Poetry That Changes

Poetic Challenge 

Twitter Chatter 

Does it matter?

Connected Minds,

Wires that Bind.

Satellites Spin

Around Planet 🌎 Earth 🌍 

Carry Announcements of

Deaths and of Births.

Bad News and Good News

Opinions and More 

Sharing our Feelings 

To Stop All this War.

Artists and Poets,

Common Ground Sought,

Put ink to Paper 

Or type out their Thoughts.

Will you Join?

See below Tweet from Andrew Carnegie, Poet

Think of oppression
Plymouth sounds
Where Drake bowled over
Against Spanish hounds
Waiting upon the hoe
We’ll stop ‘em lads
When it’s time to go
But we’re Devon men
Strong & free
We choose when to fight
& We never flee
So sup up hearty ale
Agin Spain, we will prevail#micropoetry https://t.co/u5fKgrrpcW

— Andrew Carnegie (@ACPCarnegie) February 4, 2019

Routine Status meg I’m Late

I’m Late
I’m Late
For a Very Important
Posting,
Russian influences
On the Brain 🧠
My Thumb Pain
Gone
Then
Back Again,
Lonely Train,
That Dreaded Brain Pain,
Routine Interrupted.
Doesn’t Seem Like Much,
Work Through The Pain,
Spasms, Fatigue and Such.
Then Russian Influence
Like the Static in my Nerves,
Can Cause Crying 😢 panic 😱 or Shame 👎🏻
As Invisible Waves split my nerve fibers,
Making Limbs and Brain so Lame 😒
So pardon
I’m Late,
Watching Snafu’s besides Mine,
Taking my mind off my routine,
Whew,
Posting just in Time 😎🌻🐝🖋☎️

Poets and Their Craft - David Budbill Link from Vermont PBS Youtube Channel and Friday Night Musik

The TV remote guide has a limited offering.

It seemed to keep bringing me back to this

local Vermont PBS Poet show.

We are all poets...This show affirming the art in all of us...

Next, a Beautiful Duet from You tube...Wow...

tgiff  ;<]

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Funny Date today
4/8/16
4 times 2
is
8
8 times 2
is 
16

Tweets and Poetry and The Universe

The Tweets from the Universe started with this great one...

The universe may have a purpose, but nothing we know suggests that, if so, this purpose has any similarity to ours. pic.twitter.com/lr2rzqBKLF

— Prof. Antonio Paris (@AntonioParis) December 12, 2015

then more followed

No Matter How Wealthy How Successful How Blessed Everything Is Meaningless Like Chasing After Wind A Gathering Of Dust 2 Dust #micropoetry

— Andrew Carnegie (@ACPCarnegie) December 12, 2015

@AntonioParis @marygerdt Symmetry Of Universe Cascades Raw Beginnings Hydrogen Begun Yet Which Tool Created Rule 4Early Sun #micropoetry

— Andrew Carnegie (@ACPCarnegie) December 12, 2015

@marygerdt @AntonioParis Mystery In The Now Mystery In The How But Not In The Why The Why Was Known 4000 Years Ago Folk Forget #micropoetry

— Andrew Carnegie (@ACPCarnegie) December 12, 2015

And meanwhile,
in another time and place,
we got sad news on several levels,

Art Hangs It Up For the Last Time https://t.co/0J6hMwsLYK

— ArtBell.Com (@ArtBellCom) December 12, 2015

Poetry, Vinyl, Twitter & Mars and Guy Forsyth

Radical poets: The story of the Beat generation in 10 rare records ➤ https://t.co/pvTHdFzhi4 pic.twitter.com/yznOKQ5D37

— Jeff Faria (@PatriotsOfMars) November 8, 2015

thanks to jeff faria, mars patriot,
for this link to great history of the foundational
poetry of the beat generation. meg

see how twitter, like vinyl, may leave a trail of breadcrumbs,
so future generations may follow the signs,
to understand us cave dwellers.

now for a youtube link with guy forsyth 
and the asylum street spankers
Children of Jack, my favorite of Guy's repertoire of great music.meg

Song of Beginning

Song of Beginning

12.1.2014 by mary e. gerdt

all rights reserved

Start,

Now,

Beginning to begin.

Stop,

there,

You're doing that again.

Start,

When,

Your heart tells you to grow.

