mermaidcamp
Keeping current in wellness, in and out of the water
You can scroll the shelf using ← and → keys
You can scroll the shelf using ← and → keys
No need to travel to Memphis to feel the vibe
Of the omnipresent monarch of the rock’n roll tribe
He will haunt our memories and dreams
Forever flowing through the connected streams
Where music has traveled in space, breadth and time
Still it is ruled by Elvis Presley in his prime
His signature moves and deep smooth voice
Will often by copied, and for this we rejoice
Feel free to draw down his spirit as your inspiration
He will rain his blessings on your Elvis impersonation
Join poets around the globe to read, write, recite and enjoy poetry in the month of April. #NaPoWriMo website can introduce you to loads of poetic talent. Also, find more poetic fun by following these hashtags on social media. This exciting experiment is open to everyone.
I find that after a weekend away that I am far behind
In my goal to write a poem each day in April this year
Instead of writing poems I left my home and daily grind
To drive in the desert and sleep where I could not hear
A single sound in the night while wildlife crept around
A tiny slice of pristine wilderness preserved for the future
Join the poetry party all month at #NaPoWriMo website, or by following the hashtags on social media. Read, write, recite , enter contests, and find new poets. Somehow today I will catch up by writing two more poems. Then my guilt will be gone.
When history is reviewed in full and we need to name us
The most outrageous public acts throughout the ages
Time will tell who will become the most famous ignoramus
Each era sees the living proof politics are a scary spoof
Only in retrospect will we be able to judge all presidents
Warriors, princes, rebels and kings against all other things
My poem today is inspired by a letter written by Jean-Paul Sartre that contains wisdom I appreciate written in a way I adore:
My dear,
There may be more beautiful times, but this one is ours.
Look back, look forth, look close, there may be more prosperous times, more intelligent times, more spiritual times, more magical times, and more happy times, but this one, this small moment in the history of the universe, this is ours.
And let’s do everything with it. Everything.
Falsely yours,
Jean-Paul Charles Aymard Sartre
Read other poetry at the #NaPoWriMo site and on social media by using these hashtags: Enjoy this month long celebration by finding new poets.
Our secret lagoon was devastated in the storm
Rain pounded the boats, sinking a few of them
Floods of turbid high water with debris swirled
All night we hid in the caves to stay dry and warm
At dawn we climbed down to find our vessels
Had been torn to pieces, then washed out to sea
The retreating water carves a steep sand ledge
We find a few remnants of our water logged possessions
The sun now shines on the beach with apparent calm
Leaving no evidence of everything we have lost
This photo comes from Sue Vincent’s Echo. Each week she inspires writers to interpret a photo. Find the work of these talented writers each week in the Echo. Also, get your poet on this month for National Poetry Writing Month.
Find the freshest, most attractive produce in the aisle
Cook it as little as possible in order to create a masterpiece
To satisfy all your senses, to tempt your tastebuds in style
Consider presentation, flavor balance, and prep with ease
Jars of layered salads, wraps, burritos, and quinoa bowls
Bring out the healthy chef within to take care of nutrition
Take gourmet living seriously by designing a diet for souls
To live in balance with nature is a healing prescription
This poetic invitation to vegetarians on Mondays is inspired by the #veggiepoetry people on twitter. I stopped eating meat in 1969, and do not miss it, so this is a sincere recommendation. It is also my daily poem for National Poetry Writing Month. Find more poetry at the #NaPoWriMo site.
The bunny is no fool who visits my house with loot
He can easily see that we eat salsa of every kind
But shun the chocolate candy, don’t even think it is cute
So he reached into his basket while reading my mind
He left us a batch of perfectly ripe tomatoes, ready to chop
For dessert he left us watermelons, then down the trail he hopped
I wish all the gentle readers a happy Easter Sunday. May the bunny grant your fondest wishes. Please join poets all over the world in April for #NaPoWriMo. Read, write, recite all month.
The Holy Ones created all the root vegetables, the ground provisions,
Then scattered them across the earth to feed man and beast
The French got all the radishes, the Russians got the beets
Yams and sweet potatoes grew all over the southern lands
Generously rewarding any farmer who buried them in sand
Ireland had plenty of potatoes, until crop failure let them down
Turnips were pickled in pink brine, prized in Middle Eastern towns
The devil slipped in and made away with the rutabaga on his fork
He took it to the underworld, where his finest vintage he uncorked
I will send you back to the mortals, but with a distinctive smell
There will be no doubt when you are cooked that you have been to hell
He sent them all to Scandinavia, where they are lucky to grow anything to eat
The people all said hallelujah these giant turnips are delicious and sweet
(Then they pissed on some fish and buried it in the frozen ground for a few months)
Today’s poem in #NaPoWriMo is dedicated to my erstwhile roommate from South Carolina. Her parents had a truly awesome garden, and her mom made the best canned tomatoes in the universe. However, they also grew the evil rutabaga, which she imported to our North Carolina home, and cooked. The first time I smelled it I thought a dog had died in the house. It left a lasting impression. When I learned there is such a thing as #VeggiePoetry I knew I had to try at least one during April. Tune in to these and other poems at the #NaPoWriMo site. Don’t be shy. Write an ode to a veggie you love…or detest..you may find the #veggiepoet within.
