Poetry Maria

The Tree Fell.

The tree fell
But I, nor anyone else, was in the forest,
I did not hear it,
There was therefore, no sound from the toppling tree.
The hurtling tree did not exist in my mind and therefore did not exist at all.
The ground that may have shook,
Could not have shook for I did not hear it or feel its shudder.
The tree did not fall nor utter a plundering call.
Unlike that tree in that forest, my hurt and joy, my sadness and happiness
Exist in my mind.
I make the landscape, and so do you.
I make it green, you make it blue, the bat makes it orange,
I see the sky, you see the sea, the eagle sees the grayscale mouse, beneath the leaf
Of no concern to me.
Be glad that we manage to see beautiful,
That we feel,
And sometimes cry,
For then we know we are alive!
Before we die.

Maria Disley 20/10/12

Beautiful poetry,thoughts,sentiments, and so glad your poetry thread is back..........thank you.....I come here often ! For solace, for joy..........

Happy New Year, Maria.

Hi Maria,
Hope you don't mind. I couldn't resist. This is one of my new holiday cards.

I knew there was darkness within us.
When I played hide and seek, outside the tall building, under its spire's shadow..
I saw the shadows of others darknessess, in their eyes, their avoiding looks,
I couldn't name it because it was never polite, we were conditioned
Its a good fight to show only the light,
But there is no light without darkness,
even worse is silent darkness,
darkness must be discussed
to understand that we have light, that we are light, the only light,
but darkness can swallow whole solar stars,
have them smoke, before their demise.
Arise! I say 'Light and dark'
everything shining under the sun and everything worming under the forest leaf
before the trump-ets declare the end,
before we are all roots of regret and icons of ignorance beside each other breathless beneath the wise lone oaks,
with no voices carried on the wind, no laughter, no ticking minds of new ideas, no splash of feet in the sea, no life to tell of, no sign of existence, except the sunshine and the underside of leaves.....

We must discuss the passages of time
The history of our simple lives
that seem so vast
all that knowledge we have gleaned, it seems
but we know nothing, just the past,
so still we must invest in sorting out the mess of minds,
that universe sat upon our slumped shoulders
all those infinite connections
ignite one bright spark,
now and then
within the dark skull cave.
We are glow worms looking out to the sky
and uttering uh! and the latest cliche..'It is what it is' before slithering off to die.
No wings yet have we...why?
some little spark is still finding its way through the dark...because our eyes
are not what has us see....but our minds, when they go beyond the boundaries.

The poet and the painter are of art
Compact until their bodies, free of life
Resign imagination's special part,
Which leaving left bereft of any strife
That capability made them complete,
A necessary competence distressed,
So sore in sorrow yet accomplished sweet,
The pain creation rendered interest,
A little time in loan was borrowed when
Either had brush to paint, in colors full,
Or written sentences in fulsome pen,
Both resolutely amplified, not dull:
And when they die their images remain
Within our eyes, our ears and common brain.

he was an artist.
I watched him lift his brush tentatively, drips of red fell onto his lap as the brush hovered.
I watched the layers within his eyes, I saw his mind work, without knowing anything of what it was saying,
I watched and waited.
I saw him blink, his irises slide from side to side,like some visual documentary, I heard him sigh, that indecision.
the red paint dripped.
I thought he must be waiting for his heart to speak before he smeared the red streak of passion upon the sparkling blank..
And when he did, it looked like a flag, but he told me later it was the bloodied wave of his drowned pregnant mother and the memory he carried forever within him.
he said sometimes he paints it green, symbolising the freshness of growing life, sometimes blue for the moment before her head touched the water and hopeless hope still sparked within her, sometimes yellow for the watching fellow human's cowardice....
he paints because he's learned its the only way he can talk about it.
His paintings are full of light because they allow the transition from dark to light.
All artists know this.
All beautiful horses running through fields with manes blowing have come from a dark place,
All writers turn their turmoil into beautiful black curves, on startling white pages....
We must tell it all whichever way we can...
to understand human..

I remember the garnet on your finger
my neck hung with a pearl
The comfort of your coat inside the cold bus shelter
When all was youth and whirl.

Do not consider ignorance to be
Essential merit of unholy sense,
When better thoughts outline a thing we see
As painting of a special recompense;
Our debts, our woes and sober minds derive
Some pleasure on perusal of effect,
A distant image merely will survive
If potent brains are apt to sift, select
Those instances both mutable and fast,
Those pictures we define so definite,
There is a wider continent as vast
As our imagination's infinite:
So much is possible within the scope
Of human eyes intelligent of hope.

Great to have you and your poetry back Maria!!!

My third attempt...



"Pure Poetry"

As your winter nakedness sways
with the same cold autumn wind
that softly caresses my face�
I wonder�

Can my verses describe
your graceful unchoreographed dance?

the way you gently undress�
The fluttering fall of your clothes,
like descending butterflies,
onto a bed of ochre and grey?

Should they even try

or in the stillness of time
remain silent witness
to the pure poetry that you are�?

I wonder�

Should they even try?

