I rarely - if ever - construct a poem at a computer. For whatever reason, when I decide I want to sit down and write a poem, I always look around for a pencil and my notebook. Even if I've been sitting at my computer for a while, as soon as I want to work on a poem, I almost instinctively leave it for a piece of paper.
One element of CTM which impressed me was the treatment of religious material in general and Sister Bernadette’s story line in season two in particular. Most modern media, whether journalists, television producers, or movie directors, see religion as a source of dogma and intolerance. While completely removing the religious element from Worth’s memoirs would be impossible, it might have been tempting for BBC executives to portray the religious elements as outdated or narrow-minded.
I really like the Peleg Chronicles by Matthew Christian Harding. Here's the link to his website:http://matthewchristianharding.com/. Also, Any PC "Peleg Chronicle" fans, please comment that you are... well, a fan! Anyway, hope you like it.
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People become leaders by using persuasive ways, like propaganda, posters, TV and ads. But some, like me, want other people to be interested in something that they are interested in. This essay is to get you interested in my favorite book series: The Peleg Chronicles!
Why does a gale rush past
like thoughts in my mind,
or a freight train
running through the dusk and the dawn?
{1} “Humpty Dumpty”
They call it 'otherworldly'--
the nectar-colored sky
behind the blackened front
of the approaching summer storm...
the sunlight and the rain that come at once,
dripping gold...
the sighing of the wind among
the youngest of the trees...
the stirring of the lake
beneath the water lilies...
'Otherworldly'.
I laugh at them--
at the narrow minds
that speak of other worlds but cannot grasp
the wonders of their own,
who cannot fathom sun and rain at once...
or a nectar-colored sky.
"Me! Me! Listen to me!"
The voice in my head fairly screams.
"No, I, I! The better idea is mine."
It's the start of a cacophany
.
In comparison to the first
relatively quiet voice
the next onslaught
is devastating
My creativity, a kind of curse
to what sort of choice,
am I to be brought?
(though to listen in is fascinating!)
This idea, that idea,
what idea is the best?
This plan, that plot,
can you just give me a rest?
waiting for the rain
in the west, the clouds had been darkening
all day, even sitting on the bank--
when the air feels like this,
you just know it will rain soon--
but the sun made me sleepy
like Alice
before she dreamt of wonderland.
Such recluse backdropped by evening's fields
all spiky white in bloom
for fear of treading bees, wander with care;
not one for wearing shoes.
Such mind enclosed, and wreathed in sun
its glow revealing dust
more threadbare each year do we find the couch,
yet find such things, we must.
My dear, in secrecy of thought
so silently, I should--
yet I cannot disrupt the quiet hum
or a weeping dove, disturb.
A vase of amber glass reflected
so kneel, and hemmed inside
Strange creatures with their elven ears
converge and chitter, sparkle here;
on tiptoes so they dance, my dears
while their master dangles petty fears
"Hold up your lovely faces, darlings--
remember, no more tears."
One-winged they in circles ring
while the great white bird, it sings;
it spreads its wide, majestic wings
while inside its iron cage, hovering
"Violins, knots and puppets, darlings--
all are made with strings."