William Garza
Veteran Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- Camino Frances, The Jakobsweg
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Dear poet, thank you. Just plain thank you.Soon
The White Whisper will be heard on the Camino
Omicient and racial memory hidden in the deeps of DNA
the world will feel once again
Cold.
The cadence slows and the tree knows the suchness of life so dearly that leaves bloom of blood and sun and finally of earth.
They flee the wrath, those born of ancient beyond ancient...for they too remember cold and turn to warmer climes
Soon
The White Whisper will draw upon glass..the spread language of the old hand etching
Winds..soon retching forth horefrost, rhyme and ice
The trees scream out in ectacy and die the little death and only we know of their passing in long winter walks..and their fingers reach toward a cold heaven
Bones rattle in the wind
Remember me.....
Strangers music..flute,whistle and highland pipes are calling,strange to those who flee the poems.
Strangers huddle close over tiny fires against the continental cold-closer than friends and world weary
A thousands year stare between them
Love
Is painfull
Pain-filled
Its cold forbidding..forbidden and to be met with trepedation,sedation and innoculation
No warm whispers here between the lines
Its cold and travelers pay a heavy fine
Pierced in soul and sole
Stigmata to be bourne in silence
Love is pain and rain and indelible stain
Pilgrim drags his foot against the habit of warmth and light and hearthstone.
But he looks into the cold solace
West..
Is not south
It is west
The White Whispers and he listens to the poetry
A pocket full of rot in his head...it takes the leaves and earthen wet
And from cold fertility springs the step
A walk among the old things,primal things.
Winters Pilgrim
Whatever draws you to lonely road and uncertain rest
A certain flocking to the test
May you meet the rising road with joy and soulfull rest.
spellcheck, perhaps?[/QUOTE
perhaps i should stop writing then.
Sorry , what you have to do is Wash your mouth .spellcheck, perhaps?
Soon
The White Whisper will be heard on the Camino
Omicient and racial memory hidden in the deeps of DNA
the world will feel once again
Cold.
The cadence slows and the tree knows the suchness of life so dearly that leaves bloom of blood and sun and finally of earth.
They flee the wrath, those born of ancient beyond ancient...for they too remember cold and turn to warmer climes
Soon
The White Whisper will draw upon glass..the spread language of the old hand etching
Winds..soon retching forth horefrost, rhyme and ice
The trees scream out in ectacy and die the little death and only we know of their passing in long winter walks..and their fingers reach toward a cold heaven
Bones rattle in the wind
Remember me.....
Strangers music..flute,whistle and highland pipes are calling,strange to those who flee the poems.
Strangers huddle close over tiny fires against the continental cold-closer than friends and world weary
A thousands year stare between them
Love
Is painfull
Pain-filled
Its cold forbidding..forbidden and to be met with trepedation,sedation and innoculation
No warm whispers here between the lines
Its cold and travelers pay a heavy fine
Pierced in soul and sole
Stigmata to be bourne in silence
Love is pain and rain and indelible stain
Pilgrim drags his foot against the habit of warmth and light and hearthstone.
But he looks into the cold solace
West..
Is not south
It is west
The White Whispers and he listens to the poetry
A pocket full of rot in his head...it takes the leaves and earthen wet
And from cold fertility springs the step
A walk among the old things,primal things.
Winters Pilgrim
Whatever draws you to lonely road and uncertain rest
A certain flocking to the test
May you meet the rising road with joy and soulfull rest.
and the best line... the last one.I appreciate the feedback.
I dont believe Harington meant any harm.
My writing is far from conventional and i will mangle the syntax,punctuation and general rules with happy abandon as long as i can get the idea across,
Spellcheck...i dont use it because it will mess with my word flow as i write stream if concious.Apple is THE worst for this.
My muse works best when i am very tired and at the same time my eyes grow blurry..i too dislike mispelled words..i hate autospell stopping my flow worse,
No harm done and no offence taken over a gentle suggestion!
I will continue to mangle the spoken word for my ends!
I could not..should not stop writing...if 8 neglect a gift it will be taken ruthlessly away and never to return.
Its all music
Language
Poetry
Spoken words
Intrumental,..the lyrical inflections,declensions and other intonations
Poetry for me is putting what i see..expressing the totality of emotions and physicality into words
The best poetry is honest dialog between friends.
think this is a lovely piece of work. Perhaps its the Celt in me but it certainly resonates as if I knew the theme from some time ago. Thank you.
The malingerer
I thought the empty comment showed promise. Please let's not discourage him.✓William Garza
X empty comment
I can understand your dislike of spellcheckers but correct punctuation and spaces are always worth consideration.I appreciate the feedback.
I dont believe Harington meant any harm.
My writing is far from conventional and i will mangle the syntax,punctuation and general rules with happy abandon as long as i can get the idea across,
Spellcheck...i dont use it because it will mess with my word flow as i write stream if concious.Apple is THE worst for this.
My muse works best when i am very tired and at the same time my eyes grow blurry..i too dislike mispelled words..i hate autospell stopping my flow worse,
No harm done and no offence taken over a gentle suggestion!
I will continue to mangle the spoken word for my ends!
I could not..should not stop writing...if 8 neglect a gift it will be taken ruthlessly away and never to return.
Its all music
Language
Poetry
Spoken words
Intrumental,..the lyrical inflections,declensions and other intonations
Poetry for me is putting what i see..expressing the totality of emotions and physicality into words
The best poetry is honest dialog between friends.
"Is not southSoon
The White Whisper will be heard on the Camino
Omicient and racial memory hidden in the deeps of DNA
the world will feel once again
Cold.
The cadence slows and the tree knows the suchness of life so dearly that leaves bloom of blood and sun and finally of earth.
They flee the wrath, those born of ancient beyond ancient...for they too remember cold and turn to warmer climes
Soon
The White Whisper will draw upon glass..the spread language of the old hand etching
Winds..soon retching forth horefrost, rhyme and ice
The trees scream out in ectacy and die the little death and only we know of their passing in long winter walks..and their fingers reach toward a cold heaven
Bones rattle in the wind
Remember me.....
Strangers music..flute,whistle and highland pipes are calling,strange to those who flee the poems.
Strangers huddle close over tiny fires against the continental cold-closer than friends and world weary
A thousands year stare between them
Love
Is painfull
Pain-filled
Its cold forbidding..forbidden and to be met with trepedation,sedation and innoculation
No warm whispers here between the lines
Its cold and travelers pay a heavy fine
Pierced in soul and sole
Stigmata to be bourne in silence
Love is pain and rain and indelible stain
Pilgrim drags his foot against the habit of warmth and light and hearthstone.
But he looks into the cold solace
West..
Is not south
It is west
The White Whispers and he listens to the poetry
A pocket full of rot in his head...it takes the leaves and earthen wet
And from cold fertility springs the step
A walk among the old things,primal things.
Winters Pilgrim
Whatever draws you to lonely road and uncertain rest
A certain flocking to the test
May you meet the rising road with joy and soulfull rest.
Oh I see, having posted as I did I was then a little concerned in case you might be dyslexic (like my younger daughter).My mangling of the english language is purely and deidedly intentional..as are many punctuation"mistakes"
It is free form poetry...to be read as such and taken at face value.
Here in the states correcting others language and punctuation is considered bad form.
I think written language is an art form never to be limited nor constrained by mere formalities.
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