Yes Alone

SEED "I must travel alone"

There are many views of lonely, stark still or quiver moving;

that embrace being 'alone' with 'lonely' -- fearfully perhaps,
but oft confused with solitude and wrapping self in veils of silence.

One can be so lonely in a crowded room,
or shielded in contemplative singularity and hear a thousand songs,
of strangers met tomorrow, yes?

Closer

Seed: I am shown the way


I stand on a bluff between two trees. One living. One dead.

Gazing over the precipice
I long for dragonfly, flitting in the distance, to come my way.

Perched on the tree stump within my grasp,
ladybug waits for me to notice. She rests on my finger.
Connection. No wishes made. I am shown the way.

No longer alone

We walk a new road

Hand in hand in a strange country
I am shown the way

These paths run gently through the wood
tall trees shade us from the summer heat
Birds of a hundred colours sing our joy

The Ending

Seed: they must be traveled alone.


He told me I must travel alone
but I did not believe him
until the day his wild spirit
fled as the swallows rode
wide circling into the distant sky
and I lay quiet
alone in the wide bed
listening for the voice
no longer near
to learn his truth

Fran'tic

Seed: "into caverns dark and to the morning"

The morning calls or is remembered into existence,

a reward or goal of the 'Dark Night of the Soul',
seen as either both or neither by fine choice and dance.

The caverns dark may be chasyms of dispair and grief,
or secret passages of delight and adventure;
each by each they must be travelled alone.

Cherita for the Silk Road

We have wandered roads together
played and learned and found each other
hand in hand the journey winds
through the back roads of memory
through the pathways of new learning
up the stairs where magic beckons
into caverns dark
and to the morning.
Waking we have joined the circle
glowing dawn forever holds us.

Disolve - CF

SEED: thoughts of dissolving fine illusions

Oh, how we gather and nurture such finely crafted illusions,

sugar drop dreams, truffel trifels and marzipan ghosts
to nestle in gift boxes of compartmented self-enchantment.

Eventually though, as we grow, they must melt away
on our soul's yearning tongue and spirit's churning passion,
filling us with brief honeyed brilliance and memories of creation.

flight plan

seed:
and yearning for another flame

and yearning for another flame
flitting 'round the slightly open door
i've only grown accustomed to the half -light
cobwebs are familiar
do I dare seek more
drawn to heat and light
winging too close could spell the end
perish thoughts of dissolving fine illusions
cracked cocoon of the past
I'll not float there again

The Attic

SEED: “towards the cob-webbed door you move”


‘tis not the natural wards and shields
that give character to doors unknown
and give me pause or spirit rush –

but the cob-webs in the attic of my mind,
where I have safely stayed too long,
sweeping dust into useless piles
instead of throwing open windows,
changing into a moth,
and yearning for another flame.

gray matter

Seed:
because you dare walk the rooms alone


Because you dare walk the rooms alone
Hand unheld, trembling mildly
step by step in semi-darkness
towards the cob-webbed door you move
Pry the rusted lock
It deserves to be pried
Enter the room where you've never been
Remove the dust covers
Sit a spell
Light a candle
Illuminate the space
Breathe in Breathe out
Safe

INSIDE

SEED:
"and I am inside.Inside my house.
Inside my mind.Turning inwardbody and spirit."

And may the languid pools
of your contentment
mist laughing prayers
unto churning clouds of contemplation --

down, down will come message gentle,
as virga, rain or morning dew;
and birth flowers
of awakened consciousness,

because you care to call it home --
because you dare walk the rooms alone --
because you turn to,
and not away.

Day Four

Torrential rain.
Gusty winds.
leaves ripped unceremoniously from the "home" trees
They were in the final throes of "disconnect", anyway.
Wet and musty ground cover
dying to support new life
as a rich and fertile humus.
Day four
and I am inside.
Inside my house.
Inside my mind.
Turning inward
body and spirit.

Chiggery

SEED: “Why did the Lord of All create chiggers?”

NO-SEE-EMS

Your skin, of course,
is covered with thousands of tiny beasties,
each doing the work of cleaning pores,
removing sloughing skin
and eating dangerous microbes –
all those unseen, microscopic task
that keep us from drowning
in our own effluvia.

It may well be that symbiosis
is the highest form of evolution,
if survival is the key.

Home from Kentucky

Keyboard...Speak in tongues!
Misplaced fingers are divining rods
pointing to the answer.
Why did the Lord of All create chiggers?
Eco-system Schmecko-system!
Those little buggers will make you itch for days on end.
While I'm inquiring of the Eternal Mind
regarding infernal creatures...
What of enormous biting flies divebombing our trail ponies?

Wedding Fitz

WHISPERS

I pledged to thee
In ceremony
All that I am and more;
Two spirits joined,
Shared wings unfurled,
To stir the silent breeze.

Yet of our souls
And most human hearts
There must be soft tended joy;
In softest touching,
And giggled nuzzling,
And whispered cherish tears.

Of these are we now
In vowed eternity.

Join Hands

SEED: "Join hands with me"

A simple phrase, rarely heard,
as Game Boys and TV clickers
eschew joining of any kind.

Lost is the basic skill or reaching out,
touching another's hand and heart and all,
and forging a bond stronger than two alone.

Even more profound is this request --
an heart based invitation to dance
with life itself.

Contentment

Seed: Glissading down -- on blind faith alone.

Join hands with me, my darling

Together we may descend into the mundane
but in the evening know the comfort
of warm bodies joined

Our fireside may not be adventurous
yet I see its warm reflection in your face
I have all I need.

Snow Fly

SEED: gliding in an eternal glissade
(a double Fitz)

Some climb a forlorn peak, striped with pristine white

to get a better, clearer view of life and all --
but only find another, higher peak to ascend;

while others, especially those who did not hike alone,
prepare for the most thrilling decent to breathless mundanity --
the fearbound thrill of glissading down -- on blind faith alone.

……………………………………………………………………….


Find a gifted branch to rudder balance and steady hand.

Run so confidently across sharp boulders of adversity -- and leap
upon the corn-snow patches -- glittering reflections of yearning,

and glide, ski-less, witless -- yet ever in preparation
for the ending -- and feckless dash across life's barren spots
to leap again, onto a glistening stretch of hope.

faucon

Seed: And turns into glass (Maya)

In the end, it all comes down to glass. Smooth, slippery, cold. Glass against my fingertips, my cheeks, my breasts; glass beneath my bare feet gliding in an eternal glissade. Sliding is so easy, slithering, slipping, swimming the slick, forever flow of glass; aching for the inexpressible crunch of relief when it all finally

Shatters.

Sorry?

SEED: "I have never, ever been sorry"


I wonder, sometimes, if I am truly sorry for anything.

