Hoosier Poetry
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The following poems were written over the past few years and published on Poetry.Com. Servant of the Bones was
published in a poetry anthology entitled "Immortal verses" and it, and "Lovely to See You" have won the daily contest at
Poetry.Com. Have a look and let me know what you think. You can also send me your poetry if you would like to see it
published here at Collectors World. At the end of each poem is a link where you can "rate my poem".....I hope you will!
Thanks
~Ian
published in a poetry anthology entitled "Immortal verses" and it, and "Lovely to See You" have won the daily contest at
Poetry.Com. Have a look and let me know what you think. You can also send me your poetry if you would like to see it
published here at Collectors World. At the end of each poem is a link where you can "rate my poem".....I hope you will!
Thanks
~Ian
| Boys Of Summer a tribute to the boys of summer baseball's high and mighty to those who played the game with grace like joltin Joe and Whitey hard work and dedication swung Casey's heavy bat and most of all they loved the game you can be quite sure of that the crack of the bat...the roar of the crowd the smell of fresh cut grass fathers and sons making memories the kind that will forever last I still get chills when I see the old reels of the Babe pointing up to the sky and after all these years I still can't hide the tears when I hear Gehrig's recount of that final goodbye So long to the boys of summer To Mickey and Roger and Joe I like to think they're still playing somewhere and giving one h*** of a show. Mark Orr Copyright ©2007 Mark Orr Rate this poem |
| Lovely To See You Lovely to see you, it's been a long time Excuse my appearance, if you can speak, please be kind. Don't be frightened and don't run away. I only get visitors on All Hallowes Day. I'm lonely and restless, I need company my dear I promise not to bite, if you lend me your ear. I'm older and colder and falling apart and longing for the warmth of your quick beating heart So please stay awhile and we'll talk of old things Of mysteries and murder and how the dead sing. They do you know, they make beatiful sounds I hear all their music from my abode in the ground. We should begin, I have much to tell and when the moon sets, you're not bound by my spell I'll tell you my story of grief and woe and when we are finished, I might let you go. Mark Orr Copyright ©2007 Mark Orr Rate this poem |
| A Boy's Flying Wish Mother pulled open the tattered cloth curtains and lifted the protesting old sill. Warm summer air chased round swirling dust speckles, ushering in the aroma of fresh-cut wood from the mill. We'll borrow some warmth from the sun, said she, for when the day is done. The frail, small boy just nodded and smiled, thankful a smile had come. He lay there chilled, neath a mountain of quilts, made by mother's meticulous hands, to wrap around her precious boy who'd never live past childhood or become a young man. The balsa-wood airplanes he'd crafted so well and carefully hung from the ceiling made miniscule circles of flight in the breeze, in a room they would never be leaving. As that summer day went on and the shadows grew long, he did not fear the approaching night. He closed his weary eyes...and on his very first try, went soaring off on an oft imagined flight. Mark Orr Rate this poem |
| Mrs. Jackson and the Congregation To those before us who showed us the way! Sunlight lit Mrs Jackson's face as she began to tell her story. Amidst rows of pews, and brilliant hues of streaming stained glass glory. The congregation passed the plate as Huldah testified. I wondered where she found her faith since Mr. Jackson died. She'd turned to the Bible and found her comfort there. Her son turned to the bottle and pretended not to care. And as she spoke of faith and hope to the restless congregation. A line formed at the altar barring provacation. even the irascible Mr.Maddy knelt down on bended knee. He thanked the lord for his Becca and loving family. God in his amazing glory was in our church that day. He used a future angel to to show us all the way. Mark Orr Copyright ©2007 Mark Orr Rate this poem |
| Servant of the Bones A Vampire's Lament Eternal...that is what I am. A concept hard to own. Elusive to the mortal mind lest insanity take hold. How I loath to love the silence of a long and transient sleep. Then waken to the choas and sweet music of the street. I've courted maids and royalty befriended serfs and kings Built pyramids! and watched them go the way , of other things. I know of nothing earth or sky that cannot see it's end Except a presence...even I cannot begin to comprehend There's far more good than evil in the world and in my soul And one day I'll no longer be a servant to these bones. Mark Sean Orr Copyright ©2007 Mark Orr Rate this poem |
| Summer Fresh blistering asphalt, blackened young, tender feet Tar bubbles popping as they ran full speed down Morton street Careless,carefree summers soon to be etched in their minds Long golden August days from a much simpler time First stop Turner's market for pixie stix and gum Then off to the Baker park as fast as they could run Swinging so high , bare feet touching chamelion clouds Singing sweet songs of summer , singing them out loud In time we forget those golden summer days They fade from our memory...lost to old age But every now and again a moment seeps in Through the eyes of our children where we find them again. Mark Sean Orr Copyright ©2007 Mark Orr Rate this poem |
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| The Crypt Keeper Such a brave crue, your comrades and you. Venturing out under this devils moon. Let me guess my friends..you seek a tale to tell. Of the full moon'd night when you visited hell. The welcome young seekers of mystery and doom! Come in to my crypt, I won't disappoint you. It's not so bad really, if you can adjust to the cold. The cold helps curb the smell of decay and mold. I will tell you things that will turn every hair white. And strike you blind with maddening fright. Once total madness has taken it's toll, the perfect awareness will swallow your soul! The corpse talked on...long into the night. His captive audience frozen with fright. And when it was light out and a new day begun.... he let them all go.....all save one. Mark Orr Copyright Rate this poem! |