Ravings of a Mad Woman

The journey of a mind in the land of Poetry




Touch me and I will follow....

From A Simple Pen


She lived her life in poetry
she was the only one who knew
loudly laughing in limerick
whispering wonders with haiku

She sowed her thoughts in poetry
planted gardens with the pain
animated amalgamation of alliteration
watered wept tears metaphorical rain

She danced her dreams in poetry
twirling adonically to and fro
each step with feet iambic
an avante garde promenade of prose

She dined on feasts of poetry
an entree of macaronic verse
ambrosia mixed phonectically
with a poetasters dirge

She found her love in poetry
he seduced with serenade
rhymed her lips so sweetly
sang farewell to all aubade

Now they live their life in poetry
making love on down of dawn
atmosphere of euphony
from a simple pen was drawn


One small breath

so grows the world

from the winds of innocence

Galaxies Unfurl

Poetry, wanderings in the forest of the mind and utter nonsense.

 I am constantly scribbling things down on paper, paper that ends up crumbled in pockets, purses, garbage bags, tucked in drawers and lost in life.  Sometimes I cry for these lost pages and other times I am glad they are gone forever like poison from a wound.  They are the medicine that cures my soul and heals the wounds of time.  I have since decided that I should hang them like pictures in a gallery.  Reminders to myself of things I have already done, things I need to still do, a sort of living and breathing sticky note for all who care to see to view.  Perhaps it will make me more mindful of my actions, less likely to repeat mistakes of the past, and force the person who hides in my mind to remember what I should be doing.  It seems at times my memory can be selective and cares not for the past.  So I am making a memory for myself that can't be selected and must be heard.

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Tennis Without a NET

I am sorry Mr. Frost but I am going to be
playing tennis without a net
I am looking forward to the game, ante 
Donne I have no date with death
what ring will this throw me into Dante?
but please do come along
I long for company Emily
I can not be alone
tho the lie may make me falter 
I beg you, give it to me Walter
still thirsting for a kindness unknown
Perhaps I should drink of wine instead
Omar said it best
Dunbar would of course agree
Timor mortis conturbat me


For those of you who do not understand this; as I know not all of you are poetry fanatics per se:  Robert Frost was once quoted as saying that writing poetry without a standard format was like playing tennis without a net.  The reference to Donne is alluding to his poem "Death Be Not Proud".  The ring is a reference to the levels of Hell from Dante's Inferno.  Emily being Emily Dickinson who was known for her reclusiveness.  The lie that makes me falter, one of my most favorite poems "The Lie" by Sir Walter Raleigh, which I would rather have anytime than cold hard truth.  Drinking wine instead is referring to Omar Khayyam's, The Rubaiyat.  And last but not least, Dunbar and timor mortis conturbat me from Willam Dunbar's Lament For The Makers.  Translated meaning of which is, the fear of death confounds me.  Which indeed it does, and most likely always will.  Just because all of the above mentioned authors are dead does not mean that I can't respond to their words, whether or not they hear me remains to be seen............... 

Garden Of Stone


All alone in this garden of stone
I wait for sleep
Waking dreams of life so sweet
of all the seeds I've sown
What of my garden now?
 no one to plow
 promises yet to keep
All alone in this garden of stone
I wait for sleep
I weep for home
Where are they now?
I'm here but how?
alone in this garden of stone
I wait
I weep
I sleep

Under construction aren't we all?