0029 Poet in a Wendy House
After death visited,
they opened the house
as a museum
it was easier than clearing it
but as
Health and Safety officials
were not happy, only one
at a time, perhaps two together,
were admitted
by appointment only
there were photos of course
and framed copies
of the better-known poems
some ageing better than others
a scratchy recording
a rather musty smell
a few years after I died
I went back to look
but the house and
its predominantly green writing room
and blue glass which
the sun peered dustily through
with the hideous 1930s fireplace
painted crudely over in 1960s taste in white
looked nothing to do with me
nor the photos
nor the poems
so I abandoned what I'd thought
a rather cute idea of
being a friendly ghost
in my own museum
it just hadn't come together
as a poem should
or a life
but I left the laughter and the joy
for those who could hear it
(For Wendy, a concrete image)
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Footnote to a famous poem
You all know it from the classroom.
It’s in all the anthologies.
Many say it’s his best; ‘a young man’s poem’
full of life and love and promise;
and short too. His long poems,
they’re great but few have the patience now
and who cares about Poet Laureates
when they’re out of fashion?
It never appeared, did you know,
in his lifetime. Sat in his desk drawer,
a single poem in a fine Italian leather folder.
His wife left it there after he died;
remembering when he’d sent it to her
the night before their marriage; she caught him
once, sitting there, an old man reading
a young man’s poem; closed the door quietly,
said nothing.
They cleared the house after she died.
It would never have come to light
if years later his mistress hadn’t left
a copy – it transpired - to the museum
in her will; he’d written it just for her, she said;
but made her promise not to publish it.
She felt she owed it to his memory though.
Some people prefer not to have
footnotes to poems; they say
they spoil the poem,
and cheapen a great man;
some people like them; they say
it makes poets seem more human.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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0377 Should be, but
I should be writing a poem
about those small wisps of white cloud
moving unusually fast across a blue blue sky
on their way to somewhere else
as if they're late for an appointment.
I should be writing a poem
about the way the breeze is so gentle
that it seems to have a secret plan with the sun
and the new green leaves
to do something quite extraordinary.
I should be writing a poem
about the way that the trailing geranium leaves
are giving out a scent more white than green
more heavenly than any thought.
I should be writing a poem
about the way that the purple and blue and yellow and white flowers
seem to say nothing but beauty.
I should be writing a poem
but all I can do is gaze in amazement
at what I've seen before
and never seen before.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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If I Can Go On Writing Poems
IF I CAN GO ON WRITING POEMS
If I can go on writing poems
I will be happy-
If I cannot go on
I will lose something of myself-
I wonder how long I will be able to go on
Days? Years? How long exactly?
I write happily now
A poem I know I can post-
Without that I might be less happy about it-
If I can go on writing poems
This will be a sign I still have hope in life-
When I am stopped or stop
Will it mean I am finished
As a person also?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Ghost Photos Of Vegas 2010
I was in Vegas in October 2010
I was with Melodie doll who is my child within.
We went down the Vegas Strip
seeing everything that was hip.
Photos of Melodie posing in front of Casinos
people where watching me amazingly so
I kept shooting for little did I know.
I thought there will be great photos to boot-
it ended up being a ghost photo shoot.
Photos did not come out at all
even though I saw the sights and had a ball.
I bought a green Vegas Cap though
US Army design with jewels that glow.
Nikon will be the next camera I will buy
it will take great photos that light up the sky.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on March 17,2911
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Storyteller Poet
I would like to say I am a storyteller foremost,
my poems are stories, like the Poem about the Ghost.
My 'People' poems are a happy story,
poems are never sad, mean or gory.
'Peeve' poems where written when I was mad,
I couldn’t express it to people who made me sad.
Now 'Pet' poems are always happy, funny or cute,
some make you cry or laugh like a hoot.
Now I want to write like C.S. Elliot one day,
maybe before I’m old and grey.
