Today’s prompt is from Amanda Fall.
Here’s Amanda’s prompt: Write a deep poem. The deep end of the pool. Six feet deep. Archaeology. Whatever you write, just dig deep.
Robert’s attempt at a Deep Poem:
“Off the deep end”
Black Friday begins on Thursday evening,
and I’m running short on spare change. My buddy
says the deals can’t be beat, so I ask if anyone’s tried,
and he just rolls his eyes over the river and through
the wood to grandfather’s house, empty because
grandma has him out hunting for bargain basement
tablets and flat screen televisions. It’s no longer
turkey season. We’ve run out of gravy for the mashed
potatoes. I don’t know which carol to sing first,
and then it hits me like a bell ringing in the night:
it’s the perfect time to cut down an evergreen.
*****
Thank you, Amanda, for the deep prompt! Click here to learn more about Amanda.
If you prefer sharing poems on the WD Forum, click here to make that happen.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
*****
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Deep Calls To Deep
Deep calls to deep at the sound of Your waterfalls;
All Your breakers and Your waves have rolled over me.*
Your majesty exceeds my extravagant imagination
Your infinite wisdom surpasses man’s corporate dreams.
One snap of your finger brings mountains to their knees,
While we struggle to move its boulders.
We have absence of war and name it peace,
You are clothed in light that calms even storms at sea.
Man considers a century as longevity,
While you always existed and hold keys to eternity.
*Psalm 42:7 New American Standard Bible 1985
Uncontrollable,
he laughted until his sides split.
At what, he couldn’t tell… or wouldn’t tell.
He had been staring at the same hole for the
past three hours,
balancing on the edge,
wavering and weaving,
shovel in hand,
sweat on brow,
and blisters on his slick palms.
The hole, he knew, would be around forever.
He dug it that way.
He stared, long and deep,
until the bottom was no longer clear.
The shadows enveloped him whole,
and he slipped,
down
down
down
until his head found the soft comfort of the
bottom of the hole.
Deep
In deep forest
Where no sun falls
Light filters down
To grace a single dew drop
With
Illumination
In my depth of heart there is an ocean –
A place of shadows and deep mystery,
Far from witness, without sun’s rays golden,
Wisdom comes to a place far from balmy.
In the depth of heart where shadows linger,
And tranquil breezes tie hope into knots,
Fortitude rises by sinking deeper,
Amidst the dark, unknown, limitless rocks.
Grace lavishes the bravest of brave hearts -
When on the edge, breathing truest wishes;
Deepest of longings, uncovering arts –
Deep understanding, sifting gray ashes.
In the waters of life where deep worlds churn,
Great witnesses of love, whisk flames to burn.
Digging Deep
Dad would dig deep when he would lay straight rows with his hand
plow for our garden. My job was to space seeds evenly apart so he
could cover the seeds with a blanket of soil. When it came to planting
tomatoes you would take a tender seedling and shore up the soil to hold
the plant steady. Then crumble the earth and worms so rain would go to
the roots, not run off in the rows. Then they would grow down deep
in the soil, not upwards to be burned by the sun. A strong earth smell
would stay with you even when the stars came out and supper was over.
Prescribed Burn
It’s there (still), but (buried deep
beneath day-to-day detritus, frag-
ments, debris, meaning-
less details;) you
need to
dig
Inhale
(hold golden oxygen
deep inside thirsty lungs,
flood sun- starved pulmonaria,
purge weeds, preparing soil
for better seeds)
dig deep
Exhale
(anger, frustration, imp-
atience – deep into ozone to be
banished, ignited, consumed –
a controlled burn, making space
for new growth; seek sprouts)
dig deeper
IN THE DEEP
Deep in my heart
there’s a traitor
a man who betrayed my love
a man who opens himself
to everyone else except me
a man who once
became my paradise
the water of my deepest source
my deepest need
Whenever I look
into his eyes’s depths
I see myself in chains
in their prison
together with their silent sorrow
and their muted desperation
I never could bear
Deep in my soul
I am his soulmate
forever bound
forever lost
forever alone
I always liked
to swim in the deep
feeling a certain fear
something or someone
would pull me in the depths
I would suffocate
deep on the sea bottom
if you were there with me
It suffices me to perish
in the depths of your arms…
Day 23
Prompt: Deep
Deep:
Laughing conversations
Honest confrontations
Thanksgiving dinner
Pay per view
Road trip
Home-mixed CD
Deep thread of love
Running throughout.
