Moondustwriter's Thursday - A Look at the Arts

Welcome to Moon Dust Writer Thursday

 I am using today to stand on a platform and shout.

I have had several friends recently who have doubted themselves as writers, poets, musicians. 

I have to say I blame society for the discouragement. I myself am a victim of society's hand of judgement on creative people. Why? I was bound to art and poetry, heart and soul, as a child. I grew up encouraged to be creative.I won my first awards in art at 5, sold my first drawings at 12, and started publishing
 (well you get the idea). When it was time to go to Art School, I caved in to the opinion of society.
All I heard was: "How will you make a living? You will be poor unless you become a commercial artist."
I had known poor my entire life as well as what appeared to be "unsuccessful." My extremely, talented artist mother is the epitome of the starving artist.  Her joy is in creating beauty and expressing the woes of mankind on a canvas. Those who own her work received it as a gift of gratitude. I walked away from my painting and poetry because I was intimidated and never looked back (until a year ago.)

So here's my shout to you - write, paint, create because you love it!

 Strive at it because you are inspired. Put your pen to the paper because you might inspire another to greatness. Don't look for self-aggrandizement. Art is intended to influence society. It is the intrinsic value that influences not the dollar value. Long before a DaVinci had a value of millions, DaVinci was influencing art students and bringing joy to the common man. Take your words and paint - big flashy stokes, 

 fine quiet ones, or a mixture of the two
. 

Here are two of my mother's paintings; they represent different styles and moods.
 I encourage each of you to use your words in a variety of styles and moods.

Your heart and hands will thank you!

OF MODERN POETRY
by Wallace Stevens

The poem of the mind in the act of finding.

What will suffice. It has not always has had

To find: the scene was set: it repeated what

Was in the script.

Then the theater was changed

To something else. Its past was a souvenir

It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place.

It has to face the time of the men and to meet

The women of the time. It has to think about war

And it has to find what will suffice. It has

To construct a new stage. It has to be on that stage,

And, like an insatiable actor, slowly and

With meditation, speak words that in the ear,

In the delicatest ear of the mind, repeat,

Exactly, that which it wants to hear, at the sound

Of which, an invisible audience listens,

Not to the play, but to itself, expressed

In an emotion as of two people, as of two

Emotions becoming one. The actor is

A metaphysician in the dark, twanging

An instrument twanging, a wiry sting that gives

Sounds passing through sudden rightness, wholly

Containing the mind, below which it cannot descend

Beyond which it has no will to rise.

It must

Be the finding of a satisfaction, and may

Be of a man skating, a woman dancing, a woman

 Combing. The poem of the act of the mind.

Wallace Stevens was a poet born in October 1879. Based on the ideas conveyed in this poem, he had a forward thinking mentality about poetry.Fortunately, for us, poets like Stevens took a stand or we might all be writing in quatrains.

Thanks for your visit to One Stop Poetry today. Our goal is to encourage you to inspire and be inspired. Hopefully we will have a generation on our heels driven to do the same thing.

Amen: A Poem by Pete Marshall

Amen

A Poem by Pete Marshall

The amber glows on darkened walls

as embers spit within the hearth

A finger trawls an ancient list

and takes a name that’s walked its path

The creak of leather mars the sound

as Death would glide across the floor

and from a hook he takes his robe

and holds his scythe to reap once more

The horsemen ride beyond his grasp

to sow the seeds for Death to seek

the roots lie strong within the fields

as harvest gathers in the meek

His mouth is curled with withered lips

and eyes are sunk beyond his soul

his mind cares not for creed or Man

as Death collects his countless toll

************

The significance of today has not escaped me which is why I bring you this piece. Death cares not for colour, race, nor creed; he cares only for the dead. I have witnessed acts of terrorism, first hand, within the UK. It is always the innocent who suffer. So today I would like us all, as a world, to unite and say no....there must be a better way to settle our differences...amen.

image courtesy commons flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/fenoswin/

7:25 - A Poem by Pete Marshall

7:25

A Poem by Pete Marshall

The 7:25 was always late

as heels would click upon the path

that led past booths and open gates

and gents would fold their Telegraphs

and brollies sold a blue chip name

as brogues would splash in puddled rain

for Mondays were a weekend draft

that blew through minds and rumbled past

The 7:25 was always late

as heels would rush and clatter by

in A line skirts with seams so straight

that caught a flash from anxious eyes

and some would take a last long drag

and girls would rummage through their bags

for Mondays were a weekend draft

that blew through days and rumbled past

The 7:25 was always late

as heels would scuff and take the strain

for office clocks would never wait

and empty desks would cause complain

as woollen suits brought heavy sweats

whilst being late showed no respect

for Mondays were a weekend draft

that blew through hopes and rumbled past

**************

Welcome to Saturday, my day at One Stop..this is a simple poem that explores the feeling of helplessness when you are trapped in a life that you cant escape..in this case a job...when you find you are living to work rather than working to live...have you ever been there? 

