Welcome to episode 17 of NJ warm mug of phantom poetry I'm NJ Saroff also known as the phantom poet on SoundCloud
This podcast is best enjoyed with a cup of tea and today's tea is
Today's poems are a poem for destructo, a poem to mousetrap, to Georgia and sunflowers by van Gogh and the poem of the week verses 1, 20, 21, and 51 from song of myself by Walt Whitman
To Georgia O'Keefe
Bathed in colors are the roaring flowers
springing to the curves of life
growing out of the page
blossoming into magnificent shapes,
paint droplets circling and bubbling around the edges
A flower, a forest,
It could be anything and everything
What do you find in the painting
Poem for mousetrap
I'm a glutton for food
Hearing my bowl get filled puts me in the mood
I love play
I lay on humans and make them stay give me attention all through the day
When I see a mouse I don't just pounce I stalk and wait till it's the perfect date to grab it up and eat it up
And say oh yum cause I'm a cat that likes to have fun
My fur is black like the night
I'm always ready to cheer my owners up just right
I jump onto there thighs when they want to cry and I purr till their filled with delight
I love to sit on laps
My name is mousetrap
Poem for sunflower Van Gogh
Van Gogh was not just a man of madness
His Happiest picture was maybe also his saddest
Sunflowers spark joy
Yet this painting seems coy
They sit in a vase drooping down
Missing the dirt missing the ground
Losing their petals
Waiting for the water to settle
Where did the sky go
The flowers do not know
They just hold their blooms
Filling the air with sweet perfumes
A poem to Destructo
In the box is where I'll stay
I do not want to come out and play
I want to lay in my box
Wait for lovely to pet me in the box
Sometimes I do like to climb
My fur is nice and fluffy
All the humans think it's so lovely
And lick my fur to unwind
If I see a mouse I get ready to pounce
I always miss but my owner still gives me a kiss
They love me even when telling me no
My name is Destructo
The final poem for this week is song of myself by Walt whitman
Walt Whitman was an American poet, essayist, and journalist. Bornin May 1819, he was a humanist, who was a part of the transition between transcendentalism and realism, incorporating both views in his works. Whitman is among the most influential poets in the American canon, often called the father of free verse. He Died in March of 1892
Song of Myself (1892 version)
BY WALT WHITMAN
1, 20, 21,and 51
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy
