Off the Wall Poetry Carnival

Since I didn’t officially theme it, I thought I’d borrow the title of the first poem to name this carnival.

Off The Wall was sent by Pat Paulk of Laughing Ghosts. He offers tight, vivid poems regularly to a rather large fan club. I had not known of him before this. I’m glad I do now.

A shadow on the wall
talked to a curious dog on the sidewalk,
what they said was without sound,
what was understood not known.
The dog eventually moved on, the wall
waited for the next shadow.

My dear friend Liz Strauss of Letting ME Be sent me a few choices, of which I picked The View, because it’s off the wall for Liz. Liz has a way of turning sadness into a bright lesson. Thank you, Liz.

my eyes
filled
with my response
following
a path
of two drops
that wash
away fearful feelings
to place a smile
on my
self-image

your eyes
in my head
change the view

Ron Russo of Wondering Soul sent this next poem, Remember. Ron’s spirit is always pointed toward healing and love. This poem, a gift for “Travis”, makes that clear.

Remember who you really are and be that!
Remember the vast, radiant emptiness
from which you came
and from which all things arise.
Remember, you are that.
Not that you are one with all…
you are all.
Remember the sun that shines from
your eyes.
You are that.
(continue reading…)

David Patton of Uncle David sent this new poem, “Silent As Snow Falling To The Ground” for the carnival. David’s poetry has raw, mythic power and rustic freshness. He told me he has written a poem a day for over a year on his blog. And these are not 10 line poems, either. This poem offers a soft, light touch.

Silent as snow falling to the ground
The speckled air abounds
As whiteness covers all.
First snow of the season;
An inch or two or so.
Tracks of the white tailed rabbit
A squirrel climbs up an old sycamore
The rusted links of a chain-link fence
Are barely visible as the cold wintry winds do blow.
Quietness sits by the door, piling deep in the cold.
A poet’s pen to paper marks this singular passing.
In the scheme of things it is its own doing,
In one day of many and many more to come.
The snow is here, blowing slanted in a northern wind.
It tells not who but the way that they go.
Snow is cold but melts in the warmth of the palm of the hand,
the hand must be cold to hold.
Walking alone in Forest Park
The wind blown snow is a song
Without words or instrument;
A song for the eyes and soul,
And I twirl around and flair my arms
To sing alone.

Kelley Bell sent me this little story poem, Godless Child, from her blog For Whom the Bell Tolls. Her words cut to the heart of sexist injustice.

Once Upon A Time…

There was a little girl, born in the Land of The Free,
and the Home of The Brave.

She was taught that she could become anything, even President,
though no girl had ever done THAT before.

She was taught the importance of education,
and read many books by Great Men.

She was told to get a job,
But to expect less pay then her male peers.

She was told to climb the Career ladder,
and bumped into a glass ceiling on the way.
(continue reading…)

If a haiku could convey a philosophy of life, MB’s poem The World as my Oyster is the poem. Most of us are familiar with MB’s poems from Find me a Bluebird. How does she create so much sublime space with so few words?

a pearl grows slowly
around the grain of sand that
is lodged in my heart

Here is another of MB’s haikus, Darkenss.

the edge of ice cuts
against the last of the green
darkness settling in

Ozymandiaz of Toadstool Diaries, who has apparently hosted a number of these carnivals, was thankful I was hosting this one. He sent this poem, simply called Entry. Though written as a Christian poem, it carries a universal spiritual message to submit to the wisdom and forgiveness of our higher selves.

I burn myself in effigy
Mourning my life as should be
Wherever ears may be bent
I strain them without relent
Displayed in Jesus Christ pose
I am revealed without repose
Clearly you can see the pain within me
I cannot be free until you all see
How I let me be
Insecurity
(continue reading…)

Ren Powell of Sidestepping Real sent this unpublished dream-like poem to me. When asked what the theme of this carnival was, I suggested “dreams of poems”, which I had listed among other ideas for sumissions. One can see why she is a published poet. Images are layered with meaning, scenes within syllables. The last line can be either a question or a statement. Both are true.

Elder Moon

The girl behind the counter
of the Dairy Queen (sees

the tree branching from his mouth)
(believes

everything)—his voice fragile,
dry bark

snagging on the velvet esophagus
wet with ice-milk:

That Neil Armstrong never stepped on the moon!
‘Goddamned government ruse.

The old man makes
craters with a plastic spoon.

On her cigarette break she sits with him
(digging into the Depression, and
deeper

hair-like
pale moments
of his supple years)

Don’t you believe anything

anyone tells you.

Jo Janoski sent a poem called The Poet. It’s a series of Haiku’s. How did she know what’s going on in my head when I try to write poetry?

Head bent, thoughts flying.
Playing touch football mid air.
A poem is born.

Poets express love
While warriors declare hate.
They meet at depth’s door.

Words elude poets
like water avoids deserts
until monsoon time.

Rhymes make cozy friends.
Meters have minds of their own
But married, they rock.

I wrote a poem called The Room to convey a dark November night of waking dreams.