SHE
She called me “the deep one.”
She was the blonde one, the pretty one,
the petite one,
so I guess it was good that
I had “deep,”
a word purchased by my
overthinking/
pondering/
going through the painful process of
being first frozen by the
fear I could do nothing
then moving through
thought-progressions
whereby I would
never trust myself and so
must look at every
tiny
decision
from 57 angles
and would have gladly traded
“deep”
for
“pretty.”
Deep Space
Hurtling
past the last
clumps of ice
gas, rock,
and God only
knows what
else at the fringe
of the solar system,
Voyager, a
miracle wonder
of my younger
days, swings
out into the
more thinly
populated reaches
of deep space,
just as each day
I dive further
within.
I was having trouble hanging some wallpaper. I thought I was in over my head. Perhaps the glue?
Whatever, I was feeling in too deep.
This is not about wallpaper; clearly.
In Too Deep
floating in a a luke-warm salacious sleep
it bubbled forth from somewhere deep
with a jolting pang it ushered in
the aching, growing sense of sin
that cloak of ignorance, now in shreds
a too-bare garment of angry threads
I push and pull the tangled knots
while the fickle Fates are casting lots
The Great Veil Is Rising!
while whispering sweet nothings so chastising
I tumbled backward, further into the deep
“Be quiet stirrings – I’m trying to sleep!”
and in the midst of drifting softly down
away in endless flight I drown
as the evening star melts away
the fluff of wishes floats astray
and lost within this restless dream
mounts in my soul a silent scream
too long I’ve lingered – and rolling the dice
slip amorously into the Abyss; and pay the price.
Eternity
Cold bones,
chilled to the marrow
and silence.
Ears aching for sound
to penetrate
where only blackness rules.
And the pungent smell
of rancid earth,
half remembered
in endless darkness.
An eternity of nothingness
awaits me, here…
in this grave.
Deep Issues
I always wonder about depth.
Spatial perception has never been my strong suite,
And when it’s applied metaphorically,
I’m just as confused.
“That’s so shallow,” people say,
Lips curling in disdain.
Well, compared to what?
And what if that shallow belief
Is deeply engrained,
To be removed only by a most painful operation
With the forceps of peer pressure
And the scalpel of guilt,
Which always work together
In cold, consistent harmony.
Shallow, we say, is bad.
Deep, on the other hand,
Is all kinds of good.
What does it matter
Whether or not it makes sense?
In fact, if it’s beyond the grasp
Of ninety-nine percent
Of the people who have the misfortune
Of encountering muddled genius,
The creator of such convolution
Is all the more highly praised.
Deep, we say, is good,
And shallow is bad.
I can’t help wondering
(Although perhaps I’m just being shallow)
Whatever happened to goods and bads
That stood on their own,
Judged by merit
Rather than depth.
I suppose you’ll tell me kindly
That I just don’t understand.
These are deep issues, after all,
And spatial perception has never been my strong suite.
Oil Can
It is the rooted voice in each of us lifting
skirts of intention, stripping coats
of painted insecurities, calling on love,
when dehydrated lips,
dreams and hearts have had
it with cavernous cracks.
When you think nothing’s left, the oil-can’s wall reserves hope.
Deep Into It
No turning back now -
the lines have been drawn.
I am transported into the fray.
Why did I ever sign up for this,
risking life and limb
for so little reward?
Still, I am on a mission
to reach my objective
and so are they.
They look just like me
but I must remember,
they are the enemy.
Strategy and patience
are key, but so too is
a certain blood thirst.
The gates have opened,
the masses sound their battle cry -
Black Friday has begun.
UNFATHOMABLE CONNECTION
(a shadorma)
The depth of
you called out to the
depth of me…
just like the
thunderous waves call out to
the depths of the sea.
“I Shall Marry the Oak”
You are the daring one; my loyal oak;
You have more heart than most, my charming knight.
The winds of autumn now blast ev’ry bloke
who’d fight against the winter’s wicked blight.
