Poetry Fool member's original poems to share

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Poetry Fool member's original poems to share

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1almigwin
Mag 1, 2007, 12:05 pm

Please post your own poems.

2juv3nal
Mag 1, 2007, 3:32 pm

oh heck, alright. but don't be mean.

some here: http://www.fragx.com/viewauth.cfm?fragsterID=41

3dperrings
Mag 1, 2007, 3:36 pm

Here is a poem, for lack of another word

Realizations

ART-
Willful evocation of the archetypes.

BLISS-
Submission to the higher self.

GRACE-
Glory of the sacred manifested in the secular.

LOVE-
Transcendence of duality.

MID-LIFE JOURNEY-
Psyche intercedes to complete the initiation process.

POETRY-
Container for longing.

RITUAL-
Paying respect to the Master.

David Perrings

4dperrings
Mag 1, 2007, 3:39 pm

This is a Found poem from a few years ago.

STEINBECK’S CANNERY ROW
(A FOUND POEM*)

Cannery Row is
a poem, a stink,
a grating noise,
a quality of light,
a tone, a habit,
a nostalgia, a dream.

The gathered and scattered,
tin and iron,
rust and splintered wood,
chipped pavement, weedy lots, and junk heaps,
sardine canneries of corrugated iron,
honky tonks, restaurants and whore houses,
little crowded groceries, laboratories and flophouses.

Whores, pimps,
gamblers and sons of bitches,
by which is meant Everybody.

Yet, through another peephole,
they are seen as
saints and angels,
martyrs and holy men.

In the morning
when the sardine fleet has made a catch,
the purse-seiners waddle heavily into the bay,
blowing their whistles.

The deep-laden boats
pull in against the coast
where the canneries
dip their tails into the bay.

Cannery whistles scream
all over town,
men and women scramble
into their clothes
come running
down to the Row.

Shining cars
bring the upper classes
down;
superintendents, accountants, and owners
who disappear
into offices.

From town
pour Wops, Chinamen and Polaks,
men and women
in trousers,
rubber coats
and oilcloth aprons.

To clean and cut,
pack and cook,
can the fish.

The street rumbles and groans,
screams and rattles
while the silver rivers of fish
pour in
out of the boats.

The canneries
rumble, rattle, and squeak
until the last fish
is cleaned and cut,
cooked and canned.

The whistles scream again!

Dripping, smelly, and tired
Wops, Chinamen and Polaks,
men and women,
straggle out and droop
their ways up the hill
to town.

Finally, Cannery Row becomes itself again,
quiet and magical,
Normal life returns.

The bums who retired in disgust
under the black cypress tree
come out to sit on the rusty pipes
in the vacant lot.

The girls from Dora’s emerge
for a bit of sun.
Doc strolls from the
Western Biological Laboratory
and crosses the street
to Lee Chong’s grocery
for two quarts of beer.

Painter Henri
like an Airedale,
noses through the junk
in the grass-grown lots
for some part or piece
of wood or metal
for his boat building.

Darkness edges in
and the street light comes on
in front of Dora’s—
Cannery Row’s perpetual moonlight.

Callers arrive at Western Biological to see Doc,
and he crosses the street again
for five quarts of beer.

When you collect marine animals
there are certain flat worms
so delicate
that they are almost
impossible to capture whole,
for they break and tatter
under the touch.

You must let them
ooze and crawl
of their own will.

Just wait and listen,
the stories will crawl
in by themselves.

· The text is from “Cannery Row”, by John Steinbeck, the introductory pages before Chapter One.

David Perrings

5almigwin
Mag 1, 2007, 4:25 pm

juv3nal and dperrings: Thank you for posting. I hoped for a poem or two, and I got the equivalent of a book from juv3nal and what I guess are aphorisms and reformulations from dperrings. There is a great deal here, and more than I feel capable of commenting on, except to say that I think it is wonderful, and original, and interesting as hell. Thanks again. Miriam

6dperrings
Mag 1, 2007, 9:53 pm

Miriam,

Thanks for your comments, I finally know what to call "Realizations" a aphorism.

David Perrings

7finalbroadcast
Modificato: Mag 2, 2007, 2:17 pm

I have posted a few on my blog, so I will link them.
pissandvinegar.vox.com/library/post/i-wish-more-of-my-poems-had-apt-titles.html
pissandvinegar.vox.com/library/post/what-do-we-know.html

8dperrings
Mag 2, 2007, 2:20 pm

I will add another poem

The Engineer

I stopped
searching for
my father
in my employer.

I stopped trying
to discover
all the mysteries
of the universe
in a project.

I came to know
myself
as a man
rather than
as my
profession.

Now my
apprenticeship
is over.