Happy Christmas Viv, Hank, Peter and Oxo Y ou sent me on a bit of a roll there i was right in the zone, and holidays havn't begun yet, hope we can continue. I have been reading some new poetry and will post some lines later...a christmas present to myself :)) we must always keep trying Oxo even if we never get as close as we would like...

It felt like a shiver
or the chaff of a strangers sleeve
Like a ghost walked over my grave
I looked into the gaps between the lines
there was no one there, nothing! Everything!
not for my eyes....but I felt its far whisper...
Maybe I'll meet it in another life,
I continued reading the words
as the gaps gossiped with my unknown self
In foreign tongues they understood
and unready, locked me out....

Greetings good people!!



Quiet

sit quiet
ears breath deep
let it speak if it�s calling you
a sound from a hole in the ground
through an underground abandoned tunnel
where moles huddle in darkness with unused eyes evolved shut no longer needed
a sound travels through and up inside an old hollow tree resonating like an ancient didgeridoo

Jim Taylor 12/17/2016

Nice one Jim! yes the didgeridoo does have that haunting underground sound, which I will hear now when I gaze between the lines of poems.

Thank you, Maria...........all the best to you and yours.........see you here, thank goodness.

http://entertainment.inquirer.net/files/2016/02/Lang-Leav-poem.png

https://tse1.mm.bing.net/th?&id=OIP.M3bd6ab1f087dbec4a54da5f09793a904o0&w=256&h=300&c=0&pid=1.9&rs=0&p=0&r=0

http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/ab/2f/1b/ab2f1be9ddc00b7d02ac7f3ea232c7eb.jpg

Am loving reading Lang Leav poems at the moment.

Wind Chill -15

I watch the world
through the window
today.
Bitter cold,
brittle ice.
The rainbow refractions
call me to play,
I know my lane
is magic.
The old bones
Just Say No
and my heart
is sad

Oh no! Karen you've got to go out there and play. :))). then write another poem please :))

Great poem Karen!


I'm enjoying all the poetry as well.

Public Art, Poetry, and Common Filthy Toilets
(Inspired by poet Ed Meredith�s poem Hating Public Toilets and Poetry)

In a hurry,
he pulled over into a rest area on an interstate freeway
for
the call of nature.
The men room was filled with acidic air.
but he felt easy and relieved
after
every push
oh quite a relaxing moment from his exhausted day.

His eyes ran on crowded walls full
of
chicken scratched writings entwined with hand drawing images;
unsighted mixture of terrible public art and shocking poetry;
genitals in sexual motion;
graffiti and swastikas
with
neo-racism slogans,
racist smears,
sexist slurs,
insulting aphorisms,
full
of brutal hatreds
against
Jews, Muslims, Blacks, Wetbacks (1), Illegals.

His lungs were congested with fetid air.
his mind was fogged by poisonous thoughts.
he almost forgot of a vital need for the coexistence between fine art gallery and poetry museum
in every public restroom
for
both men and ladies
to dispose their body waste and mind rubbish
in a rush
without sweat
freely coming out
no time needed.

Men and ladies rooms are the only public places left,
where US citizens can exercise their constitutional rights:
freedom of expression from the bottom of their hearts
without
any slight fear
of being persecuted by modern political correctness.

Filthy public toilets become most comfort places
where Americans can ease their pain
from current economic downturn
and enjoy the only comfort moment
left for
their day.

Why does he hate so much public toilets?
excellent for his body relief
why can�t he tolerate public art and poetry?
ideal for peace of his mind
why?

Y
?

Thao Chuong
Copyright August 5, 2011

(1) Wetbacks -s a degrading term commonly used in US referring Mexicans those who crossed the border and become illegal workers in US.

Thank you Lisa 😌 I love the poetry here too
Maria, I have been so busy, blah, I have not made time to hike!

Hungry

The red tail hawk perches
atop the power-line pole,
her feathers fluffed.
She surveys the glittering amber meadow.
The golden grass is still late summer shaggy,
each long blade, each delicate seed head
now completely encased in ice.

The field rat sits
in his home at the base of the hedge tree.
His nest is a fortress of sticks and twigs.
His nose twitches and his whiskers warn.
He surveys the glittering amber meadow.
Should he forage for food to fill his belly?

Perhaps
this will this be the day that he flies
across the clear blue sky.
Dangling and writhing,
caught in sharp talons,
waiting to be the food which fills her belly.

The sunlight is bright on the crystal
tipped branches of the hedge tree,
illuminating them
as if they were candles at a vigil.
My imagination surveys the glittering amber meadow.
My heart cracks like brittle ice.
Nature,
so beautiful
so savage
so sad.

Karen Newell
12/21/16

went to one of the large shopping malls here and ended up with a fever, and a killer cough, same thing happened last year but I had forgotten, must be all the germs getting sent around through air conditioners. Anyway after much drugs throughout the night, I am feeling a bit more normal today, hopefully OK by
tomorrow. Couldn't help thinking at least I had access to medication and a bed.