My initials are C.S. or S.C. Suzae or Sue,
one day poets will copy my storytelling poetry style too.
Written By Suzae Chevalier on January 20,2012
www.suechevalier.com www.melodiememories.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Ghost Photos Of Vegas 2010
I was in Vegas in October 2010
I was with Melodie doll who is my child within.
We went down the Vegas Strip
seeing everything that was hip.
Photos of Melodie posing in front of Casinos
people where watching me amazingly so
I kept shooting for little did I know.
I thought there will be great photos to boot-
it ended up being a ghost photo shoot.
Photos did not come out at all
even though I saw the sights and had a ball.
I bought a green Vegas Cap though
US Army design with jewels that glow.
Nikon will be the next camera I will buy
it will take great photos that light up the sky.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on March 17,2911
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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The Yellow House on Tucker Avenue
Saturday mornings brought promises,
of starting over,
beginning anew.
Trying to make the week over
and re-invent my life,
a life that I wanted with you.
The house sat high against a slope,
far enough away from the road to make it seem inaccessible
Painted a cheerful yellow, the colour
of happiness
And there in the yellow house on Tucker Avenue
I imagined my life with you.
Loving you in rooms filled
with laughter,
days and nights turning into years
In a house painted the colour of sunshine
and happy children that looked like you,
There in that yellow house on Tucker Avenue
I created a life spent with you.
The weekends gave way to reality
And the house sits deserted still
Steadily fading into memory, alone against the sturdy hill.
Abandoned to the fantasy and the careless dreams that I knew,
When I pass by the house that a love built
That yellow house on Tucker Avenue
poem by Karen Touzalin
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Storytelling Poet
I would like to say I am a storyteller foremost,
my poems are stories, like the Poem about the Ghost.
My 'People' poems are a happy story,
poems are never sad, mean or gory.
'Peeve' poems where written when I was mad,
I couldn't express it to people who made me sad.
Now 'Pet' poems are always happy, funny or cute,
some make you cry or laugh like a hoot.
Now I want to write like C.S. Elliot one day,
maybe before I'm old and grey.
My initials are C.S. or S.C. Suzae or Sue,
one day poets will copy my storytelling poetry style too.
Written By Suzae Chevalier on January 20,2012
www.suechevalier.com www.melodiememories.com
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Oh The Poems And More Poems
OH THE POEMS AND THE MORE POEMS
Oh the poems and the more poems
The wonderful poems I am writing all the time
God has given me this gift
And when I wait in the right way
And when I listen to myself properly
The poems come in ways I could never have thought of or imagined before
They come as mysteries as gifts as surprises
As wonderful to me as perhaps to you their possible readers
Oh the poems and the more poems
The wonderful poems God has given me
And the light of this day and so many other days, also.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Sadness Of Life Is Not Its Only Poem
THE SADNESS OF LIFE IS NOT ITS ONLY POEM
The sadness of life is not its only poem-
There are other poems-
Poems of love and happiness-
Poems of laughter-
Poems of being with those one loves-
The sadness of life is not its only poem-
Life has many poems-
Happy ones, also.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Shattered windows, Colors of white
Across the street is a new house with a room painted red, with no holes of white.
Next to me, a house purple, with its color pealing off, with holes of black and white
At the end of the street, an old house once yellow, what now remains white.
The sound of a hammer building a house, entering a place with a color unknown.
On the street,
Windows covered with ice
Some shine with light.
Some broken
Some fixed
Some lost, out of sight.
A house, two blocks from here.
Shines with lights of yellow, red, and green everywhere.
A wall keeping the wind from blowing anywhere.
The house next door, at the dawn of the day.
Paints its room black, and peals the color away.
The wall crumbles.
The wind blows across the colors of yellow, red and green
Breaks all the windows.
Turns the yellow to blue, red to black, and green to white.
The house two blocks away.
Adds a line of yellow red and green everyday.