David Perrings

9almigwin
Mag 2, 2007, 4:25 pm

Wonderful, David. Clear, fine, like a carving. What a send-off to youth! I hope you will post more. In response, here is one of mine:

If mind could live
in bone and rock
free of the heart
and the flesh
with all time
to glitter in
and shine,
what pure pleasure
with no pleasure's need.

But this has never been
unless
the black majestic
high rocks hold
more knowledge
and more peace
than what we know.

1947

10dperrings
Mag 2, 2007, 4:47 pm

Miriam,

Yes I like your poem, I often wonder if "the black majestic high rocks hold more knowledge and peace then we know"

Along with all of the wonderus stuff flung throughout the universe.

David Perrings

11dperrings
Mag 2, 2007, 4:49 pm

Miriam,

and speaking of the 1940's I post the following:

Rebecca’s Dream

(a vintage clothing store
on Fair Oaks at Colorado
in Pasadena)

I walked into the space
Vintage clothes all over the place
Neatly displayed

And hats
Hats everywhere
Fancy women’s hats
In all shapes, sizes and eras
Mostly black, a few not

The store is crowded
With the souls
Of the previous inhabitants
Of the clothes

And their histories

The new dress for that
First date

The long black glove
From
New Year’s Eve
1945

Anticipations, expectations
Hopes and dreams
Longings and seductions

Expressed in
Leather
Tailored fabric
And colored dye

An indelible record of past styles, fashions
Morays and trends

Just waiting
To be taken out again
And new histories made

David Perrings

12NocturnalBlue
Mag 2, 2007, 10:37 pm

"Chronderlust"

Upstairs an ethnic voice intones
About women name Eleanor and Lucy;
This is the only noise that breaks the silence.
Downstairs, I’m reading a poem
About young girls who travel the map
While reassuring themselves
That they have a place
With all the staples of a memory home.

(Can’t qualify without:
A Little League Field with patches
Worn by clumsy cleats,
A local diner with crusty waiters,
And schools that have teenagers
Singing about the loveliness of dames).

This town I’m in now has all these
In some variation.
Like a Border’s Books near a mall
But not the one I used to play thin versions
Of old pop songs for the local PTA.

(Then again, that Border’s is long gone.
I can visualize the inside:
Hollowed concrete where there was once
Bad coffee and unshaven readers.
There is trace evidence of this.
I promise).

I particularly like section 5:
It evokes Paris and Vienna
Within the confines of corn
And low-lying cement.
Perhaps Paris owns the road that
These girls blazed down.

(Paris, Texas?
Verona, Virginia?
How about Geneva, New York
Where Dr. Dick Diver
Took his fatal plunge?)

This house reminds me of my godmother’s
Though not in the childhood visits way.
More like the later years
After the cancer stole her rage
And memories of stoops and stickball
Dominated all the happier thoughts.

(I wonder, can one feel nostalgia
For a time before one’s born?
The way she re-collected her thoughts—
You’d think the remembered world
Was Elysium with Temptations music.)

I’m sure if I searched my memory,
I’d find a point of such idyll
Before people used language to build walls
With camouflaged doors.
Somewhere the rainy Saturdays
Had to become bliss.
(I had them, I’m telling you.
Home is where you remember it.)

13Tim_Watkinson
Mag 3, 2007, 3:26 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

14dperrings
Mag 3, 2007, 4:07 pm

Tim,

very nice poem. I especially like

"like a determined harvester gathering the spirit of my soul"

David Perrings

15bookstopshere
Mag 5, 2007, 10:28 pm

Poemblaze shared some nice pieces a while ago; this is my own version of arm twisting :)
I'd like to read more

16gautherbelle
Modificato: Giu 5, 2007, 10:51 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

17chezwhen
Modificato: Mag 15, 2007, 2:21 pm

here's one - hack away (what's wrong with this picture?)

The Consolation of Daedalus

I didn't know; how could I know?
I never saw wings before so
beautiful - so different -
and the boy - so glorious,
unlike the fragile men up here.
Oh air! To see them melt -
those wings; the boy, his falling
felled the spark of lust I felt.
and then - oh god - his calling
for his father: Daedalus.

And how to tell the man
I lured his son, for sport,
for sweet kisses, too near the burning sun? How tell
the father the word that burst
from Icarus as he fell?

How should he believe my grief,
that slew Talos for thought,
how believe I never knew until
too late the wings were wax?
I was blinded by the beauty
of the boy, his head crowned black,
the muscles of his thighs so taut,
his arching back. My wings
beat double and more to match
his speed and catch his eye - yes,
to have him want me. I confess
my weakness, my want of his desire:
I danced my mating dance in air.
I led him on, he followed;
when I turned he was not there.

I looked about for Icarus,
as lovers sometimes play, but he
was spiralling down, and down, like
a leaf into the sea.