Loved your poem Karen, very visual. Viet, you highlighed the 'everything' of human nature. Lifting up leaves and stones to see what lay beneath. If I had needed a warm place when I was sick yesterday with no access to medication I may have found myself in a toilet cubicle and expressed how I was feeling on the walls too!

Glad to see your colourful poetry in full flow Maria, back from my weeks ban and unable to echo the digerydoo, the hunger, yet a flag flutters as you pucker those yellow lips and blow the blue wind, a hollowness where the old man passes blissfully aware covered in red paint, painting trees and towns tacitly pretty and whitty...
from east she howls, hear the roar, from south she proudly calls, north she whispers freezing cold and from west she warms the chill!

nice poems!
hope Ed has not returned to his hibernation pod.. and Viet returns. Cant believe i started a thread on pure poetry and got banned for the transgression into presumed profanity, how the power of thoughts and words in poetry can take control
yet words in poetry are free... human
as the toilet wall
records your lust ful bliss
in full profane grandeur...
eyes upon you searchingly
we see it all
the wall of filthy words
the sadly nice, funny yet disgusting and degrading toilet poetry!
as the grafitti poet writes powerfully and sincerely of his filth
do you?

the poet whimpers
love
yet angels.. might
sing
such tunes
with might

as sherpherds
watch.. .

and await

the holy birth!


(c) Jason Christopher 2016

wishing you all a merry Xmas ! and a happy new years

try n get well soon!

nice jason! I am still in and out of feverishness, though cough has subsided leaving me with very sore ribs, but feelinghopeful for christmas day.
sat out in the cool breeze and became mindful of my surroundings, and how we find humour in everything...which is a good thing especially when sick..

Filling my lungs with fresh evening air, a murder of black crows raced across the sky squawking madly
folowed by one pale cockatoo, I could see its arsehole from where I sprawled between two garden chairs,
my eyesight's not so bad afterall, I thought.

lol, lets hope you weren't hallucinating Maria! what might happen next..
well i guess these threads have felt like the murderous assassinations.. of poetry.. lol.. to some... but one can never presume too much..
did you get feedback on your missing thread? i got no replies
but anyways...
i consider it a celebration of many

here's a re-post
(an echo to Xo's "pure poetry" which i thought was one of his best)

The tree of true love


I felt the purity of the tree
as she undressed
and lay before me
naked
a mere skeleton
of who she was
as i swept up her clothes
and threw them upon her
she slept on
as she covered me
with memories
of who we were.. .

As others waited
in fear of enlightenment
others gave way
to enlightenment
from fear

i climbed her limbs
and waited with her, in her sleep, i held her

as her branches grew around me
i stayed with her
as she held me

forever
in my sleep

The Tree of True Love...



(c) Jason Christopher 2016

I haven't heard anything from Sean about Maria's thread. I have tried to get it placed back and haven't given up yet.

Warning to all.

All posts that break the normal forum rules will be deleted without contact with the member who posted, and the member will be removed.

Constantly moaning about this or trying to flout the forum rules under the guise of poetry will lead to a permanent forum ban. Do remember that will stop you posting in the moderation group also.

Yesterday I Tried to Drown Them

This morning
I squished the squash bugs
who have been feasting
on my plants.
My usually pacifistic fingers
brutally pinching the grey bodies
without mercy.
I chase them down
frightfully
as they flee
along the stems,
or try to hide
from me
amongst the floppy leaves.
I feel cruel,
smashing out
the green guts
of men, women and children,
until all I can find
have been completely annihilated.
The pesticide free garden
is still a killing field.

Karen Newell
7/19/17

i was on a return flight home and i found in the seat pocket,
a page torn from what i assume to be a book of poetry by Langston Hughes...
Never read it before... it knocked me out...



Let America Be America Again
Langston Hughes, 1902 - 1967

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That’s made America the land it has become.
O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home—
For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
To build a “homeland of the free.”

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
And all the songs we’ve sung
And all the hopes we’ve held
And all the flags we’ve hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay—
Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!

Restless legs


restless mind
it moves in different directions
not knowing it’s way
trying to find a way
moving down
neck
spine
legs
feet

restless legs
pace like a caged critter
not knowing how to calm
shackles of the moment fall
fall to the ground
no barriers
the legs move on
a race horse is released from the Shute
all it knows is to run
no ifs or whys
to analyze

the mind clears
the hiking trail appears
natures canvas stretched out
sounds
smells
views
a pounding heart
beats away the restless spirit
like a drum on a natural march
no worries or barriers
through trees
and natures granite sculptures
high on a mountain trail

Jim Taylor 7-23-2017

THANK YOU FOR SAYING “SORRY!”

Courtesy costs neither money
nor
sweat.
It’s easy;
without much effort,
everyone could do it including a small kid.

Regardless, how busy one would be;
It takes very little time
only
a
few
seconds.

Yet, the outcome is huge.
Not only would it
show
self-respect,
but also would it maintain good relationship with everyone else.


It
also
makes
you sound nice
and the persons involved feel good;
as you've acknowledged
what you have just done
was
wrong
or inappropriate.

Regrettably, somebody never put this social norm into practice
Either would they point their middle fingers
and
blame others
for their own mistakes,
or would they ignore their bad deeds
and keep their awful manners forever.

