RevRainbow

I hope that is one of those momentary "3AM and I cant sleep" poems and not a reflective state of mind, my dear. Your words struck a chord, but it dont sound like a happy song. I'm sending some hugs your way.

Your comments are like cream cheese on a bagel...just what's needed. Thanks.

And I wish I could drink as much as I used to!!

Thank you, my fellow thespians!

Under sparkling gemstone stars I walk in the night, once more desiring to be refreshed in mind and spirit by the quiet pools of Xanadu! The ancient poets, thus seeking, would pray the gods in desperation and petition for a Muse (a well kept secret) for their much needed inspiration. How, like them, I have sought thus far the appearance of my celestial helpmate who shall impart her divine talents through shared heavenly experience! When will my vigil for Erato end, I ask; which dawn will bring answer to my nightly impassioned plea: “Where is she? Where is she?” Might it be thus, a shimmering oasis at the edge of lonely desert sands; to walk quietly together, speaking softly, thus to quench the thirsting in my soul? Did I but imagine in her youthful eyes that neophyte spirit seeking out the poet who also seeks a reprieve from loneliness; the emptiness of uninspired surroundings? New life; experience await not the timid! I seek not merely carnal pleasure; rather this opportune meeting, perchance to impart that blessed gift of inspiration! Am I but the dreamer, still to seek, or, will Erato appear; gently take my hand so I may feel young life flowing into mine, awakening my soul; quickening my spirit? I have spoken with unabashed honesty, and if thus give offense, shall speak of it no more! But, if she would my Muse now become, I shall write again of life’s joy and sorrow!

I agree. It is up to us to open our minds and hearts and receive that love or continue to walk in darkness (as some prefer to do).

I agree. It is up to us to open our minds and hearts and receive that love or continue to walk in darkness (as some prefer to do).

I agree. It is up to us to open our minds and hearts and receive that love or continue to walk in darkness (as some prefer to do).

Grandpa Fought in World War One I remember as a little child my grandpa telling me of things he did when he was young which now are history. He told me of the battles he fought in World War One; my eyes grew wide as I listened to the things that he had done. He told me we had ancestors who fought the Civil War, and of his dad at San Juan Hill on far and distant shore. He told me that my father had fought in World War Two, and someday, when I was older, I’d have my own war too. Then I asked my father if he fought in World War Two, And if the things that grandpa said of history were true. His eyes they seemed so distant fixed as he spoke these words to me: “My son, they’re true, and I pray you won’t fight in World War Three. Grandpa fought in World War One and, yes, I fought in Two; Your uncle’s in Korea, son, and one day, they’ll send you.” I understand the vision that my father had that day, for when I reached the fighting age they drafted me away. To distant land on foreign soil to fight for Liberty, another son had fought a war in our family’s history. The time it passed so quickly as my son one day to me said, “Dad, I heard what grandpa said about our history. Is it true he fought in World War Two, and you, another place?” I told him what I knew so well as I gazed into his face. Great grandad fought in World War One; your grandpa fought in Two, and I was there in Viet Nam, and one day they’ll send you. Each generation past has sent its young to fight a war; each generation yet to come will send its young once more My son, take note of what I say, for it shall always be; each generation sends its youth to fight for liberty. Great grandad fought in World War One; Your grandpa fought in Two, And I was there, in Viet Nam; I pray they won’t send you!

I like.

I vaguely recall these cartoon. Thanks for posting. Timmberrrrr.

Ol' blue eyes is back! Cool.

and I wasn't stoned when I wrote it! Thank you all.

Autopsy of a Poet Bullets didn’t ricochet off the real Superman: how could they at point blank range! Toe-tapping tadpoles embarked in a row on fallen decayed tree limb listen to iambic pentameter: da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. Is what I write what I mean? Analyze me, my poem-words? Moreover, most too intellectual (right side) miss the subtlety of heart-words (left side) -or is it the other way around?- not from the cheat-book. Do I rely, yes, on the dictionary for spell-check; I, who thought Thesaurus was a Jurassic mammal; scurry to the Ninth Collegiate for definition, or use same for replacement of the common word; write for the asses; not the masses for whom synonym is tasty on French toast? Symbolic; Symbiotic; Psychotic? Write what I feel-think; not to impress; digress; oppress; repress; depress, but express-emote emotion; notion; motion, line breaks, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. Superman is dead; tadpoles into frogs become, croaking analysis, small hearts, small brains; legs to be eaten; expanded air-puffed throats. Ribbit, ribbit; ribbit. Catch a fly on your tongue; gunshot wound to the head- life is short no matter how long you live. Cause of death: Frustration (didn’t take Advanced English Composition), and therefore did succumb, his words much too oblique for him to self-critique. Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum.

Touching.

Mahvelous! Love yer parodies. Just saw this one.

Thanks, ID for the observation. I did that intentionally as a facetious emphasis on old vs new.

Wiz: One day someone will read this and ask, "You mean you could smoke in a bar back then?" Q: Thank you, dear. Hey, I've done it to your poems too...I guess it's just something in us...as we read, we see different flow of the same thought.

Lonely Souls The few remaining patrons are old and musty as the Deco fixtures which compliment the aged walls of past glory; the plaster statue of Aphrodite- life size in the center of the bar- remains seductive even with the twinkle lights draping her bust. But their eyes are too dim to notice her patina formed by the smoke of countless cigars and cigarettes. The television above the bar plays without audible sound for no one can hear well even in the silence of the room. The beer is cold, however, the only importance of this evening, and the small conversations held are the same as every night and no one seems to notice or care. There is a musty flavor in the air one can taste, whether from the bar interior, or the patrons, is not discernable. There is one younger couple, oblivious to their surroundings, in love, gently stroking each other’s arms, a symbol of decades past when the patrons, who refuse to acknowledge youth’s passion and presence, also once spooned with their lover here drinking a now defunct brand of beer. Hours wasted, they sit in quiet discomfort waiting for the final call (it is late); then, pay the tab and mumble good-night. Time to retreat from lonely to alone.

Do you ever sleep??

You cant stop, Q, and here's the proof: I've gotta stop! You have no idea how many variations I've gone through. My soul is scattered too - Mind, self, life, view? Arrrgh! I drive myself crazy...

I know that I have never seen a girl with silken flesh of green. But I can tell you this right now, I prefer green girl to purple cow!

Dust, Trust, Lust; Dust.