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MM's Represented Poems for 2008 |
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Jan 3 08, 06:13
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Mosaic Master
Group: Administrator
Posts: 18,892
Joined: 1-August 03
From: Massachusetts
Member No.: 2
Real Name: Lori Kanter
Writer of: Poetry & Prose
Referred By:Imhotep
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JANUARY SELECTION:
Time Piece by Frances Kennedy
Whoever said time heals all wounds has lied like those who have will claim forgiveness brings forgetting sooner. Sorrow, stripped of pride, has little aptitude for hope that springs eternally in hearts less slung by slings and arrows, or with fortitude not mine. Unreasoned passion, stemmed, stills everything except a coiled impulse to unwind pretending in the face of all that I’m just fine.
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"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to." ~ J.R.R Tolkien, The Lord of the RingsCollaboration feeds innovation. In the spirit of workshopping, please revisit those threads you've critiqued to see if the author has incorporated your ideas, or requests further feedback from you. In addition, reciprocate with those who've responded to you in kind. "I believe it is the act of remembrance, long after our bones have turned to dust, to be the true essence of an afterlife." ~ Lorraine M. KanterNominate a poem for the InterBoard Poetry Competition by taking into careful consideration those poems you feel would best represent Mosaic Musings. For details, click into the IBPC nomination forum. Did that poem just captivate you? Nominate it for the Faery award today! If perfection of form allured your muse, propose the Crown Jewels award. For more information, click here! "Worry looks around, Sorry looks back, Faith looks up." ~ Early detection can save your life.MM Award Winner
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Feb 2 08, 11:52
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Mosaic Master
Group: Administrator
Posts: 18,892
Joined: 1-August 03
From: Massachusetts
Member No.: 2
Real Name: Lori Kanter
Writer of: Poetry & Prose
Referred By:Imhotep
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FEBRUARY SELECTIONS:
Past Presents by Larry D. Jennings
The warmth of morning cocoa dissipated to mere taste, so too, the sweet aroma of a slowly roasting goose; both swept away by Autumn’s breath, exhaled into the past. As Winter’s respite ended, breaking season's yearly truce,
we walked together through the naked woodlands. Where the trees lift barren arms imploring Spring to hurry on her way. Out past the furrowed fields behind the tired barn began our path, worn smooth, from long ago’s forgotten yesterday.
Dad’s old sleigh, broken down, now holds our logs for winter fires upon its rusted runners… crooked smile of wooden teeth. Piled high on tattered leather seats, where children used to ride, are spicy scented pine boughs, harvested to make our wreath.
We traced old steps until the chill nipped noses, crimson red, then hurried back before the first snow flakes came drifting down to blanket our small world in white serenity and peace where memories are neighbors and the forest is our town.
Hagarmor, the Raven by Eric Linden
Out on a cold December night, one raven interrupts his flight where, down below, a wildwood stand with man and horses is in sight.
A senior member of his band, old Nevermore once crossed this land to visit Edgar Poe’s abode and drop his name in Edgar’s hand.
A hundred years have quickly flowed since Nevermore paused by this road to rest and watch as snow descends; now Hagar packs his precious load.
With twists and turns, the roadway wends as man and team pass through its bends; their coats, like everything, are white but soon they’ll visit with old friends.
eagle-king by Jan Iwaszkiewicz
The Beginning
I a petty princeling and lord of the dark brook and the dry-stone wall keeper of the jackdaw and black chickens son of the eagle my father king wait for one gleam from his hazel eye
The Charms
the dog and I jump the stone but the jackdaw squawks and plumps to stay here is a fiefdom of field and wood mine for the taking with dark dog we dare and cross to the old trees I spray gold to the wood spirit and lower the dog follows suit our territories set and sprites assuaged we head out through the rye
I lie with my head on the black dog under a glow of silver clouds my neck buttercupped with bright gold my eyes dissolved in the distant dome I sort the clouds into seats of power and count blessings, gather and press each into charms to be hidden against need like bulbs of bluebell in the wild wood
I send the dog home and wander past the wheel of mill house over the stone bridge and over the brook out to where the orchard lands wend and other lords hold sway I stoop beneath the broken stile a quick scrump of plump apples held safer than a wild fox next to the lean of my spartan belly victorious gatherer I bring the fruit and whilever I plead the luck of windfall clabbered cream will sit fat on the glorious beauty of pied apple
The Foray
the queen-father and I set forth on foray past mill castle and west over the bridged brook bound by its thin forest of browning leaves
hand on my shoulder the queen-father points to murdered crows and the slide of pike and how hedgehogs hog the edge of hedgerows and where the cress grows crisp and sharp and how the stinging nettles should be garnered and how soft an apple puckered and soft for cider should feel our legs unminding lay the miles down
we reach the edge of the drystone walls and our sweat cools I am chilled the colour is taken from glorious day his hand is gone and the pig-men wait
they stand in the yard next to a sty hands polishing the trough wood eyes fluttering like caged birds and they mutter words that I cannot catch
dried blood blackens their nails they look like the old ones who hide hammers beneath their beds smiling they seem to be small humans they nod bobbing to the queen father
we're given mugs of fresh blood that holds a taste of salt smoke I feint, but caught, drink firmly they laugh and thumb the dregs onto my cheeks I flame with an unknown feel of shame
