Flying

by Ken Norris 

 

You are reading this too fast

Slow down, for this is poetry

And poetry works slowly

Unless you live with it a while

the spirit will never descend.

It's so easy to quickly cut across the surface

And then claim there was nothing to find.

Touch the poem gently with your eyes

Just as you touch a lovers flesh.

Poetry is an exercise in patience.

You must wait for it to come to you.

The spirit manifests in many guises;

Some quiver with beauty,

Some vibrate with song.

What is happening?

Slow down, Slow down,

Take a few breaths,

Read the poem slowly,

Read the lines one at a time,

Read the words one by one,

Read the spaces between the words,

Get  sleepy, this is poetry,

Relax until your heart

Is vulnerable, wide open.

Submitted by Ms. Arndt

Curiosity is a vintage bicycle - asking questions of the rider and observers.

Curiosity is a spicy chili paste, tingling, and burning dancing with flavour.

Curiosity is experimental jazz with no idea where it is going.

Curiosity is hardworking, hopeful, ambitious….curious.

her grandmother called her from the playground   

       “yes, ma’am”

       “i want chu to learn how to make rolls” said the old   

woman proudly

but the little girl didn’t want

to learn how because she knew

even if she couldn’t say it that

that would mean when the old one died she would be less   

dependent on her spirit so

she said

       “i don’t want to know how to make no rolls”

with her lips poked out

and the old woman wiped her hands on

her apron saying “lord

       these children”

and neither of them ever

said what they meant

and i guess nobody ever does

A mind full of poetry, that will never be shared

A life full of wonder, that has barely been spared

We keep it inside

And when it gets out, we run and we hide

We are special, but we will not let it show

We have things to say, but we will not let them know

For we keep it inside

And when it gets out, we run and we hide

It’s a ruthless merciless raging fire

It burns its way across the county

From Oxford Street to Abbey Road

 

Smoke billows and swirls in loops and whirls

From Downing Street to Havering

Cinders fly and ashes float 

The stinging scorching choking cloud

 

As panic sets the people stir

God save the queen, let’s save the queen

As Big Ben asks in sympathy

What light through yonder window breaks?

 

 

With ventilators, masks and gloves

In thunder, lightning, or in rain

The people fight the virulent fire

Until it’s thirsty flames they quench

 

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

Meaning: Only in the darkest times good things happen

- Martin Luther King

Leonard Von Schroeder

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
......