Old coldness comes to freeze out all our hearts;
to strip the leaves and tear them one by one.
Your stalwart limbs seem made of rarer part.
Your leaves do bear the blood of God’s own son.
My bravest one; you stand with head unbowed
and I will marry you and place a crown
upon that shocked and bleeding, leafy brow.
Arms cannot stretch to reach your courage round.
My love for you shall outlast winter’s song;
My dust learn mystery of you ‘ere long.
I like yours, Casey. The idea of marryin’ something (as opposed to someone) in a poem is awesome.
this
poem
is not a bone
but I’m going to
bury it where mankind
will never find it, and every five
or ten years, I’m going to dig it up
and revise it until it’s ready to be shared
Love it, Hallenbeck. Kind of like my oak tree poem that probably should have remained buried, lol.
Robert, what an honor to find my prompt here today. I can’t stop grinning. Thank you!
Here’s my deep poem:
Flock
We stand slack-jawed
at the world,
pointing where the eagle rests
after swooping mighty wings
over our tiny heads.
Strangers, we stand
shoulder to shoulder,
calling out to they who walk
with heads down, deep
in thought. Attention caught,
we share our secret–
each new gasp
a triumph
of connection.
We stand upright
now,
heads high,
partners in this world
where wonder
waits.
Skin Deep
Beauty is only skin deep.
She’d heard it enough.
It had to be true. So why,
when she spent November
clean-scrubbed, not even
a hint of lipstick,
did she feel not ugly
but invisible. Her voice
seemed silent–at least
no one listened. No one
recognized the depth
beneath the plain face.
Have been traveling for the holiday. Have been working on the writing, but this was my first chance to post.
Happy Holidays everyone.
Indigo Deep
They live on the
edge of danger, tether
their families to the sea,
going off to ply
their trade.
Just as others go off
to war, and are in
danger for it, binding
those at home, waiting
for the possibility
of loss—but at least
returned for burial.
But these go off
against might and
fury—at the whim of constant
rise and fall, ebb and
flow. Their daily battle
but a footnote—their
losses the ragged
edges of the tenuous
cordage of their lives.
Tenuous in that there
are no bodies
for burial—all entombed
in the indigo deep.
Ellen Knight
“Deep Down”
Deep down
Below reason
Under guilt
Beneath regret
Beyond emotion
Untouched by circumstance
Unaltered by time
Undeveloped by growth
Unbeknownst to immaturity
Lies
Purely simple
Authentically beautiful
Serenely peaceful
Undeniably personal
Truth
“TYM (Thank-You Machine)”
Down in the ground, deep underneath the green,
far below the magic of the spouting seeds,
in the hot, quick center of the everything:
the always-running, mother-loving Thank-You Machine.
High in the sky, above the satellite screen,
past all of the stars all our lenses have seen,
in the chill, still outers of everything:
the ever-shining, atom-binding Thank-You Machine.
Gabba-gabba, wanna-wanna Thank-You Machine
Jumblini, crumblini Thank-You Machine
Hi-ho trailus, hoodoo-voodoo Thank-You Machine
Boip-boip, woof-woof Thank-You Machine
Around and surrounding the ripples of being,
into dimensions beyond seventeen,
of the holey, holy torus of the everything:
the inner turning, outer churning Thank-You Machine.
Oh-pa, baba-re-ba Thank-You Machine
Pachalafaka Thank-You Machine
Electric Aunt Jemima with a Thank-You Machine
Shoop-shoop, Yadda-yadda Thank-You Machine
Depths
I.
Deep in the vein of jam,
there is the sun, locked in
memory, how it coaxed hard,
green fruit into soft and red, then
bristled it all over with seeds, and
the tiny hairs that protected this
investment until the berry
was picked, cooked,
jarred, eaten.
II.
Deep in the blood, there is the
sound, a sluicing rhythm you can’t
hear, except late at night when you are
alone, or may as well be, your partner
sleeping, unable to tell you that the noise
doesn’t mean you’re going to die, which
is, of course, the greatest falsehood
love ever tells.
One more, as I am deeply enamored of ignoring Black Friday:
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2012/11/23/blue-friday/
Love your flagrant disregard of National Shopping Day. Also love that view…
Can’t Feel The Pain
I can’t tell if it’s real or it’s a nightmare.
