Tag: Poetry

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Mothers Day Take Five, by Ray S

On Mothers Day
We lock all children far away,
It’s only fair for us to say,
So all those mothers can go out to play.
Do you know what is a limerick?
It must have four linking lines,
And they all have to rhyme,
So if you take the thymes, you have a limerick.
What is hot and certainly arousing?
Many a lass
And boys with that kind of class
That’s what leads to intimate carousing.
There is a cute fellow from Pawtucket,
Who believes he can always luck it
’Til along came Ella,
Who said “No,” to our fella
Not without a raincoat and umbrella.
Until today we were limerick ignorant
To know what that is or why could it be signiforant?
So you find it’s a four line thing that rhymes on its ends
And is a county in Eire where they all talk different.
© 15 May 2017 
About the Author 
  
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Evil, by Pat Gourley

So just to be safe I might advise everyone sitting near me around the table to move to a safer space just in case. The reason for this is that I am beginning this piece on EVIL with a biblical quote and I would not want anyone to be smote by a lightning bolt on account of my atheist ass.

“Anyone, then, who knows the good he ought to do and doesn’t do it, sins.”  James 4:17

Particularly in grades one through eight when I was most intensely in the clutches of the Catholic Church 24/7 it seemed I was steeped in the seemingly endless ways I could sin or do evil. There were two broad categories of sin as I recall, those of “commission” and then those of “omission”. Being a good little Catholic boy I went to confession usually twice a month with the focus of my confessing being almost entirely on my seemingly endless sins of commission. In hindsight it seems that the Church overly focused on actual transgressions rather than on the “omissions”. Or maybe this was a refection of my own internal turmoil generated by the difficulty and shame of confessing to cussing, fighting with siblings or disobeying my parents as opposed to confessing a lack of efforts to help the overseas Catholic Missions save heathen souls with my meager monetary allowance.

To be fair the Church did say that faith alone was not adequate, you need some good works to go along with it. To not perform these acts of goodwill I suppose could be construed as sins of omission. Though I do not remember the emphasis on omissions being nearly as strong as the admonition to keep my hands off of my dick and the resulting emissions.

And of course when I had reached my early adolescent years the thought of confessing to anyone that I was masturbating daily was simply out of the question. That I was thinking about men much older than I when I was engaged in this ‘transgressive commission” was truly beyond the pale, and so began a slow decline into being an agnostic and then a full-blown atheist. I guess playing with oneself is the root of all evil.

To once again quote Ken Wilber’s truthful bromide “no one is wrong 100% of the time” this seems the case for the Catholic Church’s teaching around sins of omission. As I age I realize that I actually commit very few sins but the issue of omission becomes much more relevant and something I am frequently guilty of.

Over the decades I have been attracted to Buddhism primarily the Zen variety. I find their views on good and evil to be a bit more dare I say sophisticated and in line with the complexity that is human behavior. I recently stumbled on a piece written on Good and Evil and posted on the Soka Gakkai International site: http://www.sgi.org/about-us/buddhism-in-daily-life/good-and-evil.html

A short quote from that piece I think has a rather uncomfortable truth to it:

“Every single human being is capable of acts of the most noble good and the basest evil”.

I am also reminded of Thich NhatHanh wonderful poem, Please Call Me By My True Names, and the amazing stanza:

“ I am the twelve year old girl,
refugee on a small boat
who throws herself into the ocean
after being raped by a sea pirate.
And I am the pirate
My heart not yet capable
Of seeing and loving.”

So for me these days I think I am guilty of sins of omission when I am not actively engaging in resistance hopefully through acts of compassion. This does not necessarily only involve political actions, which can have merit but also present traps of their own. Acting compassionately and politically at the same time is often a challenge.

For me it is a sin of omission to not be out marching and demonstrating and certainly not voting. The sins of omission I currently am guilty of though most often involve rather mundane day-to-day activities.

