COME ONE, COME ALL/ June 4
by Carolee, Deb & Jill
It’s show time! It’s time to post your original poem, written in response to Monday’s prompt — where will our wild things be? — or any other inspiration from the week. (We love it when you write to our prompt, but we also love it when you write on a whim. We all know how fickle that muse can be.)
So leave a link to your blog post, or leave your poem itself, in the comments!
Let the show begin! This post is “sticky” — it will stay right here in the spotlight for you all weekend.
Here’s how prompts work under the Big Tent
You’ve got all week to write your poem, based on this week’s prompt. Come Fridays (today!) you’ll find a “Come One, Come All” post (this one!) where you can 1) leave a link to your poem or 2) leave the poem in its entirety.
We want to give you all weekend to post your work and read each others’ work. Take your time. Enjoy all the poems that are new to the world.
Some hints
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Circus etiquette
We figure you know how to play in the poetry community, but here are the basics:
Be nice. Have fun. Remember we aren’t a critique forum. We want to support each other as we bring more poetry into our lives. Only provide critique if someone specifically asks for it.
Although we love seeing our badge in the sidebar of your blog, we would appreciate it if you would also link back to the site in each of your poem posts. Linking within your post helps people travel back and forth from your site to the Big Tent Poetry site, and it helps perpetuate Big Tent Poetry “findability” in Google searches — and that helps us all.
One other thing
So it might be more than one. Read our barkers’ articles, if you haven’t recently. Great stuff. Here’s the list of links.
Oh dear! I’ve had such a hectic week & still not feeling very poetic. I managed to scrape the muse barrel for this one:
Live ‘n’ Kickin’
Memories of wild days
long past,
almost forgotten,
stirred again
as new passions stir,
as a new age is found.
The bass booms out,
the cymbals crash and sing,
a tribal rhythm
beats across the tom-tom array:
blues and soul,
rock ‘n’ roll.
Spirits lifted:
the heart soars,
adrenalin pumps fast and hard
as crisp as the snare drum,
as fierce as the hi-hat hiss:
it’s time to be young once more.
Maybe the gig will end before dawn,
maybe there’ll be more ice-tea
than iced rum,
but old bones carry young souls;
time to start up the band:
one, two, three, four…
For more poetry & the latest podcast click on my name.
Cheers all!
Iain
This is great fun, a barrel of music rather than a barrel of muse!
Ah, I can tell you’re enjoying your drums, Iain. This: “old bones carry young souls” is stunning for me. Thanks!
Thank you
Iain
My poem is here:
The Rag & Bone Shop
My Poem is here: Football Season is Over
what a great weekend of poems, everyone!!!! thank you so much.
Thankyou Deb. I’m hopeless! Please could you tell me how you arrive at the direct link? I only know to copy/paste the address line.
If I could
To travel back in time
Live as a native in the wilderness
Hunt with a bow and arrow
Sleep beneath the stars
To see our continent in all
Its original splendor
The untouched virgin forest
All its green, secret promises
Revealed to me alone
Until the winter winds
Strip the green from the branches
Scatter the small animals and the birds
Where ever you go, you need to find
Food and a place to shelter
Which is how we slowly
Destroyed the mighty forest
Nibbling at its edges, looking
For a small plot of land, but
Large enough to harvest
Food for a growing family
And our people grew and grew
And the wilderness shrank
And we mined the mountains
For metal and toppled the hills
In our search for oil and coal
It was never enough. We know we
Can never go back. Never see the
Continent covered in its original
Splendor. What do we do when
We come to the end of the story
The pitcher of milk empty and dry
The honey gone, the bees flown far away.
I think, Marian, that our written histories may become our myths. Only 2 percent of all water on earth now is unpolluted. Water wars are predicted, and I fear another Thomas Cromwell will come along and cut down all the trees so whatever enemy is feared can be seen clearly. “The honey gone” is a poetic understatement, well said.
This is beautiful Marian. I would love to go there with you. The sadness at the end is real. “If I could” is especially timely when you look at what is happening in the Gulf. Sure, we may cast blame on BP. But almost every one of us contributes to a crisis caused by demand for oil. **Sigh**
I love your poem, thanks for sharing. Brenda
My Wild Things are at followingthelittlegod. Please click on my name.