Of course, I regret the hurt I have caused …
that may have cause another pain - needlessly -- the only sin.

but I am as I am, and fairly happy with that and all,
and if I would change what brought me here,
well … what then be?

Glass Wave

As in a dream, the wave appears.
A liquid wall towering mightily, erasing the sun.
Looming ever larger, it curls and dips downward
I stand transfixed on the shoreline. No fear.
Poised to accept my fate, I close my eyes and lift my arms upward.
The wave touches my outstretched fingertips
and turns into glass.

Seed: Butterfly wings still beat into the blood (Fran)

I was left with only memories, spun in crystal, hung on filament wire

Left with nothing but remembrance rainbows . . . and words
Blood still beats like butterfly wings

Behind the hollow throat of wax your lips dreamed into being
A throat that still swallows rainbows, still whispers words, and no,
I have never, ever been sorry

A Fitz in time

Seed: "your tender tempation"

Oh, such a divine sincrosity or stuttered thought or slip of mind --

a hesitation in time, perhaps, or a forging of will;
drawn by being excessively sensitive or simple moderation?

I will have to add 'tempation' to my SpellCheck
and at some time, perhaps with libation,
will cast it upon the violent winds of creation.

Erroneous Result?

Those butterflies, delicate against the light

Colors and wings, strong against the wind
carried to a northern island

Butterfly wings still beat into the blood
our children know nor have I been sorry
for your tender tempation or my yielding

Seed: In an old dream (Fran)

In an old dream

You counted my heartbeats, silent singing of butterflies, you said
Multiplied times two and then divided by the same to find your own pulse

Your lips against my throat, drinking hot blue butterfly wings, counting
Then deciding that it was just possible this procedure might be giving you
An erroneous result

Fitz exchange

I sent (before I moved)

When I am here and you are there
there is a part lost in between,
and I’m not sure
if it’s something we needed,
or excess thoughts and dreams –

but I’ll bet that it’s a bit of magick
that exists when we are close
and that we have lost nothing
except a memory or three.

She answered –

ah but memories are never lost, my love
they are …

but a moment's kiss away
and the warmth of our breath kindles anew
the patterns that we have swirling 'round us
or perhaps the gentlest touches sparking a'fire
generates lovedust to soften the underlying passions desire
memories are not of the mind as most would suggest --
I say they are of thine Heart and mine.

Learning Love

Not a Fitz --
written for my first wife
of 36 years -- still a true friend,
as we were in the beginning ...

I was afraid to love -
but you knew that, didn't you?
unfair - you came from no love and was sure -
I came from love and didn't know how
we taught each other - some
not enough.

What was said - and not said
needed - not found
not needed - given
lost - found
abused - massaged
loved - forgotten?

I thought to sacrifice myself for your needs -
you thought I was sacrificing family for self
how can I say I have regrets -
when I never did anything to cause pain or loss
deliberately?

Yet, how can I expect love when caring/understanding was ground to dust?

Of all the things that have happened, my friend -

You are now afraid to love

For that I am truly sorry

Love not allowed

Love unseen

We touched, my love and me
in an old dream

Now in eyes of distant memory
we walk together through harvest fields
and see what might have been

Love Realities (CF)

SEED: "love did not seem real"

Reality is transitive at best, at least in terms of love

as we are conditioned by what we see and touch
and rarely what we feel or allow ourselves to know.

Then I met m'lady who cannot see
and was not allowed to love, for all of that --
but can give me love's unknown realities.

Daily Routine

Our love did not seem real
but the light
that shone in our eyes
on the first day of our loving
is with us each morning
as you bring a coffee tasting kiss

Thread of Remembering

In keeping with an apparent thread
of remembering or forgetting,
I offer a sonnet written long ago ...

faucon

............................................................

REMEMBRANCE

There is a time, my love, that I remember well;
Thoughts that I caress and hold to swelling heart.
I laugh out loud; eyes close shut and arms wide apart
To clasp a memory of which I often tell.

Yet I know that mem'ry often diffuses fact,
To protect fragile ego over shifting time.
Our love did not seem real then, somehow more sublime.
Actions were not reasoned well, we simply did react.

Now I must question if I recall actual love
Or simply do invent soft thoughts of joy and bliss?
Was it myself I loved but sought not to ever miss
A chance to find myself in answer from above?

Do I wish to remember well, or perhaps forget
That what should bring joyful thought often gives regret.

A CF for Lisa

New poet in Thrine

Well does she speak in triplet form or single verse

This new member beknown by ancient Phoenix call,
but also that of bridging Troll and by right a Sister too.

Three does allow a braiding well known or hair and rope,
that in simplicity can embrace many spiritual threads
of thoughts and dream and passion.

faucon

Making a poem on Salmon Beach: haiku triad

each word gleefully
snatched by the wind, then scattered
in all directions:

some roost in twisted
trees, some are claimed by bronze ants,
a few hide within

winkleshells; later
they come straggling home again -
soaked, scuffed, eyes shining

Embrace Emotions (CF)

SEED: beauty, terror, suffering, and love

How poorly trained we are, methinks

in embracing such variety of emotions and reflections --
driven to order them as good and bad or worse.

Should not the comparison be, in truth,
with not being able to embrace emotions at all,
or to have a soul so deadened that it hears no music with the dance?

faucon

Break Away

SEED: "you break away by daybreak"

At Sakin'el, by ancient draw
the new day starts at twilight,
when we can cease our human toil
and shift to dance and song.

With the dawn we break
from putting memories to rest,
and find rebirth in everything
that will bring us close --

so break away from yesterday
to rejoice this day with me.

Seed line:My dreams encircle you

My dreams encircle you.
Years have flown
but memories cannot
be thrown-
or banished
from subconsciousness.

This is no Garden of Eden.

From time to time
we meet again
when I lose control in the
world of slumber.

Such restless sleep.

Though dreams encircle you,
you break away
by daybreak.
Leaving me wide-eyed. Baffled.

FITZ RECIPE

Seed Line: Mixing With Tears (Megan)

Mixing With Tears
Memories too bright
2 cups of lost years
A handful of night
2 tsp.sweetness (not what it appears)
Sift something that once was so right
½ c. unconquered fears
Dash of the words I now write
A doz. old songs, once sung in my ears
‘til it all disappears
Keep mixing with tears

Salmon Beach 

Seed line: Wrap the day into dark shrouds (Winnie)

The day wrapped in dark shrouds
waves thundering in
salty sea spray
raindrops like spittle
mixing with tears
the anger silent within.

FRANtically Simple

SEED: "the wind in my sail" (fran)


I do not seek Her in magesty,
nor in dusty tombs or scrolls;
but in the simplest breath of presence --
the soft wind in my poet's sail.

Shea whispers a song I scarcely hear,
but my gosomere dreams soon billow full
when She does sigh to me
of faint salty mists of memory -- and thee.

M'lady-1

I keep trying to m'lady Emrys to join this blog,
but she is strangely shy and reserved.
So I will have to post some of here Fitz
myself ...

faucon
...............................................................

my dreams encircle you
and wrap you snuggly while you sleep
a warmth that I have never known
a love pulsing, rich and deep
a reason for me to either greet the day
or allow gentle thoughts within to creep
a timeless drop of innocence,
a multitude of memories to keep
inside my blissful Heart.

Fitz to Flying

Seed line: I will ride the bright Ocean/The wind in my sail . . .



Ride the bright ocean
Where the clouds split with sun
On a swift winging motion
The miles come undone

Unraveled like moon beams
Undone by the day
Soft cradled dark dreams
The sea slips away

Spin on whipped cream clouds
Above the bright blue
Wrap the day into dark shrouds
As the day breaks anew

Edwina Peterson Cross

Simplicity

I will ride the bright ocean
the wind in my sail
taste of salt air
turn of wave
song of waters
not thinking
nor dreaming
I will take
asl He gave

Givens well Taken

SEED: “Given will ever be taken”

Of the Mother we can have such faith,
be she flesh, Earth, Sea or Blessed;
that what we create is noble,
and what we give is pure.

But the Father would ask,
“Have you taken those Givens
set aside for you and used them
wisely and pure?”

and so I must start again –
simpler still.

faucon

Seed: Salt doll does not measure the ocean before it is time

Bright ocean open and bleeding
Sweet is the taste of the brine
Into an emerald wave speeding
Pearl and salt to combine
Given will ever be taken
Pour ‘til your ocean is dry
The depths below you will waken
The sea will then swallow the sky

Such was it begun
So will it be done

Harping Along -- Fitz

seed: "a harp carved of forever"

Though a harp is carved of forever,
and tuned in the key of we;
the harmonic curve is an angle wing
that does but kiss the piller of fire,
held firm by the countless strings of being.
Each does sound a different note,
but all do meet in finality,
as one and all
in symphony.

Salt Doll

Salt doll does not measure the ocean before it is time. Instead, she rides the waves in her semi seaworthy body vessel. The ribs of the aging ship are beginning to creak and groan. Salt Doll peers into the foamy depths, recognizing she'll return to her ocean home in a blip, a heartbeat, a nanosecond.....

Synchronicity Singing

Seed: This mystery might be likened to a harp



ALTERNATIVE metaphor: this mystery, a harp carved of forever

Is strung with billions of strings, played by a harper of ever-earth
Each string is special and unique, different from the last, of variant matter made

Sometimes strings are plucked at exactly the same second, producing exactly the same vibration
Sudden, sonorous synchronicity
Rings . . . reverberates . . . resounds

One String

seed: "time worn path of humanity"

If all paths cross in the forest,
yet we walk the same trail...

This mystery might be likened to a harp string, divinely plucked.

Each change of tension between mind and spirit
will produce a different note to join the eternal song.

The strength with which the vibration echoes
may be ours to choose, and while in vibration may seem singular,
yet t' is but one string for all.

faucon

Am I a poet ‘as an alternative to this time worn path of humanity?’

I AM this time worn path of humanity!
Alternative? OK! And extrapolation, extension, progeny, posterity

NEXT! Until the next and the next, and forever the glorious next!
Proud lineage. Majestic descent. Magnificent kindred
I AM this time worn path of humanity!

Sonnet XIX

If I die solvent — die, that is to say,
In full possession of my critical mind,
Not having cast, to keep the wolves at bay
In this dark wood — till all be flung behind —
Wit, courage, honor, pride, oblivion
Of the red eyeball and the yellow tooth;
Nor sweat nor howl nor break into a run
When loping Death's upon me in hot sooth;
'Twill be that in my honoured hands I bear
What's under no condition to be spilled
Till my blood spills and hardens in the air:
An earthen grail, a humble vessel filled
To its low brim with water from that brink
Where Shakespeare, Keats, Chaucer learned to drink.

(Edna St. Vincent Millay)

This most excellent canopy, the air,

This brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire
What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty!

O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,
That has such people in't!

(William Shakespeare)

I will not subscribe to either vanity or bigotry from seeking to learn

Searching among the sparkling, soaring satellites as well as the stars
Gleaning knowledge that has come before me,

Surrounds me, resonates inside me, from the hearts, minds
Thoughts of other beings
No barrier to Source, for me, they rip the veils away

Birth of Chaos

Double Seed (CF)

"pattern, shaping and weaving,
unknown by any heart until now",
as poets take us into chaos.

In our vanity, fueled by greed and bigotry well trained;

we can imagine the limits of our imagination and perceptions
to be the limits of everything, including divinity --

yet there's a place where the Source holds sway
beyond the symphony we are graced to hear and thereby dance;
known only by remembering with our hearts.

(Chaos Has It's Own Reward)

Chaos, unpatterned, unconfigured, unchoreographed

Radiant rainbow of energy surges singing
Up from the essence, sweet dark wine from the soles of my feet

Baptizes in beauty the strength of my beating blood
Power of steps, unmirrored, unknown by any heart until now
I am filled with wings of freedom; In duende I dream ~ I Dance

Chaos and the dance

Chaos has its own reward

These random drops of color on the grass
form lines and blend

to pattern, shaping and weaving
steps begin to flow, and, as the color melds
the old gives birth to new choreography

Confetti Joy

seed "confetti joy" (CF)

Confetti Joy Unveiled.

Like senseless dry rain they fall from PARCHed MENTality,

darkened clouds of deceitful promises and vaulted egos,
written on worthless tear stained tissue and smudged shipping tags,

shredded fine by Occam’s Razor and friendly talons of watchful falcons
so that you may ever dance beneath fluttering dreams,
waft by the whispers of innocence and selflessness.

faucon

I began dancing barefoot, throwing words at the paper like a confetti of joy

CF To Chaos

Remembering Who I Really Am, I Remove My Shoes


Oh no, my partner in this weaving dance,

I’ve never doubted your pattern, the purpose in your steps
The Goddess is, verily, your choreographer

The chaos is mine. Indeed . . . inherently, intrinsically, innately mine
I was raised on free verse, free movement
I began dancing barefoot, throwing words at the paper like a confetti of joy

Dance Fitz (CF)

"a dance with no pattern",
'cept the waltz the Goddess gave me.


I know that my movements follow no set rules or form,

but that is because you are too close, hand upon my arm
to see how carefully I touch certain stones on the parquet floor.

All is chaos -- jumbled god-dreams and silent song;
yet as I believe there is a pattern hidden there,
I follow.

Pass the shuttle, wind the thread, a dance with no pattern

Weaving strands of beauty simply because they are beautiful,
Dance simply because the body moves, the heart will fly,

Needing no meaning, still . . . I do not dance alone, and so
I will spin, body, I will spin, thread, I will spin, I will
Smile

Alone but never lonely

"I always knew I was alone in the room"

WINK (Fitz)

Gather your smile and kiss my brow
and dance on my heart in tune.
Toe to heel and passion reveal
as life's purpose is now undone.
Just wink at me in your passing
and caress my thoughts and dreams,
for your footsteps will even trace
on the faint scroll of evermore.

Be you now alone
I claim your attention.

Fitzgerald to Skadi

I sing into a empty room

Of stones and pain and dark bloods bloom
She smiles as she sits at her vein strung loom
Knowing full well I should not presume
To assume what I should not assume
Faces on the walls of a midnight tomb

I’ve always known I was alone in the room.

Cherita, Followed by Fitzgerald, Not that the Twain Won't Meet, But Rather That It Just Didn't

The trees, of course are of such knowing (faucon)


The trees, of course, are of such knowing

Hundreds of years of drinking, growing
Filled with sweet sap richly flowing

Nowhere to be up and going
Dance in place to the cool winds blowing
Knowing all, and all unknowing


Knowing:

What I don’t know could fill the universe to overflowing, were it written in petulant purpled prose as small as an ant’s eye, recorded minutely in Swahili or Eskimo calligraphy on the sticky backs of beer labels, peeled off whole by bored people who don’t even know enough to know how much they don’t know.

A hug with two Fitz

All you have to do is Understand (Winnie)


The trees, of course, are of such knowing

with plunging, heart seeking roots of Mother Earth
and heaven brushing needles kindly too soft for pain --

and yet we can learn but part of this wisdom,
for we can but hug a small section of yarning,
limited by the clenching of weary arms too short.

++++

for such as thee and me, I am afraid

such wisdom is a journey of mind and soul,
from fact to information to knowledge to belief and on --

'till we too can 'stand under' what we know from blending
of mind and spirit in a swing of teathered love
'neath the spreading tree of creation.

faucon

She came to the big trees
Knowing
Listening to the green underpining
For the sound of echos
Her hands on the rough bark
She came to the big trees
Knowing
It isn’t what people think
It is empty of what people think
All you have to do is
Understand
It’s that
Simple
It’s that
Impossible

Yes, indeed, my comment on Fitzgeralds is a Fitzgerald

I have found - after having written quite a few Fitzgeralds - that I am now naturally coming in at or near 55, without even thinking about it. I seem to have just gained a natural “Feel for Fifty Five.” I usually need just a small adjustment or none at all. I’ve been very interested by this.

Already Close

I have found that the restrictions of the Fitzgerald
are probably derived rather than contrived --
I find all manner of things of about 55 word length.

One of my brothers sent me a thought
which required onth the addition of two words,
and a little rearanging to produce a
suitable Fitz.

faucon

....................................

Life Prepared me for You,
for I had learned …

Do not go for looks; they can deceive.

Do not chase love, it can run away.

Do not go for wealth; even that can fade.

Go for someone who makes you smile,
for it takes only a simple smile
to make a dark day seem bright.

I seek the one who makes my heart smile.

SCRAMBLED!

SCRAMBLED!

Normal

Normal, Norman Doorman, doormat
Laundromat, Land-grant, Grant’s Tomb,
Trombone, Onions, Bunion, Bunyips,
Yipping, coyotes, whole notes, passing notes
Passing out, outside, yard, yard-arm,
Arm circles, cycles, circuit, Circe,
Pigs, wigs, toupe, touche, touch-not, not,
Note, notability, nobility, hillbilly
Billy goat, gloat, float, flotsam
Jetsam, Jetson’s, Flintstones, Fred
Freed, Fried, Deep-fat, Deep-sea, Diving
Driving, arriving, arising, rising, dough
Dough-boy, solider, spy, tinker, gypsy
Dancer, flamenco, flamingo, pink,
Beautiful, bountiful, bounteous, bouncy
Tigger, tiger, trigger, titter, laugh, giggle
Gargle, gargoyles, Duomo, Dumbo, elephant
Obelisk, Egyptian, Mesopotamian, Saxon,
Norman, Normal . . .

OMG! I didn’t think I was ever going to get here! Someone’s brain is not particularly . . .NORMAL. Well, ‘normal’ aside, I can see that the inside of my brain is about as tidy and orderly as my office. There were a couple of jumps there that are pretty wild . . . elephant to obelisk is rather odd . . . and about trombones and onions . . . don’t even ask! It made sense at the time.

It was interesting faucon, but I don’t think it’s my forte in life!

Life, soul, sole, singular, lone, alone, a loan, advance, progression, recession, depression, melancholy, holly, ivy, twining, snaking, naked, nude, bare, are, exist, live, life . . .

It’s slightly addicting, even when you’re brain is scrambled, fried, and/or sunny-side-up, 7up, Sprite, pixie, dust . . . all we are is Pixie Dust in the wind, dude.

Different Form

a fun exercise ... just let it flow

WORDS

kiss

miss mistake mistltoe

snow now wow how

hope grope nope slop

slip spill pill kill

skill skull pull pully

misty artsy risky frisky

frost most mope hope

hype type tryst missed

kiss


faucon

From Fran

This poem of Fran's was in the comments section of my last weaving. I love it so much I'm reposting it here. It is not a Fitzgerald, but it is a wonderful poem and a perfect weaving of the strand facon began and I carried on. Weave on Poets!


Seed line: I see clearly now


I see clearly now

Memory with understanding
of how you were, and how I was

So love endures, all guilt and sorrow
wiped from the misted screen
we walk together through our distant days

Try Again?

“Try again” to plant a seed?
Hoping to find some seed-weaver OTHER than me? :}
Hope does spring eternal!


Cherita Fitzgerald to Memory
Seed line: “Ah yes, I see clearly now …”


The bare black branches of winter are sharp and incisive

A world once misted and hazy, dim, fogged and shadowed
Drenched and dripping with tears and years of rain

Memory stills, distills, this window into wet washed clarity
Years and tears remain, but, yes, I see clearly now . . .
For the rain, at least, has gone

Try Again

Perhaps this will plant a seed ...

GIFT OF LAUGHTER (Fitz)

A chuckle cracks the shadow mirror.
Quips and mimic jibes polish the glass.
A giggle must attract the Goddess’ attention.
Simple glee refracts rainbows from a cluttered mind.

Ah yes, I see clearly now …
It is your laughter, not mine, that carries my soul along,
and guards me from the swirling voices of past deception.