I need to engage more with some of the homeless I encounter daily maybe give them a few bucks, or call a friend for lunch or reach out to an old buddy trying to contact me on Facebook. Perhaps help an older friend get moved out of his apartment or get off my ass and write something and then just show up at Story Telling to listen to what everyone has to share.

© June 2017

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Flowers, by Lewis T

Roses are red;

Violets are blue;

Unless and until

They come into contact

With Lew.


Oh, I do have a green thumb; it’s about the color of swamp water. Laurin was the horticulturist between us. I used to fill the watering can and lift the 20-lb. bags of potting soil. He made the magic happen. When I order flowers online, they usually arrive pre-dead. A year ago, my ex-wife, who knows me well enough to know better, sent me an amaryllis. Somehow, I was able to keep it alive until it had finished blooming. I followed the directions to the letter as to how to “winterize” the bulbs and preserve them for the next blooming season. In early January, I was supposed to replant them and keep them watered until they bloomed again. I still haven’t done that. I’m afraid that they may actually recover and then I would be on the hook to watch over them for another nine months. If anyone would care to lift this burden from me, I would be happy to give them to you.

© 13 February 2017

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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The Opera House, by Ricky

With apologies to Dr. Seuss and Ogden Nash I submit for your reading pleasure (or whatever it turns out to be):

The Opera House

Come inside, Mr. Bird said the mouse
And I will show you what’s inside an opera house.
An opera house has things like stairs,
Elevators and soft cushy chairs,
But don’t sit too long or ushers will stare.

Around the pillars and down the halls
There is more to see behind these walls.
On the stage, there is much to do
Before the productions are finally through.

There are ropes, ladders, and scaffolding galore,
And canvas and cloth and curtains that reach the floor.
With pits for music and trap-doors for exits
Performers must avoid blows to the solar plexus.

In the dressing rooms beyond the stage
Many a Prima Donna hath raged.
Stagehands are waiting in the wings
For the final time the “Fat Lady” sings.

Come on, come on there’s more to see
Let us make haste I have to pee.
From gilded washrooms to golden arches
Patrons patiently check their bejeweled watches
For the time when the curtain will rise
And they can finally sit down and close their eyes.

Talking and snoring are both frowned upon
But then, so is “shushing” someone looked down upon.
An opera house is seldom austere
Many have a large chandelier
Which refracts the light with a tinkling sound,
But gives no warning before crashing to the ground.

Keep moving right along you see
Before that thing comes down on me.
Opera houses oft feel alive,
Where life and death both do thrive.
Some will house a persistent ghost
But only one is more famous than most.

Composers recollected from times long past
Now drift through air where they do bask
In the glow of the product of their life’s task.
No more than this do they ever ask,
That we the living appreciate them so,
Not one is forgotten though dead long ago.

An opera house cannot become a tomb
When so many of us come to fill the room
And keep alive the majestic tradition
Of all the castrati operatic renditions.
Farinelli, Senesino, and others all knew their position;
Was to sing beautiful arias in their unusual condition.

Do you see? Do you see? The pit fills with musicians
And the gilded boxes house the patricians.
So now, Mr. Bird, said the mouse.
You know what there is in an opera house.

Oh, I forgot to mention that it’s about time you knew,
An opera house presents operas too.
Now we must leave this beautiful place
To buy a ticket lest we lose face.
What! All sold out. Don’t fly into a rage.
Remember poor Custard is crying for a nice safe cage.

