Thursday, December 5, 2013

Wrecked by Jim Scott

The Twilight Blue is pleased to introduce the fourth selection
of The Twilight Blue Initiative...

Wrecked...a poem by Jim Scott



Wrecked



He’s dreaming of the shore that he’ll never see once more
And lamenting now his fate so cruelly tossed.
He never thought that life could go so fast,
The shadows of the past are merely all the ghosts of what he’s lost.
He used to run so free when he sailed upon the sea
Never knowing of the ports to which he’d call.
Adventure borne on every southern gale
Which filled his vagrant sail to take him every place and see it all.
 
 
And love he surely knew, whether false or whether true,
From as many girls as he’d seen distant lands.
But now his eyes look back toward the truth,
So hidden in his youth, and tears flow as he quietly understands.
He chose to sail alone, now he’s stranded on his own
With no other soul with whom he might grow old.
He should have settled down and made a home,
But chose instead to roam in search of what adventure’s path might hold.
 
 
His journeys ended here where the waters run so clear,
And tomorrow’s been decided by the past.
He didn’t feel the turning of the tide,
Nor knew the sea might hide the dangers where his future’s now been cast.
He’s grounded high and dry, as the ebbing tide flows by,
In a distant land he’d tried so hard to find.
He wished now that he chose the other tack
That would have sailed him back to places he now yearns for in his mind.
 
 
His keel’s been broke in two. He’s no strength to build anew
And he hasn’t got the spirit, nor the heart.
He’s only got the memory of what’s gone.
He wants to carry on, but doesn’t see at his age how to start.
If only he’d have known of the pains from being alone
When the wind drove him upon this leeward shore,
He never would have set that wayward track
That never took him back to where he thought of settling down before.
 
 
And dreaming of that isle brings a melancholy smile
As he thinks of all the happiness he lost.
That lass he’d left there waving from the sand
With flowers in her hand. This empty soul his wanderlust has cost.
He turns to let the spray wash his bitter tears away
As he curses loud the calling of the sea.
His fists are clenched in anger at the thought
Of life so come to naught. Of prison made from striving to be free.
 
 
He stares upon the waves and imagines there the graves
Of his fellow sailors similarly cast.
He puts another bottle to his lips
And while he quietly sips, the present seems to blur into the past.
And once the bottle’s drained he has youth and heart regained
And forgotten all the sadness of before.
He’s running free again before the breeze
And challenging the seas to carry him away from memory’s shore.
 
 
While stumbling to stand with the bottle in his hand
He is hoisting every sail his dreams can find.
He sees the dolphins phosphorescent trail
Beside the leeward rail. The alcohol, this time is being kind.
And sailing to the shore that he’ll never see once more
He is laughing at his fate so strangely tossed.
Reality could never live this fast,
Through shadows of the past, and wasted opportunities now lost.
His mind is running free as it sails the open sea
Never knowing of the ports to which he’ll call.
A memory on every southern gale
Which filled his younger sail, to take him every place and see it all.
 

 ………….A memory on every southern gale…………
But now those winds must fail………….
There’s no more dreams to sail ………
…………..He’s dreamed them all.





© 1998 Jim Scott. All rights reserved.



Jim Scott was raised in Old Shoreham in the south of England and since leaving school as soon as he was able has travelled pretty much the rest of his life covering "five continents and three oceans" (the title of his first book). Merchant navy apprentice in India, attacked by a rattle snake on the Inca trail, farming during African insurgent war, shipwrecked in Portugal, surfing in Morocco, making dream catchers with a Mohawk shaman in Canada, battling Caribbean hurricanes, coordinating maritime search and rescue missions, commercial diving in the Mediterranean; his numerous real life adventures have inspired the dozens of true stories and scores of lyrical "songs and verses" (his third book's title) he has written. Now at 60, having raised three great kids, for several years as a single dad, he melds the unique experiences of an incredible life with a passion for writing and is soon to publish book 2 to complete the "Wanderings and Sojourns" trilogy (published out of sequence .... a little like his wayward life has been) "On Tropical Islands and Sparkling Seas".


To learn more about author Jim Scott, visit http://www.caridiangroup.com or http://wanderingsandsojourns.com






Wednesday, December 4, 2013

The Session by Lynn Gerrard

The Twilight Blue is pleased to introduce the third selection
of The Twilight Blue Initiative...

The Session...a poem by Lynn Gerrard



The Session…
 
The psychiatrist’s name was Molly
She’d been dead for about 60 years
Her job was to greet the newly deceased
And assuage them regarding their fears.
She’d a nice little vault in the cemetery
Where her counselling sessions took place
But the one she was dealing with currently
Involved a most unusual case.
 
A living soul weeping and wailing
Crept into the crypt one bleak night
Unaware of the councillors presence
Too consumed by her pitiful plight.
Trembling hands held between them a locket
Within which sat an image of old
Where a handsome and happy young couple
Still had all of their dreams to unfold.
 
Molly watched from the shadows with worry
As the old woman, bent in her pain,
Took a packet of pills from her pocket
To be back with her Joe once again!
Now whilst it was never the done thing
For a spirit to interfere with the living
Molly knew if she didn’t do something
She’d be full of ectoplasmic misgivings.
 
So she looked at her list of arrivals
And sure enough there was old Joe
She recalled how he’d settled in nicely
After their chat about one week ago
But her need now was to aid the woman
Whose agonies racked her form still
And persuade her that life was worth living
And stop her from taking the pills!
 
Molly approached the old woman
Whose terrible misery was such
That she had no fear of the apparition
Indeed welcomed her ethereal touch.
Gradually her sobbing subsided
As she listened to Molly’s warm words
Expressing how Joe would be horrified
If she chose to depart from her world.
 
She went on to explain how Joe told her
That Maude was the love of his life
Said he’d look forward to spending Eternity
With his love who had never caused strife.
Molly smiled at the woman and gently
Reassured her that all would be fine
But for now she’d to stay with the living
Until the day it was her time.
 
When that day came Joe would be waiting,
And off they would go hand in hand
Together forever and ever
A joyous reunion as planned.
The old woman seemed much recovered
As she stood and thanked Molly for caring
Her facial expression was brighter
Quite detached from the one she’d been wearing.
 
She told Molly she’d every intention
Of now living her life to the full
Considering what she’d discovered
Her new life would never be dull.
Molly looked lost and quite puzzled
The old woman’s mood had so changed
So she asked what she had discovered
To make her reaction so strange.
The woman’s eyes looked somewhat steel like
As she then told Molly the cause.
Her name was actually Gladys
Her deceased best friend was called Maude!
 

 

© Copyright Lynn Gerrard 2.8.2012

 

 

Lynn Gerrard (aka The Grumbling Gargoyle) is an accomplished poet.  Find more of her incredible work at www.thegrumblinggargoyle.blogspot.com

 Follow her on Twitter @LynnGerrard
 
 
 

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Untitled #13 by Glenn Ghiazza

The Twilight Blue is pleased to introduce the second selection of The Twilight Blue Initiative...

Untitled #13...a poem by Glenn Ghiazza



untitled#13

 

wintry mix, well fuck that shit

let loose the hounds and don't lose hope

full steam ahead it is my friend

and damn to hell that slippery slope

 

a deluge sunders heart and mind

so ride the crest and surf the swell

ferocious gale or salty brine

the battle's on, go give it hell

 

inferno that we hurtle towards

that searing mass of false intrigue

it's this and that and then some more

so soldier on, don't claim fatigue

 

ashes burn, a filthy scar

sense memory, a long lost trail

we forge a path, let’s not forget

the bloody war from which we pale

 

a maelstrom that surrounds us all

and draws us to the great abyss

there is no rest or sweet respite

it‘s life or death or sweetest bliss

 
 
and so we stop and draw a line

the shifting sand, it’s hunger shorn

it buries life’s forgotten souls

and from it springs a life reborn


 

© 2013 Glenn Ghiazza.  All rights reserved.
 
Glenn Ghiazza is an enigma.  Discover more of his work at http://saxophotography.com or
http://lacucinacastano.com

 
 

Monday, December 2, 2013

The Ending by Jim Scott

The Twilight Blue is pleased to introduce the first selection
of The Twilight Blue Initiative...
  
The Ending...a poem by Jim Scott




The Ending


In passions of beginning, accelerating thought,
Our dreams of love were spinning the webs in which were caught
The hopes that should have born us on toward the life that now is gone.
The life that never was, nor could have been.

It died before conception.  Before it witnessed light.
Devoid of loves affection in solitary night

The quiet words we tried to speak of what it was we’d strive to seek

Were never heard, and tears were never seen.

 
Our lives were lived in lying.  Hiding what was true.
Consciences denying, everything we knew

Of all the years that lay behind, with scarce a smile that we could find.

With scarce a word that we might try again.

And knowing it was ending we turned upon the past

Exhausted from pretending that we might make it last.

We turned upon the dreams we dreamed with hatred for their lies which seemed

To magnify our anger and our pain.

So now as we’re departing from what our dreams became.

Alone, are we restarting, or merely just the same?
Though traveling now by different ways through different lives, the future stays

A product of the differences we shared.