18gautherbelle
Modificato: Mag 7, 2007, 1:54 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

19almigwin
Modificato: Mag 8, 2007, 10:45 am

#17 chezwhen: If you really want hacking away, I will tell you that I am not comfortable with the word "screaming" in the penultimate line. I would change it to "down and down" . I can't visualize a leaf screaming. However, I still think that this is a very very fine poem.

20bookstopshere
Mag 8, 2007, 11:01 am

thanks Miriam -I agree - leaves rarely scream. yeah, I like hacking and changing. really do appreciate your reading

21gautherbelle
Modificato: Mag 8, 2007, 11:22 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

22gautherbelle
Modificato: Mag 8, 2007, 11:22 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

23Tim_Watkinson
Mag 8, 2007, 1:08 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

24lorsomething
Mag 9, 2007, 8:44 pm

Imo, there are some really good poems here. Tim, I especially liked #13 (the gypsy). Thanks for sharing it.

25Poemblaze
Mag 10, 2007, 2:23 pm

Per bookstophere's request, one of my poems.

Acheron


The water, the people,
their slim wooden punts:
all are steel gray. No surface ripple
upon this body, where float
smooth, young faces
holding neither sorrow nor joy.

Men pose, stiff in dress shirts,
slacks and straw boater hats.
Women, their hair pinned, pulled back,
sit snugged in bodices, in high-collar blouses.
Gloved hands rest on flowing skirts.

None is ferryman
for this nameless band.
They stare at me
standing ashore.
They wait.
Another boat shall appear.

------
If you like the poem, I am hawking chapbooks at the URL below where there are a couple more sample poems. Not all the chapbooks there are mine, as gavroche included my chapbooks on his webpage.

http://gavroche.org/chapbooks/

26bookstopshere
Mag 10, 2007, 3:43 pm

thank you :)

27almigwin
Modificato: Mag 10, 2007, 5:30 pm

Explaining the cult of Frida Kahlo to my cousin the art critic:

Why Frida?
Various questioners, all men,
ask why Frida is being made so much of now
when her work is so small
and personal
and odd and she has been dead for 40 or 50 years.
It was her husband who was
the important one.

This answer is from a Frida worshipper,
an acolyte
with Frida pictures
all over the walls -
her face with parrots
or monkeys,
odd jewelry, beads, veils,
ropes of cloth in her hair,
vines growing out of her,
skeletons in bunk beds,
organs on palettes,
a fetus,
a punctured heart,
veils made of petticoats
Diego's face in her forehead
between her eyes
above her nose
or as a deer
with a Frida face
and 6 7 8 arrows in her,
each bleeding a little.

Why do we want her
around so much?
Because she was brave.
When she lost her foot
she had a red kid boot made for the wooden one
and she danced on it.
She fit into her pain and forced it out again as art
the pain of childlessness
the pain of rejection
the pain of infidelity
the spine that wouldn't mend
the foot that wouldn't heal
the amputation
the miscarriage.
His fame
Her obscurity
His breasts
Her mustache.

Trotsky's death.

The French surreallists
claimed her first.
She objected saying
she painted reality
not sur-reality.
Diego told her that she had painted a woman's inner life
before anyone else.

I'm glad she had the monkeys
and the birds
and Mr. Something the little dog.
I hope she enjoyed every meal
every lover
every drink
every sunny morning
and knew
had to know
she painted truth.

1996

28almigwin
Modificato: Mag 10, 2007, 5:38 pm

Here is another:

Feminist Song:

If you succeed in avoiding
wars revolutions famines and insurrections
blood baths bombings beatings and noxious fumes

If you have by luck or accident been born in a bookish place
and not the rain forest
You might
between pregnancies
abortions
anxieties
and getting dressed
discover some immutable truths or you might not.

But you can,
if you live,
ponder and even discuss
la vie humaine
in the 20th century
and pass the rules along
to your friends
who will wriggle through
the same mazes
looking for the OUT sign.

1998

29gautherbelle
Modificato: Mag 10, 2007, 6:01 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

30AnneBoleyn Primo messaggio
Mag 11, 2007, 1:11 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

31AnneBoleyn
Mag 11, 2007, 1:18 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

32ZealousDefender Primo messaggio
Mag 11, 2007, 1:19 pm

Fried potato goodness in every bite
From each french fry I eat at night
Some are heart clogging with oil so soggy
Others are blackened and enjoyably crispy
I don’t mind the health risks
Just so long as I get my fix
Like ‘em with Ketchup, can do
How bout some Malt Vinegar, too
Chili and Cheesy goo
Any condiment is good with this food

33gautherbelle
Mag 11, 2007, 1:20 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

34Tim_Watkinson
Modificato: Mag 11, 2007, 2:26 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

35xkyzero
Mag 11, 2007, 3:17 pm

almigwin -
I love your "Explaining the cult of Frida Kahlo to my cousin the art critic:". It really captures my vision of her. Thanks for sharing it.

