Always seeking to diversity the creative offerings on our Guest Book, we have provided something very unique for readers to view today. The following original YouTube video was sent to us with the accompanying annotation:
"My name is Christina Giacona and I am with the L.A. based band Good King Friday and we have written a song using the text of E. E. Cummings "Who Knows if the Moon's a Balloon". Along with setting the text, we have also made a stop-motion animation video to accompany the song. From one poetry lover to another. Enjoy."
Daily Quote: "Ultimately, we must learn to trust ourselves. When we do this intimately and intelligently, the world opens full of meaning before us. We find that we ourselves are the doorway to a fathomless understanding of the source of life itself. We need only to learn to walk through it."
I dreamt that I fell into a tidal sea whose mean little waves rolled brown into their white foam crest.
Dirty little waves, tumblingheadlong into a pebble rock shore.
I walk buoyantly, stubbornly, inside a swirl of water who doesn’t understand footsteps and wants to carry me away.
Wants to give its greatest gift,
wants to cast its favorite spell.
Wants to take the weight from me and let me float.
But I reject,
and dig my toes further into glass crystal sand, push my weight against an ocean army advancing in waves to take me down & under.
It is unmoved by my oxygen dependence.
It smiles at my finless form, my primitive lungs that can’t separate 2O from H.
I am a fish out of water, and the water wants to make me swim.
And in my dream, when I found ground & began to walk again- when I was still in water, but not swimming-
I felt a net of salt adorning me, I shimmered like a diamond.
And as the water lapped weaker and lower, petting my calves, ankles, toes-
I felt a silky seaweed mass that hung from my head like a train.
My hair had grown back, long & thick down my back, while I was slowly opposing the current.
In that dream way, it felt like years, but was only a day.
In that real way, it means nothing but is all of me, just the same.
Kathryn Merry
Daily Quote: Angels can fly because they can take themselves lightly.
- G. K. Chesterton
Not at a lake of dreamy fantasy, feet sunk in rough sand of reality.
Weathered steps of time replaced wood, rise up loosely above this winter flood.
White Lake beyond the hills or vision, holds itself across a phase division.
I am alone in part and by wind cut, stood in the chill emptiness of “The Cut”
One foot, two feet, a pace, each unsteady, numbly guide me onward so unready.
Girded about with Oisin’s saddle strap, too late, too late here now to remember.
Trapped in a nightmare of my making, the earth in my shoes is no remedy.
Cold dark Derravaragh far off yonder, now listening for Fionnuala’s whisper,
Ancient pilgrim swans in circling flight, transformed to crystal rose-bowl light.
Watching just moth-like the fading flicker, without hope entranced and bitter.
Standing cold and grey gathering my might, the pier runs on out as if to take flight.
I cannot cast this stone in the water, shattered dreams the surface to litter.
Fergus Carty
"Love is the child of illusion and the parent of disillusion".
~Miguel de Unamuno
Step over here a moment, if you please;
I'll tell you a tale which may your fancy seize
Or, if you're old, may possibly displease.
Slipping time, of course, will kill a man,
But, think I, there is something more than time
In every natural death. Oh yes, say I,
Vibrations of the supernatural
Confound our lonely loony lives the more
For our denial of their awesome power.
Let me pluck a rich example from
The undercurrents of my memory:
The beard of wizened white swayed calmly as
The brittle ancient rocked his pensive chair
And reveried his many pasts. He knew
Somewhere within his lonesome bones the ten
Dead-looking fingers he possessed by far
Outnumbered his remaining years or months
Or-what he thought was likeliest-days.
The optimist, yes, optimist I say,
(Ten minutes would have been a closer guess)
Could not foresee his tragedy that day.
Each time he rocked he minused his remaining
Seconds by one tick, one tock, one rock.
The red clay jar stood center on the broken
Top of marble on his yearful desk.
The center of his life, this jar became,
For parent after parent of his line
Of ancestors had forwarded the myth
That supernatural forces lurked within
Its clay, some power that governed life and death.
Religiously, throughout his wifeless life,
The old man trimmed his fingernails just so,
Not too long or crookedly or short,
And dropped the trimmings carefully into
The timeless jar with utmost caution not
To let one fall outside its gaping rim.
Oh, deepest death if ever that should happen-
Time would shuffle to a sickly halt.
But now yeared eyes could plainly see that death
Was far from far away: a mound of yellowed
Fingernails was piled above the rim.
The jar with all his packing down would hold
Not many more, he knew. The time when one
Would vibrate from the pile and fall beside
The jar was near, too near to free his thoughts
From dreams of death and musings of its shape.
