Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts

Sunday, March 26, 2023

ChatGPT's rewriting of two of my poems

ChatGPT actually rewrote my poems when asked to; it didn't just make grammatical and/or vocabulary revisions like Bing. But I have the feeling that Bing would do more extensive rewrites if asked in a more specific way. I'll test it. Dealing with ChatGPT was a more impersonal experience than that with Bing, which I also found interesting. Here are ChatGPT's poetic attempts for my poems Transience and Entropy from Parables & Voices.  

I couldn't test Google's Bard, because it is currently not supported in Norway. Stay tuned. 


1. Transient Visions    (ChatGPT's poem, a rewriting of my poem Transience)

I glimpse with clarity,
the fleetingness of life.
Aware that every breath,
brings us closer to our demise.

Each season, every sunset,
a reminder of time's flight.
Even the moments we cherish,
eventually fade from sight.

Sorting through the moments,
like wheat from chaff we sift.
Holding onto wisdom,
while memories fade and drift.

I see with clarity,
yet darkness lurks behind.
For even visions transient,
will vanish from the mind.

------------------------

Transience  (my poem) 


I see with vision clearer,
The transience of life.
I am aware of life ending,
In every season and every evening.
Even the moments of the day
Fade to dusk and then into oblivion.
One separates the wheat from the chaff
And stores away those memories and thoughts
That are to be used in the making of wisdom;
Not all can be retained, possessed or hoarded.

I see with vision clearer, and then with vision darkened, 
For not even the vision remains
For more than just a moment. 

---------------------------------------------------------------

2. The Pull Towards Disorder    (ChatGPT's rewriting of my poem Entropy) 

All things seem to move
Towards chaos and disorder,
Without great effort and care
To resist the pull towards disorder.

In life, in love, we find
Our choices are like crossroads,
One path leads towards order,
While the other descends into chaos.

Love, at its best, brings order
Elevating our spirits and nature.
But when love is lost, entropy reigns
Disorder triumphs, and limits vanish.

Truth is a beacon of order,
Guiding us towards holy life.
Evil, on the other hand, leads to entropy
The road paved with choices that defy order.

---------------------------
Entropy   (my poem) 

All things, it seems
Tend to disorder
Without massive efforts
To prevent this.

In life, in love
The tendencies, the choices, 
All are crossroads, forked paths--
One to order, one to entropy.

Love, it will be said, promotes order, 
Elevates man's nature and his spirit.
But love destroyed is entropy defined--
Where limits cease existence; disorder thrives.

Truth is order, and a life defined thereby
Is holy and promotes the same in others.
Evil is the path to entropy, the road
Paved with choices that defy order.
-------------------------------------

Asking an AI chatbot to rewrite two of my poems

I've been reading a lot about the different AI chatbots that exist, and if you want to read a good article about comparisons among them, try this one: AI chatbots compared: Bard vs. Bing vs. ChatGPT - The Verge. I was curious as to how Bing would answer me when I asked it to rewrite two of my poems from my previously-published collection Parables & Voices. I started with Bing's AI chatbot. It was interesting to deal with it; firstly, it is very polite and nice, so if your questions are civil and reasonably intelligent, you will get civil and reasonably intelligent answers. I was not interested in challenging it in any way, nor in being rude in my interactions with it. I asked it to rewrite two of my poems and it did so. In both cases it made one or two grammatical and vocabulary revisions, nothing more, which I found interesting. 

I then asked it to write poems that dealt with the same themes, which it did. I'm posting the poems here. It then wrote the following: "I hope you like it! Is there anything else I can help you with?" It's clear to me that the responses it provides are very much dependent on how in-depth or superficial the questions are. I have to admit that it felt a bit strange to deal with the chatbot, but it did not scare me off. This is the new frontier, after all, and I am curious by nature. I can definitely see how these chatbots might be a useful tool, as long as one does not rely on them for creativity purposes. Regardless, as a writer, I think that the poems I wrote are subtler and better-written than the ones written by Bing, so I don't fear for the future in that regard. But of course I am being subjective. Being creative is an inner and quite personal process, as individual as the billions of people inhabiting the earth. Perhaps there will come a day when AI will be as or more creative as humans are. When that day comes, who owns the copyright to what the chatbots have written? 