People are what they decide to be;
what they do in life
would reflect
who
they’re
as living beings.

It’s their choices.
No big deal
for me.

For your good behavior,
I wanna pay my respect and show my appreciation
to
YOU
for saying: “Sorry!”;
And many thanks for making my good day better.

July 27, 2017
Thao Chuong Tran Quoc Viet

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YhzqGx40JS8

Echo Viet sorry


Train of sorry


a sorry would be nice
it makes forgiveness easy
although your forgiven anyway
let the negativity go return good flow

so sorry your life has had a couple of train wrecks
I hope the penny I laid on the track didn’t contribute
sorry I wasn’t much help providing light in the tunnel
sorry I didn’t blow my own whistle louder
sorry I didn’t recognize it when you pulled out of the station
you were on a dangerous course
the train rolls by
the penny is flattened
I’ll save it in a jar with the rest

Jim Taylor 7-27-2017

What Is Freedom?

Freedom - a human’s noble concept
the wildest dream of being a horse
galloping freely on prairies;
it brings hope
for
those men
who are imprisoned in a little cell.

Quite ironic
when it’s pronounced out loud
freedom sounds
as
“free-doom”.

Practically, human ain’t free
since
he was a baby
‘til he becomes a grownup
He has been brainwashed and programmed
by
his mom,
his dad,
his teachers,
and everybody else;
also by the social norms.

Either would he shackle himself
with an unbreakable iron chain
of
biases
and prejudices,
or must he abide by the cruel laws of life
otherwise, he would be crushed by the powerful force above him

In another word,
freedom
is
but opium
a free-from-stress injection.
so human would have an illusion of being totally free
in
full control
of his thoughts
and the flow of his low life.

Jul. 28, 2017
Thảo Chương Trần Quốc Việt

@ Jim: Thank you for inviting me to the poetry farm, my friend. Have a restful weekend to everyone



The Poetry Farm

Who let those words out so early in the morning?
for
roosters crowing,
dogs barking ,
cats meowing ,
pigs oinking,
cows mooing,
sheep bleating,
horses neighing,
ducks quacking,
chickens clucking…

Oh, the kids’ animal farm
is
really
in chaos.

Who let those words out?
for
men in suits and neckties telling lies,
politicians in offices luring with promises,
billionaires asking the poor for cheap labour,
singers getting choked in sorrowful notes,
poets
getting lost
in the labyrinth of their own thoughts.

Oh,
the adults’ poetry farm are in disarray
with confusing words
between
real and fake,
while wars keep going;
babies cry non-stop;
people are suffered;
many lives get lost.
the mother nature is badly sick
and the world is gradually ruined.

Would there be someone responsible
and must be blamed for the mess?

Note: My dear readers: Please find the answer by yourselves.
In case, you wanna to know my own answer, please go to my FB page to read the whole poem at the following link:
https://www.facebook.com/viet.tran.391420


Jul. 29, 2017
Thảo Chương Trần Quốc Việt

escaping the farm
where I use to live
the funny farm

jumped my pen
freedom hoe
down a row
where the high corn grows
not all that funny anymore
looking for the shoes I once wore



Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world

Haa... Jim.

"Give a man a gun and he can rob a bank
Give a man a bank and he can rob the world"

I like your powerful quote. I hope you own neither a gun nor a bank -lol. Have a restful day, my friend.



“In God We Trust”

Money has become the most powerful
amongst
all man-made religions;
'cause, it offers a genuine paradise-on-earth
in this “bona fide”
short life;
while all other faiths could only promise a fancy heaven
after death.

Money
is
God
that is blindly worshiped
by millionaires and billionaires.

Those money lovers would do anything without exception
to serve their almighty master
this includes
wars,
genocides,
environment destruction…

It’s purely the reason
why
in the heart of capitalism,
American people officially reinforce their belief in the value of money
on every bill of their currency
with
the fine print
“In God We Trust”.

(My dear readers, please go to my FB page to read the whole poem at the following link:
https://www.facebook.com/viet.tran.391420. Sorry for your inconvenience)

Aug. 2nd, 2017
Thao Chuong Tran Quoc Viet

Forget Faked News or Hot News! Let’s Talk about Hot Girls.

It's a hot day;
The glazing sun drops its burning rays
on a heated beach,
somewhere,
in Florida.

Bright light reflection from aqua blue water afar
travels to the seashore;
blinds those thirsty eyes
hiding
behind
dark sunglasses.

"Fool-around" guys of many colors;
black, white, yellow, or so …
but mostly Cubans,
stroll about,
walk,
while moving their topless chests and butts
to the noisily rhythmic beats of Latin music.
Their “rolling-stone” eyeballs firmly rest on these fine breasts
(as luscious as carved turkey breasts nicely displayed on plates
ready
to be served
at Thanksgivings dinners).

Irritably girls are sunbathing virtually naked,
attractively sexy,
temptingly
hot,
in tiny pieces of bikinis.
They look as yummy as fresh squids
exposed
in direct sunlight,
ready to be dipped into hot sauce.
It tastes spicier than fried calamari in any Greek restaurant.

