Skip to comments.~The Dragon Flies' Lair~Thread~XXII
Posted on 08/28/2005 2:26:23 AM PDT by Soaring Feather
Good morning, Kathy.
Wonderful hymn for today. Thank you so much.
We pray for protection of our nation and her deployed troops.
Good morning, Miss Feather! Congratulations on the happy anniversary!
Reposting to new thread...
Silent shifts of luminecences
brings forth His day of Faith again
and we are given lessons in joy and pain
by the caring heart of the Innocent
Let all who see, thank Him for sight
Let all who hear, thank Him for much
Let all who feel, thank Him for touch
Let all who think, thank Him for insight
Let all who bow in humble faith, feel grace
and share it with an open heart so free
for them we gift all about as it should be
until the day we see His gentle face.
1,142 posted on 08/28/2005 1:09:20 AM EDT by WayzataJOHNN
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Special thank you. ;-]
Another treasure from the most recent thread.
La Enchiladita graciously gave permission to repost this poem.
HAPPY 2nd ANNIVERSARY TO THE DRAGONFLIES' LAIR!!!
(My regards and admiration to "Queenie" Ms. Bentfeather, to all you poets who are my inspiration...)
Gentleness seeks a gentle place
To rest awhile and ease the pace
Of daring and heroic deeds
Rest awhile and plumb the soul
Silenced by the rock and roll and crowds
And dust, by works harsh glare
Remember twilight, the hush
Of time suspended
Say hello to morning and hear
The reply in lairdom where kindred
Meet to sweeten grief and attendant
Woes, to wonder at wasps and
Beating wings --- perhaps of angels,
Perhaps of stings,
To roll in hay with childish glee,
To say I know knowingly.
Retreat and enter life more fully,
Be pebble, pond and ripple,
Be skimming dragonfly.
Be dreamer and dare
To rest awhile at the Lair.
1,116 posted on 08/27/2005 2:39:59 PM EDT by La Enchiladita (Remembering our Heroes today and every day. . . "Operation Gratitude")
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Sunrise in sadness
rolling this dream memory over,
the rhythms of darkness
it cannot heal pain.
Our fragile earth,
so blue from space,
gives us a berth,
albeit, a tenuous place.
Hurricane's show,how ineffectual we are
at combating Nature,
what say you now?
We're tossed around
like so much waste,
from Natural forces, and
yes, we fall flat on our face.
Those who advocate,
that we can control,
the awesome power unleashed,
well, it's all hyperbole.
Our time on this earth,
is an alloted amount,
so, beware Human Race,
We're only here, by Gods Grace.
Thank you for bringing my poem forward Miss Feather . . .I'm honoured!!!
Prayers going up for the People in New Orleans and the whole Gulf Coast . . . God be with you all.
Goodnight everyone . . . see you tomorrow.
Part of my job is seeing and hearing things I wished didn't happen, but know they will, as long as humans are all too human. This poem is a dark poem, more because its all too often part of someone's life then we might like to admit.
In the once comforting dark,
her large luminous eyes,
shine like ebony jewels bright,
like the tears on her tiny cheeks.
Her tiny fear so strong it reeks,
as she lies in the darkness in fright,
listening to her mothers painful cries,
until dawns first glimmering spark.
Like booze, arguments and anger flow,
words that are so strong they sting,
her parents vent their frustrations now,
and she lies in the dark in her own fear.
Fearing neither parent remembers whats dear,
cries of pain and anger together ring,
and in the dark room she hears the row,
somewhere near dawn comes the first blow.
A slamming door, her daddy is gone to work, or away,
and mommy is silent, so silent it all seems so wrong,
hours pass without end, and she is so hungry there,
then a big man in blue comes in and shakes his head.
A lady took her away, for mommy couldnt, she said,
so strangers would have to give her some loving care
daddy she never saw again, or heard his go-to-sleep song,
they said he had a terrible debt, so he had to go away to pay.
She lies in a darkened room, and hears memories again,
wondering if they will ever go away like daddy did,
and fearing they might, and then shed be so alone,
and its so hard growing up in a strangers home this way.
She longs for someone to say its all ok, so she can play,
with mommy and daddy once again, her punishment to atone,
lost in the dark, she burrows under the covers, time she hid,
maybe one day she would hear the words that would end her pain.
Yes, there is this side of life
Some walk in darkness, beatings and strife
the scars are carried on the skin
but those inside, buried deep
are more painful than those
visible to the human eye.
The soul scars are etched
in tissue and flesh
the brain tapes are played
when not a request
They undermine the human
trying to do best
the negative tapes play
night and day
the tapes need a cleaning
a blank space to start
a new set of scenes a new guide
to follow sometimes it's hard
the learning new ways
but not impossible to
fly with the breeze.