we are taken to a squat stone building stuck ugly behind the sties into a room where knives and cleavers live blood puddings drip from the rafters sausages gleam in the soft gloom and heads look down from the hooks
the stone floor is wet and cold scalding tubs are tipped to the wall carved runnels sluiced clean end in rough iron grates the echo of squeals is faint but catches squalling against the shell of my ear
we go to where the apple boughs smoulder and with a lazy grey intent curl through cracks in the smoke house walls hams and flitches turn slowly
the queen-father quickly cuts his mark in a huge ham he picks from the choke the old ones grow in anger but their grim growls are beneath him
he strides smiling to the squat building we buy fat black puddings and thick slabs of pink bacon a plump leg with extra skin six pairs of fresh trotters and half a pig’s head for brawn a deal is struck between the palms
but the old ones no longer nod nor smile nor mutter a single sound their eyes no longer flutter but stare
I utter spelled words to ward us from evil and we slowly leave our backs burdened with more than meat I scrub my cheeks bare of blood that I dare gives me heart
I chant charms and place blessings upon our path home
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"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to." ~ J.R.R Tolkien, The Lord of the RingsCollaboration feeds innovation. In the spirit of workshopping, please revisit those threads you've critiqued to see if the author has incorporated your ideas, or requests further feedback from you. In addition, reciprocate with those who've responded to you in kind. "I believe it is the act of remembrance, long after our bones have turned to dust, to be the true essence of an afterlife." ~ Lorraine M. KanterNominate a poem for the InterBoard Poetry Competition by taking into careful consideration those poems you feel would best represent Mosaic Musings. For details, click into the IBPC nomination forum. Did that poem just captivate you? Nominate it for the Faery award today! If perfection of form allured your muse, propose the Crown Jewels award. For more information, click here! "Worry looks around, Sorry looks back, Faith looks up." ~ Early detection can save your life.MM Award Winner
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Feb 27 08, 20:32
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Mosaic Master
Group: Administrator
Posts: 18,892
Joined: 1-August 03
From: Massachusetts
Member No.: 2
Real Name: Lori Kanter
Writer of: Poetry & Prose
Referred By:Imhotep
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MARCH SELECTIONS:In Rion's Eye by Lorraine M. KanterI see through gossamery clouds a world of hatred's tryst, where pixies poise to tame cruel beasts in homelands they resist; of voiceless thoughts and hushed unrest upon strong backs they ride of changelings, coasting on the wind through places where they'll hide. I see through gossamery clouds a most unlikely pair, through paradigms of unity defrock an evil heir. Together sprite and dragon vow like times so long ago, to bring civility and peace to those they come to know. I see through gossamery clouds a world of moral mien… and sit upon this star of mine where never I’ll be seen. It matters not that I'm alive to see what came before -- as dawn awakes, I’ll take my leave but never close my door. I see through gossamery clouds a tear in Rion’s Eye, where flights of faith obscure my view -- I quietly glide by. Author's notes: This is part of a longer story about a fantasy world and the actions of the primary characters. Changeling is a reference to a character of a dragon race that adopts the pixies/sprites desire to bring civility and peace to the world. Rion is the world they live in personified.Colors of Hate by Larry D. Jennings
Winds ride long empty schoolyard swings, shake rusty snow on un-scuffed sand. Orange clouds still glow from strange mushrooms as bloated worms feed; garish green. Another sunset, purple smears to blood red; unseen! Sky bruises' glow soon fades to night. Gray stones now resting, time-worn smooth, once etched to mark a species...gone! White silence, deafening. Unheard knell's echo's stilled by Time's sure hand. Black comes at last, on unshod hooves. The Four in One reap war's foul crop.
Waiting for Andromeda by Linda E. Cable
How do I fathom these atoms that have aligned to make a me and not this toast upon my plate?
Cosmic specks, not a breath between them, become content and color, to compose a singularity between my hand and the handle of a cup.
In this bowl of microcosmic soup, I watch my body rearrange, as if pressed for time, anxious to disconnect and join the incandescence amid inconsequential worlds.
My dust desires to dance in the dominions of Andromeda.
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"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to." ~ J.R.R Tolkien, The Lord of the RingsCollaboration feeds innovation. In the spirit of workshopping, please revisit those threads you've critiqued to see if the author has incorporated your ideas, or requests further feedback from you. In addition, reciprocate with those who've responded to you in kind. "I believe it is the act of remembrance, long after our bones have turned to dust, to be the true essence of an afterlife." ~ Lorraine M. KanterNominate a poem for the InterBoard Poetry Competition by taking into careful consideration those poems you feel would best represent Mosaic Musings. For details, click into the IBPC nomination forum. Did that poem just captivate you? Nominate it for the Faery award today! If perfection of form allured your muse, propose the Crown Jewels award. For more information, click here! "Worry looks around, Sorry looks back, Faith looks up." ~ Early detection can save your life.MM Award Winner
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Apr 1 08, 18:13
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Mosaic Master
Group: Administrator
Posts: 18,892
Joined: 1-August 03
From: Massachusetts
Member No.: 2
Real Name: Lori Kanter
Writer of: Poetry & Prose
Referred By:Imhotep
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APRIL SELECTIONS:
Ciaron's Dream by Larry D. Jennings
Cluain Mhic Nois
Three saints stand watch o’er northern gate to meadows of the sons of Nor where chiefs and warriors laid in state ‘neath green and gorse of Shannon’s shore.