Oh my..!
God’s forbidden fruits
who of men would resist to commit this irresistible sin?

Whether they’re real for fake
under fine skin and in genuine flesh
or just purely plastic surgery
anyhow,
either way,
nothing men could lose.

C’mon!
Go head
Relaxed and feel good for yourselves
Let’s
forget all faked news
for quite awhile, won’t you?

Thao Chuong Tran Quoc Viet
www.papercollage.ca

An Ode to Gibberish:

i stand in the interrelatedness of non events
full of colorless altitudes floating behind the walls of transparency
sharing an interdependent memory of motivation subcultures and management
raining heavily.upon the clear star of nothingness that is yesterday's importance
welcoming many aberrations of spring


Ed Meredith
August 16, 2017

The War O’ Words

Two loose cannons in rival are shooting
threats
at each other
at an escalating rate.

The exchange of utterly nonsense words
has been furiously raging
worse
than any worst intense wildfire.

At one end,
the new godfather
of the well-established mafia has promised his members.
he would bring back
the glory of the good old days
by
imposing strict control of its territory,
over the whole neighborhood
for
more security,
and more profits,
to make their gang great again.

At the other end,
the kingpin
of the rising Asian syndicate has tried to expand his gang
to other areas in the same city
he shows his muscle
in
his best effort
of extortion of more money
for his hungry gang members.

Both gangs are well-armed to their teeth.
If the war of words is out of control,
it could turn into a bloody trade of bullets.

No place to run
for the innocent.
maybe,
it’s the doomsday
of the whole neighborhood.

Let’s pray for peace
and hope it would never happen.

18-8-2017
Thao Chuong Tran Quoc Viet

Hello my friends. I have just been reading all of the poetry. The found poem in the pouch on the plane, the power of money, the power of a little finger over a bug, fake news, Love, etc, etc, You know always come here when I , know there's somewhere i have to be, and when I do, I expect it to all be gone, and it never is, even though there are words that flow, some seem easy, some not so. I have been away a while writing a story, working and trying to get jobs done in the house to get it ready for selling, its time to downsize. So, i apologise for my absence, but glad to see you are all still dipping in. I wrote this on Friday on my way to work as I stopped at the traffic lights, I wrote it in my head, and remembered it yesterday to re write, thats unusual for me, I usually forget. Infact, i am sending not just the poem but the chapter that i included it in.

Chapter IX Remember Me My Friend ( listen to the song i think it was the Moody Blues)



I can feel the bulge of frustrated resistant tears in the back of my eyes somewhere. I have no right to cry. A beautiful person has just passed away. The ghost in the machine will not allow me to copy or paste and continue with the story. I want to throw the laptop at the wall. I have come to 'Word' as something will not let me type even on the document. It’s like purgatory. But, how can I equate such small frustrations to some magnatudinal spiritual event. Caught between heaven and earth awaiting entry. It is so human to equate the trivial with the boundless unanswerable. We are so weak and vulnerable, so strong and indomitable. Unconquerable. I think of a poem I composed in the car on the way to work this morning as I waited at the traffic lights and was mindful of the bare, black wintered trees.


‘Motherless leaves


Loosed from the limbs


Of wintry trees


Saving her sap


For the next birth of buds


This Spring.


And all the hope found in classrooms, on young and old faces, was suddenly wiped away. Tears ran along the groove of closed lips, like some channelled rainfall in an alley’s gutter. No play. Just face pushed up against the glass again. I feel the sharp reaching branches of the tree, vein like, trace their network across my heart. It’s a long winter ache. And there’s no pill for it, for God’s sake!


She’s gone and I am sat here typing wishing I had written that card and sent it when I saw it still lying on my desk. Wishing I had sent another email, but I was too busy, I felt too busy. My chin falls to my chest and I grab handfuls of hair. It doesn’t change anything. Who am I? Will I ever be as unconquerable? Downright stubborn, maybe.


I want someone to tell me a story. Tears burn at the thought of someone comforting me with a happy story, with a happy ending, even though I don’t particularly care for them. I want one of those hugs and kisses that I missed as a child, even though I wore a big heavy awkward shield, like forever.


She seems to be in a special place, the irreligious science teacher. But out there somewhere. Strong and brave, the idea of it all lets tears roll. It’s natural to grieve. To not live forever.


I am making farmer’s gates with my hands. I just noticed. It happens when I am in truth with myself. Please put my hands like that when it’s my turn. Otherwise let them always press lettered keys, or if past that, hold a pen, a paintbrush, or trace my name in the dry Windowlene on the windows, or in the sand when stuck under a parasol and asked not to wander to the edge of the sea, because She; the sea, is unpredictable and unrelentingly powerful.


Today, I've changed slightly, like every day, my sensibilities and knowledge have shifted slightly, like a slice of slate that has forever jutted out on the high ledge of some cliff, stood the test of time and unweidling storms but suddenly is freed from its jammed position by a wanderer's step, who unwittingly undoes things, sends a spray of gravel free falling down into an almost bottomless echoing ravine and a piece of blue slate after it, changing the pattern of the cliff forever.


Today I am changed, but have accepted the change, because I know I am more because of the experience.


The laptop is working properly again, is smoothly in sync with every tap at the keys. The ghost in the machine must have been listening. Everything seems suddenly peaceful and more at ease. I knew there were words waiting in the shadows of my mind, like shy beginnings, I felt their weight yet knew nothing of what they would surprise me with, or if I was the right medium in which they could express themselves through. If I could just sit here and wait for them but Eamon was hammering away in the garden, trying to repair a door before the rain began again. The house goes on the market next week. I need to be helping, not faffing away at some story. They don't understand the relationship I have with words. I have to go. I hope they wait there for me against what I feel is some old skull cave wall in their inky-dark long overcoats, good at loitering.


Music like the sea has a power beyond reasoning. Getting my hand in and polishing the wooden floors I put on a 70's cd. It was as though I had forgotten everything from yesterday, all the losses. And the music filled the room, it was loud and everything I must have needed because it wasn't long before I was sliding along the floorboards in my winter fluffy socks and singing to those old songs. "Hey little girl get your dancing shoes " at first had me hummimg along but by the chorus, "Dancing on a Saturday night" I had a brushpole as my dancing partner. What fickle things we are. How music makes us fit to its mood and not the other way around.


Disco Tex and the Sexolets..I...wanna dance with you...I wanna rock and roll with you waahhh!" There was no stopping me.


It had stopped raining the sun lit up the garden where Eamon and Bobby were working. A lot was achieved and with gusto, inside and out.


"Whoa, Whoa, Whoa, I just wanna be there, even when it rains and it pours in Paradise..."

Money and Love

He’s young, handsome, and charming
his warm look
and caring nature
had touched her heart
She got caught in a romantic cobweb
and fell in his arms
regardless
he was out of work and broke.

She really didn’t care
about
his penniless pocket
in this romantic adventure.
as she was really in need from him
of
something else:
the best time in love
and the joy for sex

She wasn’t romantically blind.
she poured icy water on his hot plate.
“Honey,
I’m sorry.
You can’t stand on your own feet.
How would you carry me?”, said she
in a callous voice
right
at
his irritated face,
as soon as he knelt down and asked for her hand.

For the lifetime security, she tied the knot with
a much older but wealthy guy
whom she was
not in love
with.

Like most of other females,
she knew for sure;
She was in need
of
both:
love for her starving heart
and money for her empty stomach.

It’s why
Young guys, who’re broke, often get the love;
Old chaps, who’re rich, get the heartless body.

24-8-2017
Thao Chuong Tran Quoc Viet
www.papercollage.ca

The Impact of a Careless Smoker (Senryu)

the raging wildfire
thousands of evacuees
by a tiny butt

28-8-2017
Thao Chuong

On the Labor Day

Floating
in hot air,
strong smell of burning meat and loud music
that make me feel the festive mood of the noisy crowd
from the barbecue party next door.

‘tis a special day off for working people
not
for me
as a retiree;
however, I take this opportunity as an excuse for a break
from my mission impossible of restoring cluttered home and weedy garden.

High up
in the cloudless sky,
the sun is shooting its hot rays onto the ground.
I rest my back on a lawn chair inside the cool shade of a curling willow tree.
I take a beer
and let every sip slowly absorbed through my dried throat.

Now,
I’m harvesting the fruit
from the tree planted a long time ago.
Thanks to brothers and sisters of the past
those who sweated and shed their blood
to fight and advocate for the working people
to
have eight hours for work,
enjoy eight hours for recreation,
and take eight hours for rest.

On this special day off,
cheer to you
all working people
and all retirees who work at home without pay.

04-08-2017
Thao Chuong Tran Quoc Viet
www.papercollage.ca

Sundry Notes: Man n’ Nature

wildfires from British Columbia and Washington State
have sent a thick blanket of smoke
all over Vancouver Island.

up high
in the sky
the sun looks dreamlike
as a crimson sphere embedded in a thick layer of mud.

low
visibility
on the ground
bluish, misty smoke hangs over the whole landscape.

the atmosphere is murkily hazy.
the air is chocked.
it’s
surreal.
everything is buried in gray;
as if it were the doomsday of the world.

“Grandpa, I wanna go out play”,
cried
the toddler.
I’ve tried my best to explain
why we have kept him and his brother inside for two days in a row.
yet, he’s too young to comprehend my stupid logic.

I have no choice but to keep my fingers crossed
in the hope
of
having strong wind
to blow the smoke away
and make those little kids’ days better.

06-9-2017
Thao Chuong Tran Quoc Viet.
www.papercollage.ca

The cup of tea has gone cold
To the left, The sun warms the shapely legs of the concrete railings
And filters through the sheer curtains
Across the floorboards
So warm.
To the shady right of the room
Boxes wait, sharp, edgy, full of shadows
The trees beyond that window
Scream gleefully green enjoying the spring breeze
The large window is full lush of it all
And birds whizz past focused on survival
Just the right twig for the nest
A crumb or worm, a glistening ring pull.
The lid on all of this is blue with an odd cloud
The mountain sleeps in the distance
And carburettas snore and fart as they pass in the stream of traffic
The property market is booming
One day everything will just go bang!
And we will all begin again,
And put the kettle back on!

