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Pastimes : Calling all SI Poets -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: AugustWest who wrote (1586)	6/16/1998 12:46:00 PM
From: Rick Julian	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 2095

chair made form armrests worn world in a window cracks on walls daylight crawls fan spins above me comfort is a drug

To: AugustWest who wrote (1586)	6/19/1998 11:53:00 PM
From: Susan Saline	Respond to of 2095

The Most Beautiful Flower The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree. Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown, For the world was intent on dragging me down. And if that weren't enough to ruin my day, A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play. He stood right before me with his head tilted down And said with great excitement, "Look what I found!" In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight, With its petals all worn - not enough rain, or too little light. Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play, I faked a small smile and then shifted away. But instead of retreating he sat next to my side And placed the flower to his nose And declared with overacted surprise, "It sure smells pretty and it's beautiful, too. That's why I picked it; here, it's for you." The weed before me was dying or dead. Not vibrant of colors: orange, yellow or red. But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave. So I reached for the flower, and replied, "Just what I need." But instead of him placing the flower in my hand, He held it midair without reason or plan. It was then that I noticed for the very first time That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind. I heard my voice quiver; tears shone in the sun As I thanked him for picking the very best one. You're welcome," he smiled, and then ran off to play, Unaware of the impact he'd had on my day. I sat there and wondered how he managed to see A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree. How did he know of my self-indulged plight? Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight. Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see The problem was not with the world; the problem was me. And for all of those times I myself had been blind, I vowed to see the beauty in life, And appreciate every second that's mine. And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose And smiled as I watched that young boy, Another weed in his hand, About to change the life of an old man.

To: AugustWest who wrote (1586)	6/20/1998 2:01:00 AM
From: gypsy	Read Replies (2) \| Respond to of 2095

August, hope you like Middle Eastern poetry! Butterflies I look for the dancers I came to see, but no one stands out, it's not like I thought it would be. No kohl darkened eyes or flowing gypsy hair nor gold coins adorning swirling skirts that flair. Instead, I see several women seated at a table so quietly. Conversing softly - they look so ordinary to me. Bedecked not in jewels but in caftans, plain and dull. All just kind of average, no special presence or hypnotic pull. But as I turn to leave something catches my attention just a sliver of sparkle - not really much to mention. Then bare toes peeking beneath the hem of their covers, reds, pinks, and purples like petals on flowers. In the blink of an eye, a desert wind seems to stir across the room. The music begins, zills raise, covers drop, and a rainbow of colors bloom, as a flash flood of coins and bangles shimmer across the floor. Now, this is more in keeping with Middle Eastern lore. Before my very eyes, these ordinary women, why they could be you or me, emerge like butterflies from drab cocoons, beautiful and sensual for all to see. The magic takes hold as the rhythmic drums pulse through my heart, and my head swirls dizzily with each beaded skirt. All that was hidden is now revealed, not just flesh or the glitter of their wear, but that secret self, the essence of being a woman, self-confident and self-aware. I want -- no, I need -- to be one of them, to feel that inspiration, to be secure in the knowledge that each of us is a unique and exotically beautiful creation. Rose M. Salinas