© 30 October 2011

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Connections, by Ricky

The Earth is a spider-web of connections: gravitational, magnetic, electrical, chemical, mechanical, physical, and metaphysical. We, as Earthlings, maneuver ourselves and navigate these webs without much conscious thought, except for safety (not counting those under the age of 25).
Everyone surely realizes that all of us are connected to something, if only to our electronic devices, or perhaps to our bank accounts, or vehicles, or pets, or relatives if they are lucky and one gets careless. These tend to be emotional connections rather than those I previously listed. One could also make a case that, besides being mostly a bag of water, Earthlings are just a collection of living connections in the manner of the hip bone is connected to the thigh bone, etc.
Everyone has connections. I have connections and not just with my God Father. (Or is that Father God? At my age, I have seen too many movies to keep it straight.) I am connected to my electronic devices and my friends and relatives, living and departed. Through a hobby of genealogy, I stay connected to my forebears and the proverbial three bears. I am even connected to Dr. Seuss’s Tweetle Beetles.
“Let’s have a little talk about tweetle beetles.
When tweetle beetles fight,
it’s called a tweetle beetle battle.
And when they battle in a puddle,
it’s a tweetle beetle puddle battle.
AND when tweetle beetles battle with paddles in a puddle,
they call it a tweetle beetle puddle paddle battle.
AND…
When beetles battle beetles in a puddle paddle battle
and the beetle battle puddle is a puddle in a bottle…
…they call this a tweetle beetle bottle puddle paddle battle muddle.
AND…
When beetles fight these battles in a bottle with their paddles
and the bottle’s on a poodle and the poodle’s eating noodles…
…they call this a muddle puddle tweetle poodle beetle noodle
bottle paddle battle.” From Fox in Sox © by Dr. Seuss
Mayhap my 12-year old persona is connected to Dr. Seuss but it is also connected to Peter Pan. In fact, both of my personas are intimately connected. I know Peter’s favorite place to eat — Wendy’s. Does anyone know Peter better than I? Can you tell me why Peter flies? I know. He flies because he Neverlands.
I feel connected to each of you in our story telling group. Although, some of those connections may have been weakened or broken entirely by the previous trio of juvenile revelry.
I am connected: to the historical past, to those who die tragically in accidents or acts of Satan or acts of man. In other words, I am emotionally connected to everyone to some degree or another. That is why I often cry.
Perhaps the poet John Donne expressed it best (400 years ago) in his poem No Man is an Island.
No man is an island, entire of itself;
every man is a piece of the continent,
a part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less,
as well as if a promontory were,
as well as if a manor of thy friend’s
or of thine own were.
Any man’s death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind;
and therefore never send to know
for whom the bell tolls;
it tolls for thee.
The end of the poem tells us that when we hear the bells ringing that someone has died, we don’t need to ask who it is. It is as if a part of us died as well because we are all connected to each other. Although it seems like a sad poem when one first reads it, understanding the idea of it – that we are all connected and important – can help one be more concerned about other people. When something happens on the other side of the world, it still affects everyone. If one feels sad or happy about something that seems unrelated to you, this poem explains why that is okay. It’s okay to be interested in people one doesn’t know. It’s okay to be concerned about people one has never met. Because, everyone is a part of mankind — including me and my Rickyisms.

© 24 April 2017

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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No White Wash, by Eym

Winter beds down the earth. Its plush blanket white floats and fills like down. Brilliance from sunshine may launch a startle to the eyes. Snow lives its life unchanged from chill and fall to warm and soak. Never withholds, this white of winter, from anything below its deep wide mother sky. It gives with total acceptance. Though we name it purist white, this blanket symphony requires myriad colors.

Forest rich and green, skies so blue or gray or white gleam back from the face of a lake. Water clear contributes not one color of its own. Water as snow made crisp in cold a color cannot own. From afar our blue marble earth rests on vast dark sand. Soaring down to more closely perceive, the peoples are no more white than snow. Like water of lake or winter’s crystal the flow of humankind reflects all color and cultures.

In the storm of snow the fluff of human bias or opinion evaporates into the bracing breeze. Only silly ice in thinking prevents the wholeness of peace. If colors appearing this winter seem only white, the ice of ignorance has formed a path so slippery and so thin.

A holy and diverse yet common love connects us one to another. The colors of winter subtle and true remain the reflection of the whole in all our sacred lovely earth. Winter water widely nourishes all the earth and all the creatures as one.

