A great sonnet from a great sonneteer, Larry Tilander.

If you aren't familiar with him, Larry is an inhabitant of the great snowy North country.  You can find him here:

http://Allpoetry.com/LarryATilander 

If you aren't familiar with him, by all means, come check

And without further ado, here's his marvelous sonnet:

Playground Of The Mind

We're children in the playground of the gods.
Mere time? Illusion made with flashing suns.
Eternity, the mind forever runs
Although the drooling body sits and nods.
What cares the mind for crass corporal things?
While souls go echoing through time and space.
Look past the lines that etch this Earthly face
To where the child's laughter ever rings.
'Tis there you find me now, will ever find.
Escape from drudgery, it is more real
Than bones, bites arthritics constantly feel.
Come. Join me in this playground of the mind.

We'll play forever in this park we've made.
While bones and other fleshly bothers fade.

Here comes Erin ...

who's a very accomplished poet.   He considers this to be one of his "best" poems:

Anima Cantus (hybridanelle #13)

There is a song that echoes in the soul,
silent swells of melody that crest in foaming chords
or fade to ripple lightly through the mind.

  Set adrift in consciousness like soughing winds
  that play the reeds on distant lakeside marshes,
  timbres merge and blend, reflecting every mood.

      Vague emotions range across a scale of subtle tones
      like deep harmonic waves within the sea,
      silent swells of melody that crest in foaming chords.

  Inward temperaments are scored in every mode;
  dynamic sounds emerge in sundry measures,
  set adrift in consciousness like soughing winds.

      Conceptions fluctuate as psychic tides
      sweep essential overtones of meaning through the void
      like deep harmonic waves within the sea.

            Moments aggregate in streams of cheer and gloom
            till rivers sing their way through astral motions;
            timbres merge and blend, reflecting every mood.

        Dreams irrupt with vital force from black foreboding depths
        as rich divergent strains of vibrant hue
        sweep essential overtones of meaning through the void.

      Indistinct impressions resonate within
      like woodwind solos etched against the moonrise,
      set adrift in consciousness like soughing winds.

        Perceptions cantillate in shifting shades,
        airs that shimmer half concealed or surge into awareness
        as rich divergent strains of vibrant hue.

            Feelings blend like cellos played in midnight woods
            where hidden hills resound their phasing movements;
            timbres merge and blend, reflecting every mood.

  Welling up from karmic mists beyond our apprehension,
  there is a song that echoes in the soul,
  airs that shimmer half concealed or surge into awareness
  or fade to ripple lightly through the mind.

      Orphic intuitions pluck the thoughts and guide
      with themes of never-ending transformation—
      set adrift in consciousness like soughing winds,
      timbres merge and blend, reflecting every mood.

His name is Erin Thomas, and he lives in Ukiah, northern California.  His screenname is Zahhar, and he can be found here:    http://allpoetry.com/Zahhar

Incidentally ...

I would like to mention that anybody who's interested can check Linda out at her page on my website:

http://mindfulofpoetry.homestead.com/GuestPage8.html

Thanks for stopping by.

A wonderful poem by Linda Allbritten, a very good friend ...

Linda Allbritten, whom possibly some of you will remember as the co-host, with her husband, Roger, of Showemall Writer's Block, where many first began to get out feet wet on the internet.

                    Out of Their Element

                     The usual into the car,

                     out the electronic door

                     kind of day,

                     until the flashing lights 

                     of a Boulder city fire truck

                     warned people to pull over.

                     Was it an accident, 

                     a heart attack victim?

                     No, it was a humble Hereford steer

                     at the corner of Pearl and Ninth,

                     making a futile attempt 

                     to blend with the herds of people 

                     who stopped to point 

                     and stare in wonderment.

                     Head lowered in imitation 

                     of the woman ahead of him,

                     he followed in her footsteps 

                     through the flashing walk signal,

                     while she remained 

                     sublimely unaware of a 

                     thousand pounds of beef behind her,

                     trying so valiantly 

                     to find his way home, 

                     and knowing instinctively 

                     that he never would.

                     But the steer moved on, 

                     up the hill,

                     a trail of drool streaming from his lips,

                     while firemen 

                     stood helplessly by 

                     not knowing what to do 

                     with a low-tech animal

                     in a high-tech world 

                     where even a mouse 

                     is electronic.

Linda and Roger are remarkable people, and no one knows that better than I do.

A beautiful poem by a perspicacious poet, Michael Collings, known as micol on Allpoetry.com. ...

On the Inefficacy of Poetry

Why would I capture wings a-fire
    In sunset’s gilding glare;
Why would I compass the redwood’s pyre        
    Against a dawning flare; 

Or in sound re-create a mica-flash
    That stutters stark granite walls;
Or a violet’s glint on a window sash
    As the westering sun-stare falls;

Or riotous roses restrain within ink,
    In blunt-word black-on-white;
Struggle to limn ripe apricots’ pink,
    A falling leaf’s whimsical kite?

Yet still I pursue the mockingbird’s strain,
  Silk currents, unfettered and wild;
I struggle … and ever despair to attain
  The pure vision by which I’m beguiled.

by Michael R. Collings, a published writer and poet, Professor Emeritus of Pepperdine University -- with books available on Amazon.com and Wildside Press.  He can be found at http://Allpoetry.com/micol 

Famous sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How Do I Love Thee?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. 
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of every day's 
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; 
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. 
I love with a passion put to use 
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 
With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath, 
Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose, 
I shall but love thee better after death.

I am particularly fond of this poem for a number of reasons.  If any of you have seen "A Little Romance", you may remember that it's mentioned in glowing terms in the movie by Lawrence Olivier's character.  If you haven't seen that movie, I highly recommend that you find it.  It's a great movie.

Another of my favorite poems ...

was written by a dear friend from Holly, Michigan, named Val Magnuson.  It is posted on my website against genocide, Voices For Africa:

www.voicesforAfrica.homestead.com/

Her poem is first up as she was the first to send a poem in those days before America knew about the horrific happenings in Darfur.

SING  LADY

           by Val Magnuson

Across the room she came,

the feathered Kwanzaa queen 

walking through clouds and

rainbows

into some noonday dream

sing lady-

of  border crossings

from sunshine lands

those portraits in blue sailings

and your flocks

wing to wing chainings

with Captain Midnight

and his boat flyers

over one way waves

sing lady-

spread your tatterings

paint portraits of sages and slave runners

those reflections 

of nudes descending

into towering cities

and their prostrations

and frustrations-

play some audio dna

of how life is so beautiful in america

sing lady

of the neo head

tell of the candidate for peace

that King man with rainbow sky

that ball of fire

who gave light to mountains

and had his own dream, stamps!

sing lady

of how we love america

that cosmic adventure

even if you're from canvas city

sing its resume

Val Magnuson  Copyright 2004

       (http://ValmMagnuson-com.com)

The picture is one of her purses (she makes them and sells them.  She donated the image for use no this site.