To allow the house of blue, black and white to shine for us some day.
poem by Linda ErikssonBique
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Razel Rhymes
There is a puppet that does rhyme
her name is Razel, she is one of a kind.
www.razelrhymes.com has Razel with funny hair
photos taken in NYC's Time Square.
Her daughter Melodie who is a doll
has photos on the subway having a ball.
Both Razel and Melodie do the town
people watching, even scared with frowns.
Photo with girl in the background
she is shocked for it's Razel she has found.
Found posing in front of the library of NYC
Razel of course thinks herself so pretty.
More photos taken in the taxi cab
cab driver thinks funny and starts to laugh.
Razel and Melodie will soon will arrive
at a law firm to stay the night.
Yes, lawyer will tell me if they will make the grade
to be copyrighted as stuffed toys to be safe.
They will be shipped then to my house FedEx
I write a poem about Melodie who I like best.
Entitled "I Miss My Melodie" which will be in "Puppet Poems"
it's about how Melodie might not make it home.
Melodie and Razel arrive in box from the "City That Never Sleeps"
they had a long travel in a box while counting sheep.
Luckily I have the photos of those 2 recorded in 2010
it was a fun experience for the both of them.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on March 25,2012
poem by Christina Sunrise
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The (Bad) Dream
Sweat broke out on my forehead
I didn't know where I was
I could see everything
Dustin and Tony were standing
What seemed like so far away
I just stood there silently
I saw her walk up to them
Photos flashed by
Photos I have never seen
Her hair was still long
She was kissing a black lab
These photos didn't exist
She stood up
Kissed tony
My heart fell
My world was swirling
It was coming to an end
Her photos caught fire
I knew what that meant
I woke up cold
The dreams after effects
The room was too quiet
I sat up shaking
Lights looked too bright
The atmosphere was wrong
I accepted it
Fell back to sleep
It would all start again
poem by Seth Kaileen
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Razel Rhymes
There is a puppet that does rhyme
her name is Razel, she is one of a kind.
www.razelrhymes.com has Razel with funny hair
photos taken in NYC's Time Square.
Her daughter Melodie who is a doll
has photos on the subway having a ball.
Both Razel and Melodie do the town
people watching, even scared with frowns.
Photo with girl in the background
she is shocked for it's Razel she has found.
Found posing in front of the library of NYC
Razel of course thinks herself so pretty.
More photos taken in the taxi cab
cab driver thinks funny and starts to laugh.
Razel and Melodie will soon will arrive
at a law firm to stay the night.
Yes, lawyer will tell me if they will make the grade
to be copyrighted as stuffed toys to be safe.
They will be shipped then to my house FedEx
I write a poem about Melodie who I like best.
Entitled "I Miss My Melodie" which will be in "Puppet Poems"
it's about how Melodie might not make it home.
Melodie and Razel arrive in box from the "City That Never Sleeps"
they had a long travel in a box while counting sheep.
Luckily I have the photos of those 2 recorded in 2010
it was a fun experience for the both of them.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on March 25,2012
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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A Letter To My Son
Just go, my son
It's really been your time to go
For a new life with your sweetheart
Need not worrying this oldie mom of yours
Indeed I've known long that this day would come
Your sickly mother
Is now all by herself
In our house
Spending in the room
That used to be yours
As time goes by
I put our pictures from long ago
So I would not feel loneliness
The sephia photos
Of which color has faded
It's really hard to imagine, dear
In this house there was laughter
Also tears and weeping every day
I just realized they have gone long
Even before you went away
Everything now has gone
Seems like they have been eaten by time
It's sad, son
To face the mirror and find out
I've been so old, wrinkled
With the hair that starts whitening itself
As if me, too, is eaten by time
My son,
This life means nothing more to me
Now that you've found your life
Your future and your happiness
I think I'm ready to go home
Now that there's nothing left to worry
Just need you to live your life
Goodbye, my son
I'll love you forever
poem by Clara Odelia Ciutara
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On Hearing One Reciting Verses Of Callanan
He recited Gougane Barra and the outlaw of Lough Lene
And my thoughts went back the long gone years to my school going days again
When our teacher recited those verses to us from the pen of a Cork born bardic man
The one whose bones rest in distant Portugal Jeremiah Joseph Callanan.
