Toadfish Monastery

Compass
"Walk.", they said.
"Where?", said I.
"It doesn't matter." they said. "Just walk."
But I knew a true compass
has five directions,
North,
South,
East,
West,
and Here.
So I came Here.
Hi!

On Relationships.

I have a rubber plant
next to my desk.
Tall and green
and bigger than I am,
it often leans a careless leaf
on my shoulder as I work.
Friendly, like.

Sometimes I like to run my thumbnail
into it's soft green flesh
and watch the white sap bleed
and flow
and pool.
coagulate.

But mostly we just sit there.
Friendly, like.

I love these! They are so straightforward and clear.

I find these to be very free-flowing and almost 'automatic writing' ish.  Sort of let loose your mind and have it flow out onto the paper with the pen as a medium...
Oi loikes it!

The Perfect Employee

Seven parts crazy, three parts fool,
One part hot, and one part cool,
Nine parts love, and one part hate,
And given to biting the starting gate.

And Kuan Yin Weeps

Imagine, then.
Oh, call it eighteen hundred years ago,
a very small and useless girlchild,
discarded into the Yangtze River.
Too young to have a name,
Too young to know, even a single word.

And Kuan Yin weeps.

And as she sinks into the painful cold,
A warm white body bears her up,
A gentle white snout pushes her,
head up into the reeds and mud,
the river's edge,
brings her three tiny fishes,
one by one, and lays them near her mouth,
that cannot eat.
And stays protecting close,
Into the welcoming dark.
She dies that night,
so very cold, but not alone.
And as she dies,
The only word she ever learns,
burns in her failing mind.
"Baiji."

And, now.
An old man reads some news,
and stops and weeps.
And as the tears run down his face,
he  whispers.
"Goodbye forever to the Baiji."

And Kuan Yin weeps.

Did you write that Quasi?  That's awesome.

That needs to be posted so that it shows up on the opening page in the 'new' section...

There's a Submit Content (http://toadfishmonastery.com/index.php?option=com_ja_submit&Itemid=5) button.  The newest stuff always appears first under Sibling things.  There's a category for Poems.  If we can get enough stuff on The Sibling Things page then I can start putting the most popular things on the front page.

MB

Yes, I wrote it yesterday.
Thank you.
I can't find any 'submit content' button.
Feel free to put it anywhere you would like to. I grant unrestricted license.

Quote from: Quasimodo (The Meromorph) on December 15, 2006, 03:36:33 PM
Yes, I wrote it yesterday.
Thank you.
I can't find any 'submit content' button.
Feel free to put it anywhere you would like to. I grant unrestricted license.

Your awesome Quasi.  I will post it for you.

If you are using the forum full screen you might not see the button, actually a menu item in this case.  It's in the User menu on the home page when you're logged in.

Memories

I have been picking
at ancient scars,
letting dark unwilling blood
in the shadows
at the bottom of a mind.

I am afraid.

I would be your friend
to weave bright silver for your eyes,
to teach my voice to dance for you,
to let my fingers sing.

I am very afraid.

They had hands like warm water and bones,
those two, and all the world between them.

     Tender as a warrior,
     I brought them both together.

           In a cascade of twisting mornings,
                                               I was not.


In later years
I once awoke
clear eyed at midnight
screaming "Ten years is long enough!".

It was not.

I am afraid.

Oh  Mero, Oh Mero, I am speechless.

Simply beautiful

Poignant

Your poetry touches my soul.

Thank you

You have a gift.

It's snowing and my feet hurt

I remember how it felt
in the winter
under thin sheets
when the rain outside,
seemed warmer than your promises.

And I willingly helped,
to build the road,
to invite companions,
and to hurry the stragglers along.

On a quest for a vision
I didn't even try to see.
Building a hero
I didn't want to be.

It is small consolation
here,
at the grungy end of desolation boulevard
that you were doing
the best that you could.

So was I.

It's going to be a long walk back.

Rose.

Have you ever felt the living strength
within the velvet of the antlers
of a deer, new grown in spring?
Have you ever pulled a butterfly
out of its crusty chrysalis
to learn to fly?
Have you ever stood inside the sea
to rub the back of a wild dolphin,
or lost yourself
within the brown eye
of a captive killer whale?
Have you ever watched an old sea turtle
lay her eggs in midnight sands
by moonlight?
Have you ever been the place
a cat preferred to sleep?

