My Poems about Our Water~

prints2whboats

A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.

Summer is gone and now reality returns…

Clubhouse Days

 

Gazing at the old wooden rackets

Among the endless sepia photos,

History of past crowds,

Tournaments long gone,

Locations changed or forgotten,

Blurry images of loving couples in fine outfits

Enjoying the elegant clubhouse dances,

Those pale, lacy dresses with close fitted

Bodices,

Parasols in the sun as they stroll in the sands,

Dashing gentlemen claim their hands,

As little girls and young boys race around corners,

People gather to share drinks at covered tables,

Their cheerful vital attachments forming during

The seaside summer seasons,

As the fluttering butterflies kiss the open roses

Gracing the porches of their rented beach houses,

Moving from sepia to black & white to colors

On the club walls as time marches on,

Nearly no one notices the changes here as the sea scents

The air and the cheerful blue sky fills their open spaces

Where attractive people lounge by the water with

Pretty drinks as their children build empires in the white

Grains surrounding them,

The focus is on fun and games while the warm season lasts

And freckles form to stretch across their sun-kissed

Cheeks calming their inner souls

And releasing positive senses to prevent old inner tensions,

Young couples watch the constellations light up while

They cuddle deep into each other around

Shared beach fires,

Burning hotly to fin off the night chill after

The sun disappears and the moonlight

Swaps it, a

Welcome replacement to neon-lit offices

And cluttered desks,

A sabbatical of free-time where young

Girls wear Jackie O sunglasses and tie

Their wet hair back in jolly ponytails,

Yachts and big liners fill the harbors

Waiting to be sailed,

Blue waters, elegant couples, members and

Invited guests circling the pristine decks,

Inlets of fascination and narrow boarding docks

Waiting for their evening return.–J. E. Cook ©2017

5oceanwithbird

Arriving at the Ocean

A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.

Sharing the same thoughts…and views.

 Outside my seaside window,

I watch the sky melt like a hot

Crayon,

The bright colors becoming a

Canvas for the many sailboats

On the midnight blue surface,

Their lights streaming across

The shimmering waters,

I often dreamt of the sea

From my Ohio location,

Freedom on the moving

Liquid,

Yearning for an adventure

There,

A long voyage with a special

Someone near me,

A wonderful communicator

To share my thoughts,

No soothing egos or severe misunderstanding,

Just the peace of the wilderness

Surrounding our shared views,

Two hearts and souls

In unison,

Cradled in the hands of each other

With undouble bonds,

Sorting through the world together. –J. E. Cook ©2017

 

brush6.jpg

Waterways of Our Land

A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.

Water so important to us!

Our river is slow-moving

With twilight circling it

Without hesitation,

Mounds of dirt along it,

Marshes along the way,

Foaming gorges here and there,

Stone islands in the middle,

Providing

Gateways to other arteries,

Banks with forests lining them,

I think about other waterways

Like the Red Sea and the Atlantic Ocean,

The sands in them,

Do those tiny grains have

Some pink quartz inside…or any

Hard stones like diamonds.

 

Flowing water in dams

And over cliffs

Create a sound unique

Depending on the location,

Water is always needed in cultures

No matter royalty or poverty

It is a commodity,

Unlike ordinary everyday dust.

            –J. E. Cook © 2017

23pelican.jpg

Advertisements

Society’s Questionable Females

A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.

While the town gossips…

 

Some women are daring and too intriguing to be

Called normal;

Rather these females are often called insane

By many respectable citizens,

Their eyes will always reveal their old fire

In their old age.

They remember doing things differently

Than others and talk about their past

Experiences with laughter and mystic.

Stories about cutting out black hearts

Instead of red ones on that romantic

Holiday in February,

Or rescuing an injured animal along

The backroads,

Or taking on guys

with a speedy car race,

Or daring to follow a dream and

Leave town to start a new life

With a tough outspoken man

That everyone else has despised

But her,

It felt like true love, but,

Instead, it became nothing

Behind his lingering smoke

Screen, except, her

Heartache and misery that follows

Along forever inside her head,

It is like a deep dark lake

With ice glazing it.

These tough women let it go,

Eventually,

Because they are like Amelia Earhart,

They scrape their slates clean and pristine,

And wade to the other side

Through knee-deep mud,

Black waters turn to clear blue

Even though it is hard to reach the bottom

They keep going avoiding the dangerous rocks

And not letting the falling snow stop them,

In their future, they reach a spectacular place

Where they join others to watch

The waxing moon rise above stars the size

Of the smallest planets,

Because they never fall permanently.

Despite their hardships in life,

It is the reason for their whole trip,

This experience of theirs–unique to them,

During their careers where some of them

Wear pressed suits and shiny baubles.