1. Transience

I see with vision clearer,
The transience of life.
I am aware of life ending,
In every season and every evening.
Even the moments of the day
Fade to dusk and then into oblivion.
One separates the wheat from the chaff
And stores away those memories and thoughts
That are to be used in the making of wisdom;
Not all can be retained, possessed or hoarded.

I see with vision clearer, and then with vision darkened, 
For not even the vision remains
For more than just a moment. 
----------------------------------------

Bing's response when I asked it to write a poem based on the same themes--"Sure! Here's a poem I came up with":

Transience (Bing AI's poem) 

The fleeting moments of life,
Like sand slipping through our fingers,
Remind us of our mortality,
And how we're just mere mortals.
The memories we hold dear,
Are like precious gems in our hearts,
That we cherish and hold onto,
As we journey through life's paths.
But even these memories fade,
As time marches on relentlessly,
And we're left with nothing but echoes,
Of what once was and what could be.
So let us live in the present moment,
And make the most of every day,
For life is but a fleeting moment,
That can slip away in the blink of an eye.

----------------------------------------------------------------

2. Entropy   (my poem) 

All things, it seems
Tend to disorder
Without massive efforts
To prevent this.

In life, in love
The tendencies, the choices,
All are crossroads, forked paths--
One to order, one to entropy.

Love, it will be said, promotes order,
Elevates man's nature and his spirit.
But love destroyed is entropy defined--
Where limits cease existence; disorder thrives.

Truth is order, and a life defined thereby
Is holy and promotes the same in others.
Evil is the path to entropy, the road
Paved with choices that defy order.
```

Bing's poem based on the same themes:

The Path of Life    (Bing AI's poem) 

Life is a journey full of choices,
A path that's winding and full of voices,
That whisper in our ears and guide us along,
As we journey through life's paths.

Some paths lead to order and truth,
While others lead to chaos and ruthlessness,
And it's up to us to choose the right path,
That leads to a life of purpose and meaning.

Love is a force that can guide us along,
A beacon of light in the darkness of life,
That can help us find our way back home,
When we're lost and alone in the night.

But love can also be a force for destruction,
A raging fire that consumes everything in its path,
Leaving nothing but ashes and ruins behind,
And a heart that's broken and shattered.

So let us choose the path of life with care,
And walk with purpose and meaning every day,
For life is but a fleeting moment in time,
That can slip away in the blink of an eye.
```

Wednesday, January 25, 2023

A beautiful poem--Safely Home

This poem is considered to be a funeral poem and is often used for prayer cards. Jean sent it to me today and I'm posting it here so that all those who have lost loved ones can find comfort in the words. I don't know who the poet is, but the poem is a poignant reminder that our loved ones who have passed on made the journey safely to heaven and that they will be waiting for us when our time comes.

 















Tuesday, January 3, 2023

Train from Michigan--one of my early poems

I wrote this poem in 1988, three years after my father died, and published it in my first-ever collection of poems--Parables and Voices. I've decided to share some of my early poetry with you, as an introduction to my poetry writing. I've been writing for years, ever since I was fourteen years old. Poetry is a wonderful way to express one's feelings, and oftentimes one ends up with a poem that one could never have predicted from the outset. Train from Michigan is one of those poems.


Train from Michigan   


I dreamed then of my father, I was

On the train; outside a yellow moon

Full-light circle against the blue-black sky.

His face came into memory

As I drifted in the sleep of transit,

That is uneasy and unsettled.

We crossed, from Michigan into Ohio,

The train's whistle blowing lonely

As though miles ahead of us--

Yet ever with us through the night.

I thought the thoughts of transit--

My father, dead these three years,

Perhaps traveled this same train

Bound from Michigan to New York.

He knew people in the north of Michigan,

Farmers and ultimately life-long friends.

I see his face, with me always.

My head rests lightly against the train window--

When I awake it is because my head has banged 

And fallen against the window, jarring me.


I visit friends, they live in Michigan now

Having moved there from New York; hence my trip's purpose.

I meet new people on the way to visit old friends,

And think about old friendships as I make my way home.

New people I am always letting in; they find me or

We find each other--one in particular spoke of kindred spirits

On our way out to Michigan; his words surprised me.

Do they, these spirits, find each other?

Are we all in search of one?


About trains, I know they draw me so,

Luring me with the call to adventure,

Like a call to arms.

I boarded one, bound for Michigan,

And then one back, to New York.

Time spread out over hours of track--

Moving me, my life, along,

From one point to another.

Spreading me out, thin, fluid,

Over time which is suddenly the merger

Of past, present, future.

