Pythian Games

put on your track shoes and write the miles

Archive for the ‘Live Poets Stadium’ Category

Repost from 2006

with 4 comments

Here is my very first post at the Soul Food Cafe, on April 11, 2006

On the Nature of War:  A Garden Meditation

A temple bell sings at dawn
clear and resonant
in the key of G,
a silver-tipped psalm in the night.

A tribe of birds clamor,
erupting from a thicket,
cawing hateful protests against
their awakening to the world.

The faithful wait
to pray, to shut out the darkness,

to close their ears to their cries,
to offer incense for peace.

A temple bell sings at dawn
rising above the swirling mists.
A caretaker opens wide the gate and nods,
knowing the key of G can never change.

P1010006

Poem and Image:  L Gloyd © April 2006.

Korean Friendship Bell, Angel’s Gate Park, San Pedro, California

Written by Pelican1

May 30, 2009 at 4:55 am

Penetrating Vision

with 6 comments

The penetrating vision of a clear,
intuitive, creative mind
lights a path, within the void,
to the New World.

The penetrating, intuitive mind
perceives that the void
is but another ocean,
to cross

It knows that the void is no iron curtain,
no empty bottomless pit
but a shimmering pathway,
lit by a thousand glow worm stars

The void is a way for intuitives seeking truth
to reach their Shangrila
and inhabit
the vibrant chambers that lie beyond

Embrace the void
Sail forth
Seek and ye shall learn
That this is so.

Written by Heather Blakey

June 7, 2008 at 2:15 am

Another Collaborative Post

with 8 comments

My friend, Shiloh, (you remember Shiloh, right?) introduced me to some challenging and lovely forms of the art of Haiku,   It started with her asking if I had ever heard of a Chain Lanturne Haiku.  After she showed me her writing. I suggested we each write a chain on the same general subject, since Shiloh had already written one, I followed the basic imagery she created and went from there.

We researched the form at the following links:

http://home.tampabay.rr.com/memawscorne/Senryu,%20Tanka,Lantern,Chain%20Lanter

Poets and Poetry

Shadow Poetry — Resources — Haiku and Senryu

HAIKU TECHNIQUES Jane Reichhold

So, with all of this crowding about and vyiing for your attention, here are our attempts.

 

Wasp,
black and
yellow body,
settles on red
rose.

Bloom
opening,
brilliant red
petals swirling
open.

Then
sunset
ere night falls,
petals close in,
fold.

High
distant
near full moon,
silver blossoms’
edge.
Gwen M. Myers 

 

Bee
buzzes,
alighting
on a yellow
rose.

Sun
sets, pink,
lavender,
orange paint the
sky.

Dawn
heralds
a new day
with a pearly
light.

Rose
petals
open, a
yellow jacket
flees.

Night
falls, the
rose gently
closes. Pleasant
dreams…

Moon,
ghostly
orb hanging
o’er high mountain
peaks.

Shiloh Cannon Blackburn.

May 25, 2008

You can also see Shiloh’s post at:

http://sunnydreamer.net/aprjun2008/chain-lanturne.shtml

 

I hope you enjoy both posts, and want to come back for more!!

Written by gwenguin1

May 27, 2008 at 2:54 am

Electric Force

with one comment

Thunder is good, thunder is impressive; but it is lightning that does the work.
–Mark Twain

Image Hosted by ImageShack.us

Lightning, whose electricity,
Held the universe together,
Scowled malevolently
Through sword shaped eyes
That pierced the void as
Ravenous Raven, lady of birds and beasts
Erotically danced with promiscuous Wind

Emboldened
Charged by atoms, electrons, protons
Lightning hurled a bolt along a wire of air molecules
That collided upon earth’s stage
At the very spot in Dodona where
a single oak tree stood
Igniting fire.

Raven who lived on peaks of mountainsides,
Who lived in caves
Who rested on the boughs of this very tree
Looked up in wonder
Captivated, mesmerized by
Capricious Lightning’s audaciously bright, flashy show

The gift of fire, of electricity
Bought by Lightning to this most sacred place
His fired passion for Raven
Lives on in the bowels of
the mountains, the caves, the trees
Is told by birds and beasts
Lightning man’s imagination

To this day the Dododan Oak Tree has the property of attracting lightning and the places where lightning struck was regarded, continues to be regarded, as sacred.

In ancient Rome, members of the College of Augurs divined the will of the gods by observing the southern sky for lightning, birds, and shooting stars. A lightning bolt passing from left to right was a favorable omen; a lightning bolt passing from right to left was a sign that Jove did not approve of current political events. Furthermore, whenever the augurs reported any sign of lightning, the magistrates of Rome were required to cancel all public assemblies on the following day. The augurs’ reports became politically useful to postpone unwanted meetings, delay the passage of laws, or prevent the election of certain magistrates by popular assemblies..