Black November air
oozes across the pine board floor,
cold molasses being poured.
Shadows of craggy oak twigs
gnaw the walls for flaws.
The moon cannot escape,
so peers helplessly
from her thin blue ark.
(continue reading…)

This final poem is most appropriate to my after thought theme of a dream about a poem. Bill Piety of Peter in search of Pan posted
not very far from 4th yesterday. It’s a dream of dreaming poetry, dreaming life, lost dreams, and living dreams.

dreams make a hard death
old brown shoes that keep no shine
pants that keep no clean
i frighten women from the church
sunday feigns a bitter cheer

but i’ve a corner not far from 4th
i can hear some whisperings
from my local catholic saint
telling secrets without relief
jagged little words unclear
(continue reading…)

Well that’s all folks. Thanks for stopping by.

Memories

Memories give us amnesia
about what we could know:
spooks telling truths
in cunningly coy
closed, secret sessions.

They wrap us in myths,
conjuring dreamy, alluring
vapid mirages
                         which may guide us-
                         beguiling as
                         stars in the distance
while receding further, further
as we approach.

Memories shatter moments
of fragile truth, (unwillingly)
drawing us
irresistibly, to their
tinseled cocoons.

They corrode love’s
fresh childish rapture with
sugar and rust
syrup and dust.

Memories lock us in
windowless rooms
as we stare longingly at
faded, curling photographs
of the way
we once wished
we once dreamed
we might have been,
but may never know-
for haunted oldness coats
new moments like thick, black grease.

Now forget all this
and peel open your heart.

I wasn’t too happy when I wrote this. I had been rejected by a long term lover. But it has a certain bitter truth to it about clinging to the past.

Feeling Safe

Safety comes in many forms.
Most are safe from the weather and storms,
from rain and cold, but some are not.
What would it be like to be in their shoes?
Could we think pretty thoughts,
Of love and affection, and colors for our rooms?

There’s another kind of safety which concerns me more.
It comes from within, from our minds and our thoughts.
I feel safe in my brain most of the time.
But then sometimes I realize I’m blind,
that I really feel covered only when I build a hat
to block my conscience from saying
I’m safe because they’re not.

Gratitude helps me feel beyond my hard head.

Technorati tags- gratitude, poem, security

Inspire Beauty

I’m off to visit Platinum Glamor (my mother) out east. See you in the New Year! Garnet

I love the word inspire, whish literally means to breathe in. May you breathe in beauty, love, peace and joy.

May the light in your heart burn clear and long.

Thank you for the rich tapestry of your comments this first nine months. I look forward to longer days, more yang energy. May the heat in your heart warm you in the cold times.

Garnet

Beauty calls and yearns for your attention,
it gives rise and demension to your soul,
a reflection of your truest goals.

Lest we forget, our hearts are fueled
by a love enduring beyond our lives.
And beauty is its chaperone,
a spark through the dark nights
on the long walk
to the light of the mountain top.

All we have is each other.

May the comfort of love be with you.

Chamber of Peace

The phrase “chamber of peace” was coined by a friend, Orbella, during a discussion of methods and meditations on balance and spirit. We all need a place of safety and peace to which we can retreat, either from the world or, in some cases, from our own doubts and insecurities.

Amid the clutter of pots and pans
clanging in the kitchen, caked with dried
leftover soups and liver paté,
leaving rough, raw hands…

Amid brassy pitches
of out of tune bands clamoring
for attention, strident dissonances
shorting the circuits of all switches…

Despite snags and tears,
bleeding cuts and bruises
on body and skin from shards
of bitter thoughts and cares,

paralyzed by leaden fears, clogged
emotions stuck half way
up the pipes, trembling,
wheezing through the fog,

daring not to stare too long
at heavy, brown clouds,
daring not to covet their rain
for its fresh, cleansing songs…

Within these brambles,
these thorned villages
cramped along thin rails,
barely seen amid the shambles,

there resides a place,
cool and hidden, reposed
within the cacophony,
filled with grace.

When feelings become impermeable and stuttered
we can resort to this floating chamber,
retreat to its valleys of peace
and breathe deep, clear air, unfettered.

Signage and whistles
retreat to the distance,
snares and hissing cymbals
are barely missed.

Here the quiet music is sweet,
while vistas of a rising moon
browse over murmuring fields
singing with golden wheat.

Pastel petals of fragrant gardenias
fall from the sky, brush our cheeks,
crave the pain from it’s
wretched peaks.

Ravaged skin is smoothed with creams,
burned vision is soothed with drops
of moist, sweet oils
from the purest dreams.

If fear preys yet again
with curling shadows,
talons spread in quivering threat,
it is allowed to pass clear through us,

for we are transparent
through every cell, invisible,
quenched of thirst, unfurled
heart filled with love inherent.

Skin sheds boundaries,
wounds heal as pain dissolves.
Never tired, never trembling
we claim our inner country.

Within this purposeful place,
we find our heart’s intentions.
Cleansed, free and infinite,
we reveal Spirit’s delight.