© Dec 2016

About the Author

A native of Colorado, Eydie followed her Dad to the work bench to develop a love of using tools, building things and solving problems. Her Mother supported her talents in the arts. She sang her first solo at age 8. Childhood memories include playing cowboy with a real horse in the great outdoors. Professional involvements have included music, teaching, human services, and being a helper and handy woman. Her writing reflects her sixties identity and a noted fascination with nature, people. and human causes. For Eydie, life is deep and joyous, ever challenging and so much fun.

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Poetry, by Lewis Thompson

When
Death Comes
–by Mary
Oliver (Oct 03, 2006)

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn; 


when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to
buy me, and snaps the purse shut; 

when death comes
like the measle-pox

when
death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I
want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And
therefore, I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,


and
I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and
each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and
each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When
it’s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When
it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I
don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I
don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

–Mary
Oliver
© 30 Jun 2014 
About
the Author 
I came to the
beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the
state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my
native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two
children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married
to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was
passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were
basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very
attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that
time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.
Soon after, I
retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13
blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to
fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE
Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.
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Fond Memories, by Ray S

Memories
are the past,
A
path up to a musty attic,
That’s
life stacked up there.
Piles
of shoe boxes filled,
Yellowed
envelops,
A
tower of ancient vinyl,
Weathered
albums, ancient year books.
1964
baby girl arrives joining
A
two-year-old brother;
The
new beginning, four lives into fifty plus years.
Faint
shadows cross a darkening window.
New
lives carry on;
Old
ones and memories slip away.
It’s
time to finish stories and chapters
The
book gets heavier and heavier to hold
Heavier
to open and close
Hard
to discern a fond memory
From
the dross of a long life lived.
It
is time to go down those stairs.
© 10 October 2016 
About the Author 

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Snow Falling on a Sleepless Night, by Carlos

Snow fell last night
like silent doves descending
from heaven’s realm.
For one brief moment, the
voices of angry men subsided,
and the weary slumbered,
cocooned within folds of peace.
Empty promises and shattered
dreams flew off.
The recent dead again reposed
like opalescent bubbles in frozen lakes.
And spectral omens flew off,
declaring no more of darkness, no more of fears.
Prayers and hope for our land
broke out from wounded hearts.
Men and women of stolid hopes
again looked up, declaring,
We shall not fall as pawns.
We shall not despair the
ebbing of the light.
For like the snow quietly
descending from above,
so shall we our joy proclaim,
as we restore what we have
lost.
Let the bugle, therefore, rent
the clouds above;
let the snows purge the world
anew,
cloaking us with conviction,
that beneath a mantle of
pristine white,
we may again rejoice.
© 21 Nov 2016 
About the Author 
Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am
and who I may choose to be.”  In spite of
my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter.  I am a man who has been defined as sensitive,
intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too
retrospective, too pragmatic.  Something
I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a
dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming. 
Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and
His hand over my mouth.  My heroes range
from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big
Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun.  I
am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and
time.  My beloved husband and our three
rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could
spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and
lying under coconut palms on tropical sands. 
I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility,
victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional
cruelty.  I am always on the look-out for
friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking
bread together and finding humor in the world around us. 
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Falling Wall, by Eym

The Stones of my wall are made of paint

recalling when you said “I Ain’t”

No more a victim to be shoved

You were fashioned and always loved

I will hold you in hands of heart

And in my doubting recall your start

The pink stone wall began to fall

when you stepped up and took the call

Brave army you in heels and lace

Your riot bold has changed this place”

© 10 January 2016

About the Author

A native of Colorado, Eydie followed her Dad to the work bench to develop a love of using tools, building things and solving problems. Her Mother supported her talents in the arts. She sang her first solo at age 8. Childhood memories include playing cowboy with a real horse in the great outdoors. Professional involvements have included music, teaching, human services, and being a helper and handy woman. Her writing reflects her sixties identity and a noted fascination with nature, people and human causes. For Eydie, life is deep and joyous, ever challenging and so much fun.