SpecialInk

dbaydenny's reblogs

[specialink]

Rod McKuen

[sundaynightservice]

And God gave me hope,

His presence, His guiding nudge,

help when I had none

a well of deep inner peace

reason enough to share Him.

.

D W Eldred

[poetrybysaurabh]

For Radnóti

(I wrote this poem for one of my favorite poet Miklós Radnóti. He was a Hungarian poet and wrote poems even in camps and on death marches. In 1944, at just age 35, too weak to continue, he was shot by Hungarian guards.His final verses, found in his pocket, remain among the most haunting in literature.)

Death kept circling around you,

such magnificent poems.

Your postcards reached me.

and yet you kept writing

I know they were not meant for me,

but—

I can hear it—the sounds of artillery coming from Bulgaria.

Even in this chaos, the one you were thinking of—

was it the same one

you wrote about in your poem, “In Your Arms”?

I can see myself among those burning houses and haystacks,

on the edge of that field, smoking pipe,

That little shepherd girl

who steps into the lake, making the water tremble;

those sheep gathered in the water;

the blood hanging from the oxen’s snouts;

the corpse beside which you lie fallen.

Der springt noch auf—

these words I hear clearly.

The blood has dried on my ear.

Was that fourth postcard truly your last poem?

Hungary—your home,

where, far away, the world of your childhood

still sways.

Are you still somewhere deep

among those silent stones?

I too do not know where the poet Mihály Vörösmarty lived.

I have not read a single one of his poems.

I cannot know.

But I can see—

locusts, oxen, church spires, gentle soft fields,

a trembling laborer afraid of his work,

forests, gardens filled with songs, vineyards, cemeteries,

and a small, very old woman

weeping as she walks among the graves.

Below, a lineman’s hut;

in the machine shed’s enclosure, a dog

rolling and playing.

I can feel the scorching air,

the house wall that has collapsed,

the plum tree that has broken.

You too were a poet.

Is that why they killed you?

Are you still composing poems down among the roots?

No rude devil can steal your poems and melodies

You are the poet everyone needs.

I want to write like you,

yet I will never be able to write like you.

Under the shadow of your poems,

I lie at night with my right hand beneath my head.

Tonight the moon is full in the sky.

Get up,my friend,

I am calling you.

Will you rise and walk again?

[specialink]

Maggie Smith

[sundaynightservice]

Diane M LeDuc

[sacredandprofaneajourney]

Day 30

Broken Kaleidoscope

Shards of glass

every where I turn

ghosts hover in the grey veil

memories race

reflections in a hall of mirrors

your profile caught in the edge

I see you there

and there

and there

everywhere

a single strand of hair caught in the fern

only visible in the sunlight of a January afternoon

snared in the corner of my eye

turning

turning

not finding you there

when will I quit bleeding

from a thousand cuts

of the memories of you

a broken kaleidoscope

scattered

across the floor

S-

……

[specialink]

Robert Yagley

[specialink]

[redychn94]

but things i didn’t say,

they rotted inside me,

turned into poems.

i never wrote answers i never gave

versions of myself i buried alive;

because when i look into her eyes-hollows,

i would rather be misunderstood than deprived of drowning of them.

I would rather die in my gentleness than live always in your rage,

you don’t forget the first time your voice shakes and no one listens,

the first time you speak and someone calls ot too much,

or worse..

nothing at all.

[specialink]

[specialink]

[sundaynightservice]

The Creation

And God stepped out on space,

And he looked around and said:

I'm lonely—

I'll make me a world.

And far as the eye of God could see

Darkness covered everything,

Blacker than a hundred midnights

Down in a cypress swamp.

Then God smiled,

And the light broke,

And the darkness rolled up on one side,

And the light stood shining on the other,

And God said: That's good!

Then God reached out and took the light in his hands,

And God rolled the light around in his hands

Until he made the sun;

And he set that sun a-blazing in the heavens.

And the light that was left from making the sun

God gathered it up in a shining ball

And flung it against the darkness,

Spangling the night with the moon and stars.

Then down between

The darkness and the light

He hurled the world;

And God said: That's good!

Then God himself stepped down—

And the sun was on his right hand,

And the moon was on his left;

The stars were clustered about his head,

And the earth was under his feet.

And God walked, and where he trod

His footsteps hollowed the valleys out

And bulged the mountains up.

Then he stopped and looked and saw

That the earth was hot and barren.

So God stepped over to the edge of the world

And he spat out the seven seas—

He batted his eyes, and the lightnings flashed—

He clapped his hands, and the thunders rolled—

And the waters above the earth came down,

The cooling waters came down.

Then the green grass sprouted,

And the little red flowers blossomed,

The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky,

And the oak spread out his arms,

The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground,

And the rivers ran down to the sea;

And God smiled again,

And the rainbow appeared,

And curled itself around his shoulder.

Then God raised his arm and he waved his hand

Over the sea and over the land,

And he said: Bring forth! Bring forth!

And quicker than God could drop his hand,

Fishes and fowls

And beasts and birds

Swam the rivers and the seas,

Roamed the forests and the woods,

And split the air with their wings.

