Dear Pelican,

I know what you mean, T.S. Eliot, Milton, and so many
others. The choice isn't easy.

D.H. Lawrence I love, he makes my toes curl
under (and I won't tell you about what
he does to other body parts - I suspect you already
know!).

Thank You for your choice - Luverly!

Oooh Foxy, under that librarian exterior lies a saucy devil. :D

Sorry to hear about your mother's day. Keep well and keep reading those poems - maybe some more uplifting ones to keep the spirit high.

Oh, Foxy

I have been through the, er, prep-work for a colonoscopy - the procedure itself is nothing compared to the pre-op cleansing.

However, you will feel great by Tuesday - it is the ultimate de-tox.

Pelican

Loved the D H Lawrence, luscious.

Dear Pelly,

Librarians are novel lovers after all! :-)

Dear Severin,

I'm looking forward to Tuesday with a passion!

Anyway, here's something I wrote a few years
ago. Being 'Mother's Day' I thought it might be
appropriate:

"I hold the pen firmly,
then pause briefly.
Words do not come easily
in the afternoon solitude.
There is a tree outside my window,
The wind is playing with its leaves,
nature fills my soul with peace,
and I continue.

Thoughts are very mixed,
yet I know,
somewhere between the morning's wash,
the planning of the evening meal,
lies a yearning,
a dream as yet unreachable.
One can only try,
taking one day at a time.

The private moments, the few hours alone,
are so precious,
husband, children, all have their needs,
I have mine.
To write, to unconfuse my thoughts,
to live at least on paper,
in the reality of words.

I reach for the pen again,
And as I do, I look up.
Two big brown eyes are staring at me,
A small blonde head hides behind the chair,
A crooked smile appears around the corner
and then, another voice calls out
from the bedroom,
"Mama!"

I hear the words echoing in my ears,
"Mama, Mama, Mama!"
I know my time is up,
there is a greater need then mine,
For now."

I wrote this poem years ago for a writer friend of mine in Ireland. She was successful and passionate and tragic - and her bestselling biography was really a voyage around her mother.

Thinking of you, I think of your land,
Though neither has known the touch of my hand.
In you the essence of Ireland is there,
The warm flow of life, the ebb - the despair.

You're the river of life flowing out to the sea,
The nourishing rain on the shimmering green.
You're the scattered and lost that fled Erin's shores,
The rent in the fabric, the holes that were torn.
You're the triumph of time, the crumbling of stone,
The longing of those who meant to come home.
You're a banquet for those who devoured you whole,
The British, your body - the Romans, your soul.
You're the vanquished who cried from the crypt to be heard,
Took the tongue of your master and spoke your own words.
You're the deafening silence, the suffering child
The passion distilled from one crowded mile.
You're the mother of genius - the feminine one,
Bloom is your father - Dedalus, your son.
You're churches and pubs and pagans and priests,
The flickering embers of ancestors grief.
You're style and shambles all rolled into one
Grimness and beauty, shadow and sun.

I long to inhale just one breath of Eire,
To trace with my pen your worries and cares.
Though I think of you, friend, as sometimes alone,
You're enfolded in richness, encircled by home.

I know that some will protest “it just ain't poesy”
But I think that such persons are just too choesy
A good riff & pitch is worth a page of rhyme

The Immigrant Song
A-ah-ahh-ah, ah-ah-ahh-ah
We come from the land of the ice and snow
from the midnight sun where the hot springs blow

The hammer of the gods will drive our ships to new lands
To fight the horde and sing and cry, Valhalla, I am coming

On we sweep with, with threshing oar
Our only goal will be the western shore

Ah-ah-ahh-ah, ah-ah-ahh-ah
We come from the land of the ice and snow
from the midnight sun where the hot springs FLOW
How soft your fields, so green
can whisper tales of gore, of how we calmed the tides of war
We are your overlords

On we sweep with, with threshing oar
Our only goal will be the western shore

S-so now you better stop and rebuild all your ruins
for peace and trust can winthe day despite of all you're losin'
Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh
Ahh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh
Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=svR3iXKTJvc

Ahhhhh! (he sculls a cow horn full of ale , wiping the overflow off his chin with the back of his hand) Those were the days, when men were men, and women …weeell …bring on the next pillage.