Thrice buttressed path from Ciaron’s hand led all who trod this hallowed place to masters, teaching in that land a higher learning, pious grace
within a stark monastic clime. The centuries are on display from crypts and castles built through time to broken cross in disarray.
A place of temples, church and walls with blessings sprinkled on the ground, the last High King rests in these halls until the horns of Heaven sound.
Fair Erin, ravaged from afar by Viking’s axe and Norman's blade, returns to beauty from each scar more lovely, strong and unafraid.
Crypt-Keeper's Irony by Lorraine M. Kanter
He wanders tombs through dark of night in search of treasures to alight a path to riches, sweet perfumes. Through dark of night, he wanders tombs.
This thirst he seldom seems to quench consuming dust’s archaic stench whilst raiding chambers, sneers death’s curse... he seldom seems to quench this thirst.
Inscriptions warn of punishment in frail hereafter: life’s lament defiled - lest one Pharaoh’s scorn of punishment, inscriptions warn.
Adorned facade discreetly hid Necropolis’ broken lid that once beheld doubt’s living god -- discreetly hid, adorned facade.
In Thebes amid disunity, Stonemasons’ opportunity is shared in Nile’s mild reeds amid disunity -- in Thebes.
Crypt-keepers feign incompetence whitewashed in deben bribe's defense while Ma’at is droned through priestly reign; incompetence -- crypt-keepers feign.
This irony remains today, the ones in power do betray a nourishing of Ka campaigns. Today, this irony remains.
Footnotes: Necropolis: An extensive and elaborate burial place serving an ancient city. Deben: A measurement of cost used as the unit of value for exchange. Ma’at: The concept of order, truth and justice. After death, a person's soul is weighed against the feather of Ma'at to determine their fate in the afterworld. ka (in Ancient Egyptian Religion): A spiritual ‘double’ of the deceased, living within the body during life, and surviving the body after death. It was believed to be one of two spirits inhabiting the body, the main component of the soul. The ka is closely tied with the ba, the personality or psychic force of the deceased.
GAIA by Sylvia Maclagan
To unwind, to dream, beneath the canopy of a willow-tree! I wander your prairies, Gaia, picture sunflowers smile at summer skies, charting the sun’s orbit till nightfall.
Vast terrains pretend to slumber, guarded by languid owl-eyes stalking slinky felines and other unseen creatures of night.
I sleep beneath my leafy umbrella as frogs croak the onset of dawn, heralding showers flirting with rainbows. In dreams I circumnavigate mountain lakes, sight naissance of rivers.
I recite poems that nobody wrote, wondrous words dormant in memories of the dead. I gaze at Gothic cathedrals, the Taj Mahal, Roman aqueducts dominating Italic olive groves, Alexandria’s library perished beneath the sea.
Libelious lies and carnage disrupt my trance.
Where has love gone, where the chubby toes of children? Why does blossom wither by waysides? Nuclear submarines inflame sapphire seas…
I've shared hope with shipwrecked migrants, blending homage and heartache. I am a refugee seeking a fresh life, or just life... I dream the dreams of all men.
I conjure up dust-bowls on Austral steppes, Amazonia gutted by russet roads, thawing glaciers thunder Andean slopes.
Ice cubes tremble in my crystal tumbler, as I offer a toast to Gaia, to mystery, unreason, riddles, the paradox of her existence in space-time, to reality.
Reality is the destruction I have caused her. It is mourning a death foretold, though Death is not her death but mine.
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"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to." ~ J.R.R Tolkien, The Lord of the RingsCollaboration feeds innovation. In the spirit of workshopping, please revisit those threads you've critiqued to see if the author has incorporated your ideas, or requests further feedback from you. In addition, reciprocate with those who've responded to you in kind. "I believe it is the act of remembrance, long after our bones have turned to dust, to be the true essence of an afterlife." ~ Lorraine M. KanterNominate a poem for the InterBoard Poetry Competition by taking into careful consideration those poems you feel would best represent Mosaic Musings. For details, click into the IBPC nomination forum. Did that poem just captivate you? Nominate it for the Faery award today! If perfection of form allured your muse, propose the Crown Jewels award. For more information, click here! "Worry looks around, Sorry looks back, Faith looks up." ~ Early detection can save your life.MM Award Winner
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Apr 26 08, 12:15
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Mosaic Master
Group: Administrator
Posts: 18,892
Joined: 1-August 03
From: Massachusetts
Member No.: 2
Real Name: Lori Kanter
Writer of: Poetry & Prose
Referred By:Imhotep
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MAY SELECTION:
Survival by Eira Needham
I wait … ensconced in my umbrageous hide as unsuspecting creatures forage near. My escalating hunger can’t subside; their odours saturate the atmosphere.
Vibrations stir the undergrowth – I smell a rat through flicking tongue and lie stock-still, disguised in leaves. Anticipation swells; unfocused vision won’t impede my skill.
