Awesome Guy Blogger Award

Friday, 27 July 2007 8 responses

my list of guys who make a difference at Poeartica !!!!!

Mike @ Mikey's Dream

HDReader @
Hidyn Gems

Just Me @
Writing True

Lanka @

Classic Poetry Aloud

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Monday, 23 July 2007 4 responses

First autumn morning:
the mirror I stare into
shows my father's face.

© Lanka Jayasekare 2007

Lanka says:

"You will find meaning in life only if you create it. Creativity is the quality that you bring to the activity that you are doing. It is an attitude, an inner approach - how you look at things.... Not everybody can be a painter - and there is no need also. If everybody is a painter the world will be very ugly; it will be difficult to live! And not everybody can be a dancer, and there is no need. But everybody can be creative. Whatsoever you do, if you do it joyfully, if you do it lovingly, if your act of doing is not purely economical, then it is creative. If you have something growing out of it within you, if it gives you growth, it is spiritual, it is creative, it is divine. You become more divine as you become more creative. All the religions of the world have said God is the creator. I dont know whether he is the creator or not, but one thing I know: the more creative you become, the more godly you become. When your creativity comes to a climax, when your whole life becomes creative, you live in God. So he must be the creator because people who have been creative have been closest to him. Love what you do. Be meditative while you are doing it - whatsoever it is!"

Author's bio
Lanka is the former General Manager of a leading publishing company in Sri Lanka.
(Godage International publishers Pty. Ltd.)
He is 29, single and presently studying for his Msc (Psychology).

You can read more of Lanka's writing and Haiku at his website: OLA

artwork "Mr Wonderful" Kim Barker

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The Three O’Clock Mum

Friday, 20 July 2007 3 responses

She scowls down the street in her 4 by 4
Whumping wimpy walkers with her sticky-out doors
Shouting abuse if you steal ‘her’ space
Not afraid to stick up fingers at your frightened face
Double yellows, double shmellows when she needs to park
The three o’clock mum – she’s a pmt’d shark.

With RayBan’s sitting on her fluffed-up hair
Her stiletto’s hit the pavement. An icy glare
Spikes anyone who dares go near her wheels.
She slams the door, turns on her heels,
Turns on her smile, turns on her charm,
Turns on the façade – turns on the alarm.

Smiles and waves at so called friends
Hoists up the Lycra on her legging trends
Pulls down her t- on her ample bust –
When her kids give a hug, she makes a fuss.
At the gate a picture of sweetness and light
But the three o’clock mum has a nasty bite.

You wouldn’t want to meet her in the dark
Keep out of her way in the school car park
Don’t do anything to make her spark
The three o’clock mum – she’s a pmt’d shark.

© Rachel Clark 2007

Author's bio

Rachel Clark is an English Mum from a small town in the South of England. She enjoys writing the rhymey stuff, and is happy if she makes other people smile. She doesn't know why she is writing about herself in the third person, but feels very honoured to have been asked to contribute to Kim's site.

More of her quirky writing and odes can be found at An English Mum "

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I Once Planted a Garden...

Monday, 16 July 2007 7 responses

I once planted a garden.
I used nickels
dimes and
quarters as my seed.

This was a garden whose fruit
would end my parents fighting over the
HeaTelephonElectric Bills.

A garden whose fruit would
buy me and my sisters
new pink bicycles
with pink streamers
from the handlebars.

A garden whose fruit would feed
The homeless guy
who lived behind Caldor's.

At night my dreams
would take me to my garden.
I would stand there and
watch the huge trees
with dollar bill leaves
and coin blossoms
sway across the
night sky with the wind.


Morgan says

Is it possible to totally transform every aspect of one's existence in the course of 30 days....In such a way that can only be described as a miracle???

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A Fruitful, if Fanciful Origin of Poetry

Thursday, 12 July 2007 8 responses

Once upon a time, Edgar Allen Poe pondered, weak and weary
from staying up late past a midnight dreary, thinking how quaint
and curious that many a volume was now forgotten lore. While he
nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of
some one gently rapping, rapping at his noggin’s door. “’Tis an
apple!” Poe then muttered, “Falling on my head before. Only this—
but damn it’s sore!”

