I don’t think there is a rule, but I’ve read that poems should be about specific things. The universe isn’t specific. So how do I write about it and be specific? I decided to key on a quote from Aristotle: “The universe exists for, and shines through, the particular.” My attempt was to twist that concept into living in the present.
***
Suffering Universal By Bill Reynolds
What means the vast universe?
From the largest to the smallest,
It’s the every and the all, interspersed.
There’s more, and we’re on the call list.
Where thoughts drift among the unknowable
It’s all there. Is our significance so minute?
Dare we, as we might; is it so uncontrollable?
Or shall we focus on the more acute?
A far-off star explodes. Planets vanish.
Did you hear it? Did you see it?
Stars in the sky, but maybe not.
We see the light. Is it still a vantage?
Death. Suffering. Pain. Sadness.
Broken bodies. Broken hearts.
Do you hear them? Do you see them?
It’s all there. Should we care?
Are my feet on earth? Can my senses touch reality?
The universe is there, but also here.
Not for its own sake, but for each of us.
Let’s focus on the small, while aware of it all.
I engage with my personal
Real world life as it truly can be.
Let me be in the universal here and now.
Until more of the changes happen,
Until the stars no longer shine,
Until we know it all,
Until we hear the universe breathe.
***
Right here; right now, bloom where you’re planted.
But, look both ways and mind the gaps.
The tercet is a poetic stanza of three lines with a rhyme. While there is no specific rhyme scheme necessary and some even venture into free verse, I prefer to not to dig in unplowed turf. However, I did play with this and came up with rhyming lines one and two in each stanza, and using mid and end line rhymes in line three: aab2, bbc2, etc.
***
In Real Time By Bill Reynolds
Not to be seen, heard, or specifically smelt.
We know it’s there, cuz experiences felt,
No gods can stop it, no power to quit.
Some sew it wisely, while others just wait.
The outcome’s the same, we share the same fate.
Fight back as we may; that is only delay.
Wind we can feel, the rain we may taste.
But the passage of time, we have little to waste.
Let’s consider the past; make choices that last.
Perpetually running, it passes in silence;
Everything changes, nothing is timeless.
Reality speaks loudly, but time passes proudly.
***
Thinking of time, be looking both ways. While minding the gaps, watch only today’s.
I’ve never met a lion, Except in the zoo. Never seen a lion, It’s in the photos that I do. Never touched a lion, Only in my dreams. I never loved a lion, But in my heart, it seems Lions are my friends, The ones I never knew.
***
Look both ways, mind the gaps, and love the animals.
This, my first sonnet, was difficult. It was also fun and I learned more about the challenges of writing poetic. I want to work more with meter and rhyme, but now’s not the time.
I attempted to write in the Shakespearean tradition of a sonnet, with 14 lines of 10 syllables each, with a rhyme scheme of abab, cdcd, efef, gg; and the iambic pentameter. Like we all know what that is, right? My humble apologies to the Bard for attempting such a sacred task.
***
Seeking the Truth by Bill Reynolds
In seeking the truth, I require some proof,
My goal to touch some real conclusion.
A quest to discover both reason and truth,
The turning of pages led to confusion.
Noble the search for answers not pallid,
From myth; if I am, then god must be too.
From science we ask, a source that is valid,
From faith of past, must it be now so true?
These are the chains of unfounded mystique.
None of this means any absence of love,
Admit to the truth, there’s no god to seek.
My freedom is not a power above.
I found this truth after seventy years,
Loving all others is more happy cheers.
***
Look both ways and you’ll see them coming.
Minding the gaps will keep your heart running.
Renga is a longer poem alternating three and two line stanzas. Sue and I collaborated on this one. She wrote the haiku and I did the couplets following. She used the 5, 7, 5 syllabus pace and I used 7 for each line. We decided to write this so each couplet is related to the previous haiku, and the entire poem shares a theme. The final stanza completes the poem and the circle. Sue’s blog, An Artist’s Path, is here.
The Poetry of Art By: Bill Reynolds & Sue Viseth
’tis a fickle thing
the words in verse, prose, and rhyme
chosen over time
feel the beat and tap those feet
catch the bop and keep the time
poetry is song
music from the heart and soul
sing it to the world
poet’s voice is here, voice is there
voices writ in blood and bone
no word writ in stone
rather, molded from the clay
poets turn the wheel
words are medium on wheels
the quill a master’s pallet
the artist within
molds the clay and sings the songs
a poem is born
something deeper than the poet
the words take form and art is
share art with the world
come together and create
poets live forever
Look both ways for poets and poetry,
but mind all the gaps.