Their magnificent stars are still

Overhead while others watch,

The glorious moon follows them,

Until death, no matter how much

They show-off or push their adrenaline

They remain, foolish humans, in some peoples’

Eyes.

Eventually, something kills them,

Ending their sparkling dreams and these

Are choked to nothing but an echo

In someone’s memory. –J. E. Cook © 2017

 

11ocean

 

Common White Girl

A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.

In the minds of others…

In the United States,

The overall consensus

Believes

That a common white female

Is someone that

Goes to Starbucks regularly,

In Uggs and leggings very autumn,

As she talks into her iPhone after

Posting multiple selfies on Instagram

When she is finished with her perfect

Hair and layered makeup

After a long bubble soak in bath & body

scents,

And viewing her favorite movie, Mean Girls.

Then, she goes home to put on

Her black riding boots along with her lacy pink sports

Bra that she purchased at Victoria Secret

While shopping with her chic besties.

 

She blows out her frosted cranberry candles

As she Snap chats about her shopping

Encounters with her other group of

Acquaintances,

The ones with Vera Bradley purses, Nike shorts,

And North Face jackets.

 

Putting on some fake hipster eyeglasses,

She snaps another selfie to post,

This time on Twitter,

Where her last post was about her

Customized black leather jacket

Complete with Harley emblems,

She is obsessed with her new iPad.

 

Life as her,

Is so “I can’t even… imagine.”

  –J. E. Cook ©2017

Daily readings in Poetry~

waterpic2

Today, I read some reviews of my poetry and revised one, too. I came across one poem I would like to share here because it is so wonderful and full of insight into another character invented in someone else’s writing. 

This poem is by Doodley,

If every journey has an ending,
And every story has a start,
Would thy thoughts remain unbending,
That the Tin Man once had a heart?

That he lived a life of leisure,
In the forests of Oz forevermore,
Where the chipmunks frolicked in pleasure,
Upon evergreen seas of wood lawn floor.

Where the canopies teemed with birdsong,
And cicadas serenaded the night,
And the Lunar Queen on velvet throne,
Bathed the land in pearly light.

Tangerine beams of Sun’s contentment,
Polished his soul to silver sheen,
And the mist of disenchantment,
In his life, was nowhere to be seen.

And he reveled in joyous solitude,
In his home deep in the woods,
Where his apple orchard gave gratitude,
With unending ripened goods.

Then one glorious tranquil morn,
In the depths of florescent Spring,
Was his covert nurturing faith reborn,
When he heard the voice of an Angel sing.

For there beneath an apple tree,
Stood an emblem of Love divine,
Such a beauteous Nymph as there could be
Caressing the fruits upon its vine.

With cascading falls of golden locks,
And eyes a misterium of onyx hue,
She sang and whirled to emerging flocks,
That flew down to rest from the azure blue.

In the silent whoosh of Cupid’s rush,
There amidst the scores of Turtle Dove,
Their gaze did meet through crimson blush,
And they fell to depths of torrid Love.

And there amongst the swelling throng,
They twirled together entwined as one,
As Nature’s bards took up the song,
And the Lunar Queen embraced her Sun.

As daylight wilted to twilight gloam,
And starlight shyly twinkled through,
He guided her to his simple home,
Where Life and Love was born anew.

Through the fertility of the Springtime,
And all through the Summer’s swell,
Did their heart’s converse in Love’s rhyme,
In wondrous bliss did they both dwell.

But when Old Man Autumn in rustic fawn,
Encroached the serenity of this place,
Had the creeping tendrils of restless dawn,
Shone ill light upon their Love’s solace.

For the Wood Nymph had ambition,
She was no patient Eremite,
And she rebelled in true sedition,
Lured by the Emerald City’s bright.

One night under veiled star-fall,
While in dreaming did the Tin Man lay,
Did the Wood Nymph pack her belongings all,
And stole his radiant heart away.

And when he awoke to sunlight stream,
That shimmered his glossy face,
His world collapsed to nightmare dream,
She had disappeared without a trace.

He trawled through the woods in panic,
Let loose cries and desperate pleas,
That reverberated fleetingly manic,
On the gossiping Autumn breeze.

When his calls echoed in silence,
And stirred no sleeping ghost,
He lapsed into despairing violence,
For loss of things he loved the most.

He wailed in tormented grieving,
Like a baying Hound of Hell,
And struck his chest a-heaving,
His now heartless empty shell.

Then his trusty axe he took to hand,
And Cut! And Chopped! And Sliced!,
Decimating his orchard from the land,
In a whirlwind of rage and vice!

When his madness had abated,
He stood alone under gleaming sky,
As sorrow’s waves invaded,
On the breath of his longing sigh.

With his soul now torn asunder,
And with his hope ground into dust,
He hearkened to the distant thunder,
Then cried himself to rust.

All the forest joined to mourn him,
Shed their leaves in solemn prayer,
As the Solar King dialed down to dim,
In respect for the Life lost there.

And the passing days did wither,
Under first frost of Winter’s kiss,
Delayed by the Ice Queen’s dither,
In her fear of discourteous remiss.

And the Tin Man remained there frozen,
Through all time and Love’s decay,
‘Till a young girl and Scarecrow chosen,
Walked the Yellow Brick Road his way.

I admired his creative vision of this character inside his words…I also thought about his review about one of my poems, and how he seemed to want more information on my character in my poem because she was the POV inside it.

Therefore, I revisited it. I decided I must revise it and make it more complete in structure and thoughts.

Here it is after being revised:

Molly’s Musings

A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.

Daydreaming and thinking about the time and space of the past… 

Gazing out at the faraway islands,

She imagines the handsome faces

The British killed,

Buried here, leaving behind young widows,

To assess the ocean alone.

 

Her eye on one point on the horizon

As she thinks about reckless pirates

going to the Indies

Or Charles Town.

 

Her mind on

The sandy shoals between Beaufort,

And the Atlantic waters,

She once visited a place on Bogue Island,

That had a decaying fort,

And an inlet where old ships came to visit

frequently,

They were rumored to be the protection

Against Indian bandits,

The army camping there never completed

The southern walls,

Musket balls could be

lingering in the dirt,

Along with buried wreckage,

Summer is ending,

And she often thinks about the dead

regiment in

The fall,

As her garden dies,

What haunts this land

are the lingering ghosts

Of those men and boys that left Beaufort,

Promising letters to their waiting ladies,

However,

All they became were moving targets

for the British invasion

As their muskets fired,

Local uniforms were covered in crimson stains,

Dark holes and charred souls linger

In old passageways,

Their ladies long dead,

After sleepless nights thinking

Deeply about their lost kisses.

 

She doesn’t like loving these trapped

ghosts

Anymore,

As she stands at her open door

Watching the glint of the rising moon

On her moving sea in front of her.

 

She would rather think of a tranquil location

In sunny Beaufort,

Where a meadow is filled with grazing cows

and full

Pecan trees. Green apples are brought to them,

As a bluebird

Moves from branch to branch

Above the herd,

And the pecans fall and fill the open air.

 

Now she sits on her porch swing,

Thinking of a studious painter, she loves

Living in New Bern,

Where he works on detailed miniatures and his

Art will be moved weekly

and arrive in distant places,

She longs to pose for him again soon.

 

Her knees draw up,

And she twists her hair slowly

Thinking about him and his socked feet

Smiling at her as he hands over

A little painting of her.

 

Her secret treasure, in an ivory frame

And the size of a thumbnail

Her having a picnic with him,

Born from a hastily drawn sketch in ink,

Now, vibrant in flowing oils,

She leaves 1782 behind with a fleeting

Thought about a lost letter

She discovered yesterday morning

While cleaning the crowded attic,

She Imagined the smell of it,

As her eyes read,

About somewhere inland,

And a Sunday camp filled with pain

Over lost cousins,

And a sweetheart missed with

Hopeful desires,

The miles of unknown

Pressing into her mind

A whistle of a Cherokee arrow

Breaking the silence

Of the frontier there inside

Her daydream,

Would the island slaves solve anything

With the Lord’s prayer?

The gilded-edge scene is buried

In her thoughts

As she watches their sun disappear

Leaving the colors of her fall behind to

Hide in the shadows of the casting

Boughs among the flowing hills

Beyond the seas and distant shores.–J.E. Cook ©2017

pechbld

 

Our first Paint Bar Party in our New Location on the Square in Urbana, OH~

fpaintmeet1aaa

 

roxy'spbar1a

~Roxy’s finished Painting~

mine1a

~The painting I finished during this class~

coveredbridge1a

~My prototype that we used during the class to follow as an example~ 

Book a Paint Bar Painting Party today with me and enjoy a session of art therapy with your favorite group of friends. We supply the canvas, paints, brushes, and light snacks for one price per person. You can pick your subject to paint for your party group and the theme of the party. It’s a fun experience that you can remember by hanging your finished product on your wall or giving it away for a gift to a special someone.

~New Releases of Poetry from Ohio~

WOWVW1AAA

 

Our Ohio poetry collection is out and hot off the press today, Sunday, September 24th of 2017.

Please read my poem representing Ohio poetry creation along with other talented poets’ contributing written work. This new publication is available currently on Amazon for purchase in a Kindle edition or in print paperback.

Remember to vote on the Amazon site via a reader review below the Ohio’s Best Emerging Poets: An Anthology. Vote for your favorite poet included in this Ohio poetry collection and remember to include the title of their poem with their name in your review. By reviewing their crafted poetic contribution to this unique Ohio publication, you will allow them to advance into a drawing for a full-book publication produced by Z Publishing House in the future. Don’t forget to include their name and the title of their poem with your honest review of this Ohio poetry collection of 2017.

 

 

Ohio's Best Emerging Poets

a href=”https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36294039-ohio-s-best-emerging-poets”

Musings on a Sunday morning~

buttons2aa

Opportunity or Fantasy

When something ends a bit badly,

It isn’t always a mistake,

Sometimes, we are reckless with our lives

And don’t think things through enough

Before acting upon our thoughts,

We often must pick through a lot

Of fool’s gold before a rare diamond is

Revealed. —J. E. Cook ©2017

pkasterwithbumble1

 

Bounty in the Countryside

 

Driving past the sage colored pastures

With cows gently grazing on the bounty,

Puffs of cotton clouds fill the pastel blue

Skies,

Old stone houses of varying sizes

Create a magical neighborhood among this

Countryside area of farmland,

One guest cottage with its own little

Garden patch calls to me,

It is quite a distance from the main house

On this farm,

Entering the cozy front room through

the turquoise door,

The hardwood floors shine back at me,

Light streams through the big window across

From the stone fireplace,

I quickly walk through and take in the cozy

Spaces

as I approach the back door,

And go out to see the flowering apple trees

The vibrant leaves fluttering in the breeze,

One picnic table by a small goldfish pond

And a dog napping in the sun,

I hear the murmur of the cows in the distance

As I am greeted with a basket of cheese, wine,

French bread and tart berries gave to me

By a familiar woman in white

with a quilt over one

Arm,

She hands the nurturing gift to me as she puts

The worn quilt over the rough boards on the tabletop,

The clouds seem to be following her to me,

we take our seats across from each other

And unpack the bounty in unison

to enjoy together,

In the afternoon sun with touches of shade

Now and then,

The hint of what will come causes us to toast

To this beautiful day on the farm.  J. E. Cook ©2017

bluebuds1aaa.jpg

What are the ridiculous myths in life?

 

Philosophy teachers lecturing about Plato to us

In college,

Believing that every person on Earth has

Another half, they must find to complete

them,

And they will fulfill all the needs of each other

After they fuse together to become one unit

Of love and happily ever after,

sharing

Vows to cherish until they part because death

Has arrived,

But never is a long time to consider

And vow to each other with promises to keep

attached

Until one dies.   J. E. Cook ©2017

TRUMPETSRED1AAA.jpg

The Little Things and more

On a green metal bench, outside

Our favorite ice cream spot

We watch the dogwoods dance

In the breeze off the lake,

The sky is bursting with their pink

and

White petals

Reminding me of the delicate

Frosted flowers on the cupcakes

Across the street designed

By a young baker,

The smells in the air

Around us are intoxicating

And the blooms

Become confetti on the sidewalks

My cone contains sweet caramel

That is sex on my tongue

As I lick it,

A touch of sea salt and

Sprinkle of pecan nuts,

A swirl of whipped cream

And a shiny cherry on top,

What else would one want

While they watch the skies

With their favorite love

And forget all the foreign thoughts.

 

Being with the man of your dreams

Is always wonderful

Even without these added pleasures

His curly hair at his neckline

As his sudden smile appears

When he watches the ice cream

Drip onto my lap.

His presence is appreciated

And his eye contact

Makes me blush

My shoulders ache for his touch.

A hug that brings me in so

Close right before his lips

Caress mine. –J. E. Cook ©2017

whitechickbloom

An Unexpected Summons

redonewbug

Come, you fragile poets filled with the sea’s liquid.
Come and leak your speech upon our parched beaches!
Come and sing with the ocean’s primordial influences.
Come and sanctify our living dictionary.
Come and listen to our seas–rivers–the many lakes.
Come and offer a levy to our tributaries.
Come and accompany us.
Come with your mask of shifting personas falling away.
Come with your torches burning.
Come add your bouquet to the existing aroma.
Come bring your artfulness for our sake of the art.
Come with your lacerations, tender, and red.
Come with your heart brilliant or obscure.
Come with your words for the distinguished dead.
Then go to the notorious graves and remember their souls.
And recite all of your remembrances.
Yes, come and find your passion; your true natural ability:
The marriage of thoughts to be esteemed hydration.

–J. E. Cook ©2016

whitewpkdip2