These thoughts can come from a grove of trees
when the wood rants and raves in a wail
of old stories: the voice of the Pasture Pine,
where once the people wandered along their Way
to the summer’s fishing camp on the Atlantic coast.
Words rising out of the branches of maples,
escaping from the knotted “Oh” of the birch tree knot,
needles tapping out the Morris Code memories
whole under shushed chapel canopy, the chorus of angels,
of sorts, call me to sit, heart in hand and empty the hanging
cones of thought directly onto the pages I ply.
Even the grasses and mosses pose questions
to the derby headed cattails in their wading
and there is surely an answer, a response so subtle
only the poetic heart can hear. Through their very roots
comes the hum of a holy song that stirs the water,
ripples to the far shore where I sit and soak in the musing.
Rain, softly striking the page of the earth for rhythm,
recites a soliloquy that is remembered by the leaves
and quoted over and over in the post-storm drops
to be taken up by the soil and scribed in greens
and full-blossomed punctuations as earth stretches
to find the source of the song that I pen to paper.
A coyote knows the angst and anguish of never finding,
always searching for the bemoaned evening shadows
that hold feast and famine. This suffering brother
addresses himself to the moon and sends his thoughts
screeching off the sheer edges of bluffs where the wind
picks up his phrases and carries the hopes of his heart
to that Great Mystery that gave us all voice.
Burning tongues of dry lips of autumns flags
speak to the soul of an empty skull and open heart,
waving banners of caution to make haste,
to capture the moment while it is here,
before some fall we may not rise from.
I am poet. The world brushes against my cheek,
whispers in my ears, sends me messages in vapored mornings,
and, I, standing, alone in churling whitecaps,
can decipher the intimate messages to speak the truth
with bound voice that is only loosened when called to answer.
Author notes
I can not know when I shall be called upon to scribe the secrets. But secrets are sent through ordinary things. I, the poet, can do no more to ease the pain of it, then lift the pen and write the words to the songs.
Written June 14th, 2006
In a list
A contest entry
- Poems on Poetry Contest (extended to July 2nd) by Night Hope.
300 points, ended July 2, 2006, 28 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
What did you think
Comments
1 - 27 of 27
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I sooo love your words, Woman. Every blessed one of 'em. 
Wanda
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thank you, Crystylheart. I appreciate yoru visit and your comments.
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I loved how nature was essentially wrapped into every phrase and stanza; nature is where we poets get our power, even if that's not what we uniquely write about. My favorite lines: needles tapping out the Morris Code memories
whole under shushed chapel canopy, the chorus of angels,
of sorts, call me to sit, heart in hand and empty the hanging
cones of thought directly onto the pages I ply.
What phenomenal metaphor and personification. Congrats on the gold! -
Thank you, Rowan. This is a piece that I am reading at the Canadian Poetry Festival in New Brunswick this August.
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This is such a beautifully written piece, I love how you've equated nature, the past, and the desire to express. I can see why this won. Well done!
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Thank you grannyeri. Aren't the entries amazing? Each poete, each poem is significant and they all have penned masterpieces.
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sometimes I dredge very deep to get the soul of a poem to come through. soemtimes it simply scrolls itself out onto paper. thank you, Nicolette for the nice comment.
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Congratulations on this wonderful poem,filled with such magnificent thoughts that tell of a poet's meanderings through time.
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I am poet. The world brushes against my cheek...and because you are poet you respond and write from the soul, present ordinary and familiar things with a new light...and that is poetry. Congratulations on your gold - this is an exquisite piece so rich in metaphor, depth and soul. I did not enter Wanda's competition and now I'm glad I didn't, because this poem is so very worthy of the gold. Your voice is so authentic!
~ Nicolette
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I have had computer problems all day. I am about to dump this out in the rain.
Thank you for the nice comment. I really appreciate it. -
"sends his thoughts
screeching off the sheer edges of bluffs where the wind
picks up his phrases and carries the hopes of his heart
to that Great Mystery that gave us all voice"
I am sorry I did not see this sooner. It is absolutely eloquqent and delves into the heart of inspiraton and poetry, that ineffable quality we try to express which gives pinions to soul.
CONGRATULATIONS ON THE GOLD
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Indeed, I do, my sista...
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Oh, yes, and I am proud to stand along side such as you...but then, you know that already as well.
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tks, Kaibab....we are a collective, aren't we? Our voice, as one, would be incredible loud.
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Oh I love that "an answer awaiting a cry" is peotry... yes...that is what it is.
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Oh my what a wonderful piece of writing. Excellent metaphors, just excellent.
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(I've already commented on this poem once, so I won't receive any points for this comment...nor should I be given any grief for pasting up a portion of it. This poem was specifically written for my contest.)
I am just re~reading entries at this point, my sista...I wanted you to know I'd been by again & these lines especially ring truest to me...
"Even the grasses and mosses pose questions
to the derby headed cattails in their wading
and there is surely an answer, a response so subtle
only the poetic heart can hear. Through their very roots
comes the hum of a holy song that stirs the water,
ripples to the far shore where I sit and soak in the musing.
Rain, softly striking the page of the earth for rhythm,
recites a soliloquy that is remembered by the leaves
and quoted over and over in the post-storm drops
to be taken up by the soil and scribed in greens
and full-blossomed punctuations as earth stretches
to find the source of the song that I pen to paper."
Your palette of metaphors & musically~masterful use of the language are always so impressive to me, my Friend...I have often said (a lot just recently) that it isn't easy to be a human being, alive in this world...It's even more difficult to be a Poet...We are the Keepers of the Gate, the last line of defense between survival & living...It is a task we should be honored by, for we are the voices of our cultures...We are the disciples of Love, the apostles of Compassion...This is a wonderful penning honoring our beloved craft...Thank you again for entering my contest...Be well, Poet... Wanda
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What a wonderful piece as the image of "the people"...wandering through nature's imagination personified comes alive...I love your soul and where it is centered...and all the words that rise from the journey...great piece
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I paint as well so "Know the feeling", if I don't have the feeling I don't paint nor do poetry. Great poetry, paintings and music are symbiotic free flowing expressions of an enraptured soul. or, in a sense, a poet is an answer awaiting a cry.
keep up the great work as there are plenty of cries to be heard nowadays. -
Yes, indeed, it is attached to every rbeath I take. It is a constant with me. I write on anything I can get my hands on. Even my artwork is poetry in a sense.
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yes...it definitely is a Universal gathering and call.
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thank you Dweeble. It is hard to write a new poem about poetry and writing poetry, inspiration, etc...because every poet on earth searches for it. I tried to write things that were fresh.
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thank you Bats. Poetry is, indeed, like breathing to me.
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I'd like to thank you for entering such a great poem into my contest, my sista. As you know, from the contest statement I made, I am slightly obsessed with poetry...the writing of it, the reading of it, the inspiration for it...I'm pleased to see you "suffer" from the same "malady" as I do...
I appreciate your efforts, both for this contest & in general...Please, keep writing...This World needs all the Poets it can hold...Well done, Poet...Good luck in the contest...Be well, Poet... Wanda
(from my author's page)
"Among the Haida Indians of the Pacific Northwest, the verb
for 'making poetry' is the same as the verb 'to breathe'."
~ Tom Robbins, from the book: Another Roadside Attraction
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Beautifully described in simplistic relatable terms the voice of the poet,easing the universes cries no one else can hear~~Suseann
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Bravo!
"THAT" is a keeper! Excellent! -
wow this is grand.
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