First as a child, then as a boy
No shy child as many would ploy.
Silence in me is part of my nature.
Spoken words etch not my portraiture.
My teen years of silence, not taken a joke,
Was the indication of a challenge to bear.
More words to share, growing older I spoke.
Mostly not words they wanted to hear.
Others wanted to know why ‘twas I
Who made less noise than they did cry.
My smile never inquired just why,
“Of all talkin’, ya never was tired?”
Small talk they called it, noise without brains.
Not shy, in silence, I’m quietly plotting
Demise and disposal of whatever remains.
Now older, and less quiet I’ll be,
I listens and sez the damnedest of things.
Have it your way, but please try to see,
I can make stop those annoying rings.
Contemplate me
as you pass through yer day.
Most of the time,
I simply have nothing to say.
Listen quietly when you can,
mind unheard gaps,
and look both ways.
Click on the photo to watch a funny scene from a the movie, The Quiet Man.
Scene from movie, The Quiet Man, staring John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara
The title of this quatrain poem is taken from a New York Quarterly, ‘Craft Interview’ with James Dickey, as quoted in the Introduction to The Art of Poetry Writing by William Packard. I’m new to poetry writing, but I have always loved it. Thus, I concur with Mr. Dickey’s assessment.
***
The Greatest God Damn Thing by Bill Reynolds
Beating hearts bring words as rhythm flows,
the brick and mortar for posing forms.
They come to me in words of prose.
I wrangle with words to bring the storms.
I feel the beat as I tap my feet,
I catch the bop and I keep the time.
My world finds rhythm to keep the beat.
I seek my Po-voice and find the rhyme.
Mind and spirt bring forth my emotions.
Poetic verse grows as I now can hear it.
Out of me come plans and potions.
The poem I’ve written is part of my spirit.
The pleasure I found in hearing the sound.
My voice is here and my voice is there,
My emotions can show a feeling we share,
My poem’s my gift to everyone around.
**
Read, write, and love poetry silently and in several voices
as you look both ways on the highway of life.
See and hear all the rhythm and rhyme.
But, mind the silence of the gaps.
Years ago, I packed in over several nights, with a backpacking group near Truckee, CA, north of Donner Pass. We were at approximately 7,000 feet elevation in the Sierra Mountains between Sacramento, CA and Reno, NV. It was a very exciting trip.
A year afterward, I planned to repeat as a day-hike in with a friend. After he backed out, I decided to go it alone. I ended up going later than I should, and was unprepared for what I encountered. For my foolishness, I paid the price with months of back damage and pain. I can almost laugh about it now – almost. It was also exciting, but in a very different way.
Onomatopoeia is the formation of a word from a sound associated with what is named, such as cuckoo or sizzle. It is also used for rhetorical effect, as in this poem.
Never Again
by Bill Reynolds
High Sierra beauty.
No food. No drink. No sense!
What plan? Quick in, then back out. Whoosh. Like the wind. Time passed
Boink. Suddenly, it’s late.
Dusk. ARGH! Gotta get out.
Before dark. Oh no: It’s feckin’ dark!
No moon, no map. Had a lighter. Zip.
Oh, shit. Muddled.
Not one essential, much less ten.
No flashlight! Groan. Why?
Thinking? Stoopid. Grrrr to self. Clatter climb rocks. Get out. Fast. It’s Dark.
Thump. Crunch. I fell, no moon. Ark! Did I say, “It’s dark?” Crunch. Footsteps. Are they mine?
Can’t see. Bonk. Oof! Pain.
F-word, again. No better.
I keep swearing, like it’s gunna help. Bam. Step in hole. Crunch. Knocked out breath.
Shocked. Confused. Must see but cannot. Crackle, smack. Branch to my face. Blood. Ooze. Buzz. Bugs? Crunch. Twisted ankle. Scrape, bang, boom, bash. ACK! More pain.
Bonk. Fall on face. Dark. Hurt. Walk.
Pain. Bam. Oof! Again. What’d I step in?
Another hole. Whack, crunch.
Damn holes. Hiss. Oh god. A snake?
Hear something? More crackle.
What’s that? A clatter?
Get out. Fast. Don’t run. Too dark.
Bear? Mountain Lion?
Kill me? Eat me? Yikes. I’m so screwed.
Hoot. Owl. Danger.
Skunk. Whew. It stinks.
Careful. Out fast. Whiz? Crap!
I’m Cold. And wet. In pain.
Must pee. Yikes. Unzip.
Done. Relief. Don’t fall in it. Re-zip.
Ouch more. Get out. Don’t fall. Boink. Thud. Head pain.