He was right—the apple had left a gash, and Poe’s head was
bleeding. However, this was just the nogginly nudge he needed to
move past writing more forgotten lore to his new way of writing.
It would become known for it’s inventor, the poe-m, and the art of
crafting it for the source of it’s inspiration, the poet-tree. And just
as Poe’s head was now red, just as an apple is red, so would the
new art form become fruitful and be read.

And fruit would remain a theme as the art grew more complex.
Blake wrote a pear of poems, “The Lamb” and “The Tyger.” He was
also concerned about the health of the trees, recording in “A
Poison Tree” his efforts to “[water] it in fears, night and morning
with my tears…and it grew both day and night, till it bore an apple

Other poets were concerned with the trees, noting the weather.
Percy Bysshe Cherry, I think it was, wrote an “Ode to the West
Wind”: “Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!” [Given that his
wife was occupied writing about monsters and society, we can
appreciate his concern.] Williams Carlos Williams was also
concerned, noting in “Spring and All” “small trees with dead,
brown leaves,“ relieved by “the profound change” when “rooted,
they grip down and begin to awaken.”

Williams was really more concerned with possession,
preservation and consumption of fruit, though, as he shows
in “This is Just to Say”:

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Not everyone protects their fruit so carefully. I once had to post
this on my department’s break room fridge (titled “This is
Just Dismay”):

I have discarded
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were evidently
for eternity

Forgive me
they were decomposing
so soft
and so old

But even less high-brow forms of poetry, such as song lyrics, are
concerned with enjoying tree fruits, like this excerpt from The
Eagles (or Linda Ronstadt):

Why don’t you come to our senses?

and in a later verse:

Now it seems to me, some fine things
Have been laid upon your table

Nor is the avocado the only tropical fruit featured in poetry. After
all, when we really like something, it has “appeal.” Consider Gary
Soto’s “Oranges,” where he notes that the first time he walked with
a girl, he had two oranges in his jacket. And Frank O’Hara
appreciates the inspiration he gets from oranges, even just their
color, in “Why I Am Not a Painter”:

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.

Not all poets write about fruit trees, of course, but they still retain
their attachment to trees, as Frost shows us in “Birches”:

I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.


author's bio

I teach professional writing (business writing and creative non-fiction), literature, and composition full-time for the State University of New York, and I'm also a freelance writer.

you can read more of Writer's works at Writing True

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I nEEd a tiTLE

Tuesday, 10 July 2007 9 responses

Your words frighten me
They have a warmth
that tells me you have a fractured heart
I envy those women who have troubled you
Did they feel your anguish?
Did you really love so deeply or was it (forgive me) just
an obsession with love?
I felt jealous of your feelings - unconditional and
I felt guilty asking myself - it's too destructive
Why do you make me feel inadequate?
I do not want a cottage by the sea
This life - it is a puzzle
You make the rational irrational
desperate in your search
You need many many moments
to feed your hunger
I like your thoughts
They tempt my subconscious
but the reality is
not living the dream
but dreaming it.

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as with each season's turn of leaf

Friday, 6 July 2007 5 responses

and darkness fell silent that night
one man's freedom, another's fight
such disbelief and questions rife
yet, even in death, there is life

distorted shadows ebb and flow
shrouding all as I let you go,
but out of the depths that I mourn
a renewed sense of hope is born

as with each season's turn of leaf
hands of time will encircle grief,
under rainbows of hopeful hue
I will whisper a goodbye to you.

© 2007 Janine L Kain

About Janine
Introvert with sense of humour. Born in Zimbabwe but living in Edinburgh, Scotland. I Suffer from mental illness ( borderline personality disorder ) and find writing and photography a portal to explore and express my world.
This year I have attempted to sell my photography at craft fairs and have a retail outlet selling my work. I have yet to attempt to get my writing published.

You can visit Jani at Jackal to view more of her writing and photography.

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I nEEd a tiTLE

Tuesday, 3 July 2007 2 responses

with jam and
butterflies and bells
jaffas and fantales
scarves and hair rollers
velvet capes and
twenty cents for
a paper
stages without
curtains and pianos
tin chairs and
childhood dreams
a world

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