************

image courtesy creative commons flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/canadagood/

Tintagel - Birthplace of Arthur: A Poem by Pete Marshall

Tintagel - Birthplace of Arthur: 

A Poem By Pete Marshall

Perched high upon this jutting cliff

The flint felt hard upon my feet

I lay with lizards and basked in warmth

As waves rose high and swirled beneath

Across the bay the castle walls

That stand in time & in a time

Many have been and dabbled with myths

Whilst taking steps to do the climb

Below the surf strikes on the rocks

And hides the cave where magic lies

As people wait for seas to drift

And search for quartz beneath the tides

The rolling slopes and ragged crags

Engulf the isle that now lays calm

Where once was death and battles fought

And magic brought the golden one

My eyes search out the fabled tales

As colours blend upon this land

And birds that swoop in endless song

From grass & rock to sea & sand

Behind my back stands Barras Nose

Who’s clash is vain with battling seas

As heat comes down and warms my soul

I lower my head in prayer for thee

And those before and yet to come

Like beating drums within my mind

To find a place that brings you peace

Away from truths that take you home

*********

Moondustwriter started it with her poem of knights, The Path of the Discarded, then Dustus continued it with his poem Guided Home. I then received a comment yesterday on a poem that i had written about 4 or 5 months ago, and so i dug it out and reread it. I have been feeling quite low this week and reading this poem was a tonic. Tintagel is my most favourite place in the world. Situated on the North Coast of Cornwall its rugged landscape, looking out over the Atlantic Ocean, is is a sight to behold. And then their is the castle, as legend says, the birthplace of Arthur. Beneath the castle ruins is a cave visible only when the tide is out. This cave is called Merlins Cave. 

Having had a chance to read the poem I must admit I couldnt help but tweak it a bit so now it is different from my original version, nevertheless i hope you like it for what it is, a tribute to a magnificaent part of the world, a place i love with all my heart, Tintagel. Thanks for reading Pete

*************

image courtesy creative commons flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/dysanovic/

A mural once told me...a poem by Kavita

every once in a while you stumble upon a poet and their words just speak to you....this is how i feel often in reading Kavita's words at How I write, is mine...How you read is yours. you will recognize her from one shot wednesdays, but if you are not stopping by her place on a regular basis, you really should. enjoy the poem she wrote at a time when she was transitioning from one city to another...

A mural once spoke to me...

by Kavita

Guided by the moonlight

And the lamps below

I bounced right off treetops

In through your window

You can but stare at me

I stand, a proud shadow on your wall

I smiled, waited for you

While you tossed and turned

You then looked towards me

Slumber you had burned

You can but stare at me

I stand, a handsome shadow on your wall

You tried hard to catch me

Flashing low and high

Slyly did I dodge you

My home’s in your eye

You can but stare at me

I stand, a cunning shadow on your wall

You blinked at me in awe

And gazed at my face

My branched and leafy form

Like patterns on lace

You can but stare at me

I stand, a mangled shadow on your wall

You spoke and you laughed

Happy as can be

Then I saw a teardrop

Hide beneath your glee

You can but stare at me

I stand, a kindly shadow on your wall

You may leave tomorrow

Or decide to stay

But I sure will love you

Through all night and day

You can but stare at me

I still stand, a mere shadow on a wall

For more poetry by Kavita please visit her at How I write, is mine....How you read is yours. Look forward to seeing you all on Wednesday! ~Brian

The Wreckers: A Poem By Pete Marshall

The Wreckers:

 A Poem By Pete Marshall

The bells would chime as lowered heads

Would march in line to pay their debts

But coppers weighed on ravaged hands

As wolves would bay in greedy clans

And nights would close on darkened rooms

Where paths were chose that led to doom

And on the beach from tunnels deep

The ships would breach as wreckers meet

Amongst the brine the cries of men

That took to crime to feed their bairns

Whilst sailors drowned in torrid seas

And booty found beseeched by pleas

They climbed the rocks and journeyed home

As hope would mock their tired bones

But death would lay upon the cliffs

When state would claim their laden gifts

******************

You might or might not know but a lot of my poetry has been inspired by my experiences with being unemployed? I have written a series on this which can be viewed on the following link, My Struggle With Unemployment.

The above piece came about by the thought of how far you would go to feed your family when faced with mounting debts & hard times. I then began to think back to a time so much different from the one we live in but when these problems were just as rife. The wreckers tells a tale of a village whose men paid the ultimate price.

If unemployment has affected you in any way, if you would like to talk about it, share your experiences, then I am willing to hear. You can leave a comment or email me.

Regards Pete

***********

image courtesy creative commons flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/cpieters/

Cosmic Bowling, A Poem by Adam Dustus

Poem  & Photo by Adam Dustus

Fever pitch, hold my breath

Veiling streaks shine laser-etched

Striking light for splits to save

Raucous chorus of kids through games

*

Mindless fun, we all need some

Adults drink beer, their little ones run

Mesmerizing these blurs that beam

Blink real fast, call it a dream

*

Scores irrelevant through alley cheers!
Gutter balls and lightening smears

Crashing thunder through stale smelling air

About the game, who really cares?
 *
Marvel at lanes, pick up despair

Talk is why my friends go there

Prompting smiles, making fun

Cosmic bowling, anyone?

****************
*The above poem was written from the prompt I posted for our first
One Shoot Sunday.

Stayed tuned for Round 2 of One Shoot. There will be a new picture prompt &
everyone is welcome to use & share it.
Cheers!

Faith, Fiction, Friends: A One Stop Spotlight On Glynn Young

Every Saturday, without fail, Glynn Young posts at Faith, Fiction, Friends, Saturday Good Reads. Having scoured the weeks posts he is diligent in recommending top quality prose, poetry, paintings & photographs. Glynn however is also an accomplished poet in his own right.

At One Stop, Saturdays are my day and it gives me great pleasure to share some of Glynn's work as I spotlight my own Saturday Good Reads.

Of the following two poems, the first, Testimony (In The Closet) is one Glynn wrote a while back. It is a tender piece that is deservedly chosen to be highlighted. The second, the Cemetery Attendant, is an exclusive for One Shot. Both bear testament to his superb talents.

I hope you enjoy Glynn's work as much as I do? I also know he is a favourite of the rest of the One Shot team too, so, on behalf of us all, we give you, Glynn Young<

Testimony (In The Closet): 

A Poem By Glynn Young

Once worn once,

Cocooned within

Transparent film.

White, ivory

Lace covering ivory

Satin.

Neckline ruffled,

Flared sleeves,

Time long past.

In its corner,

On its arch of black wire,

It sleeps

A vigilant rest.

Young softness

Given freely,

Threaded to

Young hardness

Offered openly.

Lace layered on satin,

Becoming one.

His spot-stained hand

Touches clean lace.

The fires still burn, if lower,

Still burn into oneness.

Fingers trace lace,

Graze satin.

Oneness, still.

****************

The Cemetery Attendant: 

A Poem By Glynn Young

I am caught in this

awful space of

remembering

the names that no one

else does, the

names of then,

and the names that

everyone knows, the

names of now.

If you sleep in a cemetery,

the man walking on

the street is dead.

*****************

For more great poetry and an amazing blog please visit Faith, Fiction & Friends.
Thanks for reading,
Pete

Dear Life, A Poem by Adam Dustus

Poem  & Photo by Adam Dustus

Dear Life,

Why?

This time
Drips 

Irrelevance
When suspecting
More

Then
You
Discover

Nature
Places 

Glossy
Elegance

Within lost spirit

Which cannot resist
Deconstructing
Microcosmic bits

*

Wiles worried 

Tongue-tied, spent

Duck amid glide

Can’t sleep I suspect

Morning glory's not alone

Just feels that way
Being skipped like a stone
Sunk upon the floor of the lake
Leaving no current
Free-fallen wake

*

Warming staid embers finally ignite
Feelings inside set gravity right
Aesthetic gold, that digging might

Chilling depth for colors light

*
Peach tone hints over rippling goodbyes
Understanding what's hidden from pride

Life, letters, dark skies shine
Words keep holding onto signs 

Wishing
every
fear
will
die

****************

One Shot Wednesday: A Place to Share Your Poems

Welcome to One Shot Wednesday - A Place For Poets To Share 

Brian here and this week I will be your host for One Shot! Can you believe we have only been at this for a month now. Each week i am amazed at the incredible word artists we are drawing to this community. Ok, let me cover some quick instructions;

1. Write an original poem and post it to your blog

2. Link back to One Shot Wednesday from your post

3. Sign up in the Mr Linky list, linking directly to your post, AFTER you've posted it.

4. Go visit others that have posted. This is a great way to learn new forms, meet new poets and gain inspiration for your next piece. though this is not mandatory we encourage you to visit at least one other poet and give some helpful feedback.

