Poems by Len Bourret
PICNIC TIME
In the kitchen, where we bake,
the delightful smell of apple pie,
and chocolate cake.
On the charcoal grill, baked
potatoes, wrapped in foil,
and sizzling, marinated steak.
Boiling on the stove, sweet and
delicious corn, dipped in butter,
and picked fresh from the garden
stalks, just this morn.
Thirst-quenching drinks, ice cold
watermelon, strawberries, and
whipped cream.
In the great outdoors, our smiles
bountifly gleam.
Enjoying a picnic, which has a
festive, party theme.
A day that's yours and mine, with
plenty of fun, food, and fellowship,
under a pale blue, and cloudless sky.
Basking in the radiant sunshine, and
frolicing in nature's playground, from
the break of day, to the evening nigh.
GO, Van Gogh!Van Gogh can't hear,can see,but shouldn't speak.Art is his magnificentobsession,and his passion.He is excluded,scapegoated,and shunned,but does notabjure fromthe convictionsof his faith.Van Gogh,poor andhumble tothe end.But, evenhis motherdid forsake.If to theheavenshe couldfly,he wouldovercomehis and hergrief.So that heand hisbaby brothercould live andbreathe,would not dieand couldtouch his soul.Being filled byhis mother'slove,and removedfrom a heartlessflow.=================================================================================Angelic Dreamsby Len Bourret(Copyright 2004)Out of the starlightshown compassion,forbearance, and theleniance of mercy,deviating, digressing,diverging, swerving,and veering from thesimultaneity of dayand night's mournfulcourse departed,the banana moon'slullaby cradle andsoothing windchimesare hanging,removing the bleakness,the isolation, and thesolitude of loneliness,which no conviction,impending doom, orlife sentence cancondemn,our day's journey isrestored by natural,periodic suspensionof conscious night'ssleeping,and the bitternessof our strugglesare lightened andsweetened,by the realizationof our dreams weare touched,as our angels arepatiently waiting,to give us a tasteof the banana splitmoon.=================================================================================If We Only Can Believe...Feelings can give one a hint.And, the senses do opennew vistas.But, human thoughts arefinite and imperfect. Evenwith intellect, there arehuman limitations.On a conscious level,there appear to beboundaries and limitsbetween the affective,cognitive, and spiritualdomains. Yet, throughthe ontological's guidedimagery, one can feelan expansion of selfand space. But, wecannot touch thespiritual self, nor canwe touch the space.Perhaps, however, thatis why what the humancannot see, feel, ortouch is so abstractto conceptualize.But, through oursenses, we canappreciate thebeauty of natureall around us.And, perhaps,this is how faithand trust allowshuman beings tomake abstractsconcrete.================================================================================='Blue' Rhapsody
Marking time in simple-song form,
32 bars, and 2 musical phrases,
I can hear music in the rhapsodic
color of blue.
A type of folk song, originating
from culture and ethnicity, and
eminating from the spirit and
the soul, with bell's pealing in
history's melancholy of some
repeated notes. But, without
a closing section.
A song in a seemingly endless,
unfinished symphony.
A concerto with 3 movements,
in which a piano's keys strike
like the hammer of the harp's
strings, standing out in bold
relief, against an orchestra's
muted backdrop. The end
result being that I can only
hear the piano, but no other
instruments are significant.
The piano, like a harmonica,
resounds in two or more
independent, but related
melodic parts.
The sound is sometimes
dissonant, and not at all
pleasing to the ear. But,
practice makes perfect,
and its melody produces
a glissando of continuous
or sliding movements,
accelerating from a once
too-rapid scale.
A barbershop quartet
which graduates from
the repititious and the
redundant, singing on
key in perfect pitch,
and in a balance of
raptured harmony,
like an improvised
masterpiece, which
gets better, as tone
deafness decreases.
A lullaby or cradle
song, in a gentle
rhythm, but with a
steady rocking of
ostinato, and an
accompaniment
compounded by
metered music,
which expands
to triplets.
Interacting in
rhythm and a
succession of
coherent pitch,
the sound has
a frequency
clear and
stable.
Differentiated
from chaos,
the sound is
peaceful, and
strikes a
tranquil chord.
A nocturne
become a
serenade,
expressing
a buoyant,
graceful
dream. In
contrast
sharply to
an opera
or heavy
theatrical
drama.
Orchestrational
characteriestics,
or combinations,
to arrive at a
composition so
splendorous and
unequaled.
Time, like every
piece of life's
music, becomes
an introduction
or prelude of
things to come.=================================================================================All poems copyright (c) 2004 by Len BourretThe author/reviewer volunteers as a Media Evaluator for the Captioned Media Program (CFV.org), which is administered by the National Association of the Deaf and is funded
by the U.S. Department of Education...User Comment on The Colours of My Father (1992), by Len Bourret (Copyright 2004)...Len Bourret's Essay, 'Blue' Rhapsody (Copyright 2004)Author's Additional Links...=================================================================================About Len BourretI have completed graduate courses in education, and research studies on effective anger management and depression. In my research, I have used the cognitive-behavioral approach, single-subject and single-group designs, and multi-dimensional assessment.I volunteer as a Media Evaluator for the Captioned Media Program (http://www.cfv.org/), which is funded by the U.S. Department of Education, and administered by the National Association of the Deaf, providing media access to the deaf and hearing impaired.Being encouraged by actor Paul Newman, at Newman's Own, I am considering applying for non-profit status to provide poetry and stories to the disabled, senior citizens, and those who do not have computer access.
Leonard J. Bourret
Copyright 2001, Leonard J. Bourret