idealdabbler

Fancy fish nibbled on by soft white petals reflecting dark water ~sorry...~

This is very deep. Very moving. I've been there before.

I wish you all the best, Theresa. Go get 'em, girl. Tom

Q, what hast thou wrought. This is great fun to read.

This is beautiful Theresa. I get that feeling sometimes at night here, and it's impossible to shake-off or run from. Like you say: Slowly, silently...

I love it. So primal or something, and then the mirror.

~Crafty, indeed~

Whatever it is Q, just keep writing it down.

Very expressive Phil. Do some more like this. You've got a great sense of humor, but I really like your more serious works too.

I really identify with this. Well-crafted, short, but eloquent.

Had me all hot and bothered for a minute, Murph. As old as I am, you can consider that a compliment.

Thanks, I'm glad someone got that.

Have you discussed that with your therapist?

Sorry, I don't travel.

Not quite good, just ideal. BTW I thought the ending was a little harsh so I spit out another stanza after posting, but found my time to edit had expired. Anyway, with the new stanza it reads: THERE IS A PLACE CALLED IDEAL There is a place called Ideal Geography hallowed Economy fallowed And never a thought to conceal There is a place called Ideal Where poor folk breed And slackers succeed At living a life for real There is a place called Ideal Where rich folk come All dressed as bums To fit with the local appeal There is a place called Ideal Where the corner store Now closed as before Is a landmark under a seal There is a place called Ideal Where fat-cats play Obscuring the bay With all of their so-called zeal There is a place called Ideal Where locals in summer Exclaim What a bummer When all of these tourists congeal There is a place called Ideal Where the winter is peace For the traffic will cease But my fingers I cannot feel There is a place called Ideal Where despite the bad I’m really quite glad There is a place called Ideal ©2007 Thomas L. Royce

Very good, Phil, and so very true, too.

THERE IS A PLACE CALLED IDEAL There is a place called Ideal Geography hallowed Economy fallowed And never a thought to conceal There is a place called Ideal Where poor folk breed And slackers succeed At living a life for real There is a place called Ideal Where rich folk come All dressed as bums To fit with the local appeal There is a place called Ideal Where the corner store Now closed as before Is a landmark under a seal There is a place called Ideal Where fat-cats play Obscuring the bay With all of their so-called zeal There is a place called Ideal Where locals in summer Exclaim What a bummer When all of these tourists congeal There is a place called Ideal Where the winter is peace For the traffic will cease But my fingers I cannot feel ©2007 Thomas L. Royce

There was a dabbler Who met a babbler Said the dabbler to the babbler What lines are these, so apt to please Do you have them in a book? Said the babbler to the dabbler Just a shot in the breeze, like a burp or a sneeze So just let me off the hook.

Claire, While my first instinct is to join this parade, my instincts as a writer tell me, No. I would like nothing better than to sit down with a volume of poetry by Claire, and I have told you so over the years, but until, and unless, you decide you want to go through the agony of publishing, I don't feel it is my place to nag. All of these people are well-meaning, and are true fans of yours, as I am also. But as you know from going through the process as support to some very eccentric poets, holding hands, offering suggestions, asking just the right questions, it is much like giving birth. The process of getting it there is not fun, although it can be with the right help, but yet, the decision to send it to the printer is the worst agony.... ~Now I'm rambling. Claire I do hope you'll publish a volume of your poetry, but people let's not dim one of the truly bright lights in this forum by asking her to do what she doesn't want to do. Let Claire be Qryos, The Dancing Muse, and the volume of work will emerge when she is ready. Love and peace my dear, Tom

That's what makes it clear that it's original, and not 'poached.' Do I have egg on my face?

You make it seem 'over-easy'. I'm enjoying this scrambledness. It gives me a new appreciation of your artistic depth.

Maples draw tight their canopy obscuring the light of day (must be all those walks in the woods.)

Long-legged jack pines tip their tiny caps but can’t recall the news

Oak trees drop seedy tidbits but are not swayed by the currents

White pines fluff their plumage then go on as before