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Nina's Garden

 

When I was in college, I took several literature courses. One of the poems we studied – and I say poem rather than Poet – was this one:

 

Whoso List to Hunt, I Know where is an Hind

By Sir Thomas Wyatt

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:

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Source of Inspiration

Eleven wise words
fitted on
five lines
give and be
love

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truth about poetry

Source of Inspiration

When is poetry not poetry?
Feelings and fire balanced in
the lyrical rhythms of music,
poetry is when we speak from
our soul. We grasp at the
undefinable in trying to define
music, art and poetry. A poet can
make our heart cry, our toes twinkle,
our bellies laugh. The poet puts
into his own rhythm, what we have
not even been able to clearly define.

Poetry uses the paint of words on the canvas.
Its definition refuses to be nailed down, labeled
or defined. Poetry is the poet’s heart and the reader’s
shared moment when one sighs and says, “Ahhhh…exactly!”

Poetry is evocative, concise in its selection of
words that give the message in a way that touches
the soul. It simplifies, delights, offers insights
into fundamental truths. It challenges our
thinking, whispers beauty, offers catharsis.
Poetry just is.

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Thank you Readers


I have reached the end of my teenaged poetry and some later works that I wanted to share;  from the surviving pages located and the document that I had transcribed the lost pages some years ago.
I will be taking a break from this blog, while I decide whether to end it as it, or re-image or upgrade it….

in the meantime, enjoy one of the last poems I wrote in the previous decade. Wow what a trip it is to think of your life in terms of decades and not years or months……..

Please enjoy, one of my favorite of all poems, of the ones that I wrote. Just to be clear.

Thank you very much

Yours,

nina

Sally’s Razor
(Find Tin Soldier On A Shelf Poem)

Once shiny and new & sharper than wit
At the back to the shelf, the razor does sit
Tarnished and dull with a rust spot or two
Alone and abandoned with nothing to do

A tender young maiden once eager to please
Shaved both armpits and her legs to the knees
Now Older and Wiser and not so willing to behave
A politicized activist certainly can’t shave

And, wondering what it had done to offend,
The lonely razor planned to amend
Its forgotten state, and return to the fore
Of Sally’s toilette, or at least be used more

Waiting and watching for it’s chance to gleam
And needing some help from the shower steam
The razor strained and stretched til it slid
Off the shelf, down the tile, to the toilet seat lid

Sally poked her head out after the noise
Her date glancing at the razor, Sally lost poise.
“You shave?” the date asked, incredulous
“No!” stammered Sally, still trying to sous

How the razor landed in such a visible place
And her face grew redder as egg formed on her face
“I thought I’d tossed it,” Sally swore, dripping wet,
“I stopping shaving when I stopped being het!”

Her date laughed, and dropped the razor in the trash,
Then slipped into the shower, not wanting to hash
Sally’s little transgression when there was love to make,
Teasing was for later, and hot coals to rake.

Posted in College, laughing with me, poem, Poetry, sex or romance | 2 Comments

Limericks


These are 2 limericks I wrote in the span of about 10 mins in a pub during a science fiction social gathering, and I have left the names in, mostly for the timing, but these are easily adapted to other people by swapping out the variables

About Men

Alan was a red headed man,
Who spent all his time in the can,
Oiling his mitt
Cause he couldn’t get tit
And now he’s in love with his hand

About Women

Tracey was a well known slut
Who couldn’t keep her legs shut
A disease she caught
In her flea ridden twat
Now down Davie she can no longer strut

(Davie is a street in Vancouver)

Posted in College, I am so much smarter than everyone, laughing with me, poem, Poetry, sex or romance | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Every Hour, Every Day, All Life Long


Life ain’t what it used to be
As a favorite lamp can testify
for broken in frustration:
A burning refusal to cry

The days of childhood slipped away
Faded memories of unawareness
To the pain that too soon comes
As the years mean less and less

The teenage stage excitement fun
A bitter irony; for ’twas not thus
Rather, ’twas a time of growth and pain
This stage is one large puss

Adulthood, some lag, some spurt
Other traipse along unaware
And it kills ,e to know this
If only I couldn’t care

Then child again, tis time to die
Now Mom and Dad aren’t here for me,
Alone I am at last
So quietly and tearfully

I die not at once, but daily

Posted in College, Death, I am so much smarter than everyone, I feel so much more than others, Overwrought, poem, Poetry | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment