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MJJCs Official Daily Poems & Reflections Thread

A Dawning

Midnight comes and extended feelings connect
then some how begin to make ultimate sense.
Here I am wishing and wondering when all along
the answer was right here staring in my face.
Time now to pick it all up and put it together
the right way so as to not disrupt it all again.
Finally I can forget this thing and move on to
something more peaceful and within my grip.
Sadless am I now and full of inspiration that
[FONT=&quot]only comes with complete revelation of mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[/FONT] Chasing Moonbeams

Chasing moonbeams
cloaked in stars.
Softly they cascade down upon
my moonstruck body.
Loving the quiet solitude
it brings from afar.
I lean in further to hear their
distant whispers.
Chasing moonbeams oh what a
peaceful and lovely night.
Guiding me to dreamy eyed
contentment so sweet.
 
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When Dreams Leave Illusions



An odd silence fills the air
One of great sorrow and remorse.
I thought I could figure out everything
Whether or not I will is still yet to be known.

Sometimes when days like these happen
You feel as if nothing really never ever mattered
And then it happens the pain the feelings the hurt
The downward spiral of emotions spilling out.

Love or hate what is the difference at all?
Just one emotion after another overlapping
I care not to be smothered again in the darkness
With no light left to find me withering away.

Some hearts hold no purpose and their existence
Cannot go on and live to what is said to be forever
How can such ones live so sad a life and not even
Get it into their hearts that Love is a blessing?

When Dreams leave illusions and feelings are
Better yet left alone for fear of numerous regrets
I am tired of going back to those what might have been
For when all is said and done what matters of my needs?

I dare not walk that path yet one more time out of frustration
For in all you said and had done to me I care not now to know
It seems to me you felt that I was finished and that there never
Ever was no second chance for me in my sad pathetic life?

Well you were wrong so now what of it and your deeds?
Do you feel as I do or care you not for my hearts renderings?
Now is not the end for me and what could have been is done
I am leaving my heart open for the best that is yet to come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The Ghost Face Stares

Millions of voices ringing and my mind it happily sings
Past beings are still left here to struggle over it all again.
Memory seems to haunt them all without any given fright.
Shadows come and visit me while I sit so steadily amused.

Their Gossamer beauty surrounds me and I often wonder
What their messages bring within their softest whispers
Their hands reach out and go through me grasping void.
Sound is born inside my ear like that of the winds force.

Their sighs of doom bring to me such a hurtful sadness
What is their purpose and why do they visit me this way?
Like a mirrored reflection a lone one watches and waits
Saddest eyes peering back at me full of remorse and pain

Perhaps someday you will forever be gone never to return
Maybe it is my imagination just running wild inside my head
Could it be that this is just all something too surreal to digest?
Perhaps none of this never ever did occur and I am dreaming?

And then its there the one and only figure that stands outright
The lone one who seeks me for comfort or whatever is its need
It is always there standing waiting this vision from the past afar
There it reigns regal like and unafraid to be shown and it sighs

I watch in sheer abandonment of fear and question as to why
Closer it comes and bids me to follow yet I will not go forth
I am used to this occurrence for I have dealt with it all my life
I wait yet do not move and yet and still he lingers on the edge
And ... The Ghost Face Stares
 
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^ Thank you for sharing more of you great work with us :flowers:
 
I love your gift for imagery poe. As always I enjoy reading your work. :)
_____________

It's my birthday TOMORROW...
So I'm writing a poem in dedication to twenty years of living :D

For all the times this baby fell
I was cuddled by my mom
The only girl to tell
Just give it one more try
Surrounded with brothers by seven
They said you can forget about heaven
We'll make hell worthwhile
I knew they were just bluffing
I could only punch 'em and smile
More years dash by
I'm in junior high
Feeling oh so clumsy
all I want to do is cry
people tease me all the time
And I always wondered why
Sixteen and graduating
Never thought I would
Always been a good average
But that was a dream come true
Getting into college
Was not an easy feat
But hey, what do I know
Being away from parents
What a treat!
hoplol.gif

But for the most part I'm back home now
Hitting the twenty perfect mark
I don't wanna be adult yet
But, heck, I gotta start
 
Happy Birthday Tess! Hey, I'm just 29 years and one day older than you, and I don't want to be an adult either, but we all gotta start! Have a wonderful day. (((hug))) Thanks for sharing you poem. It is very sweet.

Thanks for all your lovely poems too Poe. :)
 
I’ve been thinking a lot about ‘virtue’ lately… Because it seems to me that virtue is not always appreciated in the way that one might expect. In fact, virtue is quite often met with opposition, persecution, ridicule and hardship. Perhaps it is because virtue is never so distinct as when it stands firm in the face of vice.

So, anyway… I wrote this poem a while ago, to make a point. It may appear offensive at first glance, but please persevere, as my purpose was not to offend, but rather, to get people thinking… about virtue.


Virtue is Over-rated

Love is over-rated. Ask Jesus… Where did it get him?

Patience is over-rated. Ask Gandhi… Where did it get him?

Self-sacrifice is over-rated. Ask Mother Theresa… Where did it get her?

Integrity is over-rated. Ask Galileo… Where did it get him?

Fidelity is over-rated. Ask Ann Boleyn… Where did it get her?

Devotion is over-rated. Ask Joan of Arc… Where did it get her?

Honesty is over-rated. Ask Bill Clinton… Where did it get him?

Generosity is over-rated. Ask Michael Jackson… Where did it get him?

Perseverance is over-rated. Ask Nelson Mandela… Where did it get him?

Courage is over-rated. Ask Aung San Suu Kyi… Where did it get her?

Compassion is over-rated. Ask Thich Nhat Hanh… Where did it get him?

Hmmmmm…


As I wrote this poem, something became more apparent to me… virtue is not necessarily immediately beneficial to the virtuous individual. Virtue is primarily for the benefit of others. It is selfless in nature. Virtue benefits society. And many of those whom society hails as heroes and leaders on account of their values, suffered persecution, imprisonment, hardship, exile, humiliation and execution. Where did their virtues get them? Well, it may have gotten them killed or imprisoned, but it also got their names in our history books, hailed as the most admirable men and women that this world has known.

Yes, it is true that the worst villains have also secured a place in the history books, but they are held up as examples of how humanity aught not to behave.

We teach our children virtues because no matter how hard the suffering, it is the virtuous who uphold society and move us forward. Not everyone who is virtuous will find their name in the annals of history, but their lives will be printed into the fabric of someone’s heart, into the personal history of all those who benefited from their good deeds.

“By accident of fortune a man may rule the world for a time, but by virtue of love, he may rule the world forever.”
~Lao Tzu~

“No man can purchase his virtue too dear, for it is the only thing whose value must ever increase with the price it has cost us. Our integrity is never worth so much as when we have parted with our all to keep it.”
~Ovid~


And now... To completely ruin any pious thoughts... ;) A poem inspired by Michael's cover-shot on the L'Uomo Vogue magazine last year...

A Vision Fair

Breath catches as I see him nigh
With shoulders broad and strong of thigh
Hands elegant—his lips do touch
My craving is to do as much
Those fingers long, by heaven’s design
Should find themselves entwined with mine!
Poised—rest they next to silken cuffs,
Though velvet sleeves still long enough
Provoke my mind to heart’s desire
For hands that turn my blood to fire.
Satin lapels o’er silken vest
Divert my eyes towards his chest
His heart beats there within—confined
More splendid than his clothes refined
And ere I look, I long to rest
My head upon his loving breast
Entranced, I linger for a while
Till upward glance beholds his smile
Eyes closed in mirth ‘neath perfect brow
See how amused he’s feeling now!
His hair a crown of raven plumes
Frame youthful face wherein there blooms
A beauty deeper still than skin
Of glory born in suffering
His cheek bones high and chin that’s square
My lips do long to kiss him there
One button holds his jacket right
Around his waist that’s perfect—tight
And if I could his trousers view…
‘Tis best I don’t, alas I rue.
Quick, look above, my thoughts to clear
His collar round his throat so dear
Adorned with jewels of lustre rare
To glisten ‘neath his shining hair
A sigh released—I gaze enthralled
By so much beauty here enrolled
And capturing in verse I’ll hold
This vision fair from days of old.

Hehe! And here is the pic to remind you...

img002.jpg
 
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Reflections on Poetry

I’m glowing right now. A few days ago it was my birthday, and I received lots of books—some of them by famous poets, since my family know how much I love poetry. I have to confess that I have been treating myself to poetry books as well, of late, so I have quite a collection to choose from—Oscar Wilde, Walt Whitman, Wilson MacDonald, Robert Frost, Nan Witcomb, Billy Collins and Mary Oliver, to name a few.

I am always curious to discover what it is about the works of popular poets that has earned them their reputation. It is never hard to discover...

Yesterday I read Mary Oliver's latest collection: "Thirst". I cried from cover to cover, not because it was sad, but because her poetry is so pure! It takes my breath away. Like all brilliant art—like Michael Jackson's dancing, Gustav Klimt's paintings and Michelangelo's sculptures—it cuts right through and touches me at my core. The beauty of it overwhelms me. How I long to one day be able to write poetry like she does!

Today, on the train, I read Billy Collin's collection "The Trouble With Poetry". His work is always refreshing. Billy Collins makes me smile and laugh—the same way that Spike, from Notting Hill, makes me smile and laugh. His total lack of affectation is delightful and his dry humour is so amusing.

Of course, different poets write in different styles about many varied topics. I love poetry from the romantic era—the "thees" and "thous" and old-fashioned phrases. They fill me a with a sense of... well... romance! I enjoy the cleverness of rhymes of many kinds. I like stories written in poetic form, and eloquent prose. And famous quotes intrigue me. They are so often profound, and very often, poetic. But what impresses me the most is clarity. So many of the poets that I admire write with a kind of purity. I don't mean that they write in an uncomplicated or realistic style, nor even that their subject matter is untainted with the frailties of man. I mean that they don't get in the way of their poetry. They are a clear channel for their art—tingeing it with their presence but not imposing themselves too heavily upon it.

Good poems are like snapshots shared with us by the poet. He does not ask us to observe his response to the world, but rather, he simply tells us what he sees. He sculptures a scene or a circumstance into words, and he lets us experience it as if we are standing next to him at the same window, seeing what he sees.

Recently I have made the acquaintance of an interesting man—a prize-winning poet who completed a degree in literature many years ago... I showed him a collection of my poetry, and he was politely unimpressed, which, of course, was disappointing! In time I discovered his reservations. In a phrase, he told me that there is a difference between eloquent self-disclosure and good poetry. I didn't understand what he meant, until the following week, when I read several volumes of Nan Witcomb's work. Each poem was a gift. There was a lightness to every verse, as though it had been created to give away. Nan was there, but she was not calling me into her heart, to feel the world through her perceptions. She was letting me see the same view that she was seeing, and allowing me to experience my own feelings in response to it—like Mary Oliver, like Bill Collins.

Today, on the train, I read a poem that speaks of the poet's window. It illustrates my point.

Monday
~Billy Collins~

The birds are in their trees,
the toast is in the toaster,
and the poets are at their windows.

They are at their windows
in every section of the tangerine of earth-
the Chinese poets looking up at the moon,
the American poets gazing out
at the pink and blue ribbons of sunrise.

The clerks are at their desks,
the miners are down in their mines,
and the poets are looking out their windows
maybe with a cigarette, a cup of tea,
and maybe a flannel shirt or bathrobe is involved.

The proofreaders are playing the ping-pong
game of proofreading,
glancing back and forth from page to page,
the chefs are dicing celery and potatoes,
and the poets are at their windows
because it is their job for which
they are paid nothing every Friday afternoon.

Which window it hardly seems to matter
though many have a favorite,
for there is always something to see-
a bird grasping a thin branch,
the headlights of a taxi rounding a corner,
those two boys in wool caps angling across the street.

The fishermen bob in their boats,
the linemen climb their round poles,
the barbers wait by their mirrors and chairs,
and the poets continue to stare
at the cracked birdbath or a limb knocked down by the wind.

By now, it should go without saying
that what the oven is to the baker
and the berry-stained blouse to the dry cleaner,
so the window is to the poet.

Just think-
before the invention of the window,
the poets would have had to put on a jacket
and a winter hat to go outside
or remain indoors with only a wall to stare at.

And when I say a wall,
I do not mean a wall with striped wallpaper
and a sketch of a cow in a frame.

I mean a cold wall of fieldstones,
the wall of the medieval sonnet,
the original woman's heart of stone,
the stone caught in the throat of her poet-lover.


In response to this poem, I wrote one of my own:

To Be A Good Poet

I am beginning to learn what it means to be a good poet.
A good poet sits at a window that looks out upon the world
and writes to us of what he sees.

It may be the real world. It may be a world of fantasy.
It may be a microcosmic world—but it is out there.

I sit at the window of my heart, staring and beckoning to others
to come regard my heart with me—its delights and sorrows...

It is not the facility with words that matters so much
as the view one is taking.
Am I sharing a gift, or demanding attention?

One day I will learn to look out and take snapshots
with the camera of my words, and hand them out freely:
on street corners, in taverns, to passers by...

But not today...


There is nothing wrong with eloquent self-disclosure. Without it I think I would go insane! It bubbles out of me like an overflowing cauldron of emotion, and to date I'm not sure that I know how to do anything else. But perhaps it pleases me much more than it will ever please anyone else. Having said that, I absolutely LOVE reading everyone else's poems on this thread, and I am so often impressed with the beauty and clarity I see in our very talented poets! Many poems are mainly self-disclosure, but what a wonderful way to get to know another person's heart!
 
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I guess I am not a poet connoisseur. I really enjoyed your thoughts here. What I have discovered for myself is that I prefer the "eloquent self-disclosure's" probably for the same reason you still enjoy them. I know how I feel by seeing different sights, I think I would rather see them than read them. I want to know how someone else feels and experience bits of life through their eyes to gain better understanding of that person rather than just my own emotion again. Though I suppose a good poet will bring his/her emotion to the poem simply by the scene they chose to paint with words, thereby evoking the same emotion in the reader.

I enjoyed your post :) Thank you Dimity.
 
I'm not a poet connoisseur either. I haven't studied poetry since high school, but just lately I've been reading more, trying to work out what it is that I like and what inspires me. But it is a very individual thing.

Today I've been sifting through my poems trying to find those that have the kind of appeal that I so enjoy in others' poetry, and they are very few and far between. It is a challenge to me. I want to have my own style, but I also would love to impart joy the way other poets do.

Here's one that I wrote last year for Michael's birthday.

Good Night Blessing

A rose upon my pillow
Sweet scent, the palest pink
Who left it there? I wonder
And then I see you wink
The moonlight on your face
Reveals a gentle smile
I know you’ll keep me snug tonight
I’ll sleep in just a while
But first tell me a story
A tale of days gone by
Of heroines and heroes
Romance to make me sigh
Kiss me on my forehead
And tuck me in so tight
And whisper that you love me
Upon this summer night
Then I will sleep contented
And I will dream no fear
For you are sitting by me
So warm and oh so near
I’ll feel your breath upon me
Your fingers through my hair
Soft petals of the rose
Upon my skin so fair
Please send a prayer to heaven
God grant me restful sleep
And pull the covers higher
While I snuggle in so deep
Then wrap your arms around me
Like an angel from above
Sent to reassure me
That I’m sheltered in your love
This rose upon my pillow
With fragrance fresh and light
Will stay with me till morning
While your love will stay all night
 
Drew liked "To Be A Good Poet". He would agree with the ideas I expressed and the simplicity with which I expressed them. He didn't mind "Virtue is over-rated". He wasn't fussed about "Goodnight Blessing". He doesn't enjoy any of my sentimental poems, or my self-disclosure or my rapturous ravings, LOL. Here's a poem that was inspired by him a while back, but he didn't like this one either--too intense! He prefers for emotions to be understated. I am a truly challenged poet, for overstating emotions is what I do most often.

The Cavern

Driving home
A lyric leads my mind
To thoughts of you.
The music fades
The street lights dim
Drawn within
I find your shadow there
A lingering desire
Awareness of want
Pressing up beneath my ribs.
I touch my open mouth
Hungry for you.
My fingertips are rough
A jolting reality
So unlike the cushion
Of your familiar form
The yearning grips me tight
An emptiness
A haunting memory
Of fleshly moments
Stalking me
Like the moon
A glowing ember
Burning behind a veil of mist
Chasing me home
Along winding paths
And the darkness beyond
Like the cavern inside of me
That you must fill
If you will.
 
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A glance into your eyes then your lips meet mine
beautiful and sweet, So succulently divine
trailing your mouth with the tip of my finger
pressing you close to me as we let this kiss linger
losing my inhibitions I drown into you
passions abound my love for you true
never wanting release from bliss
as we are joined together in this magical kiss
 
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Awww, I LOVE that one about kissing... [wistfully dreams...]
The other one is sad, but I know how you feel. Well said.
 
wow Lorraine. :) I'm glad you are writing more and sharing here. Those were very effective.
 
Nice Poems everyone ty for sharing! :flowers:

here is my lame attempt at another one :lol:

Love Glows

Love glows tonight and I am in for a treat
For my Lovely one again has come to me
My Magical one that reigns upon high
Thy beauteous glow beckons me nigh
Give to me thy celestial favors to impart
Touch me in the deepest places of my heart
Breathe into me new life and inspire my soul
I am but your admiring one here down below
Come and invite me inside your lunar domain
Let me dance joyous before you again and again
There stand I enveloped inside these sultry beams
Over and over I am enthralled into happy dreams
Dreams of love and wishes from far inside within
Let me drink of this beauty let it now so begin
I feel your caresses upon my weary tired brow
Take me further spin me upwards do it now!
I in return shall cherish and admire you true
Keep me dreaming let me drink of you anew
I for one shall always wait and come undone
You bring to me your comforts my lunar one.
 
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Sighhhhh. Moonstruck again! How delicious your poem feels!
 
^ yw poefiend (hugs) back

~~~~~~~
how sad it is what little is seen
you can share, you can care, but at what price?
realities get tangled in other's wishes and wants
how much help can one give when others are closed?
try as we might, ego wins out, efforts are fruitless
and twisted about, made to fit what another demands
angles, non-existent are formed to suit
the one who loved most, tried hardest gets transformed
by the tread or heel, they are stamped out
it is their reward for giving more than they owed
those who wagered to malign perceptions
tho the character's never changed
will have to fill in the blanks for the seeds they've sewn.
 
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Sad but true. Loving isn't easy and virtue isn't always rewarded in the short term.
(((hug)))
 
poefiend said:
Nice Poems everyone ty for sharing! :flowers:

here is my lame attempt at another one :lol:

Love Glows

Love glows tonight and I am in for a treat
For my Lovely one again has come to me
My Magical one that reigns upon high
Thy beauteous glow beckons me nigh
Give to me thy celestial favors to impart
Touch me in the deepest places of my heart
Breathe into me new life and inspire my soul
I am but your admiring one here down below
Come and invite me inside your lunar domain
Let me dance joyous before you again and again
There stand I enveloped inside these sultry beams
Over and over I am enthralled into happy dreams
Dreams of love and wishes from far inside within
Let me drink of this beauty let it now so begin
I feel your caresses upon my weary tired brow
Take me further spin me upwards do it now!
I in return shall cherish and admire you true
Keep me dreaming let me drink of you anew
I for one shall always wait and come undone
You bring to me your comforts my lunar one.
Click to expand...

Lovely and dreamy, Poe. :flowers:

Everyone's poems are great actually. Thanks to all for sharing. :flowers:
 
That's such a beautiful poem Pua. Thanks for sharing.
 
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You're welcome Dimity. Thanks for liking it :D
 
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