Written by Heather Blakey

April 3, 2008 at 11:44 pm

Softly Hurt

with 3 comments

softly hurt

the tear slides down

another piece of love

by Raven TK

http://onthewrongsideofthemirror.wordpress.com/

Written by Tabitha Low

April 3, 2008 at 7:46 pm

Tar

with one comment

tar bubbling

pulling bones up from underneath

walk in the beyond

by Raven TK

http://onthewrongsideofthemirror.wordpress.com/

Written by Tabitha Low

April 3, 2008 at 7:45 pm

If (for E and N)

with one comment

If I close my eyes

And wish to fly

Who would wonder why

If I could spring up

Full-blown

Like shadows on the wind

It is just my time

If I should turn aside

And let you go

Crying out with all my soul

But trying to smile

Would you know why

Would you love me still

If I should pull you tight

Hold you close

My breath upon your ear

Will you beleive me

When I say

I’ll never let you go

by Raven TK

http://onthewrongsideofthemirror.wordpress.com/

Written by Tabitha Low

April 3, 2008 at 7:44 pm

Lovely Day

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lovely day

vital organs gone soft

down dog pulls me higher

by Raven TK

http://onthewrongsideofthemirror.wordpress.com/

Written by Tabitha Low

April 3, 2008 at 7:43 pm

The Sacred Way

with 7 comments

(Inspired by House of the Muse writings at http://dailywriting.net/HouseofMuse.htm )

 “Your sacred space is
where you can find yourself
again and again.”
Joseph Campbell 

Strength is a twisting vine that won’t let go

Strength is a will that will not give all the way

Strength is a quiet root that digs in and survives.

I confront my past and all my pain

I confront my grief and my loss

I confront the unfairness of life

I accept it – it is mine –

But it is not all that I am.

I heal by the salve of poetry

I heal by creativity’s touch

Art can’t change what happened

But it changes me so I can heal myself.

It renews me, empowers me,

Gives me choices,

Puts me back in control,

Lets me connect.

Pain is a great teacher

Art is a great healer

Together they make me strong.

The Muse never promised this life would be easy.

She never said I’d get riches or fame.

She only stands in the vortex

Pointing to the Sacred Way.

Kerry Vincent © 2008

Written by kvwordsmith

March 27, 2008 at 3:28 pm

Dark Muse

with 6 comments

poster
(Inspired by Soul Food Cafe prompt to give thanks to a creative ally)
He fears the blank wall but he must face it.  The pen burns his hand but he cannot let go.  The words are ghosts that haunt his body and his mind.  He does not want to see them, but there they are, a cold presence, that must be released to find peace.
She watches him.  She will not let him go.  He must face his fate, dree his weird.  He has things to say, things he does not know, that he will not know until he says them, until he writes them on the wall of his soul.
He is naked.  He can hide from himself no longer.  His way is lonely, but he must go on.
He nurses at the dragon’s teat.  He sucks the danger, spits the poison,  sacrifices himself to save his people. 
No one knows of his silent suffering,
but a few others chained to the Muse.
It is the way of the artist,
the salvation of creativity’s soul.
by Kerry Vincent (c) 2008

Written by kvwordsmith

March 14, 2008 at 1:58 am

I am From…

with one comment

smallermaristcarnival.jpg

This picture is of travellers at the Marist Carnival – I am standing with my mother, second from left, front row.

I am from lighting fires with numb fingers in the chilly dawn, clanging pots blackened with age, from Bisto gravy and Oxo cubes, to flavour the rabbit stew.

I am from the caravan, the rolling wheels, the lockers packed with memories under the seats, the lights of the campsite glowing warm in the night, the camaraderie of the road.

I am from the rushing streams packed with salmon at spawning time, the discovery of one small primrose after a hard winter, drifts of daffodils and bluebells in the spring.

I am from mending tin carnations, and busking in the streets, from hob nailed boots and gnarly hands, from the song of the fiddle and the lilt of the pipe. I am from Gerry, and Kathleen, and Micky Hudson, and Peggy, the Belle of Cobh.

I am from the tribe, the scattered tribe that roams across the world and knows no borders, the restless feet that travel the endless road, the stamp of hooves and the jingle of harness. I am from the people of the horse, and the dawn, and the camp fire.

I am from the flickering oil lamps in the old marquee, from the players that speak the old lines, from the musicians and the magicians and the chilly dressing rooms, and the circus ring, and the tumbling clowns

I am from knowing God in the hills and the hedgerows, the fastness of the tribe, and the strength of the family.

I am from the travellers, the people from everywhere and nowhere, from the land and the sea, from the Irish coast, rocky and hard and enduring

I am from my grandmother gathering herbs from the roadside, from my uncles catching the horses in the early morning, from fishing with my father for trout and salmon, from exploring castles and cathedrals with my mother, and from the music that filled our lives when my fathers and his brothers sang

I am from frozen moments captured by the old box Brownie camera, tales stored away in my heart, moments of astonishing clarity when the road stretches out before me, endless and inspiring, as it always has. I am from places I never heard of til I got there.

Written by Gail Kavanagh

March 9, 2008 at 2:29 am

I believe in…

with one comment

I believe in
The small hand slipping into mine
The power of nature to sink the unsinkable
The salve of time that heal all wounds
The place my spirit calls home
The child I am inside
My daughter’s love
Her small hand slipping into mine.

Written by Gail Kavanagh

March 9, 2008 at 2:16 am

Lady of the Spring

with 2 comments

A wraith

Pale green cloaked

With drifting flowing

Garments around her

Floating on the morning mist

Half unseen

So insubstantial is she

But her colors are the colors

Of the flowers

Of the spring

Lady of the Flowers

Lady of the Spring

-She Wolf (c) 2007

Written by Jane

March 9, 2008 at 1:23 am

Posted in Live Poets Stadium