"but not impossible to
fly with the breeze."
That is so very, very true, and the most powerful thing one can do!
Good morning Lady Fair
Good morning to you Johnn.
Trust you are hale and hardy this day.
We do hold that power don't we. Our wings have broken the surly bonds of earth.
Icy unforgiving embrace
a broken desire
inside, his contest to
pales the heart's
journey to her.
Good morning... (yawn, stretch...West coast time ... Monday)
The last report I saw on Katrina was she might not hit land as hard as feared ... but a fierce storm all the same.
Good morning, your time. It's 1:30 pm here, EDT.
Yes, a fierce storm, indeed. We can hope Katrina has spent most of her wrath. Prayers up for those in her path.
Good day Ms. Feather!
Howdy Connie. Nice to see ya!!
Oh Ms. Feather, what a lovely story! Poor, sweet Old Man.
I wonder how many years he has been planting that same garden each Spring?
I'm certainly glad you're still here to tell the story!
Truly a wonderful story. Thank you for sharing! They have led a good, honest life. I hope I can be so fortunate.
I went into my bed
my body told me I was tired
but sleep eluded me
my thoughts turned to you
I closed my eyes
and met you in the stars
I held night
saw it sparkle
twilight arrived with
your face carved
across my dawn
holding the essence of you
in my bones...
Gardening still at Ninety two,
and still going strong,
prefering to wear out, not rust, that
surely can't be wrong.
His life still has purpose,
even tho' eyes are dim,
his garden's still important to him,
tho' his vines he cannot trim.
Visiting with neighbours,
are some of lifes true joys,
sharing Gods bounty across the fence,
our faith in men doth restore.
Good evening Miss Feather . . .I really enjoyed your story and it has inspired this poem in return.
Goodnight everyone . . .see you tomorrow.
Setting the Stage
The Beggars Wind comes on cats paws,
and the year seems to race into the golden time.
Every tree will soon surrender to autumns laws,
and nature fits the world to her ancient rhyme.
Nights grow slowly clearer and mists are dearer,
and clouds race the moon across an ebon sky.
Nights are changing time becoming ever crisper,
and hints of gold and red highlight the leaves that die.
Trees rustle in near silent speech, to talk of passing time,
and wind song sings of things lost or gone beyond.
Seasons and life garbs itself in a new cloth of mime,
and we watch lifes new act upon our stage so fond.
As soft as gossamer I caress her cheek
so as not to wake her from her sleep.
I watch her at rest, and see the things I seek,
and my heart surges forth in a lovers leap.
Her rising breast rhythmically fills with airy life,
her cheeks flushed with a dreams emotions sweet.
Her long lashes flicker in sleep, as dreams run rife,
and I watch them, passing across her face so fleet.
Her lips pout in some memory, and she smiles,
and I grin, for I know I was there to hold and share.
Her alabaster skin glows, her hair a golden pile,
and I lay silent and watch her, my living art, with care.
Lovely treasures left in the air
I left early to enjoy the wet, night air
it rained here tonight-what a joy
it's been many months without water
soaking the ground or filling the air.
Many little gems of joy
the Lair poets post for all to soak up
grateful we are the Lair does not dry up
her many wells are still untapped
a hidden ground swell reserve
our poets save time for us in words.
That was quite the punchline..!! There's nothing like sharing the joys and tribulations of gardening. I'm so glad he can still garden at 92! Thanks, feathery one.
What a perfect response, Hope and Glory!
This is one of my favorite poems and fits today's theme:
THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE
By William Butler Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear the water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
Excellent choice today. This poem is a favorite of mine also.
Oops, I missed this post at first 'cuz I went straight for your hurricane poem, which is right on.
I've done a bit of reading on Yeats and have a well worn collection of his poems. His unrequited love for the beautiful Maud Gonne was legendary. I visited the (round) Yeats tower in the west of Ireland when I was there. Strange place to live, you have to love the damp...
Not to worry, just a couple of comments regarding Yeats.
I could not stand the damp, my body is racked with arthritis as it is.
Same here! Give me sun, give me warmth, give me Summer!!
Last week she arrived
on time for a change
and not in a snit
She threw us a curve tho'
had waffles, not pancakes.
but, whatever she serves,
The Canteen greedily partakes of.
LOL!!! . . .I see you've been laying in wait for Miss Spotsybelle . . . just like me. GMTA . . . ;-)
So, I'm thankful that she's
such a good sport,
not like someone else
we could mention,
who, ended up in jail . . . ;-)
So fear not, our Spotsy
will stay out of jail,
she's too valuable to us
ladleing syrup, out of her pail.
Oh Spotsy . . . .you'd better get here soon and defend yourself . . . LOL!!!
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