Strike! … I quickly coil around him; death's embrace, his limbs grow limp. Deprived of claws, I seize head-on and taste his final breath, while peristalsis draws him through my jaws.
Engorged, I glide towards my hiding place where shadows camouflage from passing beast; assailable I curl, yet heed them pace nearby, as I digest this rodent feast.
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"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to." ~ J.R.R Tolkien, The Lord of the RingsCollaboration feeds innovation. In the spirit of workshopping, please revisit those threads you've critiqued to see if the author has incorporated your ideas, or requests further feedback from you. In addition, reciprocate with those who've responded to you in kind. "I believe it is the act of remembrance, long after our bones have turned to dust, to be the true essence of an afterlife." ~ Lorraine M. KanterNominate a poem for the InterBoard Poetry Competition by taking into careful consideration those poems you feel would best represent Mosaic Musings. For details, click into the IBPC nomination forum. Did that poem just captivate you? Nominate it for the Faery award today! If perfection of form allured your muse, propose the Crown Jewels award. For more information, click here! "Worry looks around, Sorry looks back, Faith looks up." ~ Early detection can save your life.MM Award Winner
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May 31 08, 08:12
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Mosaic Master
Group: Administrator
Posts: 18,892
Joined: 1-August 03
From: Massachusetts
Member No.: 2
Real Name: Lori Kanter
Writer of: Poetry & Prose
Referred By:Imhotep
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JUNE SELECTIONS:
Melodies of Life by Eira Needham
A rhythm gently stirs the dormant earth with tranquil harmonies. All creatures browse; inherently they couple, giving birth, as woods deliver buds to gravid boughs. Soft showers suckle buttercup bouquets; a rainbow colours mama’s lullaby. I fly away with blue birds while she sways me, lids becoming heavy; hush-a-bye.
I leap awake to summer's bold refrains in verdant fields, where poppies splash their hue. I preen myself; sap surges through my veins, perplexing urges rousing my debut to adolescent days. Discordant sounds of rock enthrall; my sensual desires are vivid like the flowers. Life abounds with energetic zest; true love transpires.
I dawdle into autumn and repose beneath old foliage of rusty blends, its slower tempo lulls until I doze. I wake as desiccating leaves descend, accepting life’s erosion with dismay. Transformed, my look precipitates the fear that fading blossoms wrinkle and decay; the flush of summer fades … to disappear.
I hear the strains of winter’s chilled advance and feel ambivalent to distant days. As snowflakes fall, resplendent, they enhance the stark reality of life’s malaise. Will mist surround my mind’s befuddled dreams, purloin my dignity when time seems false? As cold entices sleep, the sun will gleam once more for me to dance … that final waltz.
When winter leaves I hear its funeral dirge; inactive life bestirs, becoming rife. Sustaining water spills as shrubs emerge in rhythm with the melodies of life.
The Ballerina In Apartment B22 by Linda E. Cable
Flapping pigeons remind Freda of applause; she smiles, wriggling crippled toes inside wide, fuzzy slippers, attempting a chasse' around pots of purple pansies, bergamot, stirring tea roses with a silver spoon, the bittersweet clink of Tchaikovsky's A minor.
Dawn spotlights her imagined plie upon the edge of the palsied deck rail - she grows momentarily tall within memories of an arabesque beneath swan-clouds, sighing in veneration of Vazem, Gert.
Her broken body totters toward the coda of a peeling, padded chair, the orchestra playing in her head. Closing lids as dry as a moth's wing she whispers,
“Sur' le cou-de-pied”.
In dreams, she spins, and spins.
The Misting by Lorraine M. Kanter
From wastelands come clarity, visions await encircled by heralded whispers of late -- this paradise green, for those who have seen angelic life-forces, seek Heaven's vast gate.
I look as a brightened confluence of white cascades in a lucid, baptismal delight; in fantasy’s thrall, the deep yearnings do call, I reach for the mist which then cradles my fall.
The waters are calm in this euphoric place -- I wade in a crystalline world of embrace. In apathy’s den, soft ripples now grin applauding contentment I’ve found from within.
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"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to." ~ J.R.R Tolkien, The Lord of the RingsCollaboration feeds innovation. In the spirit of workshopping, please revisit those threads you've critiqued to see if the author has incorporated your ideas, or requests further feedback from you. In addition, reciprocate with those who've responded to you in kind. "I believe it is the act of remembrance, long after our bones have turned to dust, to be the true essence of an afterlife." ~ Lorraine M. KanterNominate a poem for the InterBoard Poetry Competition by taking into careful consideration those poems you feel would best represent Mosaic Musings. For details, click into the IBPC nomination forum. Did that poem just captivate you? Nominate it for the Faery award today! If perfection of form allured your muse, propose the Crown Jewels award. For more information, click here! "Worry looks around, Sorry looks back, Faith looks up." ~ Early detection can save your life.MM Award Winner
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Jul 1 08, 16:31
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Mosaic Master
Group: Administrator
Posts: 18,892
Joined: 1-August 03
From: Massachusetts
Member No.: 2
Real Name: Lori Kanter
Writer of: Poetry & Prose
Referred By:Imhotep
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JULY SELECTIONS:
Nature's Memories by Larry D. Jennings
What mysteries would be revealed if only you could hear a field
discussing all the visitors with Oaks, the Grand Inquisitors, who hide those secrets deep within their rings.
