LIES
by Rilda
I hate lies!
Lies that cause trouble.
When I look into your eyes,
I see those lies.
The lies that made me cry
Making me want to go and hide.
I can’t stop your lies.
I can’t even hide from prying eyes.
So what do I do?
I seek the truth.
Sure the game is ruthless
But I have nothing left to lose.
Them lies,
that just ain’t me,
because I know
the truth will set me free!
Posted in Native Americans, poetry
Tagged Lakota, lies, Native Americans, poems by Lakota students, poetry
A pet is not a child, some say…written by Diane Tegarden on April 23, 2010- dedicated to Maya
A pet is not a child, some say,
but let’s just think on that,
as you watch your pet born into the world
you share its first moments.
You teach your furkids all the rules
the do’s and don’ts of life,
you teach them manners and morals,
to always do what’s right.
There are things they should
and should not do
and consequences
for acting out.
They must not destroy your possessions,
not to mention your house,
they must not tear up your garden
or your slippers, clothes and shoes.
In what way are they not our children?
You buy them their own bed and toys
and teach them to share with their siblings,
you frown when they play too rough and
pray they behave when company comes over.
When they get sick, you rush them to the doctor
and hold them when they cry.
Once a year, they get their shots
to keep them bright and healthy.
Then, there are all those special dates
like birthdays, to remember,
as well as all those duller tasks,
like taking them to the dentist.
You hurt when they are hurt,
and you can feel their pain,
you cry inside, and try to be brave
as you sit helplessly cuddling them.
In what way are they not our children?
As they mature, you watch them grow,
taking tons of pictures and videos.
They soon outgrow your baby toys
and cute little childhood habits.
As adults,
they may have children of their own,
and then you’re a grandparent
wondering where the time went.
Then comes the time
when they start to show their age,
they scamper less and lounge in the sun
their movements growing slower.
You must be careful with them
because now they are older, arthritis in the joints
causes them to move much slower
and their eyes to grow much dimmer.
In what way are they not our children?
You feed them special diets
and herbal supplements,
you massage their tired bones,
with special lineaments.
Then comes the day you have dreaded
when heart and mind must fail,
you’re never ready for them to go
but one day, they simply leave you.
And the hole in your heart seems to bleed without stopping,
everything reminds you of them.
There is nothing that can be said or done
to ease the pain that they are now gone.
As years go by,
you realize that they cannot be replaced,
you build memorials and talk about them
and honor their memories.
In what way are they not our children?
Posted in animals, general interest, pet care, poetry, relationships
A solitary rose
A flower rests among the others
it waits in sweet repose,
closed against the light of day
a solitary rose.
How delicate is its scent,
its petals tightly bound,
never knowing how precious its life,
hoping someday to be found.
Today, today could be the one,
to throw off deepest care,
to realize your inner self,
to open up, to dare……….
Author’s Note- I wrote this in 1987….. for a co-worker named Dee.
Energetically, Diane Tegarden
“How to Escape a Bad Marriage-A Self Help Divorce Book for Women”; “Light Through Shuttered Window”; “Anti-Vigilante and The Rips in Time” at BarnesandNoble.com, Amazon.com, firewalkerpublications.com
Just love this new word I saw in a poem by William Allingham, the word “incarnadine” means: 1: having the pinkish color of flesh, 2: red; especially : blood red.
Etymology of INCARNADINE-Middle French (incarnadin), from Old Italian (incarnadino), from incarnato= flesh-colored, from Late Latin (incarnatus). First Known Use: 1591
Source:
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/incarnadine
William Allingham (19 March 1824 – 18 November 1889) was an Irish man of letters and a poet. For a complete bio, see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Allingham
Energetically, Diane Tegarden
Baroness Carolina Nairne (August 16, 1766 – October 26, 1845), a Scottish songwriter, was born in the “auld hoose” of Gask, Perthshire to Jacobite parents. Throughout her lifetime, she wrote various poems and songs, which she kept a secret from everyone in her life, including her husband, WM Nairne. Her works have been praised for their vivacity and eloquent style, and were often published under the pseudonym of “BB” during her lifetime mainly because it was not socially acceptable for women to write poetry at that time. She loved the Scottish countryside. She died in her family’s home on October 26, 1845, at the age of seventy-nine. Her songs are said to be second only to those of Robert Burns in popularity. Her legacy is also important because she adapted popular melodies and helped by so doing to preserve much of Scotland’s musical heritage, which would otherwise have been lost.