We’ll walk in two directions, impossible to cross.

We’ll bear our own reflections of compromise and loss.

And given up we can’t look back to where we left the severed track,

Nor where we joined …........ to see how much we cared…........

…...... When passions of beginning, accelerated thought,

When dreams of love were spinning the webs in which were caught

The hopes that should have born us on …….

…….  toward the life that now is gone.


© 1998 Jim Scott. All rights reserved.



Jim Scott was raised in Old Shoreham in the south of England and since leaving school as soon as he was able has travelled pretty much the rest of his life covering "five continents and three oceans" (the title of his first book). Merchant navy apprentice in India, attacked by a rattle snake on the Inca trail, farming during African insurgent war, shipwrecked in Portugal, surfing in Morocco, making dream catchers with a Mohawk shaman in Canada, battling Caribbean hurricanes, coordinating maritime search and rescue missions, commercial diving in the Mediterranean; his numerous real life adventures have inspired the dozens of true stories and scores of lyrical "songs and verses" (his third book's title) he has written. Now at 60, having raised three great kids, for several years as a single dad, he melds the unique experiences of an incredible life with a passion for writing and is soon to publish book 2 to complete the "Wanderings and Sojourns" trilogy (published out of sequence .... a little like his wayward life has been) "On Tropical Islands and Sparkling Seas".


To learn more about author Jim Scott, visit http://www.caridiangroup.com or http://wanderingsandsojourns.com



Sunday, November 10, 2013

The Invasion of Grey

The invasion of grey
Has since turned white
While the gleam in my eye
Is a little less bright
The ache in my muscles
Is clearly pronounced
Old age is upon me
Without being announced
A wry smile flickers
Betraying cognition
Grim Reaper waits patiently
For my submission


© 2013 Michael P. O’Connor. All rights reserved.



Tuesday, October 1, 2013

Call for Submissions: The Twilight Blue Initiative

It occurred to me after discussing the literary publishing community's apparent indifference to rhyme and the subsequent dearth of publications devoted to traditional, metered, rhyming poetry that a unique responsibility existed.  OCEnterprises Inc. was founded as "an incubator for creative development" to "inspire and nurture your creative spark" and it seems logical to me that The Twilight Blue is the perfect portal to foster a remedy to the decline of rhyme.

The Twilight Blue humbly launches a call for submissions of traditional, metered, rhyming poetry to be selected for posting on The Twilight Blue blog.  It's intended as a first step toward reviving a fading genre.

Criteria for submission is simple.  Maximum of two (2) original compositions of traditional, metered, rhyming poetry.  No other restrictions.

I'm not an expert in what constitutes the above requirements, but I'll be charged with making the selections nonetheless.  If you're curious as to my taste, explore my original work as a guide, but selection will encompass a broader appeal than by what constrains me.  

The Executive Selection Committee (Me, Myself, & I) will select five (5) submissions; each to be posted on The Twilight Blue blog on consecutive days (December 2 - 6, 2013) as well as tweeted on @OCEnterprises Twitter account.  You otherwise retain all rights to your work.  No prizes will be awarded, other than self-satisfaction of contributing to keeping a genre alive, and whatever marginal promotion the effort accomplishes.

You may email submissions to: ocenterprisesinc@yahoo.com

or alternatively, submit them through the contact page on the official OCEnterprises Inc. website.

Please include your name and email address on any submissions. (This information will be used solely to identify your work and contact you, if necessary.)

Deadline for submissions November 30, 2013

Monday, September 30, 2013

Analysis: Is Rhyme Dead?

Why has metered poetry gone the way of the dinosaur?  Or is it just me?  Surely, there are still poets like myself that prefer to write in the "traditional" style.  By that, I mean rhyming poetry with some sort of meter.  I know they exist, but where can you stumble on their work?  In my experience, finding a poetry publication that accepts and spotlights that genre, let alone a publication that exclusively publishes such, is next to impossible.  Those that did are defunct.  I don't get it.

It seems that poetry has evolved from rhyme to free-verse.  Admittedly, I have not learned to appreciate the free-verse art form yet...largely because it often feels like just chopped up prose.  Reading it feels like someone has written a story and then formatted it to appear to have meter.  John Whitworth humorously explored the topic in Able Muse back in 2009.  Like John, I believe in art and I'm not serious either.    I'm not arguing for the exclusivity of one form over the other, just a level playing field.  I'm genuinely perplexed by the lack of interest in rhyme.