I don’t know what’s through the open door.
I can’t see the outcome, just the moment.
I can’t feel the pain anymore.
I’m numbed by the prospect of the silence.
I’m lost at the finish and the start.
I’m blinded by the uninvited knowledge.
I can’t feel the pain in my heart.
It’s too deep to tread the water gently.
I don’t want to watch what is in store.
There’s no place to hide in the shallows.
I can’t feel the pain anymore.
By Michael Grove
I Am
“I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.” ~Sylvia Plath
Me, in the mirror: Take a breath,
and say, “Those lines do not mean death
but rather, living, thank you, ma’am.”
My old heart brays, “I am. I am.”
On inspection, I’ve sometimes thought,
how do I ‘young-up’ my mug shot?
But then I tell those thoughts to scram.
My old heart brays, “I am. I am.”
Me at twenty? I couldn’t see
what thirty more would do to me.
So I must shush the skin-deep slam.
My old heart brays, “I am. I am.”
And after all, what’s in an age?
Each year just marks another stage.
Me in the mirror: “Hey, girl…damn!”
My old heart brays, “I am. I am.”
###
Fade
It’s a deeper shade, this
peculiar sketch of midnight,
shadowed trace of nothing.
Remember those last
few miles? I shrugged,
and you nodded, and
did we dance? I can’t
remember now,
in this filtered
fog of forget. I know
we held the moon
at bay, and watched the day
fade like an old photograph.
I can still see the last
crimson scrim closing,
final filament spark glowing
thin and fizzing loose,
horizon held by unseen hands.
When the sun stands
and sings
of morning,
I crave constellations,
stars that speak
of wider fields
and deeper fountains,
where somehow I am still
following
you
down.
Poetic Asides November Challenge – Day 23
Write a deep poem
Long Time Ago
I saw deep thinker
lost in thought
impassive,
until tantrums of temper
jarred loose jealousy,
rose in reddened rage
on pale skin,
accusing
words hurled, possessions broken.
Nothing underneath.
November 23, 2012
A man deep in thought
Is a man deep in fraught
Deep
Deep Beauty in our daughters, with a joy in their smile
Makes every single moment, full-worth each waking while
To know their hearts and with them walk each destined mile
Proves three exquisite souls and exudes their timeless style
Deep Love bequest I know it best as she stays by my side
I gladly show and cherish her glow to savor in full pride
This brief voyage we exist, foraging on, taking life in stride
So thankful for a life complete, with her my enchanting bride
Deep Peace in knowing of a love so pure and confounding
My heart reels in attempts to grasp its true fullness bounding
When the trumpets blast, and make their final call sounding
I’ll rest my faith in my Savior’s grace, my sins un-founding
Deep Thoughts a simple man I share and hold as hallow
Some more schooled than I may find cliché, even shallow
I’ll live this day with no regret as He I choose to follow
For love we fail to flourish this day, may be gone tomorrow
DEAF TO THE WORLD
Deep in the winter of his years,
kitchen-clatter’s muted
and a master’s voice trailed off
long ago into distance.
Even the chiming clock is silent.
It’s just the stroke
of fingers that brings an old dog
out of sleep. So deep,
he startles, wakes to his own
dreams; can’t remember the room.
The house is a pool of scent –
his master is everywhere,
and nowhere. When he wakes
without the touch of fingers,
he must bark for us
to find him where’s he’s deep
as winter snow.
Thank you for the great prompt!
http://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/11/23/day-twenty-three-deep-a-haiku/
Robert…your poem brings to the surface so much of what I detest about what the season has become. Well written and deep, too.
I cried when I saw the enormous beautiful tree that they cut for one town square…I don’t know where it was on the news…they were using a crane to put it up…beautiful old tree.
Such a waste.
CAN YOU TOP THIS?
Combative braggarts on Bridge O’Keefe,
had stopped to pause for quick relief.
Said one “That water is quite cold, ’tis true!”.
The second smirked, “Yes, and it’s deep, too!”
Deep,
dank
the wily,
smoky, lonesome dark
of this mental dungeon where I always seem to go.
How long before I
finally
just let
it
go?
