A tradition of our forum has been threads of original poetry. I've enjoyed each, and some were outstanding. It's been a while since we started a new one, so I'll start. It's a little different, a merging of two poems which were playing tag in my mind.

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HOT RAIN

She was just a girl I knew Half a lifetime ago

------ It came a hot rain today ------ Sizzling down upon the grey tin ------ Of the roof

I breathed her air As I did the mountain wind

------ From a clear blue sky, the ------ Old folks say it's ------ The Devil beating his wife

She fed me ice cream And peanut butter

We walked in tree-tops Of sea-foam green

------ The droplets hissing ------ Through thirsty leaves ------ Shatters the brown grass

And I lay back now, Comfortable upon her life

------ Soon, it gathers in tiny mirrors ------ And runs in rivulets ------ Down cheeks of sand

She was just a girl I knew Half a lifetime ago

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-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), July 10, 2001

Answers

Oh, man, did I mess that up. Let's try again

-

HOT RAIN

She was just a girl I knew

Half a lifetime ago

----- It came a hot rain today

----- Sizzling down upon the grey tin

----- Of the roof

I breathed her air

As I did the mountain wind

----- From a clear blue sky, the

----- Old folks say it's

----- The Devil beating his wife

She fed me ice cream

And peanut butter

We walked in tree-tops

Of sea-foam green

----- The droplets hissing

----- Through thirsty leaves

----- Shatters the brown grass

I lay back now,

Comfortable upon her life

----- Soon, it gathers in tiny mirrors

----- And runs in rivulets

----- Down cheeks of sand

She was just a girl I knew

Half a lifetime ago

-----------------------------------------------

-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), July 10, 2001.

Thank you Lon! That was lovely!! The picture in my mind's eye is still love.

-- Aunt Bee (Aunt__Bee@hotmail.com), July 11, 2001.

Very nice!

-- helen (really@the.farm), July 11, 2001.

Thank you ladies very much for the compliments, but I forgot to tell you that this thread is a game of tag. So, "tag, Aunt Bee, you're IT". How 'bout a little poem, hiacu, postcard, snapshot, story, or anything. Then you can tag sombody. I know that even ole' Rob is hanging around here occasionally, and we got lurkers all over the place.

So, come on, Bee, how about it? Please? Pretty please with sugar on it? Pretty please with sugar on it, dipped in chocolet, and rolled in fruitcake crumbs? (I just KNOW helen has some fruitcake crumbs!)

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-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), July 11, 2001.

I always enjoy your poetry, Lon. Thanks! Speaking of homegrown...

Sunny summer days.
Red tomatoes on the vine.
Bountiful harvest.

(I picked 78 tomatoes on Saturday!) :-)

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), July 11, 2001.

Grey hairs sprouting forth.

My teen, and driver's permit.

Breathe - flinch. Pulsate; *sigh*

-- flora (***@__._), July 11, 2001.

Good one Flora! :-) Been there, done that, don't EVER want to go back!

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), July 11, 2001.

LOL, I get to empathize all too soon!

.

Driving mountain roads,

Beautiful scen'ry distracts,

Hard to do it well!

.

-- Tricia the Cancuk (jayles@telusplanet.net), July 13, 2001.

Climbing on a plane
Mother, daughter time alone
A much needed break.

Flying up northeast
Much history to explore
That is her Major.

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), July 15, 2001.

Many lives were lost.
Some wore blue, and some wore gray.
Why call it Civil?

Markers for the dead.
The battlefield quiet now.
Do they rest in peace?

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), July 22, 2001.

I lost myself without simplicity a long time ago, It was all in vain, an effortless effort to know. Somewhere on the road only I existed, and everything else was my own, oh, how twisted. Like an image dancing in from a nighttime revelee, And I've lost everything I ever had to say. There's no bringing back the past, even if only I exist at last. Like a blade of grass to remind me, how simple things can really be.

-- sometimes in the night (Iforget@myown.name), July 30, 2001.

Somewhere, that was lovely... and a bit dark.

.

Summer sunset stays

Lingering limpid light lives

To tame the town's trails.

.

Sere dry drought in spring

Becomes summertime rains and floods

Happy medium???

.

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), July 31, 2001.

Wonderful weather

Weekend away with kinfolk

Fabulous fun time

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), August 07, 2001.

I stacked rocks today, Carefully, in a careful way.

I stacked them one upon one, And backed off to look At the beauty that I had done.

I stacked ‘em with the best Of care, with the best Of my love, I Stacked Them there.

But the rocks were Not amused. I think They felt manipulated, I think they felt abused.

So I walked around and I talked around,

But I couldn’t make ‘em see, Stacking rocks is a calling; What I’d always meant to be.

It is my role, my part In life’s little comedic play. I knew, knew it in my heart. But when they looked away

I kicked ‘em.

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-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), October 11, 2001.

And here’s an old one, I dug up today. I hope it formats a little better.

---------

FOR YOU

I read a Russian poet, a young girl.

She wrote that she pushed her words

Like heavy boulders,

Uphill.

I know her poems on days like this

When I feel that I am buried

Beneath my own

Avalanche.

Everything I write has been written

A thousand times before, the edges gone

All the colors

Worn away.

Just old, grey, shapeless words.

I used to know about life and love

I talked about them with the poet

With the poet

Inside

But, now I leave my bed in the warm dark,

And come t stand and wait

In the rain

For you.

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-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), October 11, 2001.

Bravo!

-- helen claps wildly (bravo@bravo.bravo), October 11, 2001.

Thank you, thank you, sweet mule-muzzle-nuzzler. But I' m really, really ready for something from down on the farm. Something in writing, that is. Something from my favorite farm writer (hint).

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-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), October 11, 2001.

Very touching, Lon. Thanks!

Yeah, Helen, how about it? :-)

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), October 12, 2001.

"The Monster from Nowhere" -- coming right up!

-- helen (thinking@quickly.here), October 12, 2001.

LOL, Lon!

This could have fit in very nicely on my travellogue thread, before it got hi-jacked. I empathize completely, stupid words never do exactly what I want them to!

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), October 13, 2001.

strange sadness comes upon me just now

who will remember who will remember

slant of autumn’s light through trees in surrender to longings of night

north wind whisper of mountains lonely as in the day of birth

fencerow grey with seeds falling to ground ripe with the promise of sleep

and a place of resting under the pallid dome of winter’s wait

who will remember who will remember

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-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), November 04, 2001.

Lon, what a sad poem! Is it in memory of someone specific, or in honour of Remembrance day (veterans day in the US? Nov 11th)?

There's a poem we always hear in Canada on Remembrance day, written about the dead of WW1. (And every spring, in gratitude, the Dutch send us tulips for our losses in the liberation of Holland in WW2.) The poem is called "In Flander's Field". I think I copied it last year onto the Remembrance day thread... I still can't read it without tears and a lump in my throat. Your poem affects me similarly.

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), November 04, 2001.

Trish,

just a personal exorcism of creeping melancoly, I guess. Fall does that to me sometimes.

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-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), November 05, 2001.

O K , class, here's a test. This crept up on me on a tropical evening and attached itself to my spine like a persistant parisite. I thought I'd make sense of it, but to no avail. Any ideas?

I jerk the chair away

and the fat man falls sprawling

on the floor

no one laughs except the blind kid, and

god dances with us all.

Whores duck walk in neon glare

hips swollen with midnight

urgency

A child sleeps in the gutter and

god dances with us all.

A pony prances on the rooftop

nostrils flared with moonlit

panic

Below, a man beats his wife

in silence, and

god dances with us all.

-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), April 21, 2002.