Trying to be decent human beings
We look on the bright side as much as we can
Feel lucky even
When we are made aware of others not so lucky
Looking at nature through the window
Seems to unburden us from the needs and wants
The green rolling hills
Spiders weaving webs
Bees busily hopping from flower to flower
A comfortable bed
A pie in the oven
Life seems sweet
And it is
But we must not lose sight
Of the next moment
How things can turn upside down

All the more reason to try to be a decent human being
Be a shoulder
Listen
And take long frequent looks at ourselves
Before we judge
Or say
Don't worry it will all be OK
Because sometimes it's not
And sometimes there's not a damn thing you can do about it
But
Pray.

Mill © Joseph C. Hinson (3.2015)
The old cotton mill
Seen through a modern eye
In black and white
Six city blocks, she sits
Constructed of brick
And hardwood upon which
Hundreds of people walk
On any given day
With lunch boxes, time sheets and
work orders

The mill is gone now
Deconstructed unceremoniously one brick
at a time
Methodically, even robotically
To save each morsel of history
For consumption by those who can afford
Reconstructed in new homes
As talk new pieces during holidays
And cocktail parties
Alongside flat screen media and
contemporary art

But those six city blocks
Are alive yet today
Through decomposing parking lots
And overgrown weeds
Behind barbed wire fences
And rusting rails
I leaned against the hood of my car one day
Remembering a past I never knew
The camaraderie among the workers
Most walked to work today
From small homes built around
Warm fireplaces
On streets not yet paved
Hoping to make it to the mill
Before the big whistle blew
They never knew when Mr. Elliott
Might be standing out front
Greeting the workers coming
And going


Rows and rows of looms spinning cotton
Men, women and sometimes children
Shifts running all day, every day
The city revolves around this mill
Said to be the largest under one roof
Trucks are lined up outside the gate
A small circle of drivers
Are talking shop as they wait
Meanwhile, the faint whistle of a steam train
Can be heard crossing Cane Creek
In the distance
There are boxcars waiting to be switched out
Raw material coming in
And goods going out
A trio of men have been leaning
Against a storage shack
Each with an unfiltered cigarette
Dangling from his lip
Hearing the faint whistle again
They put their cigarettes down
And walk back toward the building

Viet, you are so wise, worldly,empathetic.........

"
It’s why
Young guys, who’re broke, often get the love;
Old chaps, who’re rich, get the heartless body."

24-8-2017
Thao Chuong Tran Quoc Viet
www.papercollage.ca "

Love your photo Viv so classy still :))
What a great poem Joseph, quite unusual how I couldn't turn away from reading it, it was like I was undoing it brick by brick, very storylike, I imagine your photos tell good stories.

Table Manners

And just as I begin to waffle
His mind leaves me
Like some leftover grisle on the edge of the plate
Unpalatable, yet moreish
Or the over abundant frilly green lettuce leaves
All water and acid, that burns the insides.
He’s full, and leaves me; at least in mind
The silence is my dessert,
A souless bowl, but the pattern still makes me unable
to turn away from the table.
He plays lamely with the cutlery
Reads the Sheffied stainless steel stamp
Picks at a scabby crumb on a prong and hisses like a snake
As though he’s used to better things,
Forgetting his upbringing
His loving being caked in a muddy football kit.
I eat my own pudding of words nearly choking
In a room full of “no smoking” signs.
I swallow my stupid, superflouous sentences that have too few full stops.
Beside me, he sits quietly, his silver tongue behind those tight lips of his,
And the silence is as noisy as a bellyful of clamouring bells.
And all’s I can see is my distorted reflection in the concave of the streaky spoon
Like some old worn cameo.


Maria Disley 29/10/17

Nature Calls

Leaves glinting like tin foil,
swaying,
touching each other,
babbling. rustling, wheezing
without a word, then
still, thoughful, taking a break, as the wind drops to get its breath.

As far as the eye can see
layers of variegated greens quilt the vista
in more shades than the artist's pallette can muster,
in nuances the writer cannot twist his pen to describe, interpret,
when on each shiny leaf, a bug may be living out its detailed existence
so tiny
we know nothing of its importance, its mechanics, its place in the scheme of things.
We are oblivious
and sometimes still can't even manage a
'Please' or 'Thankyou'
or find one kind word.

The trees are blustering
the glinting sides of their leaves catching the Spring sunlight
are like tiny mirrors
sending subtle S.O.S messages across some battlefield,
We seem to trample through, half blindly.

Maria Disley 29/10/17

The Year 2017 in Review

I. The Countdown

unlike any terminally ill patient struggling in pain on a Hospice’s bed,
only two days left, before the funeral
to have it officially buried
into
deep soil
of the forgotten past.
yet, the ailing year still has a lot of energy
to continue running
much
faster than
a galloping horse
it has left a long trail
of a black shadow behind its back.

for better or worse,
before, we crack open a bottle of Champaign to cheer the new year,
let’s look back to major events
in two thousand seventeen.
to see
how
and what
it has impacted
on mankind and on the mother earth so far.