What sorrows, buried 'neath the grass forgotten... but as ages pass
remembered by Mariah's breath and told to Redwoods ere their death, now locked in stone where only lichen clings.
What of the lovers, hand in hand who strolled in silence, 'cross the land
or sat and watched the clouds roll by. Soft cotton ships, which sail the sky to give the field a drink when there is need.
The field, caressed by farmer's plow lies fallow, contemplating how
the golden stalks of winter wheat were trampled 'neath the cattle's feet but left their wind-swept songs along with seed.
Oh what adventures could be told by rocks and boulders, as they rolled
through all the many centuries. Their tale, if told, would surely please a listener. Their voices can't be heard.
For Nature's memories are Hers, aware of all, as it occurs.
She sends her secrets through the land to all Her children, small or grand and they won't even say the smallest word.
Light the Candles by Sylvia Maclagan
Why is the flower daydreaming so serene, so pale? Savour of sojourns in his arms, sounds, fondling withered, wasted by wrath.
Storms flashing fierce symbols, tremors, much darkness - What does he whisper kissing, biting her lips?
Fireflies and sparks kindle their canopy, eerie shrieks in the skies echo all night.
So dead the flower! Wounding embraces, kissing, hissing, fiery fangs of delirium drink of death's vintage - before dayspring releases.
- Is this who I am?
Light the candles… she's not breathing any more.
Portal by Lorraine M. Kanter
Beyond the gated portal lies a world of wonder, world of spies where ancient legends teach us all of knightly realms and Caesar's fall.
Impressive walls were built of stone by servants of the Roman throne. Beyond the gated portal lies security in structured guise.
Protection sought behind the wall; Praetorians assert the call upon the sandy, desert floor just north of Kingdom's gated door.
Its presence roused undaunted foe who fitted war with blade and bow, petitioning their mighty gods to intervene. Immortal frauds!
They would not answer Call to arms ignoring Man's fictitious charms; beyond the gated portal lies a sheltered truth... Statesmen's demise.
A holy quest: Defend the land! reverberates through stone and sand; bechanced through time, this wall remains in spite of enemy campaigns.
Archaic scriptures illustrate deceitful deeds suppressed to fate. Tread lightly; trust is seldom wise beyond the gated portal's lies.
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"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to." ~ J.R.R Tolkien, The Lord of the RingsCollaboration feeds innovation. In the spirit of workshopping, please revisit those threads you've critiqued to see if the author has incorporated your ideas, or requests further feedback from you. In addition, reciprocate with those who've responded to you in kind. "I believe it is the act of remembrance, long after our bones have turned to dust, to be the true essence of an afterlife." ~ Lorraine M. KanterNominate a poem for the InterBoard Poetry Competition by taking into careful consideration those poems you feel would best represent Mosaic Musings. For details, click into the IBPC nomination forum. Did that poem just captivate you? Nominate it for the Faery award today! If perfection of form allured your muse, propose the Crown Jewels award. For more information, click here! "Worry looks around, Sorry looks back, Faith looks up." ~ Early detection can save your life.MM Award Winner
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Aug 2 08, 16:36
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Mosaic Master
Group: Administrator
Posts: 18,892
Joined: 1-August 03
From: Massachusetts
Member No.: 2
Real Name: Lori Kanter
Writer of: Poetry & Prose
Referred By:Imhotep
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AUGUST SELECTIONS:
Gardener's Sonnet by Larry D. Jennings
Green spring was but a promise dressed in sundry shades of brown while winter’s ermine coat was gray and soiled; a filthy rag. Cold rain had come and blessed the earth last night in this small town as I began my yearly task to transform toothless hag
of flower bed. My pride and joy, a dormant butterfly, reposed within cocoon-like earth, awaiting warmth and hand of loving care. Sweet nourishment I shared in good supply where winter weeds had flourished; thieves and squatters, all unplanned.
The memories of seasons past were goads I’d not begrudge when pain of age and toil had sapped the vigor of that morn‘. From Death's domain, I wrenched such wondrous sights from sand and sludge; to share with any passer-by my own rainbow… reborn.
All gardeners, as springtime nears, want only to appease the eyes of man, while feeling close to God... upon their knees.
Starlit Seduction by Eira Needham
The curtain’s drawn; a spangled velvet sheet creates a welcome shade from summer’s heat. A slumber blankets earth with dreams, as night’s seductive moonbeams dance in shadowed light.
Big eyes entice the sky, they wink and flirt; she fingers silver buttons on his shirt to proudly flaunt her galaxies of gems on midnight’s hand. He lifts her sequined hem as stellar rays caress the dark. She sighs when kisses scatter over sultry skies to burst in supernova’s rising cloud; the climax of the night -- she gasps aloud.
The curtain slowly opens -- there’s no rush; as dawn appears, the sky begins to blush.
Flack Jacket by Beverleigh G Annegarn
I persist on furrowed path. Ducking fire, stray bullets connect exposed flesh, slashing it open with burning delight. Tissue ignites, nerve endings sear, blood drips a glistening pathway in the sinless dirt. Snarled by barbed-wire, I crawl, each stretch rendering me pierced and ensnared. My icy soul bleached naked is drained and quivering from terror of life’s shrapnel.
