Is it wrong to feel you were saved by the trees in a park in an anonymous town? Is it a sin to believe a drawn-out rain you could not tell from your own skin set you free? Are you going to hell if the comforter wrapped by an early April day. . . and the silk wool of mown grass on your back, arms, and legs. . . and the faith in you and a four-leaf clover finding each other. . . and the chance to turn a dying dandelion into flying yous with parachutes. . . felt more like prayer than praying? Can it be that virgin snow that came deep in the night without making a sound spelled the difference between life and death? Is it all right to be thrilled by the red ladders and zees made by car taillights colluding with silver water to offset the litter at the entrance to an alley? That they took away Lonely for a night? Is it wrong to love that diamonds salt and sugar lamp-lighted asphalt so much that the sparkle came back to your eyes? Is it forgivable that a stale, garden-variety lily on a cheap fold-away stirred the life back into love? Suppose your first love was a runt-of-the-litter cur with more bald spots than fur and a game leg? How despicable is it that you clung to a roof long after midnight at the age of eight because the moon said she’d listen and only talk when you asked? Will you be turned away because you bathed in the scent of a summer that went too heavy with the honeysuckle? Will you writhe in a pit of fire if your heart keeps beating because of the eery ballet of an ocean’s wave and utter mystery of gold barring shadows barring gold across hypnotized sand? How much of a sin is it being you? How much worse if you don’t want to change? If you’re me?
So enjoyed the Indian Summer of my beloved northwoods Wisconsin. With his collar, Dad is up, breathing on his own, talking, and exercising. His sores are healing, and, with time, he may do more than hang on again.
Wow Phyllis, sometimes you make my head spin. You write in a light manner about things we all recognize but your endings are never light; they're strong and meaningful and head spinning good!
"Are you going to hell if the comforter wrapped
by an early April day. . . and the silk wool of mown grass
on your back, arms, and legs. . . and the faith in you
and a four-leaf clover finding each other. . .
and the chance to turn a dying dandelion
into flying yous with parachutes. . .
felt more like prayer than praying?"
Not when that poet can write them like you do. Poets like you all go to Heaven.
wow if this is a poem of your feelings and memories of love and growth it is one heck of a write Phylis that reverberates and echos with pain and longing of what was not.
Lots of questions here, but the answers lies within the last 3 lines and your probably know it already. Thank you for sharing!
Sandie May Anggel a.k.a. Sandie Angel :o)
Reviewed by Jerry Bolton (Reader)
Reviewed on October 24, 2005
You had me going around in circles with this offering, I must admit, I think maybe I am too rude, crude and tattooed for these nauences. But I kept reading. And I am a fortunte man that I did. The last three lines brought the whole poem into focus. Good work!
OMG thank you so much Phyllis. The last three lines, and this whole poem, speaks to me to get out of my shell, and stop worrying about yesteryear, and forge forward to succeed in the journey that was created for me many years ago. This is a very poignantly sad, yet beautiful tale of searching for one's self in the middle of nature. I guess that is where I belong too, outside so people can get to know the girl inmy soul, rather than the male caricature they see with their eyes. This is very well written Phyllis, thnx for sharing. May the Lord Jesus bless you, and those whom you love, and be with you always, and at your side constantly. With much love in my heart, stubborn to a fault, joy to the world, peace on earth, & ((((((((((MANY WONDERFUL SISTERLY HUGGGGSSSS)))))))))), your sad and terrified little sister in poetry and prose, Barbie
"If I have to be this girl in me, Then I may as well be."
AHHHHHH...revelation of the letter *P* Honeysuckle Ridge sounds like a place you want to stay and never change. I am willing to bet that the *P* buried a time capsule and has dug it up to add some more goodies! I too have all of these special questions that I occasionally dig up and analyze, places that only a young freckled-face young girl riding a blue bicycle with a sparkle blue banana seat and sissy bar and twinkie-carboard-noisy-wheel-clothespinned-on-the-spokes can know. Great list of keepers, Pea. You have paid attention to life's poetic details and you live well on simple memories.
This combined narrative dialogue and play is about the uncreated, unborn and undying transcendent Self of God-consciousness and Buddha-nature. It describes an odyssey of transcendent Consciousness Awakening and Remembrance.
Explains the realizations that have given the author the views of living life fully. The life each person dreams about.
You must take a look at yourself before dreams can be reached.
Deciding what is the core of belief.
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Have you read my poem, Honeysuckle Rain?
So enjoyed the Indian Summer of my beloved northwoods Wisconsin. With his collar, Dad is up, breathing on his own, talking, and exercising. His sores are healing, and, with time, he may do more than hang on again.
Ron
:)Sandy
"Are you going to hell if the comforter wrapped
by an early April day. . . and the silk wool of mown grass
on your back, arms, and legs. . . and the faith in you
and a four-leaf clover finding each other. . .
and the chance to turn a dying dandelion
into flying yous with parachutes. . .
felt more like prayer than praying?"
Not when that poet can write them like you do. Poets like you all go to Heaven.
Carmen :-)
blessin's Sis. PJ,
cynth'ya
TRASK
Great Stuff here.
Felix
Lots of questions here, but the answers lies within the last 3 lines and your probably know it already. Thank you for sharing!
Sandie May Anggel a.k.a. Sandie Angel :o)
"If I have to be this girl in me, Then I may as well be."
the dynamo of creation and a new flower is scented with the aroma
of wisdom.
"Honeysuckle Ridge" is a clear picture how a poem can inspire,
and the reason why Minerva, Erato and Apollo like to visit You, Poet!
Thank You for posting "Honeysuckle Ridge".
I salute You, Poet!
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
Sage