Mermaid and Dryad

A Bit of Frothy Nonsense

CHERITA FITZGERALD
(Seed Line: From fish of the seas and birds on the wing)


From fish of the seas and birds on the wing

Dryads and mermaids come to dance and to sing
An earth deep dance washed with bright salt sting

Flaming with autumn, while remembering spring
This wet double reel filled with each kind of thing
That seething sea or stable shore, hand in hand, will bring

DIfferent Tack

Perhaps a different theme will excite someone --

Walking Action (CF)

Walking is simple, yet defines our lives …

a time of action between the child's crawl and the senile chair;
a phase of learning between contemplation and song;

a slowing down from headlong rush, so as to catch a breath.
A distinction, even a superior claim
from fish of the seas and birds on the wing.

faucon

For Heather

Someone here spoke of Amerindians
as having the true touch of the Spirit of the Earth.
consider ...

errie errie
(sonnet down under)


I wonder if they sense that I can never share
Pagan beliefs of Dreamlife and waratah bush,
Or fantasy of the lyrebird and brlga stare.
Yet I heard the lidgi-liji in evening hush.

"Cooma el ngruwar, ngruwar el cooma."
Chant loud, "illa booka mer ley errie errie."
White blotch aboriginals weave a mantra
Of medieval steps and heart rending cry.

The naked feet provide the only instrument,
Drumming resonance from the hardened earth.
Sometimes slow and pulsed like a child's heartbeat.
Often excited like magpies in mourning death.

You will find God here when the green ant flies.
Sing 'one is all, all is one, the soul never dies!'

Sanguine Source

seed: "Rocked with rhythm, pure pounded by pulse"

The simple drum … (CF)

is meant to seize the heart and stir the blood and prancing feet.

Yet there is more if you listen -- feel the throbbing pulsing
of the love's stroke on the simple bond of humanity's need.

Let your fingers feather touch my impassioned dreams.
Hear laughing moon and star-tinkling bells --
dance with the pulse of life.

faucon

Cherita Fitzgerald of Duende

Seed: There is time


Castanets of blood beat bright behind my ears,

This soft hollowed throat, a sweet swallowing Bodhran Drum,
Rocked with rhythm, pure pounded by pulse, the thumping, the throbbing

Of time. There is time. It is time. Veins brimming with time,
Hot and spurting, dark drowned in a mystery
The black bottom beat of this blood

Dancing Fitz

A Fitzgerald prompted by Wil Serphant, co-founder of Triad Bardic College
His words,
"dance the dance the Mother gave you
in the place she gave you to dance it in."
... this piece is framed and hangs in the 'Wizard Hall' at Sakin'el.

IN DANCE

Dance the dance
The Mother gave you.
Cycle birth and death a new.

Prance beyond
the place she gave you,
limit not your place to grow.

There is time
for here is yonder,
dance back to now and then forever.

By his Wil
The song will guide you,
hear with heart and steps of Light.

The Perception of Movement: Life

Seed: “Hands point and spin, and try to clap”

One heel forward, one toe back
Fast feet in the reel of time
Dervish spinning, on a slick track
Caught in the breath of a rhyme
Dancing past knowledge, past knowing
Flashing mirrors catching light
Moving past wisdom, past judgement
Into a space still and white

Here love is trapped
By a hand come unclapped

Hush Joining

seed: "standing hushed at the joining"

(gleaned from a longer poem written for Em last year)

"One heel forward, one toe back; dance in tune with chaos.
Hands point and spin, and try to clap, but miss a beat or two;
for there is no sure joining of what was and what will be,
save knowledge that love is born in light and mirror passion..."

but join with you I will.

faucon

Under Iris

Seed: "for in faith I know that spirit rain will fall in tune"


In faith, we know that spirit rain will fall

We have come to this place through cloud bursts of razors
Through bright, shouting showers of singing sun

Here we are at almost-understanding, my brother
Where we taste and know the plangent pulse and pull of existence
Standing hushed at the joining, shivering in the rainbow

Braiding in the rain

Seed: "Songs to shine ‘til they glisten"

The misted prayers of yesterday have clouded my resolve;

for in faith I know that spirit rain will fall in tune
that some may dance and others sing in joy.

My naked skin will moistly glisten
that others may see the space between the notes;
and I will hear the song of brotherhood and thee.

LETS WEAVE WORDS! - See the Braiding Challenge Below!

Spinning with Light

Indian Wisdom (cont'd)

(NOTE: I’m re-posting this and removing the original. Since it somehow came in with the date of October 2005 on it, it would otherwise stay at the top of the list until then. I think we need things to move down so we can see at a glance that something is new. I’ve re-posted all the comments as well, though they will come through as being from me, I cut and pasted them from the originals, so they correct in content. ~ Winnie)

Vision questing,burnt sage in hand,
sacred smoke cleanses the palette.
I sit rooted to this tree.
A tiny moth lands very close,unfolding it's wings,
displaying intricate patterns before my eyes.
The question-What is life? seems insignificant.
Native blood courses through my veins still.
Ancient wisdom beckons me to know it..and follow.

WAKE UP CHERITA FITZGERALD!!

I’m Baaaaaak! I’m not even sure which poem is the latest to be posted - so I’m grabbing a line out of each of the top three! Everybody wake up now and lets have some serious word braiding here! It’s 1:00 p.m. PST - 2:00 MST - 4:00 EST, 10:25 in Hawaii and . . . woops, 4:00 a.m. in Western Australia, (that lets you out I guess, Fran and Megan), but it’s 6:00 in Melbourne, certainly you’re not still in bed Heather?! I’m not even sure where everyone else is located. You don’t do Daylight Savings Time in Arizona do you?

ANYWAY! Lets see if we can get a braid going before night falls on the east coast. I know it’s Sunday, but if you’re out there - jump in!

Wake up Poets! We have wreathing words to weave

Songs to shine ‘til they glisten like effervescent rain
Like tears, like the glittering mica of tomorrow

Sparkles of words in which we can see reflections . . .
Our memory telling history, ancient wisdom calling us to follow
Wake up Poets ~ come braid shining, singing words with me!

A sharing

My brother and I rode to the church

We are the old ones now, senior generation
our memory telling history

He is gone now, I am left wondering
which niece will carry the story
who will listen to the tales of the fathers

PULSE (Fitz)

Gleaned from "Live Poets", 06/09/09 --
"Memories" by ~ Edwina Peterson Cross ~
"Feeling the plangent pulse of time

Break and blossom and bloom"

'till only gems remain
in which we can see reflections
of who we really are.

Within the chrystal hourglass,
trapped by fear and yearning,
trickle endless memories
in fond chaotic array.

It is the sharp edges
of pain and dispair
that causes them to spin,
and grate and scratch
our souls.

Yet, as we flip the glass
in each dawn's rebirth,
the plangent song caresses
and smooths
and sooths --
again.

faucon

Just Play

The last Fitz prompted some fine response but no 'braiding'.
At Sakin'el we have musical 'house concerts' on the porch,
and 'Joining Circles' around the fire pit
for Bardic Stories, song and often drumming --
join in ...

