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Genie E Waldo

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Member Since: Feb, 2010

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Popular Poetry (Poetry)
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Truly Awful Poems From an Anxious Eighteen-Year-Old.
by Genie E Waldo

Wednesday, March 10, 2010
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Recent poems by Genie E Waldo
•  A poem from The Book of Songs
•  A Song of the Kulgarrin
           >> View all 3

There's more than a few of these - I wrote hundreds!! Mostly anxiety-laden, teen-worries things. Plus a few things on nature.

He stands before the mirror
hands on hips
grim lips
turn to the right
turn to the left
takes in his own torso
trying to fool the reflection.
leans closer.
touches his eyes
touches the lines, the years.
Seeing whether they are
just ink smears.
steps back
walks across the floor
puts on his spectacles
hiding the fear not as easily
seen from the door.
leaves now.
The reflection turns its back
without comment.

Hear the silenced beat
from the silenced heart
in the still breast
from the quiet child
who died a quiet death
on a peaceful street
once upon a time

Once upon a time
on a peaceful street
before his death
a little child,
from his young breast,
and his restless heart,
came a happy beat.
Once upon a silent street.

September at Dusk

Full of living, breathing things
it is a living, breathing place.
Through leaves and branches, wind gives chase,
in this land where the Wapiti sings.

Creatures of life and soul
the dwellers of the Stone
they call Jaspar, home.
Not so far from the Pole.

I join you in dreams often
Though only once have I kissed your all
Too quickly ended. One fall.
You, never-the-less, my all softened.

(A poem I wrote for friends of mine who were getting married):

For brightened eyes and flushed skin
sweet air and sweeter water
consumned must be, and often so;
the body's perfect fodder.

For fondest sighs in blushed love
the beneficial drink
would be the spirit-bath of God,
oh, deeply in it sink.

The body's breath and being held
in earth's sustaining elements.
Hearts preserved in lifting joy
and love's enduring eloquence.††

(When I went to see Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump in Southern Alberta. I stood at that pinnacle of dirt and rock and felt my spirit leave me and take me back to that place when it was alive with other people and other creatures. When their life saturated this land. It was wonderful to imagine it. I felt like I could touch and feel and smell the buffalo and hear the cries of the First Peoples as they hunted to sustain their families. Sometimes city life makes me feel as though something wild and wonderful in the human being has been eaten up and is now gone.)

I stood five thousand years ago
at the foot of the Porcupine Hills
and saw the well-made driving lines
and the brave ones waiting
to drive the buffalo to their deaths.
The earth they raced over
is the soil beneath my feet.
the air they breathed
I deeply breath.
The wind they felt
is my wind as well.
Listen! - how they thunder
how fast the braves run
See, how all the buffalo fall.

I stand five thousand years later
at the foor of the Porcupine Hills
I see the driving lines
and the brave ones waiting
to drive the buffalo over the jump.
The buffalo are still herte
under my feet. Feel. Listen.
Their ancient breaths still mix in the winds.
The brave ones whoops are heard still.
How the buffalo thundered their right.
How the brave ones hunted their need.
This place where he got
his Head Smashed In.

(When my aunt died)

Death tapped on my window
a black bird opening its black beak
and crying out the name of someone I knew.
I only saw it when I thought of her.
I only heard it when I remembered her.
I think, when the bird leaves my window,
that he flies over her house.
And people look up at him as he soars above
the rooftop and smokeless chimmney
and see a black beast
without a passionate eye
looking for prey.
The omen of death, some might think.
But only a bird catching the wind.
Death doesn't come in any form save sleep witout a thought
The tapping was in my mind, or
perhaps my fingers on the table-top.

(I love the sky!)

How beautiful is the sky
when the evening slowly closes.
Lover wind kisses earth
and invites to sweet reposes.

Lay down, the voices of the day
that sunlight swiftly built
under the feather-light of stars -
all lay, beneath its quilt.

Softly breath, now all to rest
watched o'er by lesser light.
Quiet now, quiet is all
in the household of the night.

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