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Array ( [sid] => 86989 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => A forgotten memory [time] => 2005-03-09 17:26:01 [hometext] => I think any good writer allows himself, or herself, to change and grow. In doing this, there is always a period of transition, in which the poet might think [bodytext] => Isn't it obvious?
These sheltered promises present challenges to the unobserved eye.
Because as soon as both eyes see,
the illuminated face of warriors, who only exist in memories,
will open new windows, pull back the curtains
and let the moon's light peak through the deserted ingrown greenhouse,
a slit of light, tantalizing any possibility
with reflections of what is not, in the form of a
blatant rejection, a spit in the eye that does not blind,
but brings the attention back to matters of what could have been,
that are presently undone, that are whistfully told what they could be,
and cringe.

And,
like everything else,
when an idea rests upon the possibilities of what could be,
it shatters until the core is left cold and bare,
staring into the silent scrawls,
spread forward like scripture that whispers
brief passages of ancient feelings
at the wake of dawn's superior light.
A sunrise,
nature's reflection of a new birth,
and with that, the nature of man
is reflected in the expression of dreams,
and on the other side,
fear.

It is obvious now.
The future is already fortold
in history's desire.
The magnificent slanted arguments all bind together
and the only sound they make is noise.
When all of the screaming stops,
turn away and walk because
there is nothing left to say.
All that is left is an echo
that makes the day grow weary.
And if you choose to reply,
the only souls who will hear it
are those who are lost in
forgotten memories. [comments] => 5 [counter] => 251 [topic] => 43 [informant] => zenmind [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )

A forgotten memory

Contributed by zenmind on Wednesday, 9th March 2005 @ 05:26:01 PM in AEST
Topic: oops

Isn't it obvious?
These sheltered promises present challenges to the unobserved eye.
Because as soon as both eyes see,
the illuminated face of warriors, who only exist in memories,
will open new windows, pull back the curtains
and let the moon's light peak through the deserted ingrown greenhouse,
a slit of light, tantalizing any possibility
with reflections of what is not, in the form of a
blatant rejection, a spit in the eye that does not blind,
but brings the attention back to matters of what could have been,
that are presently undone, that are whistfully told what they could be,
and cringe.

And,
like everything else,
when an idea rests upon the possibilities of what could be,
it shatters until the core is left cold and bare,
staring into the silent scrawls,
spread forward like scripture that whispers
brief passages of ancient feelings
at the wake of dawn's superior light.
A sunrise,
nature's reflection of a new birth,
and with that, the nature of man
is reflected in the expression of dreams,
and on the other side,
fear.

It is obvious now.
The future is already fortold
in history's desire.
The magnificent slanted arguments all bind together
and the only sound they make is noise.
When all of the screaming stops,
turn away and walk because
there is nothing left to say.
All that is left is an echo
that makes the day grow weary.
And if you choose to reply,
the only souls who will hear it
are those who are lost in
forgotten memories.

Copyright © zenmind ... [ 2005-03-09 17:26:01]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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Re: A forgotten memory (User Rating: 1 )
by zenmind on Wednesday, 9th March 2005 @ 05:35:28 PM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

Ok, I'll finish what I was trying to say, but got cut off.

I think any good poet allows himself or herself to change and grow. In doing this there is always a period of transition, in which the poet might think, "this poem is not as good as other poems I have written". This is the transitonary period that is necessary if we are to grow as writers. We have to allow ourselves to write into the "unknown"----the place where we are not sure of ourselves----so that we can discover new ways of writing, and so that we can discover the poet that we can be. As of late, I haven't like what I have been writing. I haven't felt like I've been expressing myself as clearly as I can, but I think that I am in one of those "transition" periods, and that I am on the brink of a good change. Never stop writing, because that stops the growing process. Write when you do not want to. Write when you do not feel inspired, when you feel like your words are coming out all jumbled. Write because you are a writer and this is what you do.

Be True,
zenmind

Re: A forgotten memory (User Rating: 1 )
by electrique_poet on Wednesday, 9th March 2005 @ 05:50:29 PM AEST
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i enjoyed this poem, and i understand exactly what youre saying about being in a sort of transition, and of course as in all things the only thing to do in that time is to write, i like your wording in this and hope you continue to grow as a writer

... in words electrique

Re: A forgotten memory (User Rating: 1 )
by Former_Member on Wednesday, 9th March 2005 @ 07:27:09 PM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

sheesh- my whole life is an unknown, and this transition, while I just thought it was permanent disarray.

thanks for this more literate and eloquent description...

Re: A forgotten memory (User Rating: 1 )
by FleurdeSang on Thursday, 10th March 2005 @ 12:19:21 PM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

As always my dear friend, sheer genius!! I LOVE THIS! Always a pleasure reading your surreal work!! And such truth within these beautiful expressions!! Ever the poet, cheri Zenmind. Thank you so much for sharing your insight and wisdom! Flawless and enchanting. More when the words are more suitable!! All my love! Forever,

Your friend,

Stephy! *still in awe!*

Re: A forgotten memory (User Rating: 1 )
by Nardo on Sunday, 20th March 2005 @ 12:48:34 AM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

This one shook the ground my feet tread upon. Ground on which I find more truth that truth its self. Miss hearing from you.
Nardo

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