I remember the first time I was assigned to write a poem.  I was in 7th grade and the thought of it both petrified and excited me at the same time.  I still have that poem - it rhymed.  Looking back, it was also marginal, but it ignited something in me that persists to this day. 

If you read my Translating the Passion post, you're aware I also try to write song lyrics.  Most songs still rhyme.  I consider songwriters to be today's true poets.

I'd love to hear your views on the decline of rhyme.  If anyone is aware of a publication I've overlooked that still focuses (or doesn't scorn) rhyming poetry, please make me aware.  In the meantime, The Twilight Blue will try to provide a haven for metered rhyme in hopes that it can enjoy a resurgence.

Friday, September 27, 2013

The Cliff (Version 3)

Short sands
Long sands
The Nubble in between
I melt into the sunset
As waves crash
And gulls careen

Lost and found
Safe and sound
Chaos in between
I close my eyes
To dull the pain
Of all that I have seen

Crimson red
Twilight blue
An ocean in between
I let go
Slip off the rock
To pierce aquamarine


© 2012 Michael P. O’Connor. All rights reserved.

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

The Cliff (Version 2)

Short sands
Long sands
The Nubble in between
I melt into the sunset
As waves crash
And gulls careen

Lost and found
Safe and sound
Chaos in between
I close my eyes
To dull the pain
Of all that I have seen

Crimson red
Twilight blue
An ocean in between
I let go
Atop the rock
Tranquil and serene


© 2012 Michael P. O’Connor. All rights reserved.
 
 

Monday, September 23, 2013

The Cliff (Version 1)

Short sands
Long sands
The Nubble in between
I melt into the sunset
As waves crash
And gulls careen

Lost and found
Safe and sound
Chaos in between
I close my eyes
To dull the pain
Of all that I have seen

Crimson red
Twilight blue
An ocean in between
I let go
Slip off the rock
And think what might have been


© 2012 Michael P. O’Connor. All rights reserved.

Sunday, September 22, 2013

Birds

Birds abound
With cackling sound
Across the sky
In treetops high
Wind ensues
Amid the coos
As birds alight
From circled flight



© 2006 Michael P. O’Connor. All rights reserved.
 
 

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

A Momentary Lapse of Creation

"Long story short - it’s often hard to get out of a creative rut. Sometimes the inspiration’s just not there. There’s many ways to fight this but sometimes you just need to forget about it for a while and it will come back. Also, you never know when or where you’ll find the next inspiration and obsession in your life. Just make sure you're open to it when it presents itself."  (read the full post here)

Those are recent words from my friend, Glenn.  Creatively dormant personally for some time now, it's fitting that the return of my own inspiration coincided with my annual trip to the Maine seacoast.  Strangely, however, it was sparked by an entirely new endeavor - a developing passion for photography.  I've always admired the ability to take captivating photos.  It's a skill I have never possessed.  The advent of the iPhone, however, made taking pictures ubiquitous.  Never deluded by that relationship to real photography, I was glad to acquire my daughter's old camera and embark enthusiastically on trying to improve my skills with a half decent piece of equipment.  The inaugural result of that effort can be viewed in the MAINE 2013 album at OC Expressions.

Like Glenn, I decided to wait it out and not force it during my "dry spell."  Instead of voracious writing, I voraciously read.  I also redesigned the OCEnterprises website.  The Maine seacoast has always been a special place for me to renew my focus.  I'm hoping my writing instinct kicks in, but in the meantime, I'm content to rely on the old adage that a picture is worth a thousand words.

Thursday, February 21, 2013

Light

Deep in the void
Where I tremble unseen
Darkness eats the light

Strength radiates
From the core of my soul
Blindness turns to sight

Nothing to fear
But the evil within
Blackness under white

Evil explodes
Grace from high intervenes
Brightness conquers fright



© 2013 Michael O'Connor. All rights reserved



Monday, February 11, 2013

Darkness

I lost myself within the drink
But pushed my way back from the brink
Of despair
Of I don't care
From someplace dark to somewhere

She gave me reason to hope
Strength to loosen the rope
Of despair
Of I don't care
From someplace dark to somewhere

Still hear the rumble of the train
But I'm unshackled from the chain
Of despair
Of I don't care
From someplace dark to somewhere


I found the light
In the pitch black
Now I'm never going back
To despair
To I don't care
To someplace dark from somewhere




© 2013 Michael O'Connor. All rights reserved


 

Saturday, February 9, 2013

Hiatus

Landscape of imagination
Turned to wasteland
As I slept
And the change of seasons
Sapped my strength
Now shortened days grow in length
Giving rise to reasons
To awake
Green shoots from the rusty sand
Creation



© 2013 Michael O'Connor. All rights reserved