Cranberry Magic Nights
Come walk with me in misty Time,
On Cranberry Isle by the Shining Sea.
The everyday World will morph sublime,
While a spotty dog dances down a path of mine.
Mushrooms dance in the moonlit breeze-
Ferns nod in other-worldly knowing.
Woodsprites gather round our knees,
To guide our greeny ghostly going.
Talking deer lie under breathing trees,
Sipping nectar from the leaves.
Painted birds sway and dance in lines-
twittering secrets in nursery rhymes.
A mossy patch on a fallen tree
Is as strange as any flower
In Rouseau's jungle bower-
"Infinity lives in a grain of sand-
And Eternity in an hour."
We are two flickering lights on a Wine Dark Sea-
Melded Minds wade barefoot in reality
Our souls adrift in crystal clear Tranquility-
The World evolves into a Universal "We".
So sit with me in the interstices
Of Silence and slow Time,
Wade barefoot in Reality,
On Cranberry Isle by the Shining sea
~Unknown: (Assumed Paul Liebow)
On Cranberry Isle by the Shining Sea.
The everyday World will morph sublime,
While a spotty dog dances down a path of mine.
Mushrooms dance in the moonlit breeze-
Ferns nod in other-worldly knowing.
Woodsprites gather round our knees,
To guide our greeny ghostly going.
Talking deer lie under breathing trees,
Sipping nectar from the leaves.
Painted birds sway and dance in lines-
twittering secrets in nursery rhymes.
A mossy patch on a fallen tree
Is as strange as any flower
In Rouseau's jungle bower-
"Infinity lives in a grain of sand-
And Eternity in an hour."
We are two flickering lights on a Wine Dark Sea-
Melded Minds wade barefoot in reality
Our souls adrift in crystal clear Tranquility-
The World evolves into a Universal "We".
So sit with me in the interstices
Of Silence and slow Time,
Wade barefoot in Reality,
On Cranberry Isle by the Shining sea
~Unknown: (Assumed Paul Liebow)
posted by dyingember at 11:04 PM
4 Comments:
I love the words in this poem. I love the imagery. It took me to another place, a place of beauty. This is the sort of poem I might have read as a child. It brought images back into my head when so often there is only dark emptiness. The rhythm sucks. The rhyming is kind of nauseating. This poem made me realize, though, truly how important paying attention to rhyme and rhythm is. I partially want to write this poet and tell, but I'm not sure. I don't wish to insult. This poem DID do what poetry ought to do. It took me somewhere. It brought me to truth. Yet, so sloppily done I feel it is a bit ...well... sad is the correct word for it.
And yet, it reminds me of a time when I didn't pay attention to rhyme or reason either. A time when I was free of that worry. I could enjoy life without sweating the small stuff.
This man isn't a poet by profession. He's an emergency room physician.
You would understand the meaning of this poem if you had the chance to visit Great Cranberry Island, Maine. Your ridiculous word choices ("sucks", "kind of nauseating", "sad") in fact nauseate me. Open your mind before you judge something as beautiful and real as this.
www.cranberryisles.com/poems-paul-liebow.html
http://www.penobscotriver.org/content/4050/Poetry/
www.virtualwall.org/db/BedworthGB01a.htm
http://www.iwvpa.net/liebowpa/index.php
Who is Anonymous, besides me??
Moonrise
Sometimes the moon comes up slowly,
a musk-rose blooming on a wine-dark sea
Sometimes it's a furious fire-balloon
which seems to be chasing me.
Sometimes the moon flies up quickly,
a little bird just out of my reach.
Sometimes it hangs like a basket of gold,
or ripens slowly like a peach.
Sometimes the moon is a ghost ship
sailing softly in silver shroud.
Sometimes it's hidden completely,
like an Angel asleep in a cloud.
Sometimes the moon is a Faberge egg,
hiding in a Paisley sky.
Sometimes it's just the face of a friend,
coming over the hill to say "Hi!"
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