And God said: That's good!

Then God walked around,

And God looked around

On all that he had made.

He looked at his sun,

And he looked at his moon,

And he looked at his little stars;

He looked on his world

With all its living things,

And God said: I'm lonely still.

Then God sat down—

On the side of a hill where he could think;

By a deep, wide river he sat down;

With his head in his hands,

God thought and thought,

Till he thought: I'll make me a man!

Up from the bed of the river

God scooped the clay;

And by the bank of the river

He kneeled him down;

And there the great God Almighty

Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky,

Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night,

Who rounded the earth in the middle of his hand;

This great God,

Like a mammy bending over her baby,

Kneeled down in the dust

Toiling over a lump of clay

Till he shaped it in is his own image;

Then into it he blew the breath of life,

And man became a living soul.

Amen.      Amen.

James Weldon Johnson

[specialink]

Partterns

I walk down the garden paths,

And all the daffodils

Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.

I walk down the patterned garden paths

In my stiff, brocaded gown.

With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,

I too am a rare

Pattern. As I wander down

The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured,

And the train

Makes a pink and silver stain

On the gravel, and the thrift

Of the borders.

Just a plate of current fashion,

Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.

Not a softness anywhere about me,

Only whale-bone and brocade.

And I sink on a seat in the shade

Of a lime tree. For my passion

Wars against the stiff brocade.

The daffodils and squills

Flutter in the breeze

As they please.

And I weep;

For the lime tree is in blossom

And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the splashing of waterdrops

In the marble fountain

Comes down the garden paths.

The dripping never stops.

Underneath my stiffened gown

Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,

A basin in the midst of hedges grown

So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,

But she guesses he is near,

And the sliding of the water

Seems the stroking of a dear

Hand upon her.

What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!

I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.

All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,

And he would stumble after,

Bewildered by my laughter.

I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes.

I would choose

To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,

A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,

Till he caught me in the shade,

And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,

Aching, melting, unafraid.

With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,

And the plopping of the waterdrops,

All about us in the open afternoon—

I am very like to swoon

With the weight of this brocade,

For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom

In my bosom,

Is a letter I have hid.

It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.

“Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell

Died in action Thursday sen’night.”

As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,

The letters squirmed like snakes.

“Any answer, Madam,” said my footman.

“No,” l told him.

“See that the messenger takes some refreshment.

No, no answer.”

And I walked into the garden,

Up and down the patterned paths,

In my stiff, correct brocade.

The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,

Each one.

I stood upright too,

Held rigid to the pattern

By the stiffness of my gown.

Up and down I walked,

Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.

In a month, here, underneath this lime,

We would have broke the pattern;

He for me, and I for him,

He as Colonel, I as Lady,

On this shady seat.

He had a whim

That sunlight carried blessing.

And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.”

Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk

Up and down

The patterned garden paths

In my stiff, brocaded gown.

The squills and daffodils

Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.

I shall go

Up and down,

In my gown.

Gorgeously arrayed,

Boned and stayed.

And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace

By each button, hook, and lace.

For the man who should loose me is dead,

Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,

In a pattern called a war.

Christ! What are patterns for?

Amy Lowell

[mikefrawley]

Sorrow Shared Our Goodbyes

Sorrow shared our goodbyes that day then shed a tear and slowly walked away and you, you had somewhere else to be in a distant place far far away from me so you silently vanished into the mist hiding those eyes I had so often kissed the wind spoke of secrets I failed to learn then sadly whispered, she will not return I solemnly gazed at now darkening skies swearing love, flowers and everything dies I heard a sigh, yes sorrow was returning imploring me not to walk on bridges burning

[talktomeafter12]

As I flip through the pages,

That hold my memories of past,

I search through lines,

For I'm lost somewhere there,

I wonder to myslef,

If I'm looking at the right place,

But then I see it,

Your essence lingers every line,

In the margins and at the bottom,

From your name to your laughs,

From your shames to your crys,

And it took me a moment,

To understand that,

I flippers throught to pages,

That's hold my memories of past,

Searching for you.

[smakkabagms]

I admit openly that I am tired, that often the world passes without my notice, that my ink has turned invisible, my language a mere desperate vying for sound; I admit that, somewhere, I hear the waves of unknown oceans break on shorelines I will never see. That I recognize what is impossible in my life: Dreams, travel, love’s bright-star. I can say that I bear it, this knowing, and that I recognize it briefly, from time to time, as a stranger amongst Loveless faces does. And that I do this because I must. I want to be real. And then not. Here, another twilight, absent of ceremony, passes as the wind does. Siteless and like a phantom, I am carved from my own wish for reaching.

[followcb]

Provoke Joy

the poet proposes

creative conundrums

suggests unorthodox

hypotheses & theories

asks indirect questions

that hit between the eyes

a visual arrow intended

to pierce critical targets

challenge the status quo

ask us to think differently

understand perspectives

unknown and unfamiliar

explore personal biases

reasons that we might

need to simply listen

stop all the noise

and let the art

speak aloud

provoke

joy

☆☆☆☆☆

©️ @followcb ☆ June 7, 2025