When you figure that out, let me know…
DEEP DISH PIZZA
Dough out of control,
toppings galore and a pure
sense of pizza mastery.
No dastardly thin crusts for us.
Keep it deep,
keep it coming
and I’ll keep succumbing to
pizza deliciousness.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t pull
a slice from the dish.
Forever my deep-baked wish!
Yum! Sounds like the slice I had tonight!
The Deep End of the Big Pond
At evening on a day in June
The wind dies down, the air is still
The water is as quiet as the sky.
I try to dive without splashing, to slip
Like a mermaid into this fishy smelling
World where life begins in the mud and rocks.
As I reach the bottom I open my eyes
To a world of pale brown – the color
Of old ale stored in ancient casks
My fingers claw the gravel and minnows
Scurry away while small fish nibble at my
Toes. I push through clumps of algae that
Are the fresh green of springtime and the
Water still contains a wintry chill. If I
Lived here with these watery creatures
I would have to burrow deep in the mud
And sleep the winter away, dreaming of
Spring when once again this world fills with life.
Deep
The way that water shimmers when
you’re floating on its surface—say,
down the Yampa River in a bright
yellow inner tube with your sandals
dangling off your fingers over the
side above the water—is not the way
the water looks when your tube
snags in an eddy and, in something
like desperation (because water
really is not and never has been your
best friend), you lunge sideways to
dislodge it and only manage to upset
yourself over the side and you sink
deep and deeper and you open your
eyes underwater, expecting to see
the way back to the surface, back up
to sunlight or salvation or something,
but the only things around you are
murky shapes, probably things that
bite when you invade their space, and
you know that you will eventually
touch bottom and be able to push off
back to the surface, but you’re still
sinking and not touching bottom and
beginning to realize that maybe you
should start swimming like you know
you know how to do, you just didn’t
remember until the panic started to
take over, and you kick out and brush
up against something and scrabble
with your cupped hands the way your
grandmother showed you years ago in
her safe, shallow swimming pool and
somehow you find yourself back out
on the surface, breaking through, and
the water on your face could be river
water or something else, but you don’t
really give yourself time to analyze
which because you suddenly notice
a dock projecting out over the water
from the other side of the river, and
most of all, you notice what’s on that
warm, dry dock: half a dozen college-
aged men, lounging like lizards in the
sun, dressed (or, actually, not) to dive
into the water at a moment’s notice,
like, say, for instance, when a damsel
in distress is drowning, and you start
to plan exactly what you’ll say to those
lizards when you get over there, but
somebody well-meaning prevents you,
even though it would have made the
entire experience almost worthwhile,
and you climb back into your retrieved
inner tube and float away from the
evidence that any semblance of chivalry
is definitely gasping its final breath.
This is great! What a fun read!
Hi Sonja,
Thanks for your kind reply! They say that the truth is usually stranger than fiction, so I decided to use a personal experience to highlight the poem today. I enjoyed writing it; I’m glad you enjoyed reading it!
Best wishes!
there are advantages to swimming
beneath the surface,
no morning sun to wake you
or unexpected squalls to ride.
down under the beating oars
and blowing sails,
the currents pick you up
and take you away,
not where you want to go,
but someplace new.
and there is always darkness,
noon or midnight is all the same.
sleep comes easy and lasts long,
underneath, way down deep,
you see the truth behind
the averted glance and declaration,
the arguments and accusations.
you see the longterm
where today or even tomorrow do not
figure, and toothbrush,
breakfast or small obligation
can be skipped
because what matters is down deep,
underneath.
time isn’t consequential
in the deep, you can become
what you are,
just the stony mineral,
dug loose from the mine,
fallen into the sea,
dropping,
dropping,
and then lost
when the current turns cold.
dropping a coin
deep within the well, a splash
still waiting
Bones
We cannot hear
the nuances of their voices
nor discern their looks
or body language
but never less,
they tell a story
within their lines,
grooves of life
preserved,
just waiting
for someone
to read
the bones
and tell
their tale.
deep cold
the last sliver
of pie unclaimed
Platitudes
““Beauty is only skin deep…”
Never patient with platitudes
I realize they are intended
to comfort and instruct us,
to rebalance the universe.
A plain or outright ugly child
looking at a lovely classmate
knowing that beauty belongs
to others, becomes nice, smart.
