http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com en kathrynshakti@yahoo.com Copyright 2010 2010-09-05T19:30:00-07:00 http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/the-old-druid/ http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/the-old-druid/#When:18:30:00Z Oh, to be a butterfly riding waves of wind. I am the Butterfly, she is me. We are One, we are Free. Butterfly, she dances for a grandmother conifer, drawing my eye to her. To the Druid, the Mighty Oak is King, but the Pine Tree does it for me. Lovely Pine Tree protects and gives privacy to those who scamper beneath her eaves. She has no leaves to drop in Fall. All in all, she stays tall and full year ‘round, standing her ground, whistling her sacred song when the spirit we call ‘wind ‘ comes along to speak with me through the Pine Tree. Her branches reach toward heaven seeking her boon like an old Druid ‘drawing down the moon.’ Surrounded by precious Pines, it’s here I feel most “at home.” by Kathryn Preston Poems 2010-09-05T18:30:00-07:00 http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/in-memoriam/ http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/in-memoriam/#When:20:09:00Z I. If I’m to know your heart, why must I first experience your pain? Why must the depth of your emotions be vaguely equivelant to the height of my patience, the might of my will, the force of my heart?  II. What is this I’m feeling? An emotion totally out of focus and place with what we’ve known so far? I know that I’m falling too fast, too far into a space closely guarded by your cautious mind.  What to do but pull my heart up by its somewhat stretched cords and remind it of the pain it has so recently known. I’m not a prophet, nor a seer. And I do not want to cause myself pain over wanting you. So I will seek the safe place, the firmer ground and enclose me heart yet again in wax. III. This is the end, of a thing that’s never begun except in the sphere that is my heart. Poems 2010-07-02T20:09:00-07:00 http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/a-poem1/ http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/a-poem1/#When:09:47:00Z When your emotions flow in verse, With vivid image to converse. Your thoughts take on eternal scope, To raise in others, thoughts and hope. To be of influence, though you die, The breath of life will cast a sigh. Pikey. Poems 2010-06-08T09:47:00-07:00 http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/wanton-irish-faerie/ http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/wanton-irish-faerie/#When:13:53:00Z I see people encased in fearful shells living lives of tripping-tedium, embedded in the ordinary. Mine, however, is the vast, dark sky and the spaces between the stars. Unencumbered by riches or materialism: Mine is the promise of Magic. I see no reason to live other than to be free. Not caged by any loyalty to political or national affiliations, my life is only one facet of a mystery much larger than self or country. Disappointments in love, loyalty, and trust are merely a crucible wherein I crush the herbs of ego into the fine dust of transformation, creating the alchemical elixir of the Soul. Now is the time to dance naked and laughing and wild as a wanton Irish faerie in a jasmine sunbeam. Poems 2010-04-03T13:53:00-07:00 http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/flowing-through-the-unicorns-horn/ http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/flowing-through-the-unicorns-horn/#When:16:00:00Z Angels sigh with dewy breath the scent of jasmine as I surrender to this quasi-death and ritual resurrection. As I lay me down to sleep reality melts away, and flames in my soul do leap while breathing into the cauldron of my womb. Behind closed lids, the third eye perceives a milk-white light; a swirling vortex. A mini-galaxy spirals out from between my brows, flowing through the unicorn’s horn, tenneling through time and space. Eventually my pure essence emerges, straddling a comet of quartz: amplifying my desire to see through the eyes of divinity. Poems 2010-03-23T16:00:00-07:00 http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/a-worthy-type2/ http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/a-worthy-type2/#When:08:44:00Z It’s not in churchly polished pews that character is hewn; Nor in the cloistered confessional that refection takes its toll. It’s at the burning forge of life, where no one is immune, From the anguish of temtation thus laying bare his soul. When the strident carefree youth, sets out to make his mark; From this day on he’ll be adjudged by self and friends alike. The challenges he tops or fails and every chance remark, Will rest in virtual evidence, was he a worthy type? Of all the folk that I have met, of every faith and rank, There’s a man that I’ll remember until my final breath. From Grandkids to the Bishop, they called him Pa or Frank. The impact that he had on folk, will last beyond his death. He was a true blue farming man, mighty hands like the vice. Could strain a fence, milk a cow and till the soil with plow. Through drought, flood and years a plush his labour did suffice, To nurture family, his greatest prize, of that I can avow. This humble man with sparkeling eye and comely, wistful grin; With unpretentious decency and humour most contagious. Showed us how to smile at life and build the strength within, To be the best and recognise, that all of life is precious. This man my friend, this son, the husband, Dad and Pa, Will need no stone engraved in gold, to laud his name with hype. His achievements stand for all to see, the family that they are. This is your measure Frank my mate, you were a worthy type. Pikey. Poems 2010-03-22T08:44:00-07:00 http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/the-i-dont-know-word/ http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/the-i-dont-know-word/#When:08:23:00Z It was C.J. Dennis Esquire, a poet of renown, Who gave us this word, an indescribable noun. While the word is quite strange, you will try it I hope. Just give it a go, Triantiwontigongolope. Now before you ask why? I have to explain, In life you will need it; believe me again and again. When you’re stumped for an answer and look like a dope; Just say “I believe it’s a Triantiwontigongolope!” It’s the word you can use instead of, “I don’t know.” So practice and learn it, I say give it a go. Once you have it off pat and a question is asked, Be it what