Damaged flack jacket peels from torment… exposing my gory body armour and me.
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"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to." ~ J.R.R Tolkien, The Lord of the RingsCollaboration feeds innovation. In the spirit of workshopping, please revisit those threads you've critiqued to see if the author has incorporated your ideas, or requests further feedback from you. In addition, reciprocate with those who've responded to you in kind. "I believe it is the act of remembrance, long after our bones have turned to dust, to be the true essence of an afterlife." ~ Lorraine M. KanterNominate a poem for the InterBoard Poetry Competition by taking into careful consideration those poems you feel would best represent Mosaic Musings. For details, click into the IBPC nomination forum. Did that poem just captivate you? Nominate it for the Faery award today! If perfection of form allured your muse, propose the Crown Jewels award. For more information, click here! "Worry looks around, Sorry looks back, Faith looks up." ~ Early detection can save your life.MM Award Winner
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Sep 14 08, 07:49
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Mosaic Master
Group: Administrator
Posts: 18,892
Joined: 1-August 03
From: Massachusetts
Member No.: 2
Real Name: Lori Kanter
Writer of: Poetry & Prose
Referred By:Imhotep
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SEPTEMBER SELECTIONS:Zambezi Storm by Beverleigh Gail AnnegarnViolet clouds roll like dragon’s breath over earth’s contours. In their wake, sharp raindrops spike expectant ground. Lightning spears pierce and lash chaotically silhouetting baobabs clinging to shuddering rock. Rain licks my face, trickles into my eyes, traps my clothing on my shivering flesh. Water shards, beamed by pyrotechnics, scurry down hills and banks. Gullies gouge and chisel toward the engorged river. A night - when elements scrape together: energies connect like war drums on heaven’s stage. Daylight reveals a cleansing… animals dance, pudgy plants perk and peek. Sunshine kisses the wounded. Ballad of iZamu by Walter William Schwim
Sketch of a Limpopo storm coming off the Soutpansberg mountains, down the Mutamba river valley over the hill known as iZamu (The maidens breast)
iZamu slumbers in the heat between the sultry hills, a dusky maiden's profile’s draped with dark cloud shadow fills. Her moody sensual form’s backlit in pastel blues and mauves, while riverine, Mutamba green, winds serpine through her groves.
Limpopo sun since dawn has baked the humid valley air, ‘till nimbus clouds from endless blue now magically appear. A hazy skyline, frowning grey, looks angry, smudged and strange, pulls air in huffs and fitful puffs toward the Zoutpan range.
A sense of expectation drifts across the valley floor, then suddenly I know it’s there, I smell the monster’s maw. On looking up, I glimpse its giant cumulating cheeks roaring past the mountains vast, clawing at the peaks.
Wenguli, smoking flail in hand beats cowering Sun away. A dust cloud flees his naked wrath, while trees, in panic, sway. With growls and groans he spits and moans, relentless in his march destroying wills of guarding hills and enters through the arch.
iZamu braces for the strike, submitting as the storm, comes rolling down between her mounds, smothering her form. He spreads upon the basin floor his overwhelming bulk, with ill intent, destruction bent; intimidating hulk.
Wenguli shreds and blasts the air with cataclysmic sound, hurls stinging bursts of hail to thrash the wincing dusty ground. A warrior of doom he seems with mighty flashing blades, who swells and grows with throbs and flows into her dells and glades.
Sky-burst torrent plumbing down, engulfing airborne tide, inundated road becomes a raging river wide. A dozen waterfalls appear and gush from rocky spouts, ‘mid fitful throws and body blows there’s fireworks and shouts.
iZamu drowning from the weight, the storm is want to gloat, but as the mayhem seems its worst, there comes a thread of hope. She draws her rainbow sword of light to smite the brute away, who shies with pain then flees in shame, returns the light of day.
Wenguli flees the glowing foil with final flash and roar; he grumbles beaten from the land and douses her no more. Her vlies are shining loud and wet, all silver in delight and swifts soar proud against the cloud, rejoicing in their flight.
While sunlight warms iZamu’s breast, her languid stretch and sigh shows fresh her maiden silhouette on glowing turquoise sky. Mutamba's thunderous voice roars out, beyond the canyon bend, a million flying-ants emerge to seek the rainbow’s end . . .
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"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to." ~ J.R.R Tolkien, The Lord of the RingsCollaboration feeds innovation. In the spirit of workshopping, please revisit those threads you've critiqued to see if the author has incorporated your ideas, or requests further feedback from you. In addition, reciprocate with those who've responded to you in kind. "I believe it is the act of remembrance, long after our bones have turned to dust, to be the true essence of an afterlife." ~ Lorraine M. KanterNominate a poem for the InterBoard Poetry Competition by taking into careful consideration those poems you feel would best represent Mosaic Musings. For details, click into the IBPC nomination forum. Did that poem just captivate you? Nominate it for the Faery award today! If perfection of form allured your muse, propose the Crown Jewels award. For more information, click here! "Worry looks around, Sorry looks back, Faith looks up." ~ Early detection can save your life.MM Award Winner
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Oct 7 08, 07:26
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Mosaic Master
Group: Administrator
Posts: 18,892
Joined: 1-August 03
From: Massachusetts
Member No.: 2
Real Name: Lori Kanter
Writer of: Poetry & Prose
Referred By:Imhotep
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OCTOBER SELECTION:
The Nestling by Eisa Needham
She flinches; a featherless bird tumbles, landing breathless. Thoughts surge back forty years--
He arrived quietly entwined in his lifeline, hurriedly wrapped in a hospital blanket. Voices were hushed as they rushed him away.