Fire Circle (Fitz)

The bright protected flames flicker
in the caress of approaching night,
and roar in awe of sudden gusting
awareness of the approaching storm.
Strange shadows dance in symmetry
with the strumming of Mother Earth
and the breathing of our bardic friends.
Gather close about to sing and dream,
for these torches will warm our hearts.


faucon

Mice Play

I wasn't necessarily attemting to start a new thread with the last Fitz, but Maya's thought may be true in part. So, here is one you might be able to play with ...


Indian Wisdom (Fitz)

The Crowfoot revered a plant whose flowers are so small they might escape the naked eye, proof that a man must not walk too tall. "What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the trembling night. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset."

When the cat's away ...

I'll just post a Fitz from my achives
to serve until mother gets back.

faucon

Cleansing Wind

Oh, how to capture the caressing breeze;
a guardian panting upon my neck,
a dreamed hint of Myrddin's falcon wings,
the ever wind enchanted by my swing
from human fear to ethereal kiss.
Nay, it is only the soft pulsing sorrow
drawn from the breathing of my spirit,
as some feckless friends withdraw in folly.

Off the Radar

Dearest Cherita Fitz'ers . . . Once again I find that I have manifested my incredible talent for the mismanagement of time. I am going to Utah for a couple of weeks to spend some time with my mother and suddenly I find it is all abruptly time to go. I’ll be leaving Wednesday morning. I have a list of ‘things-to-do’ that is so long, I don’t think there is anyway to do them all before Wednesday morning. I am hoping to take a lap-top with me so that I can at least check into the Blog’s on a limited basis, but the jury is still out on whether or not I’m going to get away with it. If not, it will be mid-June before I am back on line. I know everyone will keep posting and that I will find a wealth of beautifully braided words when I return. The question is, will I have severe, unmanageable withdrawal symptoms? I suspect the jury is still out on that as well! Blessings to you all. ~ Winnie

Notice of Gleaning

Seed Lines have been Gleaned from the poem “Fitz #1 continued” by Maya (Featherstone Woman)
Posted at Cherita Fitzgerald, Wednesday, May 25, 2005

“Caught in the breath of night.....”
“Join me, if you dare to dream.”

The resultant Gleaning is posted at the Alluvial Mine http://alluvialmining.blogspot.com/
Thank you Maya!
Gleaner: Edwina Peterson Cross

Fitz #1 - Grim Echos

Seed Line: My generation is reading history (From Fran)

Grim Echos

In a ‘Leave it to Beaver’ moment, my generation is reading history

Everything must be scrapped, rearranged
Ideas, behavior, purpose, turned up on their axis

We shout, we sing, we take to the streets carrying flowers
We change the fabric of history
Now in age, we watch in horror, as heedless history callously repeats itself

The unseen

VI's "Eternal Forest"
took us delightfully to a special world of light and perceptions --
but what of times that we cannot see and must reach beyond ...

"Green reflecting pools

are the eyes into the soul of the forest"

just writ -- reflecting also on my trip last week-end, with as much 'free form' as I might allow under this site's guidance (and my keyboard's poltergist control)

faucon

STEEL LAKE

Sit with me beside a smallish lake
and we will share such fantasies,
drawn from impossible meeting of forest and reflection --
clouds rushing to slip through that razor edge,
then bouncing back from nothingness
as ripples in the sky and song upon the waters.

I skip a pebble flat and glancing --
seven footsteps lightly prancing,
messages of presence and interference
that will reach the dwindling shores of never,
echoed silent and lost to the horizon --
toward imagined line twixt if and memory.

Come back with me at long past bedtime
when there is no moon and laughing sky.
Then this lake is steel grey and lonely
as no images of now can entrance the longing heart,
and you must reach out with other eyes
to know the depths of lake and soul.

Here is pebble of trusted weight and form
to skip across the frozen lake of dreams,
and pulse the message of your being.
Tell me of the footstep number and the distance to the shore,
and how you know that the faintest wave
will shatter stones just waiting there.

Reach down - down to touch the surface,
just a faint cold shock, nothing more --
proof that you are now one with all, --
for your ripples cast will flow out and on and live forever;
but only if you have faith, my friend,
and come down to the lake with me.

Fitz 1 "Whispering Bones"

Bones in memory, memory bred in bone

Whispering bones tell the story
send the word that has been hidden

My generation is reading history
in blood, prophesying , planning,
no longer able to deny the past

Fitz #1 - Shuttle Singing

Fingertips kissed on loneliness, I read the incisions like braille

Asked by the Elder Futhark, question etched in the stones of time
I turn bones in whispered silence: Nauthiz

This dream of moon has no answer, moon answers without dream
Smooth and untouchable, these virtual runes made by my
Technologically advanced, ergonomic, totally cracked keyboard

About "Gleaners"

Hello Cherita Fitzers!

This is just a note to let you know about something interesting that was generated by the birth of Cherita Fitzgerald. One of the members of the Soul Food community was interested in the idea of Cherita Fizt, but was unsure about ‘poetry.’ She said she would like to be able to take a line from any of the Soul Food Blog’s and write about that idea - using prose as well as poetry. And so “Gleaners” was born. I suggested locating “Gleaners” at the Alluvial Mine Blog because that Blog had been inactive for awhile. There are some “Gleanings” at the Alluvial Mine already, a couple of them mine, one poetry, one prose. When a line is “Gleaned” it is always fully credited to the author, listing which Blog it came from, the date and, of course, the authors name. There is a “Gleaning” that came from LivePoets on the Alluvial Mine already (the poem is Rudwulf’s and the seed line is: "We interrupt your regularly scheduled day to report the mackerel sky. . ." with the citation: Ruhdwulf at Live Poets, 4/26/05.) The Alluvial Mine can be found here: http://alluvialmining.blogspot.com/

If anyone has a problem with this concept, please let me know. It seems to me nothing but a compliment to an author’s wordsmithing and just another avenue toward the birthing of language and the cooperative creative process. However, they are your words, and if there is any hesitation about it, please let me know.

~ Winnie

Eternal Forest

Within the eternal forest of rain,
I wander alone,
lost in the shadows.

Tendrils of moss reach to entangle,
draw me into moist green caverns
from which I might never emerge.

Trees growing from the decay of their nurturing mothers,
the fallen giving life to the new.
Moss draped branches restricting my view.

Green in one hundred thousand shades
punctuated only by shadows
beyond which green is supreme.

The constant drip from branches above
like the tick of an old fashioned clock
dripping my life away.

I search for the sky
but all that I see are canopies of green.
I am surrounded above and beneath

by lush vegetation.
that smothers my psyche
as do rivulets with long grasses flowing.