Seeing gorgeous men with plain women,
we learn that beauty is in his eyes,
not in her face or form—like astigmatism.
Every misdeed proves to us that
Pretty is as pretty does, the exterior
regulating the interior, the cover
announcing the content of the book,
helping us judge the book by its, you know.
Beauty fleets, launches and wrecks ships,
is sublime, is all vanity, dreams and awakens,
there’s no end of discussion of it.
Skin-deep beauty has its layers still,
shriveling like old fruit in the sun,
time ravaging every rosebud in the garden,
forcing loveliness to run or to burrow down
into our hearts, take residence in our deeds,
forcing us to dispense with platitudes
and live well, be kind, laugh often, grow old.
Gravity
He drinks deep
but only
with his eyes.
His lips have learned
their lessons, tongue
still lingering in regret.
He sits, holding breath
and dying small
deaths. There are whole
worlds inside this golden
glass, and he has visited
them all.
.
Love this, love the way you express things.
Self-Taught
“Deep and wide, deep and wide, there’s a fountain flowing deep and wide…”
We know it is a church song
We are in Bible School, singing,
wondering where this fountain is,
wanting to have a look at the way
it’s built, if it is spring fed or town water.
Our school fountains are tall and metallic
with a foot peddle at the bottom, a hand knob
at the top, a shiny shallow basin
beneath the spout with a drain for overflow,
a little step placed nearby for small children.
At school, we cue to use the fountains,
wondering if the person in front of us
mouths the spout or lets the cold arc
rise up to him as he sips from the top.
We know about germs and manners.
We sing and flail our arms about,
deep is down, wide is a stretch outward
until our chests hurt, knowing this is
supposed to be fun, as we grow tired
of this non-specific tiresome fountain.
We fashion deep and wide fountains
in our minds and wonder how a child
can slurp water there if it is too deep
and if the design is quite safe, knowing
small children are forever falling into things.
People need a gentle flow, like a spring
launching from the ground with a little gumption,
not a flow like a torrent— like when the river
overflowed taking trees down with it
sucking in anything that came near it.
My wide fountain is a series of smaller
spouts that can serve dozens of children
all at once, a sensible time-saver.
We have questions the song lady
does not want to hear—she’s having fun.
And no sooner than we start the song
and sing one monotonous verse
but she instructs us to drop “deep”
and hum the word, the way a person does
when he holds his breath, his head above water.
The next verse, “wide” goes, and so on
until we are humming for two solid verses,
just paddling along in deep wide water,
our jaws clinched against drowning, imagining
our feet touching the soft mud at the bottom.
Your poem intrigues me! Never thought of the song that way, and i love it!
Proverbial
No matter how far a man may run
The trees will still be on the horizon
Drink tea with your enemy
But do not speak of it
Without anxiety of heart
The hair falls down in ringlets
Three things are darkest black
The heart of a chicken, April soil, and a friend woken at midnight
Put your sandals outside the door on a Saturday
And a homeless child will go to mass
Mother, father, brother, cow:
Until death the daughter must tend them all.
Such an interesting list of wisdom, Andrew.
DEEP STUDENTS
The conversation took over -
planned activity gone asunder -
students completely immersed
in the query of why one word
could be multiply defined.
We go round and round
with white board graphics
to aid in the understanding.
I am not prepared for the complexity
of their need to know -
my innocent approach was
to teach one word/one definition,
never having the need to query
as they are doing, now.
In utter frustration,
one of the students -
arms folded across his chest -
grins at me an says,
“Ah, I think we teach the teacher, today!”
Such profound thinking -
and true! Little did I know
as the class began,
I would learn that “deep”
had 38 different meanings!
Wow! Talk about a teachable moment.
Things have changed a lot since my school days. (sigh)
deep criticism
the text
makes no mention
of eggs.
or chickens.
Humpty-Dumpty’s conventional
shape (ovate) is a post-industrial
artifact, hatched by (mass) media
Deep Poem
Deliberate delving into God’s Word
reveals new depths of His truth
hidden from the
erratic browser.
When Most People Write
When most people write a book,
(Assuming that’s what they do),
They plunder the depths and look,
At which parts of life are true,
They throw it all into the mix,
And after a draft or three,
They know which parts get nixed,
But that’s not the process for me.
I start with a twisting plot,
(A structure to hang my words)
Then fill it with air that’s hot,
To inflate it by one or two thirds,
Once finished (with finished in quotes),
Most writers assume that I’m daft,
As they carve out ornate dragon boats,
(Where mine are inflatable rafts).
BOTTOMLESS FOUNT OF LOVE
Funny thing about facing your mortality,
the reality sets in that you have no time
for the nonsense in conflict. A thick
and endless love surfaces; everyone
and everything. Standing on the brink
of a deep abyss, you kiss and make up,
taking up your animus and pushing
it into the deep void. You are less annoyed.
You can only go so deep.
DEEP IN THE WOOD
Thoughts pervade, invading
my memories of youth.
I learned the truth there
where the Wood ruled.
Neighbor kids did the right things,
being churched and schooled
together. Learning respect
and loyalty; treated their
elders like royalty. Caring what
happened to this little piece
of paradise. It was so nice.
This time of year it is here
that draws me; home no more.
But my heart is ensconced,
Deep in the Wood.
This is without question very special, Walt.
Digging Deep
Digging
a deep hole with
a spoon shows persistence.
It also shows a lack of good
judgement.
Wise philosophy! Excellent!
Void
There, a chance for forgiveness, reprieve,
Rests in the haze of endless dreams
Caught between void and reality
I look at you, and you see through me
There, on rain washed paths of mud
Lies your symbol of timeless trust
Caught between void and reality
I look at you who is lost to me
Why I strayed, took that corner
too sharp, agreed to a fling,
gambled on that lark,
is beyond knowing, understanding,
even more now, as I’m
caught now between void and
reality, looking for you,
gone forever from me
The Old Pump
Pappap’s well, one time, held Pappap—
down that deep dark hole, harnessed by ropes,
each foot braced on its rocky sides,
fixing something or other, while whistling.
An odd childhood memory to have, but
that well also held a deep supply of water
and more memories of pumping the iron handle
until water poured out when we were thirsty;
or when our hands were dirty from playing
or garden work; or battleship gray from
painting porches, cupboards and picnic tables.
I can still hear the screech, screech, sploosh
and the happy laughter of children getting wet.
very good
How Deep is your heart
Loving lingering eyes on him
whispering wildness of lyrics
in every song she wrote
with deepness in her heart
as it hung in his favour
for he was her favourite flavour
moments like this
should be kept
should be be favoured
Wild was she
like a wild thorn torn rose
gripping every inch
of his aching skin
cutting his heart deep within
Kissing her forehead
she hung her head on his shoulder
as his love became stronger
it just took hold of her
filling both of their wondering hunger
trying to fill the gaps
that lay like an isolated pathway
Ripping arms
with pumping veins
her arms were like his shackles
of reins
unable to let him go
her words seem to fall so slow
not wanting to let him off
as falling curls hit his empty pillow
where he lay no more
only emotions that were hard to let go
Rivers of roses
filled with scents
of him and his image
banks of lust
filling her mind
wilderness was in every inch of her mindset
secrets for so long she had kept
Perception is the 3rd dimension
and in this dream
I am Dr. flat stanley
walking a flat labradoodle
on a flat 2nd avenue
my job, as flat scientist,
to formulate the theory
of all things flatness -
one perfect equation
of everything
and I’m always
on the edge of
breakthrough
but late
in the mad
muttering
mystic night,
I can almost perceive
some theoretical deep
god
staring down at me
from this strange thing called
distance -
a bemused, quizzical,
just beyond the flatness
expression on its face
as if I were the one
utterly unfathomable
Oh, Steven, this is wonderful! Love the rhythm of it and the alliteration.
A delightful flat journey!
Sinking
Deep into bubbles,
liquid so cool, deeper
from brightness that sings
in bent streams, that twinkle
of fairy wings, those
memories past, sink deeper
still deeper in nothing at last.
She Wandered Deep
She wandered deep in his
warm cinnamon smile
but his eyes were twisted shadows
that could turn like a knife.
She never knew where she stood
until she escaped him.
Oh…powerful poem! So much in so few lines! Well done!
Thanks, Linda.