http://www.newworldencyclopedia.org/entry/Lady_Carolina_Nairne
Katharine Tynan (23 January 1861 – 2 April 1931) was an Irish-born writer, known mainly for her novels and poetry. After her marriage in 1898 to the writer and barrister Henry Albert Hinkson (1865–1919) she usually wrote under the name Katharine Tynan Hinkson (or Katharine Tynan-Hinkson or Katharine Hinkson-Tynan). Of their three children, Pamela Hinkson (1900–1982) was also known as a writer.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katharine_Tynan
Marjorie L. C. Pickthall was the daughter of Arthur C. Pickthall, an electrical engineer, and Helen Mallard, who had emigrated to Toronto in 1890 from England, when their child was about seven years of age. Marjorie Lowrey Christie Pickthall was born in London,England, the 14th of September, 1883, she achieved fame earlier in life than most poets. For a decade her poems and short stories have appeared in leading periodicals of England, the United States and Canada: and in the autumn of 1913, the University Magazine,Montreal, and John Lane, the Bodley Head, issued a volume of her collected verse, entitled A Drift of Pinions.
For once the reviewers and critics generally were of one opinion that the work was the product of genius undefiled and radiant, dwelling in the realm of pure beauty and singing with perfect naturalness its divine message. It was evident that a genius of a rare order had appeared in Canadian literature.
In 1913, Miss Pickthall was assistant librarian in Victoria College but the close confinement not agreeing with her health, she resigned and went to England to visit relatives. She was there when the Great War broke out and at once became interested in grey knitting and other matters pertaining to the soldiers. In 1915, Little Hearts, her first novel, was published and was very favorably received by the best critics.
http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/garvin/poets/pickthall.html
Quotable Women-
“If you insist upon fighting to protect me, or ‘our’ country, let it be understood, soberly and rationally between us, that you are fighting to gratify a sex instinct which I cannot share; to procure benefits which I have not shared and probably will not share; but not to gratify my instincts, or protect either myself or my country. For, the outside will say, in fact, as a woman, I have no country. As a woman I want no country. As a woman, my country is the whole world…” -Virginia Woolf (1882 – 1941)- England
http://www.womeninworldhistory.com/lesson14.html
“We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year’s Day”. – Edith Lovejoy Pierce
Edith Lovejoy Pierce (1904-1983) was a twentieth-century poet and pacifist.
Pierce was born in 1904 in Oxford,England. She married an American in 1929 and moved to theU.S.the same year. She and her husband lived in Evanston, Illinois.
Pierce was a poet and pacifist whose Christianity informed these two careers. In her writing she drew inspiration from the Bible, Mahatma Gandhi’s philosophy of nonviolent resistance, music, history, and religious mysticism, among other sources.
Source: http://www.bu.edu/dbin/mlkjr/collection/detail.php?id=56360&height=400&width=600
Moira O’Neill (1865- 1955) wrote under the pseudonym Agnes Nesta Shakespeare Skrine, and was born in Cushendun, County of Antrim, Ireland. She first married Walter Clermont Skrine, and was later married to Robert Keane; she had five children. She lived for some years in Canada, then moved to Rockport, County of Antrim, Ireland, and afterward lived on farm-estates in Kildare and Wexford, Ireland. She was mostly a recluse, except for close family contacts. Her poetry was published extensively in Blackwood’s Magazine, both poetry and reviews; her collections include “An Easter Vacation” (1893) and “Songs of The Glens of Antrim” (1901); and she composed words for tunes collected by Honoria Galway.