36gautherbelle
Mag 11, 2007, 3:34 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

37dperrings
Mag 11, 2007, 3:51 pm

Belle,

It is a quandry, the struggle between reason and passion.

David Perrings

38dperrings
Mag 11, 2007, 3:59 pm

Belle,

the following is not exactly the same but similar, from Proust:

this is from Proust Swann's Way chapter 2 about page 170

A’sadist’ of her kind is an artist in evil,
which a wholly wicked person could not be, for in that case the evil would not
have been external, it would have seemed quite natural to her, and would not
even have been distinguishable from herself; and as for virtue, respect for the
dead, filial obedience, since she would never have practised the cult of these
things, she would take no impious delight in their profanation. ‘Sadists’ of
Mlle. Vinteuil’s sort are creatures so purely sentimental, so virtuous by
nature, that even sensual pleasure appears to them as something bad, a privilege
reserved for the wicked. And when they allow themselves for a moment to enjoy it
they endeavour to impersonate, to assume all the outward appearance of wicked
people, for themselves and their partners in guilt, so as to gain the momentary
illusion of having escaped beyond the control of their own gentle and scrupulous
natures into the inhuman world of pleasure.

and following shortly:

It was
not evil that gave her the idea of pleasure, that seemed to her attractive; it
was pleasure, rather, that seemed evil. And as, every time that she indulged in
it, pleasure came to her attended by evil thoughts such as, ordinarily, had no
place in her virtuous mind, she came at length to see in pleasure itself
something diabolical, to identify it with Evil.

Proust

David Perrings

39chezwhen
Mag 12, 2007, 11:05 am

Springs

We bought lines
and held them, hoping
balloons or kites
would grab them,
and run amok
upon the sky.

40dperrings
Mag 12, 2007, 1:25 pm

chezwhen

thank you for the poem, I love poems that turn things around, bringing what i traditionally consider the secondary item into the primary position. In this poem it adds even more whimsy to what kites and ballons have always represented to me.

David Perrings

41Poemblaze
Modificato: Mag 12, 2007, 4:24 pm

I have a couple lines indented and some extra space in a couple places that may not carry through when I post this.

The Stone Mover
Vincent Parrott (1901-1987)

1.

Panicked by dogs,
unable to be looked in the eye,
cajoled with gooseberry pie—

They tried
to civilize the boy—packed him off
to Lincoln, Illinois.

When he returned
he had learned the alphabet, and to despise
scrambled eggs.

Among his self-appointed duties:
Any door left open was shut.
Any tool left lying was gone.
Any movement was duly reported.

He would wear
a stocking cap through the blazing
summer, unless it was hidden from him.
He would sidle up to chat
with any new visitor and was tolerated.
He put flat stones on the tar-paper roofs of sheds
to keep them secure against wind.

2.

Silently,
below forest canopy
he trudged
hunting boulders—primeval chunks
to dam a flow, rechannel a stream;
smooth, flat discs
or oblongs
for sandstone strings
across shallow creek branches and dry
forks that swell with the yearly spring rains.

Only God knows how he maneuvered
such massive blocks.
He worked alone.
Slow, steady, silent work his pleasure.

Lever and load, timber
and boulder; he
was the maker.

His rough log levers
have long since ceased to turn
the stones or place in rows
the footpath cobbles—
now circumvented, carved, upended.

Heaps of unused stones
stand as monuments,
moss and ivy covered, beside runs
never forded.

-----------
If you like the poem and want to read more, I have chapbooks for sale ($5 +s/h) at the following site:
http://gavroche.org/chapbooks/

42perodicticus
Mag 14, 2007, 7:14 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

43sorlil
Mag 14, 2007, 7:31 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

44Tim_Watkinson
Mag 14, 2007, 8:53 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

45Tim_Watkinson
Modificato: Mag 14, 2007, 10:41 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

46Poemblaze
Mag 15, 2007, 11:03 am

Unwanted

I am myself, alone.
I flower as never before
within a low mown field grown green with fear
of someone different than the expected blade.
My root sinks deep into the soil.
Cut off a hundred times
yet will I rise
an unfolding golden crown
gathered for garlands
or haloed white with age,
soon scattered by a breath.
I only wish to share the earth.

47chezwhen
Mag 15, 2007, 12:43 pm

Seems

Ah, to live the lovely lie
that makes me better
than I am, the tiny twist
that leaves behind
the "me" of others' memories -
until the past
(at least for me)
transcends too-hard reality
and feeds upon my dreams.

48Poemblaze
Mag 15, 2007, 3:10 pm

Sorlil, it is indeed a great poem.

