The Funky Fire Woman
Wednesday, 18 March 2009 - This is a poem dedicated to all those women who have a passion for dancing. It was inspired during a time when I was attending the monthly dance night known as Funky Seomra in Dublin, Ireland.
story her life
just thinking it
The Alchemist...
The ‘shadows grow long’, youthful zest wanes, Dreams are dimming, the Abyss is yawning ever wider, Smiles have retired, And, Meaning, like some elusive chimera, fades fast... Nothingness is longed for, Enough of pain, Enough of angst-filled
Calista
There was a women called Calista Taft who was born on April 12, 1832 at Huntington, Vermont. I am relating the feeling of an attraction to just 'her name', one of the most beautiful names I have ever heard.
Where Are You My Friend
I looked across the empty barren field Where the land seemed to lay silent and still Remembering a time when it once yield Now everything seems destined to be killed I knocked on your door then let myself in Emptiness was found took my breath
MOON OF MY ANCESTORS
I wrote this poem as a result of my trip to Ireland. It was actually SIX years ago that I went and May 8th was the day I returned to my front door. The connection I felt in Ireland was something so moving and deeply spiritual for me. Leaving was like being torn from my soul. I hope you enjoyed it!~
THE DANCE
MEMORIES
Going Back
self discovery .......what i need to do
Blind Minds
Have we not all endured the exhibits of those in youthful position of minor power, who advertise with great clarity, their lack of humane wit and knowledge. This poem is an extract from my recently published book, 'Pen Painted words', available from Amazon.
An Empty Clothesline
This is about my great grandmother Minnie Adams who lived in Mt Eden, and my sister and I would stay with her at times,she was 99 when she died. She came to New Zealand from California in her young teens, and went with her husband to go go kauri gum digging. What a beautiful amazing lady.
Languishing With Siberia
Ah my friends, I watch so much from the outside, yet who are we to percieve poetry. You write, I write, are we so different?, I have a love so far from the maddening crowd, let me bestow you, with thoughts, of a longing, of a past love that sees itself with Siberia, the coldness, the emptyness, the heartlessnes and the lonelyness. But it has its own beauty and it certainly has its own ghosts. Are we not but ghosts of the future, and who will recognise this ghost of one we approved and loved upon. All I can offer you my friends is poetry, born of emotion, born of freedom but most of all born of passion. Poetry is not about metre, not the correct syllables, not precise in its manner, it is about you!! and your wants and needs, embrace me for I am poet!!. I have been missing, but to many not forgotten, may the peace of poetry be upon you all.
Down East Coasters
This sonnet reflects on the rich maritime heritage of York and Ogunquit, Maine. A ‘chance’ refers to a fair wind (for the schooners could not beat to windward, and if the wind shifted too much worse on the beam, they sought the nearest harbor and waited for another ‘chance’)
Remember Gram
A Memorial Day sonnet written in tribute to my dearly beloved Scottish Grandmother… Bless you Maggie !!!
~Try a little honesty~
Well, you say that you're not sure.. if you really are in love, or if you ever were.. you think you've got it all figured out.. all those times I kind of guessed that you were looking for a way out.. and so you got it.. got just what y
I Remember
There are places I remember Bits of time that have passed away thinking back of all the laughter of the funny things we used to say happy times have a special place and meaning memories of all what is good in life Special memories are all of
Teds war story.
Written for a dear old friend who we all adored.
The Catch
Nothing like a pretty hankie to catch tears of joy or tears of saddness.
View of an empty street.
Something that came to mind as I chilled out early one morn...
Once and Once only.
I remember a person that was kind and giving.. a happy person..living each day saying life was for living. Time and life; and with expectation dulled blunt The once shining eyes dulled slowly.. then sunk. Do it now... you people..experience it
"Who's Ridin the Lightenin,n Dancin onThunder"
when i kick that ol shovel head, n she lets me hear a pop,n then roar i,jus let her idle, til her oil is pumpin, thats whats bring us to life, my blood begins,flowin and my heart starts to thumpin, It's a sound just a few ,will ever,understan