Like liquid spreading I see my life

Moving over these tracks, out and beyond,

Expanding to assimilate Michigan

As I have before incorporated other states

And other countries, American and European.

A fear that I can never belong to someone--

How could one keep me from flooding

Past the walls and out into the open spaces?

It is an abstract love of world I feel,

A pull to know what is unknown, but knowable.

To care for it, about it, accept it for itself, 

The planet, the globe, its rivers and its land,

The farms and their greenness in the summer--

The land you pass through while travelling on a train.

Small towns and the people in them, suburbs and large cities,

Unknown, but knowable.

I look out, I know this river--

I grew up along it, knowing it stretched

For miles, out of my reach--I see it now

In places I never knew before

And feel the vastness of its beauty.

Back in New York, I grew up here,

But I have grown beyond it.


Copyright Paula Mary De Angelis, from Parables and Voices, published in 2011 and available on Amazon: Parables and Voices: A Collection of Poems 1973-2009: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9781452838762: Amazon.com: Books  


Wednesday, October 19, 2022

Souls that are lit (I love this imagery)

Those of you who read my blog know that I am a poetry lover. I appreciate poetry in all formats--rhymed, unrhymed, haiku, song lyrics, experimental--the list is endless. As long as the emotions expressed are pure, that's all that matters to me. And there is something about poetry that brings out pure, raw emotion, in a way that no other form of writing quite manages to do, in my humble opinion. 

This poem by Clarissa Pinkola Estés provides food for thought in an increasingly crazy world. I love the imagery--souls that are lit can light other souls that are struggling. Beautiful and kind thoughts......


You Were Made For This


Ours is not the task of fixing the 
entire world all at once, but of 
stretching out to mend the part 
of the world that is within our 
reach.
 
Any small, calm thing that one 
soul can do to help another soul, 
to assist some portion of this 
poor suffering world, will help 
immensely. 

It is not given to us to know 
which acts or by whom, will cause 
the critical mass to tip toward an 
enduring good. 

What is needed for dramatic 
change is an accumulation of 
acts, adding, adding to, adding 
more, continuing. 

We know that it does not take 
everyone on Earth to bring 
justice and peace, but only a 
small, determined group who will 
not give up during the first, 
second, or hundredth gale.

One of the most calming and 
powerful actions you can do to 
intervene in a stormy world is 
to stand up and show your soul. 
Soul on deck shines like gold in 
dark times. The light of the soul 
throws sparks, can send up 
flares, builds signal fires, causes 
proper matters to catch fire. 

To display the lantern of soul in 
shadowy times like these, to be 
fierce and to show mercy toward 
others; both are acts of immense 
bravery and greatest necessity.
Struggling souls catch light from 
other souls who are fully lit and 
willing to show it. If you would 
help to calm the tumult, this is 
one of the strongest things you 
can do.

There will always be times when 
you feel discouraged. I too have 
felt despair many times in my life, 
but I do not keep a chair for it. 
I will not entertain it. It is not 
allowed to eat from my plate.
In that spirit, I hope you will 
write this on your wall: 
"When a great ship is in 
harbor and moored, 
it is safe, 
there can be no doubt. 
But that is not what 
great ships are built for."

🌊 Clarissa Pinkola Estés

Monday, October 17, 2022

And a poem, Out There Alone, from my upcoming collection

Out there alone

 

There you were, little baby gull
Early evening, in the middle of the busy street
Lit by street lamps
Standing alone
Watching the cars pass you by
Buses too
We stopped to watch you
Hoping that no car would hit you.
 
A predicament
I wonder what you thought
Out there alone
Without your mother.
Did you lose her
Or she you?
You were stunned, disoriented
Had you already been grazed
By a car or scooter?
You bent down to peck at something on the pavement
And let it drop. Were you hungry?
 
I couldn’t let you
Stand alone, unsure
Of where to go, where to step
Every move fraught with peril
You would have been crushed
By a car, by a bus
Even though they tried
To steer clear of you.
It was dark.
 
I ask, what we are doing to nature,
To the wildlife that more and more
Seeks refuge in towns and cities
Gulls fly into the city now
Circling overhead, I watch you all
From my kitchen window
You learn our ways
But they are not your ways
 
You eat our food
But it is not your food.
Your food belongs to the sea and its bounty
You belong there too
Had it not been for your being a wild bird
I would have scooped you up in my arms
And taken you home and cared for you
In case you were sick
 
As it was, I could not leave you
To fend for yourself
Watching you commit a form of suicide.
Would you choose that, would you even know
That you were doing so?
 