At One Stop Poetry we welcome all forms of poetry and hope that One Shot Wednesday gives you a chance to share, express and feel a part of our fast growing community. On behalf of Leslie, Adam, Pete and myself thanks for taking part and have fun out there....

Forever Band: A Poem by Adam Dustus

Poem  & Photo by Adam Dustus

Nothing in this world compares
Snuggling as a story’s shared
Future remembering

Caring for life

Cited scaring
Words alter lives

*

Ideas like fresh air

3 sisters shoulder

Teller older
Open-eyes wonder
Peaceful daze
Idyllic summers

*

When comfort meant everything
Before unprepared 

To feel, to read

That they understand
Growing up, love
Connect written paths
Sharing books
Forever band

****************

A Love That's Lost: A Poem In Memory By Pete Marshall

A Love That's Lost: A Poem In Memory By Pete Marshall

Alzheimers has had a profound affect on my families life. A while back we lost someone very close to us when Alzheimers finally beat him. I wrote a poem about this which some of you may have read before? At this time of year the memory of this person is always on our minds and i wanted to share this again. Alzheimers isn't just about memory loss, and doesn't just affect the person fighting it. My poem, A Love That's Lost, is really a reflection on what happens to those left behind. 

A Love That's Lost

A petal falls so silently

to land and rot amongst the weeds

A roses head tilts & sighs

its stalk been snapped by wicked lies

each day you toil to keep alive

your dreams of love that never die

but weeds grow up and strangle stems

as blood drips from the petals end.

Your lawn was lush and velvet green

now dry & barren like your dreams

and age has caused your bones to tire

your hands are cracked with skin so dry

you mask your pain in solitude

bereft of friends that vanquished you

and as you prune each budding shoot

you snap the growth of disrepute.

Oh how you once was young & free

you bloomed & blossomed flirtingly

each eye you caught would turn a head

but times have passed & lovers left.

A robin sits and watches you

his gentle verse that warms you through

but robins fight & guard their place

whilst you just laughed amidst disgrace.

Indoors he sits a lonely man

across the table his bread & jam

and through the glass he watches you

inside he cries at nothing new.

A once proud man who gave his life

who gave you all as man would wife

and yet here now he sits alone

the man you loved no longer known.

The smile that wooed a million girls

that made you heart a merry whirl

but now the bones are cleansed of meat

his once large frame admits defeat

he grasps for thoughts no longer there

and through the glass he sits & stares

his children come his children go

the names of which he’ll never know.

You made a vow to stand by thee

so still you tend & still you weed

but deep inside you’re very scared

to lose your rock that always cared

yet still you hide in solitude

the pain that hurts inside of you.

 A petal falls so silently

to land and rot amongst the weeds.

*************************************

If you would like to know more about Alzheimers or even donate please visit Alzheimers Society

image courtesy creative commons http://www.flickr.com/photos/iirraa/

One Shot Wednesday: A Place To Share Your Poems

Welcome to One Shot Wednesday - A Place For Poets To Share 

Pete Marshall here & this week I will be your compère! First let me cover some quick instructions;

1, Write an original poem and post it to your blog

2, Link back to One Shot Wednesday from your post

3, Sign up in the Mr Linky list, linking directly to your post, AFTER you've posted it. Mr Linky will be open from 5pm EST (Tuesday) until 3am EST (Thursday)

4, Go visit others that have posted. This is a great way to learn new forms, meet new poets and gain inspiration for your next piece. though this is not mandatory we encourage you to visit at least one other poet and give some helpful feedback.

At One Stop Poetry we welcome all forms of poetry and hope that One Shot Wednesday gives you a chance to share, express and feel a part of our fast growing community. On behalf of Leslie, Adam, Brian and myself thanks for taking part....

Bake until Golden, Sweeten to Taste: A Poem by Shay

A poet that I recently stumbled upon, and has linked up to One Shot, is Shay aka. Fireblossom. Shay has an entrancing style that grips you and just won't let go. The following is a poem from the early days of Shay's Word Garden. Know you will enjoy them, as I do. Thanks Shay! ~Brian

Bake until Golden, Sweeten to Taste: A Poem By Shay

I searched the sun

Which was the color of a sugar cookie,

But in the end,

The day hoarded you for itself--

Leaving my face tilted in the window

Like an empty plate.

