl that oughta'Do what powerful men requestNever knowing what is bestAnd run away she does at lastFreedom can be such a 'blast'A rabbit's foot upon a chainThe FANTASY her 'safe' domainHow long in life must it remain?To protect her from these menWho always for her lips, do 'yen'A state trooper in Tennessee Like every other man does see Her lips so full and luscious red Through the bars, not in a bed. Never Ever More Once upon a midnight dreary, coffee cold and vision bleary, all night sat there writing COBOL, coding spread across the bed sheets, changing syntax for the mainframe,having checked my final line, I took the floppy from the drive.Typing with a steady hand,I then invoked the SAVE command,but there below my effectuation,appeared the cryptic communication,"Abort, Retry, Ignore" and nothing more. Kens Poem How wonderfully sweet to be a dwellerdwelling on the road of goodbye.Bittersweet tears fall as I thinkof all the places I'll never see,all the faces I'll never know,all the joys I'll never share,as I head for the unknown. A Hundred and Fifty Dead [Korean War--l952] There I sat, ninety-five degree weatherOutside; the bookstore café, was cool.An Old Timer stood by me, explaining:"There were two-hundred of us on the Island,Near North Korea, back in '52-We guarded 16,000-prisners?"All of a sudden, all hell broke looseThree-hundred North Koreans cameOver the bob-wired fence, in pursuit"It all happened in a matter of secondsThe machineguns killed 150-of themThat's all I saw in the war of '52. Its What She Didnt Say When I hear your voice inside my head it makes me think of you every single day as I fight back tears of sadness and wonder if you're okayMy life is empty without you I wish time would take away the pain but the ache in my heart persists and my simple hopes seem in vainI realize how much I hurt you and now I know it's too late to tell you how sorry I am and expect you not to hateI don't deserve a second chance to show you how much I care when you needed me the most I know I failed to be thereNow your trust in me is gone forever and I will never have the chance to say I really hope your dreams come true and happiness finds you every dayI would give almost anything in life if I could go back to that day and erase everything I said and did to make your heartache go awayWhat hurts the most is this is what you didn't say and the absence of these words haunt me each and every day.. San Francisco [Almost a Sonnet] (The city by the bay of Northern California, near which the Pacific Ocean resides; the year is 1967)Mid October seemed like some spring day,When through the poised waters, dry as lead, The ferry, like vague shadows that stand the dead,Slipped down the curved coast of Frisco bay,Rounded the Golden Gate,-and San Francisco lay,Before me, that gay city, pink and red,Hippies covered Haigh Asbury's homeless head,-My home, to be, I found stirring and grey.The waves busted on the wooden-sides; fishermenNearby with long necks, looked and cast again.
|
| home | site map | contact us |