I walked into the lamp-lit street
To meet you, no oncoming cars to stop me
I thought I might have to gather you in my arms
But no, it was enough that I talked to you
And told you to leave the street
You walked in front of me to the curb
And then hopped up onto the sidewalk
And walked away up along the hilly side street.
 
But you did not fly away
You were not afraid of cars, nor of me
As I clapped my hands and talked to you
So that you would choose life
And not death
On a dark city street.
You should have been afraid.
I would not have hurt you for the world
But cars and buses behave otherwise
You trust, but trust will be your downfall.


Copyright 2022 Paula Mary De Angelis 
All rights reserved 

Sunday, October 16, 2022

Two good poems by Charles Bukowski

they are everywhere


the tragedy-sniffers are all
about.
they get up in the morning
and begin to find things
wrong
and they fling themselves
into a rage about
it,
a rage that lasts until
bedtime,
where even there
they twist in their
insomnia,
not able to rid their
mind
of the petty obstacles
they have
encountered.
they feel set against,
it's a plot.
and by being constantly
angry they feel that
they are constantly
right.
you see them in traffic
honking wildly
at the slightest
infraction,
cursing,
spewing their
invectives.
you feel them
in lines
at banks
at supermarkets
at movies,
they are pressing
at your back
walking on your
heels,
they are impatient to
a fury.
they are everywhere
and into
everything,
these violently
unhappy
souls.
actually they are
frightened,
never wanting to be
wrong
they lash out
incessantly...
it is a malady
an illness of
that
breed.

the first one
I saw like that
was my
father
and since then
I have seen a
thousand
fathers,
ten thousand
fathers
wasting their lives
in hatred,
tossing their lives
into the
cesspool
and
ranting
on.

------------------------
poetry

it
takes
a lot of

desperation

dissatisfaction

and
disillusion

to
write

a
few
good
poems.

it's not
for
everybody

either to

write
it

or even to

read
it.

Saturday, October 15, 2022

One of Many--my poem from Parables & Voices

Apropos my last post about doubt--I wrote this poem many years ago. The italicized paragraph describes a woman who has 'chosen' not to pursue her dreams because the man she is with cannot keep pace with her and is angry about that. My guess is that there are many women who do this to keep the men in their lives placated.  


One of Many (Portrait of a Lady) (apologies to Henry James)

 

In some future time she knew
In that way that only women can know
That regret would exact its pound of flesh
For all the choices cast aside, for all the roads not taken.
 
For there were so many roads down which
If she had gone, that life may have been brighter.
Not tinged by so many shadows, not clouded
By the sufferings of others that she took upon herself.
 
In some future time she knew
That she would look back at life
As an old woman and wonder why it was
She chose a man ahead of most everything else.
 
Was it love or perhaps hate that tightened the bond?
Was it fear that made it impossible to live a life unfettered?
Fear of loss, fear of the other, fear of aloneness.
But what is fear if not lack of trust (in oneself and in others).
 
The fierce desire to prove independence from others,
Has led to only this, that she cannot any longer
Act without him, cannot think, cannot be who it is she once was,
For better or for worse, without him looming there before her.
 
A kind of prison, forged by fear and lack of trust,
By uncertainty and a self-image which is negligible at best,
His and in the end it will be hers, chosen by her because it seemed
That if he could not advance then it was her duty to demote herself.
 
Once was pretty, once was lively, once was open.
Once was…..a long long time ago.
Now is diminished, now is careful, now is remote,
So as not to awaken the sleeping beast inside him.
 
For he smiles on the outside, but the inside
Is filled with hate for others and a desire
To be above them since he cannot control them.
He cannot be them, and she cannot be them, by extension.

(From Parables & Voices, copyright 2011, by Paula Mary De Angelis)

Friday, October 14, 2022

Four beautiful poems by Mary Oliver

How did I not discover Mary Oliver sooner? Well, no matter. I have discovered her now and am immersing myself in the beauty of her poetry. Most of what she writes about resonates with me. The last poem I've included here, Hum, is about bees, and for those of you who follow my blog postings about my garden, you know that I too have written about the bees, those marvelous little creatures that keep it all going. 


Why I Wake Early

Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who made the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and the crotchety –
best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light –
good morning, good morning, good morning.
Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.