49AnneBoleyn
Mag 15, 2007, 5:03 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

50Tim_Watkinson
Mag 16, 2007, 9:03 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

51ZealousDefender
Mag 16, 2007, 1:00 pm

French Fry Addict

Fried potato goodness in every bite
From each french fry I eat at night
Some are heart clogging with oil so soggy
Others are browned and enjoyably crispy
I don’t mind the health risks
Just so long as I get my fix
Like ‘em with Ketchup, can do
How bout some Malt Vinegar, too
Chili and Cheesy goo
Any condiment is good with this food

It breaks from the traditionally gritty and dark poetry that I'm better known for my friends. I had promised my adopted sister this poem for a while. I love seeing her smile.

52bookstopshere
Mag 19, 2007, 12:08 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

53gautherbelle
Mag 19, 2007, 12:20 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

54lorsomething
Mag 19, 2007, 7:24 pm

From My Window

Through the lace curtain of the trees
The jeweled light of the sun
Dances with the wind.
It is enough.

55Poemblaze
Mag 21, 2007, 12:28 pm

bookstophere

Good poem. The last two lines wrap it up nicely.

lorosomething

Very clear image, well done. A happy poem is a good thing. Maybe I will write more of those.

56lorsomething
Mag 21, 2007, 7:41 pm

Thanks, PB. The formula you have now works very well for you. You don't want to mess too much with success. :)

57Tim_Watkinson
Mag 22, 2007, 7:29 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

58Hera
Mag 22, 2007, 2:43 pm

Oh go on, then. This is one I wrote in 1994, when I was reading a lot of sonnets.

Cherries

These are cherries: fat, black, shining. They sit
On a surface; contained. The olives strain
In brine against the glass jar, their pitted
Bodies bursting from within, blackening
The salty water. You bought us cherries
From the South, a garden where your mother’s
Dying; slowly in the sun. Blackberries
Ripen in our garden, turn from green to red.
August and September promise black fruit
In abundance. The early summer killed
More tender flowers. The winds came in June:
Left stalks standing naked, their petals spilled.
Leaves and thorns hide tiny black bubbles: burst
Fragile white flowers from the wrist-thick root.

There you go. xx

59AnneBoleyn
Mag 23, 2007, 3:09 am

*57 Tim,
Another great poem as always. I can almost feel the sense of loss myself.

60Tim_Watkinson
Mag 23, 2007, 1:31 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

61Tim_Watkinson
Mag 23, 2007, 1:32 pm

and i love your poem, hera.

62almigwin
Mag 23, 2007, 8:14 pm

57 and 58- wonderful poems Hera and Tim! Beautifully crafted, and very moving. Bravos to you both.

63quicksylver_btg
Mag 24, 2007, 12:09 am

Here goes.

"Not Tonight"

There comes a time when tired is just tired.
It's not a state of mind, of mind ruling
over body, of iron caffinated will
forcing movement from a body
intent on maintaining a genuflect
position, obediant in all things
to gravity's will.

It isn't that point where thoughts
muddle together, circling and muddling,
bouncing off the walls to collide
somewhere in the middle, like
mating sea cows, muddle and bump,
soft slow collisions of impulse.

It's that time when tired means everything
stops. When the body succumbs
to gravity. When the mind winds down.
When thoughts are collected like eggs
in a bowl, refrigerated for later.
When you say to me, "Sorry, honey,
not tonight."

64parodyofpoetry Primo messaggio
Modificato: Mag 24, 2007, 3:25 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

65parodyofpoetry
Mag 24, 2007, 3:29 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

66parodyofpoetry
Mag 24, 2007, 3:32 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

67parodyofpoetry
Mag 24, 2007, 4:58 am

#39 "Springs" is truly wonderful.

68Tim_Watkinson
Mag 24, 2007, 9:15 am

thank you almigwin. a tip of my hat

and a smile.

69Tim_Watkinson
Mag 24, 2007, 1:36 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

70Tim_Watkinson
Mag 24, 2007, 1:38 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

71AnneBoleyn
Mag 24, 2007, 3:28 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

72zendo454
Mag 29, 2007, 8:44 pm

very nice, lorsomething. You could make this even more minimalist by dropping the final line.

73lorsomething
Mag 29, 2007, 9:06 pm

Thank you, zendo. You're right, of couse, BUT :) that particular day, that scene was all I needed, and I had to say so.

74Jakeofalltrades
Giu 3, 2007, 2:17 am

http://teenauthorsqb.blogspot.com/2007/05/jacobs-poems-tribute-to-alan-moores.ht...

Here is my poem about the comics writer Alan Moore and his oversized beard, his work and the fact that he is weird.