They thought it humane to shroud his existence; no whispered goodbyes. She ached to nestle her son, stroke his soft face and sway him to lullabies.
One glimpse; never seen again.
Memories are tucked away in the attic: the blue unused crib, a hand crocheted shawl to snuggle him in her arms.
Mother bird screeches from a lifeless nest …
grief swoops like a vulture tearing her insides; tears still flow after forty years.
Wrapping the nestling in a pink print hankie she hums, Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree-top resting it in a cardboard box.
She buries it in moist earth beneath a sycamore that cradles the half empty nest in its arms, scattering poppy seeds; her memorial.
When buds bloom, crumpled crimson, she still longs to know -- if his eyes twinkled blue, reflecting her image and where he lies now … to place a poppy wreath.
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"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to." ~ J.R.R Tolkien, The Lord of the RingsCollaboration feeds innovation. In the spirit of workshopping, please revisit those threads you've critiqued to see if the author has incorporated your ideas, or requests further feedback from you. In addition, reciprocate with those who've responded to you in kind. "I believe it is the act of remembrance, long after our bones have turned to dust, to be the true essence of an afterlife." ~ Lorraine M. KanterNominate a poem for the InterBoard Poetry Competition by taking into careful consideration those poems you feel would best represent Mosaic Musings. For details, click into the IBPC nomination forum. Did that poem just captivate you? Nominate it for the Faery award today! If perfection of form allured your muse, propose the Crown Jewels award. For more information, click here! "Worry looks around, Sorry looks back, Faith looks up." ~ Early detection can save your life.MM Award Winner
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Nov 2 08, 12:08
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Mosaic Master
Group: Administrator
Posts: 18,892
Joined: 1-August 03
From: Massachusetts
Member No.: 2
Real Name: Lori Kanter
Writer of: Poetry & Prose
Referred By:Imhotep
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NOVEMBER SELECTIONS:
Love's Dues by Sylvia Maclagan
He left yesterday. Images of fallow roads puncture solitude, then fade. The sun erodes my thoughts like a dry sponge. They grow dim - love’s tendrils wind their way around my heart to build on solid ground a world apart that may, by gentle force, go on and round him.
The sky is not my friend today; it casts a garish spell on dales and dreams. It counterpoises Camelot. O give my life a joyous plot!
I’m heartbroken, quite unwell, denizen prisoner of inner space where only elves dare tread and trim with lace my memory of him; a rejected pawn with bunker-shaped dome, afraid of dawn. Weary nomad by my love accursed, quarrying sadness and thirst in uninhabited plateaus. My life dissolves in threads...
Deities! Seers! Read the riddle of subterranean fears, my eggshell life. Players in this game deserve three lives, and I, poltroon, dare not pursue the sentimental lane with one puny chance of earthly gain. To fall in line might take a thousand years burrowing through love’s harsh confines- Is it I who writes these lines?
Yet shining softly on my bed, mock moon, a gray, autumnal calm spreads down my spine, has stilled the pain, my oaths may undermine.
Aphrodite should have sung last rites to my deadly wounds -- my heart’s plight.
© Sylvia Maclagan, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2008
Brood Parasites by Eisa Needham
A European robin serenades from ivied stage … ooh twidlee dee; his hen investigates low boulders, then invades a crevice, moulding moss into a den to lay her brood. Nearby, a cuckoo’s call evokes the bubbling chuckles of his mate, who spied the nest ensconced within the wall and parks her eggs inside to incubate.
When hatched, those parasitic nestlings prise the rightful babies from their cradle; feign instinctively, their empty-bellied cries. Dim surrogate is hoodwinked to sustain her neonatal tricksters, picking ants and worms, from farmer’s fertile shovelled earth. Departing from their host, the fledglings chant cu coo, perceptibly now twice her girth.
Soon autumn blows a cooler breeze; they crowd to far-flung lands, enticed by warmer climes, returning when the fields are freshly ploughed as robins gather moss for nesting time.