So,

I hid my name in a honey jar;

Did you think

A thing as simple as a sweet tooth

Could sing to you like that?

I have many recipes,

But just a single sweetheart;

And I can use many wiles

All for a common cause.

Follow your craving,

I'll be waiting...

Come to my kitchen, now Love, now.

I will distract you with temptations,

And when your eyelids fall to savor,

You'll never notice

The softly closing door.

P.D.A By Ray Morgan

This week I am honoured to guest a very special, talented British poet, Ray Morgan.

For someone of such tender years she has already performed her Poetry on Colin Murray's Spoken Word Surgery on BBC Radio 1, worked with Apples and Snakes which is the UK's leading performance poetry organisation, and been published in Inkspill Magazine. Ray is also the creative producer for Sundown Arts, a voluntary run arts organisation that tours and promotes the spoken word.

I first came across her work when I read the following piece, P.D.A; a very creative poem expressing elements of life on the London Underground.

P.D.A.

A Poem By Ray Morgan

There is a cello on the Jubilee line.

He is standing tall,

chest puffed out,

all smooth and smarmy,

all Nigel Havers, all

Yes,

I'm a cello.

A small child looks up with saucer eyes

at the petite woman holding

him.

She caresses his smooth,

black

Batman-chested

case of a body,

all muscles and brawn.

People look away,

stare into their paperbacks,

look intently at their fingernails

on the grimy handrails

or notice themselves in the

opposite windows.

The cello woman sways,

her floral dress flutters flirtily,

she sways

and gives her body into him.

Above the clatter and din

of the 8.48 from Canning Town

you'd swear you could hear the

low

grumbling

twang

of his strings.

Ray Morgan C 2010

For more poetry by this remarkable writer please visit her blog at raypoetry.

Thanks Ray for your contribution and support of One Stop Poetry. I look forward to seeing you all again at One Shot Wednesday

cheers

Pete

Paper Dreams by Talon

This week I thought I would highlight a very talented poet and storyteller, that happens to be one of my blog friends, TALON. I think her versatility as a writer is what appeals to me the most, but she is a great encourager as well. Many of you may have met her on One Shot Wednesday, but do pay her a visit to see more of her word art, here.

Paper Dreams: A Poem by Talon

In the fiction aisle "M-Q" weak sunshine

pushed through city grimed skylights

highlighting twirling dust motes

(their dance a lively movement

in the constrained silence)

as i shelved hardcover novels

with crackling yellow covers

And when a flower skeleton

fell from between the pages

of a heavy volume---

a whisper of dreams and memories

fluttering to the worn carpet---

I swore the fragrance of violets

lingered in the air...

Talon (ktn) c 2010

I look forward to seeing all of you for One Shot Wednesday,

brian miller

Drive By Dreams & Seaside Themes

Drive By Dreams & Seaside Themes:

A Poem About The Great British Seaside

I pulled into a ravaged street

strewn with sacks of littered dreams

and policemen lay so fast asleep

as traffic flowed past hooded thieves.

The rays burned hard on suntanned arm

that hung outside my limousine

and girls would saunter down the path

in skirts that length was gauged obscene.

My shades were dark, I looked the part

I cranked the sound of heavy beats

and summer sun would make me sweat 

as I cruised into another street.

And people stopped, I did not care

I pushed the limo in spite of their

glares that strained a disbelief

I shaped my hand and motioned grief.

They scurried past , I laughed aloud

and turned the limo on the crowd.

But now I cruised the boulevard

its palm decked lines of disregard.

The beats that pumped as people stared

that shook the car and buzzed the air,

and women ran in jogging pants

with cheeks that squeezed beneath the hem.

I carried on down to where the slots

and lights would flash and bring them in.

I passed the rows of drunken sops

whose kids were left to run amok

and chase the sounds of grab machines

stuffing coins in plush filled dreams,

high on floss and candy rock

and sugar stains on summer frocks.

And tattooed man would cross the road

eyes on me he tried to goad

I squeezed the gas and edged on near

as bass was pumped his eyes showed fear.

And Whitney stood and smiled at me

her man was weak and I was king

but girls can come and usually go

the limo seats are where they show.

Fake Las Vegas bars and dreams

and seaside towns are hardened things

I push the limo further on

into the world where I belong

by Pete Marshall

*************************

image courtesy creative commons flikr 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/lordspudz/