Poetry | Page 6 | Fab Forum | The Beatles Bible

mja6758, at first blush with a quick skimming of your poetry, I see such a wonderful variety to keep interest high. I am truly enjoying them.

mja6758 said
Hadn’t noticed this thread before. Here’s one of mine.

Your Hands

Your hands clasped,
prayers for tomorrow?
Your hands holding
out hope for something beyond night
after night
after night.
Your hands reaching
through this pervading darkness,
the candle flickers.
Your hands searching,
match poised,
aiming always to breathe light
into light.
Your hands touching,
but never me,
never mine,
never mind.

I grew up watching the “School House Rock” videos during Saturday morning cartoons. One of them is about inventors and their inventions. The ending goes:

“They made this country really grow, grow, grow, grow
With Mother Necessity and where would we be
Without the inventions of your progeny?”

So is this poem the sigh of resignation of a disillusioned inventor, scientist, painter, songwriter?

Mother Necessity made a plea, a prayer, to one and all to create and innovate to make the world a better, brighter place. She is reaching out through the darkness to help anyone who will turn her thoughts into reality. The breakthrough will come to the one she deems worthy. An eager soul takes up the challenge, but can never make that breakthrough. He sees others around him getting patents and Nobel Prizes. Perhaps Mother Necessity finds our character lacking because he isn’t willing to go out on the cutting edge and really experiment. He is playing it too safe. Perhaps. Or did he just give up in frustration too soon? What would he and Mother Necessity have given the world if he had persisted?

mja6758 said

Bridges

Tonight I think, and think alone,
of all that I have done:
the friends I’ve hurt, the tears I’ve cried,
the fact I’ve only just begun.
The winter it is drawing out
and the snow is starting to fall,
whilst walking by the riverside
I think I hear you call.

I sit here with my memories
and nothing seems worthwhile,
all that remains are photographs
and poems in a file;
moments carefully captured
and stored on bits of paper:
I hid them there so long ago
so I could recall them later.

They tell a story I never could,
things I’d never admit,
like how my words once spoke of beauty
but now just hint at it.
They lay there slowly fading
bringing forth thoughts of yesterday
(people’s faces, forgotten places,
times when things were going my way).

We’d walk along, hand in hand,
stand on the iron bridge.
Slowly you’d wipe away my tears
and silently we’d kiss.
That summer was made of a magic
that had to one day fade and blur,
and what once we viewed as beautiful
has now become a slur.

We’d talk into the cigarette light
of early dawn about love and life —
we’d comfort each other in sadness,
we’d comfort each other in strife.
But now those memories are long gone,
and only return in splashes,
when I’m reminded of your laughter and smile,
your silent midnight splashes.

Now I’m said to be dark and brooding
and in great need of a new love.
No one understands that after loving you
another could never offer enough.
And now I’m so cold and naked and lonely
and praying for a change of heart,
hoping that one day you’ll forget our ending
and dream up a brand new start.

Tonight I think, and think alone,
of all that I have done:
the friends I’ve loved, the smiles of joy,
the fact I’ve only just begun.
The summer is approaching now
and the snow is starting to thaw,
I no longer feel the bitterness felt
when you walked out my door.

First thing that popped into my mind was the song “Diggin’ Up Bones” by Randy Travis.

Now for something more serious and focused. The photographs and poems built a very needed bridge to the past. When the past which starts out as a “winter of discontent” is reached, examined, and dealt with, some type of mental, emotional, and/or spiritual healing takes place and our character can move into the life and future before him like “silver white winters that melt into spring.”

Stanza 6 grabs me as Paul after he lost Linda, but he can never truly have her back. The hope at the end of the stanza isn’t to be for dear Paul. Really, now that I look back and reflect, much more of the poem could be used with the Paul and Linda analogy.

In stanza 3, the image of fading photographs and scraps of paper complement and enhance the character’s sense that his words no longer have the bright, vivid, stereoscopic brilliance they once had.

The second half of stanza 4 makes me think of the scene in “Mary Poppins” when the rain begins to wash away Burt’s chalk drawing on the sidewalk.

From page 2

GniknuS said

I want to write one about the Beatles Bible and how it differs from other sites, so here’s one Johnny and the Moondogs on the spot. I’m a cheesy writer so I apologize in advance…

From the four corners we gather,
these words planning their escape from my head.
We walk the streets unnoticed,
the spindle weaving life upon this thread. (puns are fun)

What seperates this engaging site;
this one from all the rest?
The tangles of confusion leaves a Internet divided,
those simply arguing at their own behest.

Masks of persuasiveness are most certainly donned,
perhaps how we would like to be shown?
For every Mr. Big claiming his rightful prowess,
leaves a hint of deception not fully known.

Then how lucky I am to have found you!
I was just so fully entwined.
Like the slaying of a dragon or some miraculous feat,
the type of search that leaves most resigned.

So the gratitude is quietly flowing,
the drain unplugged as it washes over the floor.
Keeping my spirits high with a quip or a post,
Oh Beatles Bible sounding board!

So here’s to you that have listened,
when my heart was in need of amends.
The web would undoubtedly be a much happier place,
filled with a thousand like mithveaens!

@Joe’s site has been loved for many years. I hope some of the former users check back in with us one of these days.