is that of a bird, animal or critter unmasked. A tree, a plant or a star in the sky; it is without scope. The answer is always, it is a Triantiwontigongolope. It is vital apparel in your vocabulary wardrobe, You can use it wherever you travel this globe. Never leave home without it, wherever you go; It’s much better than saying, “I really don’t know.” So let’s raise a toast to C.J. Dennis Esquire, Who gave us this word for when we require, A name for something, anything we don’t know. Or question asked in a strange sounding lingo. Let’s cover the toast with jam as thick as can be; From the fruit of the Triantiwontigongolope tree. Pikey. Poems 2010-03-22T08:23:00-07:00 http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/the-first-surfs-up/ http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/the-first-surfs-up/#When:20:50:00Z THE FIRST:  Surf’s Up To Andrew Marvell, after “The Garden” (1681) Ribbons and medal from the beach I’ve won and more within my reach, But wasted most the day in sand In-between heats as a surf fan. Ten and eight times I shot Scripps Pier To righteously ride through NO FEAR. And three more times for “Let’s Get Wet” In cinematic fare, I’m set. More than Quiet, I found here; Enchanted sparkling paths do tier Beneath the naked swimming moon Violent dangerous furies boom: Boisterous breakers bellow loud In tempestuous roaring seas proud. Society is still quite rude. Since your time, became more crude. No face, no bodies so hard-tan Could keep me in the sand a fan. The face lifting steel blue and clear Held back, held high by wind so sheer ! In search of those, I’d roam the coast Not for the sand to roast and boast. Nor with graffiti marked the pier Like PB Toads, who themselves cheer ! Warm wine in your garden drinking Remember:  “Live, for I am coming!” Vesuvius shot ten and seven miles Preserved you in your peristyle Under two hundred fifty feet ! Pebbly-rubbly volcanic heat, Ash clouds of poison gas did reap. On the Bay of Naples, I’d weep. What wondrous life I once had led, Surf crowned and arched over head, At glass-off the mirror-still wave, It’s water paradoxical did pave A solid face of rigid beauty ! Graceful, its pure fluidity. I stumbled not to slip the board Under my feet to plane forward ! Surfing the perfect wave, I find It’s more than a bliss which does bind, It is harmony with boundlessness, Paddling and gliding to caress Rising kiss of sweet lip forming: Sunset glass-off, chill-still mornings, In this vast glory, threading the mind Its thought quick goes to ride sublime. Better yet than perfect pipe rides, When out ahead the surfboards dives. ‘neath white avalanche I egress, Lost in topsy-turvy deepness. Palaces of slippery seaweed snare Me, dropping through into its lair. Semi-permeable membrane made, I trust, trust thrust me from the grave. The soul’s not vested only in mind, But the perfect state be combined With body, its osmotic mesh Through which the Life-Force tests My truth, when in storm surf ventur’d, Supplicated nomenclature. In the drilling of heaving waves, Ask’d Life! To weave Its breathing rays. My crooked, crippled knees can’t twist The board the same to turn it best. The sea came devastating beach, No board, I can’t resist its reach. With Duck Feet, I can feel again ! Or troll waist deep in crashing surf: Not the garden, the Sea came first. Notes:  form poem, aligned left, 8 line verse stanzas, rhyming couplets, Tetrameter. KMcN Poems 2010-03-11T20:50:00-07:00 http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/poetry/ http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/poetry/#When:20:02:00Z Time is a river, perpetually flowing. Poetry like leaves shed in the fall; Aimlessely floating but turning and showing, Colours and styles, some to enthrall. Millions of volumes start on this journey; Fragile boats of word pictures painted. Only to drown in the rapids of blarney; Waterfalls of reason leave many wasted. Nobility of thought expressed with allure; Buoys some on while others just wallow. Only a few, so very few will endure, To inspire and to bless the ages that follow. Pikey. Poems 2010-02-28T20:02:00-07:00 http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/sailing-on-hattie/ http://www.aspenpoetsociety.com/index.php/poetry/comments/sailing-on-hattie/#When:14:02:00Z Sailing on “Hattie” no, she is not alone you are here, here with her here, here, here on this boat a likeness of a first boat, a trimaran she helped build. the boat she walked away from, the boat she remembers up on the ways at Harbor Boat and Yacht dwarfed by the giant hulls of commercial tuna boats swollen with worm rot and, yet, as with the first, a big boat, something you feel. winch yourself up the main to the crow’s nest and lean out, spread your arms over her beam - - the outer hulls are wings, great white wings which promise other places, the Society and Marquesas. this boat was built because the woman could - - because she knew the first boat so well, every detail. alone she sails, but not alone, Remember you are here, here with her - - pushing away morning, winching in the main sheet, dodging sharply tiered straits, riding out the boils and brews of sucking water, jibing away from jagged, crustacean encrusted rocks. Quickly let out the main, raise the spinnaker - - watch as the sails fill with wind speeding you by knuckled granite spewed in the way, the way bones are hastily thrown in an open grave.  There the soft coast of an overgrown island, opened like broken fruit. we can nap in the bowed light weaving shadow in the botanicals amidst the buzz of bees.  it’s the trumpet blasts of the elephants thundering out of the mountain, the hard split of the camel and the grind of the work horse calling us back. here we sail alone, not alone, remember she is here, here pushing away morning, pulling herself in and pushing out again. the light changes on the trunk of a tree, the tree outside your kitchen window and so changes how to see the tree and measure time.  coming home to your walls does it look as if someone has been here - - yes ? has someone broken in, moved the wall, the one across from your bed ? after many years do the cycles seem smaller, happen faster ? - - does the repetition tighten the walls of your home, a landlocked place, squeezing everything inside-out, compressing expectation, expanding dreams ?  the note says she’s out. she making sail, she knows every detail. Poems 2010-02-25T14:02:00-07:00