Green reflecting pools
are the eyes
into the soul of the forest,

they draw me.
Shall I let go?
I'm tempted.

Release me,
Eternal Forest of Rain.
For return now I must

to sunshine and sky.
I will never forget you,
Forest of Life

for you are the cradle of being,
the keeper of secrets,
our life.

Vi
©May 28, 2005

Fitz#1 - going - pass the shuttle

The stars sung ... the song shone

I hear the chiming of the moon … think of you,

and see your future mem'ries in the thunder of falling leaves,
caught in wafting scent of sunlit quivering dew …

but mostly I forget to remember the touching of your dreams
and whispered silences that color my spirit's canvas,
which dance with fingertip kisses on loneliness.

Fitzgerald Number One - Still Going

A star sung for each soreness, a song shone for each pain

In this sky bruised and black; dark and arcane
Shot full of lightening, in a bright sudden vein

The waiting air shudders, tight and pregnant with strain
Finally thunder erupts - a crashing refrain
In an hushed, indrawn breath . . . at last . . . comes the rain

Fitzgerald #2 - Grandmother's Days and Ways

Remembrance recalls my grandmother’s days and ways

Apron of gingham tied over her dress
Crisp, starched white for Sundays
Lemon drops in the pockets

In the rooms that were hers, I learned to learn
From the lips of one who listened
At eighty-five, she said the ballet lessons I taught made her a little stiff

Just goes to show who's the crone around here

Fitzgerald and Hemingway, my mother’s generation

As always, our infatuation
prefers our grandmother’s days and ways

Our mother’s are merely latest has-beens. When my children were in their teens
these two became champions once again. Fashion is fickle, especially when books
become victims of analysis so both of these guys give me mental paralysis.

I wouldn't recommend it

This offering is not a challenge and I do not recommend you try and write a 'sestina', but I started this a week ago, and now Winnie wants 'form',
so here it goes.

A Sestina is based on six words, each of which must be the final word
of a line in each of six stanzas of six lines each;--
but, the order of the use of these words
must vary from stanza to stanza such that any word
never holds the same position more than once (pant, pant)

Then -- a refrain is added as a single line including all six words.

Hopefully the whole thing makes some sense when you are done.
This was a popular contest of Troubadores in the 14th century,
which may explain why they all died off!

faucon
......................................

Poetic Tapestry
(sestina)

If one is to consider poetry an art form,
Beyond a mere contrivance of fancy words
Or an essay presented with lively passion;
Then meter should be subject to nature's rhythm,
And man's battle with himself the only theme,
With life's comedic flow the only irony.

If one would ascribe to poetry as passion --
A matching of one's inner pulse with rhythm
Acceptable to readers less capable with words,
Then the poet must accept another dull theme --
A responsibility to mask most irony
With subtle use of meter, rhyme and form.

One would say a poet but hears a rhythm,
Born of Earth and stars and lost love irony,
And allows this sense of awe to take on form,
That takes the reader on a path within words,
Which perhaps only give a hint of passion
As verse after verse weave a most valid theme

It is the reader who completes the irony,
By placing their own spin on any hidden theme --
Caught up perhaps by the 'oft subtle rhythm
But, ignoring same, wishing the piece to inform
Of solutions to life's riddles cast in words,
And attempt to ignore any intense passion.

Thus readers may get something from poetic theme
That the poet never intended in simple form
But is projected upon the poem in true irony,
And many times the poet is accused of passion
Far beyond communion of simple rhythm
And thoughts and dreams and profoundly soulful words.

So do not get caught up in choosing just words,
But allow yourself to be lost in passion,
And permit the reader to select the theme,
Which they will do without sense of irony,
Mistakenly thinking that your message is form
And the song they hear is their own secret rhythm.


Thus, passion can be the theme, and words engender form,
bound in an irony of rhythm beyond both reader and poet.

NOTICE:

PROCEDURE NOTES:

I think Maya is right and that trying to keep track of the strand you are on is confusing. There is also the fact that you might work on a poem for a couple of days that was to have been strand four, only to post and find the Fitz was up to strand seven. I think it is not necessary for the strands to go in order and no need to note them. I do think that it is necessary to keep the number of the Fitz so we can track what came from what. Right now there are two Fitz going. One has a lot of strands, the other just two. I think we can keep several different poems going at the same time if we just note which one we are working on so they don’t get confused. I would like to be able to go back and say, ‘this came from this.’

Also, lets keep the poems on the main board rather than putting a poetic response in a ‘comment’ section. That way no one is going to miss them. By all means, use the comment section to make comments! But let’s keep the poems we are weaving on the board.

As I have said, organization is probably my worst problem. If anyone has any other ideas on that front, please let me know.

Write on!
~ Winnie

Fitz#2 - Stranded two or thereabouts

Reality is full of artifice

'tis said that a man can only perceive what he already knows.

Each by each, we then strive to expand our own reality,
to which we are chained by symbols, words and humanity.

Each author, poet
and simple sharer of thoughtful words and actions
tells a story -- provides a shoulder on which I may stand.

DANCE LIKE THERE'S NOBODY WATCHING

DIDACTIC CHERITA FITZ

No Duckie, No one in the shadows!

I turned out to be a teacher, not a performer
Creative Movement . . . Everybody up!

Every one up and out on this perfect polished, pristine, parquet floor!
You can slide on it, and spin and stretch and bend and twist and fly . . .
Always! Always! The process, not the product!

DANCE LIKE NOBODY’S WATCHING


Work like you don’t need the money
Love like you’ve never been hurt
Dance like nobody’s watching
Take risks right down to your shirt

Live like there is no tomorrow
Give without need to gain
Climb ‘till it hurts to go further
Then go on ‘till you can’t feel the pain

Praise everyone just like your children
Remember how great that felt
Have the courage to live out your dreams
No matter what cards you’ve been dealt

Cry at all the best movies
Laugh even though you feel sad
Always save time for your dreams
Hug your kids when they’ve been bad

Remember that you are the greatest
The greatest you there has ever been
We all have inside us whatever we need
To achieve even our wildest dreams

So... Dance like nobody’s watching
Go wherever you want to go
And at the end when your life flashes by
Make sure you can enjoy the show

(Richard Mulvey)

Fitzgerald #2 - Strand One

Lets see if we can keep more than one Poem going! This is Fitzgerald #2.
Not a Cherita - Just a Fitzgerald, but a Fitzgerald to Fitzgerald!
I wanted to try something totally different. If there are rabid Hemingway fans out there . . . have at it! (I am however, hereby ducking!)


A Fitzgerald to Fitzgerald

I said I was going to dump a fifth of whiskey on Hemingway’s grave
As a sign of respect
“But, I still like Fitzgerald better.”

“Ah! How can you say that?”
“Fitzgerald was more honest. He wrote about artifice, but he was honest about it. Hemingway wrote about ‘reality’ but it was full of artifice.”