And if you had,
And if you took those hands
and crushed a rose
and threw its gentle beauty on the ground
to walk upon
and laughed.

What would you think of you?

Quasi,
Your work is truly beautiful,you must carry a big stick to keep the women from ravaging you.

Nah, he's safe.

I'm too far away, and too slow!! ;)

RE: last post : :) ;D :D

Thanks for your appreciation, guys...

It was a gift of a rose
Long-stemmed
Thornless
Deep green leaves curling slowly
     as they dried.

And a vibrant bloom
Close-furled with secrets
Rich and red
So heavy it seemed to float
     within the room.

Reverently I lifted it
and smelled
sweet hot furry silkiness
and light astringent growing green.

I learned to dance, inside that rose.

"It is a hot-house rose." they said
"It doesn't smell."

Sweetloves, I have smelled a rose.
And you should learn to dance

Casual friendship,
a few opinions shared.
Idle chatter
in a busy day.

It should have been easy.


An oasis of do it right
in a sea of do it somehow.

An air of quiet competence,
a sometimes help in need,
and a sharp and gentle wit.

It should have been easy.


It was just a year of sitting
in the next cubicle over.
It was just a 'Hi',
a smile,
a shared look.
Just day to day stuff.

It should have been easy
to say goodbye.

Man, you really write wonderful poetry.  :-*

I apologize for not keeping up until now. This is well worth reading. I love poetry. That last one really noodged my heart.

Thank you, Opas.
I found that one at work a few days ago, when I was clearing out an old leather 'notepad folder'. I'd forgotten all about it...
John was in a really bad auto accident and was in a semi-permanent serious back-brace thing and still all twisted up and in pain. And he was just coping with it. He had to retire, and we threw him a small retirement bash at work, so I wrote that for him. He was kinda stunned and taken aback - "Nobody ever wrote poetry about me, before."
His son (who also worked there), later told me he had it framed on his wall, and his wife used to cry a little whenever she read it. It has me in tears, too.

For Sierra

There used to be Sierras
just behind my house
in California

But they were nothing like you.
They used to hide themselves
in the smog,
Until, one day the wind...

They had good bones,
those mountains,
Strong and tall
and showing through.

Lho, nyen, and lu,
Like a true Shambhala warrior,
Well grounded in the flavor of the earth,
Clear eyes of snow and heaven,
Shoulders brushed with green.

And tender,
You could bruise them with a word
And they would bleed for years.

Good bones,
those mountains,
And achingly beautiful
when they smiled.

Ah, now I understand.

Hi, Sierra.

I can only admire people that can do serious poetry of their own.
I am limited to parody and semi-funny things. Anything serious is not even worth the trash can.
Fortunately (for the world) I know that and leave it to others that can do better.
Carry On!

Quote from: Swatopluk on August 18, 2007, 10:56:34 AM
I can only admire people that can do serious poetry of their own.
I am limited to parody and semi-funny things. Anything serious is not even worth the trash can.
Fortunately (for the world) I know that and leave it to others that can do better.
Carry On!

ummmm might I say that Dear Mero has shown his "hottie" status--- so
I bet if you post some more of your "stuff" too Swato you'll be a "hottie" also.
I dare you.... :exclaim:

really- the poetry is very nice Mero

I just realized that my post above could be misleading. The "only" is strictly aimed at "admire" not at "people". I am able to admire non-poets but my options towards true poets are limited to admiration because imitation* is out of the question. :mrgreen:

*apart from parodying :devil2:

This one's actually a song, to a melody very similar to The Water Is Wide [traditional]


The Tears of Whales

For twenty years, I sailed the sea,
Where winds are mighty, wild and free,
And now I dwell upon this land,
My lovely lady gave her hand.

        Then tell me why the whales do cry,
        Their salty tears that build the sea.
        Oh tell me why the whales do cry,
        Then go to sleep, and let me be.

This land is broad, and growing green,
Deep snows of winter rarely seen.
Our winds are warm, our air is clear,
No word of war, no thing to fear.

        Then tell me why the whales do cry,
        Their salty tears that build the sea.
        Oh tell me why the whales do cry,
        Then go to sleep, and let me be.

Each starlit night, I feel the sea,
Its tireless waves reminding me,
How glad I am that I can say,
I am at home, and home to stay.

        Then tell me why the whales do cry,
        Their salty tears that build the sea.
        Oh tell me why the whales do cry,
        Then go to sleep, and let me be.


For all my life, I will not tell,
The dreadful secret I know well,
For I know why the whales do cry,
They weep for us, they sing goodbye.

That's awesome.

She is ancient
As a weed-webbed rock
Turning around me in the sun.
She is distant
As the sights I see
Before each day's reality
Begins to run.

                                                           Hard-edged
                                                           From touching too much.
                                                           Too long,
                                                            And loving stillness.

                 Clear eyes
                 Inside are aching misty distances
                 And the high desert
                 And the wind
                 And I.

     She is easy fingered,
     Thin-hipped, dark-eyed
     And tasting of forever.
     She weaves dreams in amber
     And my heart in gold
     And the high desert
     And the wind
     And I.

That's lovely.

This one was written to be read at the funeral of someone in England. She was killed on a trip to the store on one of her motorcycles, when a drunk driver turned in front of her. Well over two hundred motorcyclists turned up at her funeral, from all over the UK.





Oh yeah, she was a fast lady, right enough.
See, she loved riding motorcycles. Had a lot of them, over the years.
Every one of them learned a new meaning for fast.
Many a track day hero quietly learned he wasn't near as fast as he had thought.
Mind she never bragged, never put anyone down. Not her.

Oh yeah, she was very fast with a helping hand. For anyone.
And very fast to make a new friend, And fast friends forever.
Even if you never saw her again.
See, she was very fast with a smile. A kind word. Good advice.
If you took it. Those that did were always glad they did.

Oh yeah, she was fast to her man, right enough.
And pleased you were to know it.
See, she deserved to be happy. Good man he was, too.
Made you happy to see them together, right enough.

Oh yeah, no-one ever called her a Fast Lady.
They called her friend, they called her beautiful.
They called her honest and true.
They called her Lucie.
Every heart that ever met her, loved her.
And was left a little better for that meeting.
Very fast to lift you up, she was. There was always laughter where she was.

She made the world a better place. Very fast.

R.I.P. Grib.

So beautiful. I know she'd love it.

Wow, Meromorph, that is so beautiful. You are an excellent poet. I don't run into many, and see a lot of cringeable stuff on the internet... it's an honor to get to read your work.

That was absolutely beautiful Mero.
And moving.

The loud machine roars by in rapid shout,
While in your hooded eyes bright magic dances,
Contained,
Controlled,
And focused,
White on white.

The witch in summer has a certain madness in her eyes,
And all your touchstone, moonstone worlds are melded into one,
While where you lay, the sands of sleep are damp.
I lay there once, or was I dreaming?
I remember my fingertips were bleeding,
In the twilight,
In your bed.

Cold curls uncanny in my heart,
And flays the seasons from my songs.
There is a melody I now have lost,
A dance I seem to stumble on the shifting ground.

She was sweet and gentle with our dreams,
And strong and forceful with our memories.
She granted no relief
Except to those who needed it; she did no wrong.

And now we feel her soul, in pieces on the winter ground.
Do not come to me for shelter,
I am fire in the sky, and I will
Helter skelter down your bones,
I will show our sorrows to the wind,
And call tornados from our grieving.

Something cold now keens uncanny in my heart,
And eats my songs.

Beautiful. I like that Pieces is the first post on this page too.

I saw this posted in the Monastery in Mourning thread. It makes me think of that Dylan Thomas poem.

"Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. "

Sometimes, you are just plain gorgeous,
And we are all a little happier to be alive,
We find the sun shines a little more often,
And we are gentle with our friends.

Sometimes, the day's changes in you,
Bring us a joy that sings aloud in our hearts,
Cause our legs to dance a little as we walk,
Make us want to tell strangers, they are very much loved.

Sometimes you are stunningly beautiful,
In ways we do not understand,
We do not quite know what we should do,
Though we are very sure, we should do it very well.

                             Like a deer in our gardens,
                             Like a hawk in our skies,
                             Like the laughter of children,
                             Like advice from the wise.

Sometimes, you shine so brightly,
We all get a little dizzy from the light,
And say silly things we really mean,
You should understand, this is how it should be.

Thank you, Mero.

And good to see you.