In silence as he rocked in silent thought
His black-haired cat traversed the soiled rug
And stopped unseen beside the desk. It gave
A weakened leap (it lived on non-existent
Rats and mice that roamed the undug basement
Of the one-floor house) and missed its mark,
Falling on its once-lithe feline ribs
With an animal thud. The old man stopped
His motioned chair and sat transfixed, wide-eyed.
The cat resumed its feet and jumped its all
And landed on the olden oaken desk.
Its thready whiskers brushed across the jar:
A fingernail end fell to the broken
Marble surface of the desk, and then
The cat fell lifeless to the rugged floor.
A wave of horror washed the old man's brain-
He felt a thrill of long-lost warmth surround
His head and stomach, bones and gasping lungs,
And down into the deepness of the rug
He fell, beside the rocking rocking chair
.
As nothingness approached he thought he heard
His doorbell ringing for the first time since
The ancient inundation and the garden
With the stones and fiery wheels had come.
The aged one was thus undone, kind friend.
If this has entertained you, please be kind
Enough to dropp into this hat a coin.
Daily Quote: In youth the days are short and the years are long; in old age the years are short and the days long.
~Nikita Ivanovich Panin
Linguist Corner-SPANISH: virtud, noun - virtue
- In the meaning of virtue, virtud is similar to its English cousin.-
Example:
Su principal virtud es saber esperar. No se apresura nunca.
His main virtue is being able to wait. He never rushes.
- The phrase en virtud de can also mean by virtue of, but more often it means in accordance with:
Example:
en virtud de esta ley
in accordance with this law
There is a frozen heart
Inside a very warm body
There is a pale soul
Contrasting with a colorful eye
There is an empty mind
Under her blond hair
But she is just a figurine…
So I went out of that store
After that very frozen moment.
Suddenly, I see a girl
Made of pure angel material
-Go for her! -cried out my heart in desperation
She is walking on the streets of my city
She is promenading away from me again
She is getting away from my tired eyes
-Go for her!
Being a little shy I approach
She glanced at me with a very distant sight
Frozen heart and pale soul
Magical eyes and beautiful lips
Vague mind facing me
-Heavens! She is just another figurine...
Alessandro Lopes
"A picture is a poem without words."
~Horace
************************* Word Scramble Fun: Unscramble the following word. The first letter is given as a hint. The answer will be revealed tomorrow.
T I I R E F R C
T _ _ _ _ _ _ _
The previous word was: FACETIOUS
*************************
Phantoms and witches patrolling the skies,
Werewolves howling in the dead of the night,
Imps and demons wander as Satan’s spies,
The horrors fill you to the brim of fright,
This is the day the spirits all return,
This is the time we share in remembrance,
Though the true meaning has taken a turn,
Now its time for fun, candy, and suspense,
The costumes are no longer made for saints, Trick-or-treating provides marvelous fun,
Children enjoy candy without restraints,
There’s black magic until the night is done,
The magic, horror, and joy fill us all,
A Thriller of a time, Halloween calls.
If you enjoy visiting Coffee Table GUEST BOOK, please click the button below so we may continue sharing your own poems with other poetry lovers.
Popular Pages
HOME
Guest Book
Search GUEST BOOK
Custom Search
Welcome Friends
Welcome to Coffee Table Poetry GUEST Book. We are happy to post your poems, photographic or other art, short stories and all artistic works on our main web site Coffee Table Poetry as we are no longer able to maintain this site.
To have your work posted, simply submit it with any titles or quotes, accreditation, and blog link if applicable to:
Your work will be posted within the week. Thank you for letting us showcase your creativity. Enjoy also Coffee Table Poetry's classic poets (link on top right of page).
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_vro3poL1lJ7PrBwrOmWlSkmtAqz1wE-hgXAr18cDr57OeIZ-yfm9rw6-vDn-f2e3OleAHKhfKTpOJfKr6ibrpM598v50z850PcmM9loQx0jNAqKuhgFu-kDxrtLjlH8weCJme1Jxz6WHYwNcN86NsQ=s0-d)
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_u1yycsb3Bi-S0vEO4eYntFkgS0evAR41oxehZ-wI94v86T_xQRwphz4XRYA9q6pcHlHDLGAZ0nlMFCOzqHRrWn0ycwF2ffjATN6QJp_ahjKn9LTFJvRgERUQhxOPWEdPGnQfGteE4caMPLqYozRDCK=s0-d)
![Reblog this post [with Zemanta]](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_sJiG_cFkjXWp_dDTIFDJAYMUmDwIIUt6EngCE2ybsdmE1_1MgpYz0vMlIG4IjkhRAOxtZajymOUa4iUy04C-g_UqtVv2sj8EISVqRbwHd2Erfmt9Osx-E50pIbNVg-E621vMBvtIRiMRC6UoTLq0Q=s0-d)