Fitz#1 - Strand Six!

For the poet weaves, pass the pain and push the chance

Fast trap the words in nets shot with starlight
Whose fabric we’ll cut into slices of white night

A star for each soreness, a star for each stricture
We’ll bind up all wounds with a starcrusted picture
For tonight all the poets will dance


(Edwina Peterson Cross)

Taking the fifth -- CF#1, that is

Threads of my thinking, and of yours …

Quick! Pass back the shuttle, wind the bobbin, double the needle,
warp the woof and treadle the pedal -- for the poet weaves tonight!

The fabric we make will bind all wounds,
and swaddle a child, drape an altar and trail a vale,
as we dance the poet's polka.

Is this third strand? or fourth? CF

Weight of the world, ten thousand messages waft upward into blue

Threads of my thinking, and of yours, netting
around our turning globe our laughter and our tears

Tied to this finite ground, we dance,
we fly, we dream and weave, and cry together
and know our world is but a ball floating toward infinity

CF #1 - third strand

The Earth Is Flat Because the Sky Says So

Though hidden in clouds of yesterday,
the sky bulges with the weight of the world.

Outside, I look up at gray folds swollen with the tears
of a one-dimensional world.
Inside, they look at me, same gray folds swollen with the tears
of a lifetime on an earth so flat, a life of depleting reality.


Indeed a challenge! Love it!
Anna

fitz #1 continued

Caught in the breath of night.....

my spirit leaves a body that is slowly losing touch.
I'm free to spin..to soar.. to roam.

Lift-off is the hardest part,defying gravity and other earthly overtures.
I am a winged beauty, floating above the heads of the congregation.
Join me, if you dare to dream.

This is a Challenge

This is a challenge
For a feeble mind like mine
Words are nourishment.

Vi

Together

Ebony fingers
touch the strings
a song to mark
the place I first knew you

You set the rhythm
made the dance of years
each step. When gentle day
turns swift to night
I will not be alone

Your touch has healed my pain
I smile for you
this music tunes my heart
to yours

CF#1 - second strand

I allow the 'velvet twilight wind' to caress my cheek.

I know the Mistress' secret hand touches my very soul,
though hidden in clouds of yesterday.

My aging blood still ripples against the stones of strife and pain,
reduced to glistening polished pebbles of eased memories,
finally as sand that slips away in timeless rebirth.

faucon

Here I am Winnie!!!

Winnie Love,
I am here,
Here is where I am,
Here is where I choose to be!!!

I am ready to learn more of the art of poetry.
Hugs and kisses,
Gwenguin

WELCOME!

Welcome all to the Blog of Cherita Fitzgerald, a new born Muse

Here we will come together to weave our words into wonder
Plait our poetic thoughts into layers of fascination

As faucon said: “A golden braid of mind, soul and spirit
Endlessly folding back upon itself
To reflect new images of poet and EveryLight”

AND SO WE BEGIN!!

Hello!

I thought it best have the first thing you would see at Cherita Fitzgerald be a . . . Cherita Fitzgerald! This new-born Muse has begun to have a distinct personality to go with her blended form. Cherita Fitzgerald is the melding of two poetic forms, the Fitzgerald which requires exactly 55 words and the Cherita, (pronounced CHAIR-rita) a Malay poetic form consisting of a single stanza of a one-line verse, followed by a two-line verse, and then finishing with a three-line verse.

Of course Cherita Fitzgerald is just the catchy name that I choose to call this Blog, what we do here certainly need not be restricted to these two forms. Poetic forms are practically endless and many of them lend themselves to partnering and cooperative poetic blending and reflecting.
Renga, Sijo, Tanka and Hakiu are a few other forms that spring to mind. And Tan Renga! Which, like our friend Cherita Fitzgerald is a combination of forms . . . looking like a tanka and working like a renga.

If you are new to these forms - or to poetic forms at all - do not be concerned. They are easy to learn and often very easy to use. Several of us have recently discussed the fact that, though it seems strange, working within a poetic form often makes writing poetry easier. It can act as a laser and bring your focus to a point where the words flow in a way they otherwise wouldn’t.

After quite a bit of thought, I believe the best starting place for our weaving is with a regular Fitzgerald. (We will let Cherita sit out until next time.) According to faucon, who introduced many of us to the Fitzgerald, it is a poetry form popular in Northern California, that embraces the discipline and exactitude of a Haiku and Sonnet, but allows much greater flow of creative inspiration and ease of focus. The title can be of any length (a way of cheating), but the body of poem, song, prose, essay, whatever – must be exactly 55 words long.

The idea of the weaving begins when the next participant takes a line from the original Fitzgerald and uses it to begin a new Fitz of their own. Thus, the first poem is reflected in the second and woven into it as well. The third person takes a line from the second and it goes on.

At the LivePoets Blog http://livepoets.blogspot.com/
you will see several of these woven poems that were begun and continued there.

We will have to see how the flow goes, but I envision it will be quite possible to have several different poems going at the same time so that participants can pick up and weave from an existing poem or begin a new one, if the muse moves them. If this gets too confusing, we’ll pull things back at that time.

In a separate posting I will lay out a Fitzgerald waiting for someone to pick up a line and weave it into something luminous and new. I have designated the poem as Fitzgerald #1. Anyone who picks this particular piece up should add that designation to their heading. I also indicated that it was ‘First Strand.’ When someone picks it up, takes a line and makes their own poem, they will designate that piece as Fitzgerald #1 - Second Strand. The third person will take a line from the second strand and their poem will be Fitzgerald #1 - Third Strand . . . and on it goes. I think this should keep track of things. Keeping track of things is not my long-suit in life, however, so we will see what we will see and perhaps need to be flexible.

And so we begin!

Za vashe zdorovye the weird, wide world! Skal to the dance of words! And of course, and always . . . . . l'chaim ~ to life!

~ Winnie

Here are some sites where you can read about different poetic forms. I can’t find anything on the Fitzgerald . . . maybe we be breaking ground!

http://poetry.about.com/blglossary.htm
http://thewordshop.tripod.com/forms.html
http://www.thepeoplespoet.com/pages/poeticforms.htm
http://poetry.about.com/od/poeticforms/
http://directory.google.com/Top/Arts/Literature/Poetry/Forms/
http://poetry.about.com/blglossary.htm

Fitzgerald #1 - First Strand

Selene Dances the Day

A single star rises above seashelled hills
Velvet twilight wind
Brushes the sky with ebony fingers
The pale numinous moon
Goes out like a candle
Caught in the breath of night
She has already danced the sky for hours
Pearled, translucent
Masquerading against the day
Ethereal, elusive
Whispering . . .
'Nothing is ever
Quite what it seems'

(Edwina Peterson Cross)