Druid stoners on equinox standing out in a field
Worshiped the earth and stars in mystic trances
A circle of magical intensity designed to conceal
The secrets of the forefathers who designed the dances
Bringing forth life, then harvesting it defined the seasons
Survival depended on the inherited wisdom and reason
The ancients passed down in ceremony, song, and fable
These figures stand to represent all of our history we know
Our ancestors who haunt this hill held ceremonies long ago
This enigmatic photo comes from Sue Vincent’s Echo, where each Thursday she holds a #writephoto party for anyone who wants to interpret the picture of the week. It is also #NaPoWriMo all month in April. You may find some mighty fine poets at the National Poetry Writing Month site. Enjoy following these hashtags all month and see where it leads you.
I have a special treat for my gentle readers today. My good digital friend Marjorie Clayman is my guest today. We probably met on twitter, being a little silly, but over the years I have come to really appreciate Margie’s attitude. She spends a great deal of her time crafting hand made items of the useable sort, which she donates to those who need it the most at the time. She is not only a powerhouse of crafty artful blankets and hats, but also is pretty crafty as a wordsmith. She works in public relations, so words are her stock in trade. Margie adds her own personal commitment to a better world to all her communications. She brings us a story about war and the way it leaves lasting impressions. Without further ado, I bring you Ms Clayman:
The other day, in honor of the 100th anniversary of the US entering World War I, I attended a commemorative event filled with speakers and musicians. One of the singers sang a song called “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag and Smile, Smile, Smile.” The singer, in a laid back tone of voice common to folk singers, talked about how the song had been written by two brothers. One of the brothers, Felix Powell, performed the song for soldiers all along the WWI front. The song became popular again during the Second World War and resurfaced once more during the Vietnam War.
You are thinking that this is a feel-good story at this point. You might think that even more so when you learn, as I did via this article (http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/music/features/chapter-and-verse-the-surprising-story-of-the-song-pack-up-your-troubles-in-your-old-kit-bag-2124620.html) that the brothers submitted the song to a contest as a joke. They thought it was a dud. When they won first price they thought it was hilarious, and Felix decided to take that opportunity to win some fame. What are the chances?
Sadly, however, the story did not end happily for Felix Powell. This is not a story of rags to riches, per se. Rather, this is a story about the humbling and very real impact of gruesome warfare.
When Powell first got to the front lines, he felt really good about himself, as anyone would. His song was hopeful. Cheerful.
“Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, And smile, smile, smile, While you’ve a lucifer to light your fag, Smile, boys, that’s the style. What’s the use of worrying? It never was worthwhile, so Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, And smile, smile, smile.”
Powell was giving these boys a happy message while they tried to survive, far from home.
As the war dragged on, however, Powell began to see just how tragic trench warfare was. He visited battlefield after battlefield, and it dawned on him that these boys were dying. Thousands of them were dying. They were undertaking the ultimate sacrifice, in fact, and he was strumming away at them asking them to smile smile smile. According to the singer at my concert, as well as the article posted above, Powell began to see the contradiction between his light-hearted message and the world he and these boys were actually living in. He became filled with regret, and he never really was the same.
Powell pursued some other writing opportunities after WWI, but he had a rough time of it. When the Second World War broke out and the song gained popularity with a new generation of fighters, you can imagine him grimacing. Now his song was going to be used to make light of more young men marching towards death.
In 1942, Powell, who had entered his town’s Home Guard, dressed himself in his uniform, took his assigned rifle, and aimed at his heart. It is a shocking mark of how much his experiences had impacted him, and perhaps how much regret had come to overshadow any level of success he had ever enjoyed.
I found this story to be deeply moving. Many entertainers, of course, have gone overseas to try to cheer up the troops. You never really think how that impacts those celebrities, though. How can you perform with joy and verve and cheer when you know that you are trying to raise peoples’ spirits who could be killed on the field? It puts war itself, as well as entertainment tied to war, into a very real, and oft overlooked, perspective.
What happened to our capacity to judge complete dreck from veracity?
How low will we need to go before we recognize the well disguised foe?
Supporting wolves in sheep’s’ clothing will replace our peace with loathing
Pull the wool from over your eyes, look directly at the reasons they lie.
Please join poets from around the world to ride the poetry train in April. Read, write, recite, or compete in one of the many contests. Check out the action here.