The poems of J J Callanan will live forever more
And are recited far distant from green old Erin's shore
A true poet of the people though he died poor and young
And he was one of genius and his songs are still sung.
The poet and hedge school teacher his poems known far and wide
And greatness is a thing of him that can never be denied
He recited his verses in village and in town
And even in his too brief life Callanan knew renown.
He recited Gougane Barra and it took me far away
To the school house room in Millstreet happy memories with us stay
When our teacher recited the poems of Callanan 'he was showing his years in gray'
Back in the nineteen fifties and that's going back many a day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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An Afternoon Poem Is Rare
AN AFTERNOON POEM IS RARE
An Afternoon Poem is rare-
Afternoon is long after the first light-
Afternoon is a time of heaviness and quiet
A time of rest-
Afternoon is after the morning work has been done-
Afternoon is the weight of the day-
Afternoon is the time after the day has lost its freshness-
Still there must be afternoon poems-
There must be a beauty that emerges
In its own way,
Perhaps from where lovers meet
Perhaps from ‘ripeness is all’
Perhaps from the anticipation of evening
Perhaps from winter where it is the warmest time of day.
There must be afternoon poems-
Poems that celebrate all that warmth can bring-
Poems of rest poems of sleep-
Poems of waiting to believe
That in the evening
A new day and a new world
Will make life easier again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Not Every Poem Knows How To Say Its Own Name Properly
NOT EVERY POEM KNOWS HOW TO SAY ITS OWN NAME PROPERLY
Not every poem knows how to say its own name properly-
There are poems that have no name
And poems that are named by others who have not written them-
There are poems whose names make them what they are
And poems whose names contradict and belie them-
Many poems have their first lines as their names
And these poems often are as memorable as one line only-
Great poems and good poems can be nameless
Or can have unforgettable names.
Not every poem knows how to say its own name properly -
Poems are poems are poems
And names are names are names
And sometimes they meet and are one
And live happily ever after-
But there are times when perhaps
They never should have met each other at all.
Poems have their names
And names have their poems
But sometimes they love each other
And truly are one.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Memories of Mom
There is nothing I can think of
That brings back old memories
As much as old family photos
What a treat they are for me
Especially ones of my mom
The woman who brought me up
I love to see her beautiful smile
I remember her tender touch
The old photos of her ironing
Reminds me of all her hard work
All the years that I was going up
There wasn’t a chore she would shirk
Oh look, at the little building
That had nearly fallen down
Mom and I were both born there
It’s a rare photo that I found
And here is my precious family
Mom, dad and my brother and sister
Mom is smiling so happily
I would love to hug and kiss her
Yes, family photos are treasures
Gives you thoughts to reminisce on
Like these wonderful photos here
They bring back memories of mom!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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I Was Away From The Poems
I was away from the Poems
I could not hear them within myself -
There were many sounds
Many different kinds of words
And speakers and ranters and shouters
And all kinds of false music also
And even beautiful music and prayer-
But there were no poems
I could hear no poems
And within myself suddenly there came such ‘longing’
And such ‘anxiety’-
‘Where is the Poem? And where can I possibly be if there is none?
And how can I find it again? ’
And all I needed I thought was some long long long silence
Some being alone and away
Some forever waiting to hear
Some listening to the true voice
And then somehow somehow the Poems would come again –
And here here here it is now
The poem
Quiet and sure and happy and light and singing
As if it were the one music God wanted me to hear
And repeat always as if it truly were mine and yours
Dear imagined reader,
Alone.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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