Scrunch, twist, whack.
Repeat. Fear. Repeat. Dumb me.
How far? How long? Lost?
Alone. Clatter. Alone?
What was I Thinking?
Break free. Find car! Keys?
Oh no. No keys. Groan. Swear.
Hidden key. Found it. Brrrrr. Shaking. I am very cold.
Tall grass. Kerplunk. Dropped key.
Damnit, can’t see. Cold. Pain.
Sore knees, search the ground.
Feel in dirt, no gloves. I found it. Clatter to feet.
Hold tight. Screech. I scratched car, then swear.
Bang. Slam door. Varoom.
Start engine. Get out. Cuckoo. Oof over bumps. Drive. Find my brain.
Good trip. Nice day. Never again!
Bring a flashlight.
You can’t look either way, nor mind the gaps, if you can’t see.
The silk soft, black cloak of night rolls
To end our days as it marks time passing on earth.
Night slips over us like a gentle silk shawl,
With the sparkle of stars and the silence of all.
Be comforted when midnight comes,
As it’s the darkest of times.
The death of this day marks a spell.
The birth of tomorrow’s new hope.
Soon the witching hour begins as so
Little good happens, post the final hour.
To some, midnight’s a time of painful suffering,
As with the line between life and death. Find peace and warmth in the face
Of the change – the end of one day.
But for another we live, and then
Feeling recharged we’ll be free to see.
After our true self is off,
Without lie or pretense,
To bargain away the universe,
To have a brand-new day.
We must pass through the portal
Of darkness, and woe.
Thus, awakening of the new.
Look both ways each new day, and mind the gaps at night.
This poem is about underground coal miners – people who did, or do, very dangerous work. My father and grandfathers were three. This is also about life in our home when Dad still worked in the mines.
During my early teens, the mining business shut down in northeastern Pennsylvania. This was due to the Knox Mine Disaster in the late 1950s and the easy, cheaper, and cleaner use of oil to heat homes. Today, most coal mined in the USA is exported, but the industry continues to decline. Only 30% of electrical power in America is produced by coal.
Old coal mine entrance. A dark abyss.
Nearer My Hell to Thee By Bill Reynolds
Before leaving the daylight, and going into the pits,
They look deep into the ground, to the soul of the abyss.
The blackest of blacks, the darkest of darks, and danger,
The dank abyss peers back as men descend into nature.
Far below ground, the mine was there lurking, waiting;
That dangerous, disgusting damnation of sound,
For some small wages, they go into that hole far underground.
Deadly it was and deadly it is, they never know when…
Many wives cried at the loss of their men,
Who died in the gut of the deplorable depths.
It was frightening work miners chose, those jobs that killed.
Black hard hats on heads, mining lamps on to cut the dark,
But still never safe. In denial or not, it was dangerous work.
Blackjack and Brass Knuckles same as my father had.
Father was, and so were both grandfathers, miners all.
Walking home through muddy fields and dark alleys,
Dangerous on pay days; all cash in their pockets,
With blackjacks and knuckles, maybe a gun.
He’d push open the gate, then let it slam with a thud.
Dad would stomp up the stairs and in the back door,
It was always the back way after a day’s work.
Covered with coal dust,
The sweat of the labor, and the stink of the mines;
Smoking his Camels, always coughing and coughing.
But he was my Dad, and it was always like this.
I remember Dad much blacker.
Everything filthy, his clothing all rotting,
Black on his skin, and in his gray hair,
He didn’t know about the black in his lungs,
the deadly back dust was glued on hard, but not to his soul.
White at his eyes and over his lips,
he’d set down his lunch pail. No hugs, no kisses,
just “hiya,” and not much of a welcome.
His coat and his cap, and his boots all come off.
Trounced upstairs to the bath, footsteps pounding the way,
Transformation, about to take place.
In cold water each day, he washed coal dirt away,
From his face and his hair, his neck and his chest,
From his waist to his feet, but not from the rest.
Nothing could wash the coal miner away.
Not the water, the union, the beer, or smokes.
Not on the inside, from his throat nor deep in his lungs.
Black dust in his body and in with his blood.
In a coal mine.
It was always the same, until the disaster.
Miners to work, to suffer and die.
Returning to homes, dirty but to homes they came.
Then one day, the depression set in.
The mines all shut down, proud miners, no work.
One day it all ended and everything changed.
Miners laid off, the mines were all closed.
Oil was king, and nobody noticed.
No more abyss, just a new kind of dark.
If you not yet sufficiently depressed, watch this.
Never Again
Tall grass. Kerplunk. Dropped key.
Night Comes
Find peace and warmth in the face
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