Stop,

That,

We all want you to know.

Start,

Stop,

Because you are so free.

Stop,

Start,

Now you are going to see.

Poet

Poet

Poet, Poet,

Why don't you Rhyme?

You wanted to be

Different

That's OK, Poet.

You wanted to be

Recognized

Oh, Poet,

You wanted so much.

Poet, Poet,

You wanted to make a statement,

be bold,

make a difference in the minds of mortals

Is that so Bad, after all?

Poet, Poet,

What makes you so sad?

What makes your heart ache?

Why do you, who do you, when do you love?

Poet, oh Poet,

They don't care, 

and don't you know it,

You tried there in your words

in a poem, to show it,

They said, you cannot be,

A Poet, don't you see?

And 

Poet, Oh Poet,

You said, No.

And the Poetry police said,

It doesn't Rhyme,

Make sense,

No Rhythm,

No theme,

Structure is nonexistent.

Poet, Oh Poet, walk away.

You are a poet.

In your own way.

Summer reruns

A rerun of one of my favorites.

Summer memories are warm and sweet. I wanted to share a poem even while fearing once I let it out I will be unable to ever outdo it in feeling and depth of myself immersed therein.


Coyote Night by Mary Gerdt * 2008 all rights reserved
When we walk down a road in the dark,
And the Coyotes are crying their mournful cry,
The smells of summer drift and hang in the valley
And little night birds chirp goodnight.
The stars peek out from the clouds of August mist
The moon hangs over the hills by home.
My memories fade to days gone by
When we looked at the nights from inside.
Now we walk on the path outside
Not afraid anymore.
While the coyotes cry.

Hubble Favorites...

Idols of the universe....................................................................................................................................

from the hubble 8th anniversary
top photos...

Source: Hubblesite.org


and in honor of poetry month & Lisa's poetry challenge,
here is a freestyle one for all of us with scars on our nervous system
that we have trouble explaining,
kind of like these images,
complex,
hard to see
from the outside.

Helpless

played on the radio.

yes I hear you Neil,

you were there with

Katie & I

in a red car

on the back roads

of

corn country

on the 90th meridian

of 

Southern Illinois.

Scarred back then

by grief,

losing friends too young,

rendering us

helpless.

does grief

&

does being helpless

 make scars too

in our fabric net

of

neurons?

Now

We fight

an invisible MonSter,

others know so well,

how do we explain,

how it hurts?

i am helpless

So if you see

a MonSter,

better run girl,

it is no good.

(Is it something you can run from?)

Now

 I see the universe before me,

images too large,

impossible to

comprehend.

I never could run before

the scars

that warped my

senses,

slowing ever so slighly,

still always flatfooted,

yet

filled with

hope each day

the MonSter

can be rendered

utterly, completely, obliteratively

helpless.

Brass and Ivory: Life with MS & RA: Poetry and Quotes

Blogging forward...Lisa's Poem & Challenge

by Lisa Emrich, MS/RA expert Blogger advocate musician extraordinaire

Brass and Ivory: Life with MS & RA: Poetry and Quotes: Today's prompt for the Health Activist Writer's Month Challenge is - "Choose a quote that inspires you – positively or negatively – and gets...

Mom's Verse

Mom sat there, contented in her institutional lifestyle,
Mind sharp as ever, her body has had better days.
I think this is what I might be like in 32 years.
My being is more like a clone of her.
One day in my early teens, I walked into the old Madison store, a department store.
A woman started screaming. She thought she had seen a ghost.
My Mom 30 years younger. It was me. The lady scared me a little
just because she made such a fuss. Normally, I am not afraid of ghosts
except in scary movies with the creepy music.

Anyway, the last night of our visit, we had supper with Mom and Dad
in the activity room.
Mom blessed the conversation with one of her favorite verse pairs
from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Right off the top of her head,
unhesitatingly perfect with her pretty song voice,
I am sure the verse varied a tiny bit from what I found on the web.
Mom is an afficiaonado of the verse variations.
Still,
The message still so true.
The translation by Edward Fitzgerald, a story all by himself.


XVI.




I sent my Soul through the Invisible,

Some letter of that After-life to spell:

And by and by my Soul return'd to me,

And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"





LXVII.



Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,

And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,

Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,

So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.