II- the Year of the New Emperor

the most powerful empire on earth has crowned its new absolute ruler
who believes he is sent by god
to save
his kingdom
which has been going down
into a toilet bowl and about to be flushed.

in his quest to make his monarchy great again
he has messed things around
and put the world orders
upside
down.

he has gone so aggressively wild ,
whenever someone dares challenge
his absolute
power.
he always tweets like an insane bird;
he fires at those people in his blazing rage
with a full force
whether
they’re his friends or his foes.
it is probably the most interesting event of the year.


III The Year of Nuclear

the year was stained by endless nuclear threats
from
the heated showdown
between two nu clear madman
who called each other
by
the degraded epithets:
“Little Rocket Man” and “Dotard”.

even though, the two came from opposite cultural backgrounds
not much difference
between these tyrants
they have acted exactly same
as if they were twin coming out of the same womb.
the two
have
funky hairdos,
very childish manners in dealing with conflicts
and same bullying nature with shitty statesmanship.
they equally obsess with power and love big show-offs.

both have paid
no
respect for
diplomacy in politics

people were extremely nervous
about the unstable mental state
of
the fat butcher’s in the East
and that of the retard provoker’s in the West;
at
any lost moment
in their uncontrolled anger
either of them could insanely activate the access code
to launch nuclear weapons.
and boom...
the world would come to its end without question.

the nuclear showdown has reminded us
of the American-made horribly burning hell
in Hiroshima
August 6, 1945
66,000 men, women, and children instantly died
69,000 innocent civilians injured
67% of the city was destroyed
in Nagasaki
August 9, 1945
39,000 innocent people killed
25,000 injured
nearly half of this city was collapsed into ash or ruble.

this horrible war crime against Japanese civilians has never been brought to justice
so, the “Little Rocket Man” and “Dotard” don’t care what would happen the rest of the world
as they must know very well about the game of war
the winner can take all including justice into his side.

how lucky mankind has been so far
as it didn’t happen in this year
hopefully, our fear of a nuclear war would ever be materialized
at any time
in the future.

IV The Year of Natural Disasters.

Paris Climate Accord was the best news
of
the year,
when the going-on-war-ravaged Syria committed
to join one hundred fifty-five other countries
which have already signed on the agreement.
it left the United States of America
alone
outside in the chilly cold
as she prefers to keep her head buried
under deep tar of hot sand
of her own desert

“enough is enough”
being badly abused
for
so long ,
our mother nature could no longer take it.
in her most desperate efforts,
he hit back as hard as she could
to wreak
havoc to mankind.

she has rained her last warnings
with
cyclones in Australia,
landslides and drought in Africa,
flooding and monsoons in South Asia,
earthquakes, hurricanes, and wildfires in North America.

alas,
she killed thousands of people.
she also jeopardized the livelihood
of hundred thousands of families’ on different continents

in particular,
she penalized the United States without mercy
with
hurricanes
Harvey, Irma, Maria
which
arrived in a row
one after another
and then came the worst wildfire in the California’s history.

hopefully, mother nature’s strong messages
about pollution
would
be taken more seriously
by those climate-change deniers.

V. The year of Political and Social Uncertainty

the middle and lower classes in the West
have bitterly felt
of
being
left behind.

they have been increasingly fed up with the status quo
since, they could no longer
keep up pace
with
swift change in technology,
also they could no longer tolerate growing gap of inequality.
moreover, they often felt unease
by
the permanent fear,
the everlasting apprehension,
of an increasingly insecure society
from some horrific acts of terrorism.

mass influx of refugees from war-torn Middle East
was purposely
used
as a scapegoat
for political and social unrest
high unemployment that created hardship
and decreased the living quality .

they felt they were pushed against the wall;
they has no choice but to act in revolt
against
the well-established system
which they believed the long-term loyal slave
that has served the rich and the elites.

they lost trust in professional politicians
so they have looked for a substitute.
populists have manipulated very well the political and social downturn
by
luring promises
of bringing down the system;

they’ve claimed to talk for “the people”,
to work for best interest of the majority
to fight against threats to security by foreign evils
in order to make their country great again.

as a result, populism has been surged as a tsunami
that swept over and changed the political landscape.
especially in the United States of America
the belly button
o'
capitalism
and the champion of freedom and democracy.

VI. Personal Sundry Notes:

I feel so lucky to be buried in snow and to live in igloos
on the peaceful land
of
ethnical, racial, cultural, religious and political diversity
up
North.

I am always amazed at the way
of how my southern neighbors do business
unlike, our American brothers who love shooting with guns
we Canadian prefer showing our middle fingers
shouting to fuck
off
in a road rage

what I have enjoyed the most during this troublesome year
was the confused drama
of
faked news
and especially Twitter rampages
from the war of words against mainstream media.

the end of the year two thousand seventeen.
Thao Chuong Tran Quoc Viet
www.papercollage.ca