------------------------------------------------

Song for Autumn

In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come – six, a dozen – to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

--------------------------------------------------

Lead

Here is a story
to break your heart.
Are you willing?
This winter
the loons came to our harbor
and died, one by one,
of nothing we could see.
A friend told me
of one on the shore
that lifted its head and opened
the elegant beak and cried out
in the long, sweet savoring of its life
which, if you have heard it,
you know is a sacred thing.,
and for which, if you have not heard it,
you had better hurry to where
they still sing.
And, believe me, tell no one
just where that is.
The next morning
this loon, speckled
and iridescent and with a plan
to fly home
to some hidden lake,
was dead on the shore.
I tell you this
to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again
to the rest of the world.

-------------------------------------------------
Hum

What is this dark hum among the roses?
The bees have gone simple, sipping,
that’s all. What did you expect? Sophistication?
They’re small creatures and they are
filling their bodies with sweetness, how could they not
moan in happiness? The little
worker bee lives, I have read, about three weeks.
Is that long? Long enough, I suppose, to understand
that life is a blessing. I have found them-haven’t you?—
stopped in the very cups of the flowers, their wings
a little tattered-so much flying about, to the hive,
then out into the world, then back, and perhaps dancing,
should the task be to be a scout-sweet, dancing bee.
I think there isn’t anything in this world I don’t
admire. If there is, I don’t know what it is. I
haven’t met it yet. Nor expect to. The bee is small,
and since I wear glasses, so I can see the traffic and
read books, I have to
take them off and bend close to study and
understand what is happening. It’s not hard, it’s in fact
as instructive as anything I have ever studied. Plus, too,
it’s love almost too fierce to endure, the bee
nuzzling like that into the blouse
of the rose. And the fragrance, and the honey, and of course
the sun, the purely pure sun, shining, all the while, over
all of us.



Saturday, September 24, 2022

And one more poem--Violets--because what she writes about is what matters

Who has not felt the fleeting sorrow for living things that are wiped out or destroyed in the name of progress (however necessary)? 


VIOLETS                  by Mary Oliver 


Down by the rumbling creek and the tall trees— where I went truant from school three days a week and therefore broke the record— 

there were violets as easy in their lives as anything you have ever seen or leaned down to intake the sweet breath of. 

Later, when the necessary houses were built they were gone, and who would give significance to their absence. 

Oh, violets, you did signify, and what shall take your place?


(from Devotions--Penguin Publishing Group) 

Another Mary Oliver poem--Almost a Conversation

Almost a Conversation            by Mary Oliver 


I have not really, not yet, talked with otter 
about his life. 

He has so many teeth, he has trouble 
with vowels. 

Wherefore our understanding 
is all body expression— 

he swims like the sleekest fish, 
he dives and exhales and lifts a trail of bubbles. 
Little by little he trusts my eyes 
and my curious body sitting on the shore. 

Sometimes he comes close. 
I admire his whiskers 
and his dark fur which I would rather die than wear. 

He has no words, still what he tells about his life 
is clear. 
He does not own a computer. 
He imagines the river will last forever. 
He does not envy the dry house I live in. 
He does not wonder who or what it is that I worship. 
He wonders, morning after morning, that the river 
is so cold and fresh and alive, and still 
I don’t jump in.

(from Devotions--Penguin Publishing Group) 

Mysteries, Yes--a beautiful poem by Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver is fast becoming one of my favorite poets. I love pretty much everything she writes. 


Mysteries, Yes

by Mary Oliver


Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
 to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds will
never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say
“Look!” and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.


Saturday, April 30, 2022

I Worried, a poem by Mary Oliver

I Worried

by Mary Oliver


I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers

flow in the right direction, will the earth turn

as it was taught, and if not how shall

I correct it?


Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,

can I do better?


Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows

can do it and I am, well,

hopeless.


Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,

am I going to get rheumatism,

lockjaw, dementia?


Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.

And gave it up. And took my old body

and went out into the morning,

and sang.

Thursday, April 7, 2022

The World I Live In by Mary Oliver


A beautiful poem by Mary Oliver......


I have refused to live

locked in the orderly house of

     reasons and proofs.

The world I live in and believe in

is wider than that. And anyway,

     what’s wrong with Maybe?


You wouldn’t believe what once or

twice I have seen. I’ll just

     tell you this:

only if there are angels in your head will you

     ever, possibly, see one.


