In a nod to St. Patrick’s day which is fast approaching, The Boston Globe is soliciting new poems for their annual “urban limerick” contest. Interested? Submit your poem here.
I’ve included one of my favorites from last year.
A drink for every occasion
A young colleen from West Roxbury,
On ale was loving and merry,
She dallied with sin,
On vodka and gin,
But was rigid and frigid on sherry.
By: saigon (Laurie Swope)
You can read other popular limerick submissions from 2009 by visiting here.
Time together is precious to me
Because away and apart is hard to be
I do amire and truly love thee
Simply because you are precious to me
a random meeting
the handsome smile is trouble
This was a poem I wrote quite a long time ago which I found while reorganizing files on my PC. Since I’ve been posting a bit of poetry lately, I thought I would include it.
My grandmother, “Nana
” loved to write poetry, but I never realized this until I opened an e-mail from my mother with the poem below. It is dated February 29, 1988 and was written shortly after our family had visited our grandparents who were at that point spending each winter in sunny Florida.
According to my mother, Nana was always writing poems. It is amazing to think how much she continues to touch my heart even though she is no longer here.
Little Drummer Boy where did you go?
The tv is quiet don’t you know
You all left so quickly or so it seemed
We loved all you children to break the beam
Of quiet that’s here or so it seems
And quiet Robbie who is creating a story
And sweet dear Beth who’s doing her own thing
Susan like a record who goes round and round
Helps Tim tap with a rythmical sound.
It really was quiet on the following day
No kids to talk to and show them the way
to keep on loving us we hope and pray
As we love you all every day.
Recently I posted one of my favorite poems from Frost entitled “Nothing gold can stay” and I was pleasantly surprised to receive a comment from Todd X who lives in San Francisco. I follow Todd’s blog Iced Tea & Sarcasm but I did not realize he maintained an additional blog called Just 17 Syllables.
Todd’s insightful comments about “Nothing gold can stay” leads me to believe that he is quite an enthusiast for this particular form of expression too. His second blog is a nod to a form of poetry originally from Japan, called a haiku. This form of poetry is distinguished by the fact that it consists of 17 syllables written in three lines: 5 syllables; 7 syllables; 5 syllables.
Back in August I first mentioned what a haiku is in my entry, Bathroom poet, because I noticed a particularly humorous (if not often recited) haiku above a urinal at the Beehive (a local restaurant and lounge). Todd X has some slightly more creative expressions check them out if you too enjoy a good haiku. The poems range from political statements like, “Proposition 8″ & “Hillary” to the more humorous, “Spam squared” and he even has a few about San Francisco like, “Foggy morning”. However, I think my personal favorite is the untitled haiku, which I’ve included below.
trumps your suffering because
Autumn in New England is a beautiful place to be and it is that time of year again so I thought I would share this poem from Robert Frost – one of my personal favorites.
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Earlier this week I had to pay a visit to the bathroom while I was having dinner at the Beehive and although this is not the first time I’ve read this particular haiku, I did think it was funny to see it scrawled at eye-level in front of the urinal. I am more accustomed to seeing various graffiti, the random phone number or epithet.
Haikus are easy
but sometimes they don’t make sense
What is an haiku? An haiku is a form of Japanese poetry, consisting of 17 syllables in three metrical phrases of 5, 7, and 5 syllables respectively.
In honor of Valentine’s Day which just passed, I’ve included a poem about love. I am no poet, so I’ve chosen a poem from Massachussetts native, Emily Dickinson. Her words ring true some 150 years later showing love endures.
By Emily Dickinson
Wild nights. Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Futile the winds
To a heart in port
Done with the compass
Done with the chart.
Rowing in Eden.
Ah, the sea.
Might I but moor
Tonight with thee!
I have just returned from a relaxing few nights in Provincetown where I spent the New Year’s holiday with my other half and another couple. I plan on sharing a few pictures from our trip but in lieu of writing what we did I took a stab at expressing myself through poetry. There is no disputing the the final result may indeed embarass me in time when I look back at this entry but I thought I would share this attempt at creative expression.
Provincetown Winter Night
The laughter and sounds of summer are gone
Just an echoing memory ’til next year.
The howling winter winds now own the night
Their screams buffet our house and all you can hear.
Winter’s full fury keeps Commercial Street quiet
But in a few months the sun and warmth will return.
And then the crowds will too as they always do
But only after winter has had its turn.