Saturday, December 15, 2012

In The Beginning

It is with great trepidation that I begin taking baby steps--no, not even crawling--helpless in the crib--mewling out into the 21st century my blog.  Having erased my first blog accidentally into the ether, I feel even more humble coming to you.  Maybe you will watch me grow up.  I have heard it said that poetry is only read by English scholars or friends of the poet.  Here I come, dearest friends.
Poetry should be read out loud.  The reader recreates the poem and brings his reality and feelings to the verse.  It becomes your poem and hopefully touches universal human feelings, or brings you to new awareness of yourself or the world we live in.  I don't want to be a bully and say this is what I meant ex cathedra.  Poetry is a road to discovery and sharing human thought and philosophy--you might disagree with my words--good!

I do not use punctuation in my verse because sometimes a pause at the end of a line or a pause running into the middle of the next line can change the meaning so that I have said two things.  Sometimes, your comments/feedback can make me say, "Wow, I didn't know I said that!"  The poetry police might not agree, but I have been an anarchist most of my life.

The poems in this blog will be fresh into print or experiences of my 63 years.  They will tell my secrets, lies, greatest joys, deepest depressions, and always obsessions.  Let the musings begin!

This first poem explains why we call our home Sacred Ground--a home we bled for.  Ask me the story.

   Sacred Ground

Oh holy ground oh sacred ground

Your life blood is in my veins

Crushed deep with mortar and pestle

To fine crumbly soil

It fills my soul

Then you rain oh mother life

I woke up living on this rich mantle of earth

I cannot kiss or embrace you more

You fill out my bones

You give my body reason

     Escaping Bach to the Simpler

What could be wrong with a simpler melody

There would be only several drummed ripples on the water

Dimples lost if you were not watching

Them vanishing like they were never there

Getting crazy once more

The bumble bees dancing crescendo

To tell the place of honey

We follow out of breath

Then there is death

Not an at hand wish

But someday thankful for a quiet rest

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