75bookstopshere
Giu 4, 2007, 11:39 am

The shore is subtle

The shore is subtle and
quick to anger; its lines,
forgotten or remembered,
created and recreated
by every breeze and moon.
Sea changes, wind alters,
and the shore is bent,
recast by hands and tongues,
pounded, but shorelines never break.
No ideal image sustains
a form; no memory brings
a wave to its spawning place.
New each moment, what
meaning grows in change?
A gentle rhythm rises, ebbs
and searches to find a grammar
for the sound of water over stones.

76lorsomething
Giu 4, 2007, 4:29 pm

Wonderful! They just keep getting better!

77Poemblaze
Giu 5, 2007, 1:23 pm

bookstophere I like "The shore is subtle". Well done.

78sorlil
Giu 5, 2007, 5:31 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

79AnneBoleyn
Giu 17, 2007, 4:33 pm

It was when the fighting stopped
that the trouble started.
We fight for what we care about.
How we used to rage and scream and shout.
I’d like to say ‘We never came to blows’
Life is quieter now, calmer.
We each go with the flow.
Indifference is equal to contempt.

80jalmidgley
Giu 18, 2007, 7:37 am

Winter

Not winter, you think,
but a bell-maned lion
gnawing the frayed tail of dawn.
He laps from the lake of colour,
clamps the tulip shut with a kiss
of breath, tightens it to a bullet.
Craftsmen with bleeding hands collect
his shed nails to elbow their umbrellas,
an eyelash here and there for rope
suited to the coil of a whip.

You look away and there is snow,
suddenly, as if you've come-to
from a dream of moulted needles.
Your child shows you a lion
smeared in crayons, just the black
outline, and seeing all that white
a synapse chills, a brush of fur
embeds the palms with stars of ice,
shrapnel from blown windows, silver
in your eye where he entered.

(in the current issue of Nth Position)

81bookstopshere
Giu 24, 2007, 11:17 pm

To make the sense divine,
ourselves and our perceptions one,
hours will not deliver us.
We stand upon the shores
of our own being, each,
each moment, stretching to touch,
stretched to touch the pulse
of the world.
Among contradictions, we create;
we bear, more terrible each time,
our image renewed.

Our fingers make the touch
and mold the water warm,
the boulders stone. Our time is ours,
made unendurable by waiting
for a future which is only grammatical.

What world outside ourselves
will our eyes see through our
eyes; what ocean will embrace
a sole illusionary shore?

We are ourselves, seen
in seeing, firing our desire
to re-create ourselves.
It is a blind child
that knows its father
from itself, a terrible child,
crippled by inheritance,
that must be ripped from the womb,
an ancient, huge child,
born to destoy the world.

82lorsomething
Modificato: Giu 30, 2007, 6:52 pm

Night Fire

The sky is on fire tonight
Blazing orange tongues of flame
Slowly smothered
By a billowy blanket
Of lavender clouds
Into a sizzling line of hot coals
All along the horizon
That finally fade
When night washes down the sky

83Tim_Watkinson
Lug 2, 2007, 4:14 pm

i love the sense of scents in your night fire poem, lor,

that's really

something.

84lorsomething
Lug 2, 2007, 9:18 pm

Are you saying it stinks? lol (Thanks!)

85almigwin
Lug 2, 2007, 11:10 pm

gautherbelle: Why did you delete all your posts? I didn't copy any and now they are all gone. Cruel and unusual punishment. Miriam

86Poemblaze
Lug 7, 2007, 3:24 pm

Enough for Now

The beauty of this moment
escapes me in a thousand ways.
I am able to grasp
only one thing and hold it,
so I pull the one small cloud,
brilliant, white, fleeting,
from this sky,
and hold close the scent
of rain about to fall
beneath clear blue.

87bookstopshere
Lug 7, 2007, 4:17 pm

Pb
very, very pretty

88Poemblaze
Lug 12, 2007, 3:35 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

89chezwhen
Lug 16, 2007, 6:25 pm

verse sans symbols

One gains
a certain appreciation
for moving on -
past the surprise,
past the homey comfort
of habit. Intellectual
courage is no small thing;
it seems to ripen,
invisible, springing
out at the damnedest times.

90almigwin
Lug 16, 2007, 6:31 pm

86 and 89 seem like a new kind of imagism. Lovely. Meaningful. Crisp.

91Poemblaze
Lug 17, 2007, 1:39 pm

Thanks almigwin.

Was one of those poems that just drops onto the page.

92Tim_Watkinson
Lug 19, 2007, 8:54 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

93varielle
Modificato: Lug 20, 2007, 10:18 pm

Ooo!

I wish I could have gotten somebody to write a poem like that for me!

94almigwin
Lug 19, 2007, 10:48 pm

Tim: your #92 is very lovely and romantic and sexy. Yummy poem. If it was written especially for someone, she should be thrilled.