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"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to." ~ J.R.R Tolkien, The Lord of the RingsCollaboration feeds innovation. In the spirit of workshopping, please revisit those threads you've critiqued to see if the author has incorporated your ideas, or requests further feedback from you. In addition, reciprocate with those who've responded to you in kind. "I believe it is the act of remembrance, long after our bones have turned to dust, to be the true essence of an afterlife." ~ Lorraine M. KanterNominate a poem for the InterBoard Poetry Competition by taking into careful consideration those poems you feel would best represent Mosaic Musings. For details, click into the IBPC nomination forum. Did that poem just captivate you? Nominate it for the Faery award today! If perfection of form allured your muse, propose the Crown Jewels award. For more information, click here! "Worry looks around, Sorry looks back, Faith looks up." ~ Early detection can save your life.MM Award Winner
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Dec 7 08, 08:45
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Mosaic Master
Group: Administrator
Posts: 18,892
Joined: 1-August 03
From: Massachusetts
Member No.: 2
Real Name: Lori Kanter
Writer of: Poetry & Prose
Referred By:Imhotep
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DECEMBER SELECTIONS:A Poet's Voice by Sylvia MaclaganI cannot stop the wind from blowing nor still the ocean's tide; a rose will bloom without my knowing to adorn an Autumn bride. Yet I can stretch a loving hand to embrace a frightened child by greed its rights denied. I cannot halt empires from growing nor make the rich provide; a war will rage without foreknowing to scourge fair countryside. Yet I can join the crescent throng refusing to abide while innocents have died. Let this be sculpted on my tomb: that I did not my eyes blindfold nor close my heart to doom, but rather with a poet’s voice all shameful deeds retold. © Sylvia Maclagan, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2008 Shrine of the Red Hornet Queen by Walter William Schwim
In the dappled half shade of a Bhumbula tree at the foot of a great granite hill, lived a Wizard in rags who enchanted me in his voice that was cracked and shrill.
Eyes agleam in the dusk as spirits grew bold scurried soft while the smoke swirled around; from his dry withered lips spilled stories of old and the tales of lost battle ground.
On the sand by the camp fire glow he would kneel with a body all broken and frail, till a throw of the bones in the dust would reveal to the crone what the ancients bewail.
"If you cross the five hills going east from the graves to the land maLindzimu ignored; follow me to the south where the bones of slaves fed the flames when the smelt furnace roared.
Where the great bellows huffed amid smoke, sweat and blast till the eye of the forge shimmered green, where the spearheads birthed and the bronze shackles cast for the guard of the Red Hornet Queen.
Sweep your eyes to the ridge as you search for a slit, for a cleft in that grey granite wall; through a thorn chaparral where the rock has split, cross a bridge with its stern sentry tall.
Do you see where these boulders were rolled to the side, hide a path to the nest of the Queen? Now we edge past the ledge where the wasp-men would hide; it is clear their defense was supreme."
Then as clouds swirled grey in the old man's eye to the visions rushing out from the past and a thousand summers or more flashed by when the bones once again were cast.
"Over here are the pits where the slaves were restrained, it was done so that none may oppose that Cannibal Queen who was thus entertained, and imbibed of the blood of her foes.
From the caravans rich there was loot for the bold on the road to King Solomon's mine. They would raid for the ivory, slaves and the gold for their Queen and the Red Hornet Shrine.
As a pack on the scent chased troops of the King while the Wasps would look down from on high. The assault would begin and the war-cries ring 'till the death-stones rained from the sky.
Each attack was repulsed and Solomon's men would retire to the mines for a rest. The lieutenant chastised and threatened again should he fail to annihilate the nest.
Well the Hornets grew rich, with their arrogant Queen every year in their fortress of stone, and the crew of the mines and the tribes grew lean for the wrath of their King to atone."
iSangoma of old, with a mystical smile stroked softly the gray granite wall, the Ancestral spirits to coax and beguile then he rose with his staff proud and tall.
"I can see, that at last 'twas a weakness revealed in a cipher received by the Chief. Betrayal for the price of a curse was concealed by a plan that was bold and brief.
Like a beast of the night, came Solomon's curse, past the guards as a humming of bees. Sheer face of the rock but a simple traverse, as it entered the sanctum with ease.
No-one said what befell, not a soul would re-tell what became of the Red Hornet clan, It was rumored by some they eventually fell; the result of this treasonous plan.
They were all disemboweled, every man, woman, child and their cruel Queen impaled on a spear, just a Forge-Master's boy escaped to the wild where he lived out a lifetime in fear.
If you scratch at your feet among shards in the dust you may find a small clue or a sign but the Ghosts of this tomb keep a secret in trust; it's the gold in a Grey Granite Shrine."
Then a great wind rushed and the trees bowed down while the Sun turned away in his shame, for my blind Wizard's eyes stared up white in his death and I fled like a buck from the flame.
The ancestral blood runs no-more in his veins yet his story's still told at the feasts, it is oft' whispered down from the hills to the plains; finds a voice in the howling of beasts.
The graves of Cecil John Rhodes (maLindzimu) and other founders of Rhodesia lie on a famous sacred hill in the Matopos. The area is steeped in legend and African Myth, and many things still remain unexplained. As a child I grew up here and spent a great deal of time exploring the granite wilderness.
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"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to." ~ J.R.R Tolkien, The Lord of the RingsCollaboration feeds innovation. In the spirit of workshopping, please revisit those threads you've critiqued to see if the author has incorporated your ideas, or requests further feedback from you. In addition, reciprocate with those who've responded to you in kind. "I believe it is the act of remembrance, long after our bones have turned to dust, to be the true essence of an afterlife." ~ Lorraine M. KanterNominate a poem for the InterBoard Poetry Competition by taking into careful consideration those poems you feel would best represent Mosaic Musings. For details, click into the IBPC nomination forum. Did that poem just captivate you? Nominate it for the Faery award today! If perfection of form allured your muse, propose the Crown Jewels award. For more information, click here! "Worry looks around, Sorry looks back, Faith looks up." ~ Early detection can save your life.MM Award Winner
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