Wednesday, March 23, 2022

Movements through the landscape

My newest collection of poems, Movements through the Landscape, is now available on Amazon in paperback form and as an e-book: Movements through the Landscape: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9798437622254: Amazon.com: Books

This book is a collection of poems originally written in Norwegian and translated into English. I am planning to publish the Norwegian version as an e-book here in Norway. 

Tuesday, February 22, 2022

Wendell Berry's The Peace of Wild Things

I found this the other day online and it resonated with me. Wendell Berry is a well-known American poet who is a firm believer in the importance of man's connection to the land via small-scale farming, and who lives that belief. You can read more about him online here: Wendell Berry - Wikipedia

I loved this poem and wanted to share it with you. 




Tuesday, February 1, 2022

Remembering my brother

My brother Ray died seven years ago today. I still remember the shock of hearing about his death. I was at work and it was all I could do to gather together my belongings, call my husband, and find my way home. Seven years. So much has happened in that space of time. Too much to write about here; there is a lifetime of sadness that has occurred during that time. However, his two children seem to have survived the tragedies that unfolded around them during these years and are now flourishing. Ray would have been so proud of them both. 

I published a poetry collection in 2019 entitled Cemetery Road dealing with his death and with death generally (https://tinyurl.com/muxk95hb). One of the poems in this collection is called Photo of You in a Manhattan Café . I wrote it in 2017, two years after his death, and am including it here. 









And on this day, the second anniversary

Of your untimely death

A long-buried photo of you surfaced

Causing me to catch my breath

 

We had met for lunch in some downtown Manhattan café

That you frequented—eager to share with me your find

Proud that you were working there in that melee

Of New Yorkers milling about with their own kind

 

The contours of your face, your photogenic smile

Your youth that emanates from a decade ago

Your furtive smile, the one that could beguile

And persuade the most stubborn of us so

 

Your hidden secrets that remained unearthed

You did not give them willingly away

And those of us who tried to probe and came away

Unenlightened frustrated rather gone astray

 

If walls could talk, and photos likewise

Perhaps you would still walk upon this earth

And smile your stealthy smile for all to know

That happiness was yours, there was no dearth


Tuesday, December 21, 2021

Winter solstice

This is a poem I wrote in 2013 that later became a part of a poetry collection--Remnants of the Spirit World--that I published in 2014. The collection is available for purchase here: Remnants of the Spirit World: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9781495376450: Amazon.com: Books


Solstice


Mid-winter night of nights

The shortest day of days

Walk into darkness’ might

And leave behind the light


Darkness falls upon the land

A weary world adrift in dream

Awaits return of sunshine’s hand

That stays its course upon the stream


What shadows lie in wait

For simple souls who traipse

Into their world of hate

Locked beyond the gate


Gather round the blazing fire

Hands clasped against the gloom

Fear of what events transpire

Chanting as dark shadows loom


And so the shadows lie

Cast doubt upon fair souls

Where shadows do not tread

Just souls have found their stead


Gather round the blazing fire

That warms dark frozen souls

Gather round the cleansing pyre

That burns to make them whole


The longest night of nights

Turns slowly toward the sun

Moving on to longer days

In the end the battle won


O’er darkness and the shadow life

Creatures retreat behind the gate

The cracks filled in with blessed light

Sealed against the wall of hate


Copyright 2013 Paula Mary De Angelis 


Thursday, November 11, 2021

In honor of Veteran's Day

We learned to recite this poem in grammar school in honor of Veteran's Day. The first two lines of the poem have remained in my mind even though the rest of the poem has not. The poppy is a symbol of remembrance and hope according to what I have read online. I can remember being given a red paper poppy to pin to my school uniform on Veteran's Day. I always wondered what it symbolized and now I know. We are acknowledging that we remember and support all the armed forces in the world, and that we hope for a peaceful future. 

Poppies grow in my garden; the flowers are lovely but fragile. I'm not sure what type of poppies they are, just that they're red. When the wind blows through the garden it scatters the red petals that are torn off the flowers by the wind. But poppy seeds spread well in a garden and a gardener can end up with a small field of red poppies blowing in the wind. 


In Flanders Fields

BY JOHN MCCRAE


In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.


We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

 Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

 In Flanders fields.


Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.




Trying to understand the mystery of life

Apropos my last post, where I talked about accepting some things in this life (like my faith) that I know I will never understand on this ea...