95lorsomething
Lug 20, 2007, 7:00 pm

I agree with almigwin. Well done!

96bleuroses
Lug 21, 2007, 1:21 pm

as lovely as a lone cedar on a hillside, in a field, amongst the spirits....

97Tim_Watkinson
Modificato: Lug 22, 2007, 1:23 pm

a smile and a nod. thank you, you gals are all too kind.

98dperrings
Lug 22, 2007, 3:27 pm

this is a poem about Los Angeles, Ca

City of Angels

LA is like one big drag queen festival
The unattainable feminine

The entire landscape
Is drenched with her

No void is left unfilled
In-between the threads
Of the tightly woven fabric

The place is into what it puts on

The line between the real
And the imaginary, isn’t

I can see the vision
But I can’t put her on
She won’t be worn

My only salvation
Is to find her
Within myself

David Perrings

100almigwin
Lug 23, 2007, 4:18 pm

Tripp:#99. Funny, impressive, I loved it. I hope you have much publication in your future.

101Tim_Watkinson
Lug 31, 2007, 5:00 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

102lorsomething
Lug 31, 2007, 12:24 pm

Another lovely, Tim. Are you published yet?

103Tim_Watkinson
Lug 31, 2007, 1:23 pm

can you believe i lost the only poem i've had published, along with, god, maybe 70, 80 other poems in a hotmail theft about a year ago.

nahhhh, i am much too lazy to ever chase the elusve editor charmed enough to give me even a few bucks. might as well work for a living.

thank you for your compliment. it's like fine wine, this gift you bring.

104varielle
Lug 31, 2007, 1:51 pm

There are a lot of chapbook contests around. I think you should go for it.

105GEHpoet Primo messaggio
Lug 31, 2007, 10:13 pm

Hi. I'm new here. You can call me Gindy. :)

I enjoy to a frightening degree internal rhyme, scansion, form without obvious "usage" of form, such as the ever popular sonnet, villanelle, triolet, et cetera et cetera, symmetry, assonance/consonance, overall good use of sonics, rhythm, et CETERA!!!! :D

This is a sort of prose poem or word doodle I wrote a few days ago:

Mayhem may stem from some flower arrangements' estranged leafy lovers. Over and over we see them, orange and deranged, the hovering petals awhirl and plusher than sunsets. In ride the leaves, dropping from eavesdropping trees, saplings ruffled by breeze. The flowers---lush, dark-haloed---shuffle their feet in the gale. O dolorous colors! --- they fade as we wade, orbiting arbor-boles, delirious with what may weary us.

That's all! Thanks, and it's good to be here. :)

106Tim_Watkinson
Ago 1, 2007, 9:01 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

107suge
Ago 3, 2007, 10:04 pm

*shyly pokes her head in*

Ok, no one laugh, here's something that I wrote when I was about 17 (a million years ago):

#1

Dark rage takes me on, and I feel fear, because God knows what I’ll do next. Where do I wash away the dry, crusted blood that remains where it gushed out of my wounds, when you stabbed me with the knife of indifference?
Dark, dark poisonous rage comes over me and I lose control, I become this beast that only knows but how to hate and destroy,
And the rage grows inside me…
It feeds itself on the love I had for you, before your innocent betrayal.
I see your lovely face and my hatred fades away as suddenly as it came. Just like that, with the flicker of a heartbeat.
But when it comes back will I be able to suppress the desire to damage your vitality, bruise your gorgeous face and scar it?
And so, on the outside I laugh and joke and play, so the world would not suspect of the dark interior that within me exists
Meanwhile, the beast hides within the crevices of my soul, attentive for the next opportunity to strike again.

hahahaha I was little ray of melodramatic sunshine, huh?

108Tim_Watkinson
Ago 4, 2007, 7:19 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

109suge
Ago 4, 2007, 7:37 pm

Thanks!

I was laughing sooo much when I found it! And this is the worst of it either--but nothing, and I mean nothing--can persuade me to post those here! lol

Yes, you don't want to flip your mom's whole world upside down like that!

Plus, "my mom" and "erotic" shouldn't even be in the same paragraph, or convo :D

Go on post one, now I'm curious!

110cheznomore
Ago 9, 2007, 2:55 pm

In the quiet dull morning,
sunrise long gone, replaced
by the faint hum
of electronic life, I
close my eyes, almost dreaming,
disconcertingly, of
love. Love comes in
through the eyes first,
then engages all
the senses and
nonsenses. Considering
whether microwaves interfere
with love is madness.
Still, a pastoral
image thrusts
temporary sanity into my
otherwise quiet dull morning.

111clm256poetry
Ago 14, 2007, 7:42 pm

Wonderful!

112clm256poetry
Modificato: Ago 17, 2007, 1:15 pm

Bones of Acknowledgement

John the dogs are back.
You know the ones.
They're growling for my
Attention & affection.
So what shall I feed them today?
Which bones John?
The bone of affirmation?
The bone of fairness?
The bone of objectivity?
Or forgiveness John forgiveness?

113Tim_Watkinson
Ago 15, 2007, 8:40 am

nice touch, clm.

them bones . . .

114clm256poetry
Ago 15, 2007, 9:44 am

Thank you so much! ; )

115clm256poetry
Ago 15, 2007, 6:08 pm

Shorter than the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner? LOL

116clm256poetry
Ago 15, 2007, 6:13 pm

Great poem!

117clm256poetry
Ago 15, 2007, 6:16 pm

Terrific!

118clm256poetry
Ago 15, 2007, 6:19 pm

Wow!

119clm256poetry
Ago 15, 2007, 6:20 pm

Nice. Very nice.

120clm256poetry
Modificato: Ago 17, 2007, 1:49 pm

Green Eyes

Green eyes? Yes.
Green eyes once
stared back at me
and what did they
see? Maybe they
mirrored something
for me. Or they lied
to me. Or did I lie
to myself ?

Green eyes, my eyes,
our eyes? No.
There is another
pair of eyes. Brown.
Hopeless? Hopeless.
Hazel eyes.

121AnneBoleyn
Ago 17, 2007, 3:44 am

Hey clm256poetry,

I like both your poems and I also admire your enthusiasm!

122clm256poetry
Ago 17, 2007, 1:12 pm

Thank you! Finally a great forum for poets & poetry!

123clm256poetry
Ago 17, 2007, 1:17 pm

Wrote this poem this summer after I watched "Blood Diamond"

When I saw all
The blood it
Made me pause
Remove the gems
From my fingers
Then think about
The hands that
Died for them.

124clm256poetry
Modificato: Ago 17, 2007, 1:21 pm

Wrote this one this summer...

Seasons

The seasons remind me
Of my last four loves.
The Donald is winter
That's when we first met.
David was a spring and
His shiny red Corvette.
Goeff was one summer
Driving around town with
The convertible top down.
Sanford was the best ride
On a motorcycle in fall.
And Sam? He didn't get a
Chance to kiss me at all.

125clm256poetry
Modificato: Ago 22, 2007, 3:20 pm

This poem started me back to writting after a 3-4 yr. hiatus. It was after the shooting at Virgina Tech.

For Monday 4/16/07

It rained.
Now
Hints and wisps
Of colors
Spring.

126dperrings
Ago 17, 2007, 2:43 pm

Speaking of shootings

I wrote this after Columbine

from the Mask

"Somebody stop me!"

Littleton, Co 99

If my eyes are closed when I am asleep
I get rest

If my eyes are open when I am asleep
I just grow weary

I am so weary and tired
so very weary and tired
that I cannot see the bombs being planted
by the children

who are crying out
to be stopped

crying out for the adults

As I awake from this walking sleep
I notice the blood on my hands

David Perrings

127chezwhen
Ago 20, 2007, 4:46 pm

Infinitive

To see
a fading sunset and
be torn, between
the beauty
and the regret,
haunts, a memory
before its rose
is set.

128clm256poetry
Ago 20, 2007, 8:53 pm

Applause applause or clap clap clap wonderful!

129clm256poetry
Ago 20, 2007, 8:54 pm

All I can say is WOW!

130almigwin
Ago 22, 2007, 1:36 am

Does anyone know where Tim Watkinson went, or why all his stuff is removed from library thing? I liked his poems a lot.

131XenaBallerina
Ago 22, 2007, 9:58 am

almigwin, I asked the same question re Tim over on the Balletomanes group but no answer so far.

132tygerlilli
Ago 22, 2007, 10:09 am

Shell Game

Small white seashell
glows on a dark green rug,
where it falls, unseen,
as you sort what's yours, what's mine.

Now in my hand, hidden from sight.
A tangible memory
of a day at the sea
before you sorted what's yours, what's mine.

Sharp shell edges press on my skin
when i grip it tight in my fist
and watch, helpless,
as you sort what's yours, what's mine

Vision moon we shared,
so full of promise,
shattered in pieces like shells in the surf.
Nothing left, save what's yours, what's mine.

(written Aug. 2007, j.k.s.)

133AnneBoleyn
Ago 23, 2007, 5:44 am

>132 tygerlilli: tygerlilli -I like your poem a lot it brings back a memory of mine.

Here's the first draft of a poem I have had in my head for a while and have finally got round to scribbling down
* * * * * * * * *

The Game of Life

You can only play with the hand you are dealt.

Sometimes if you are lucky you can change your hand
But if you are very unlucky the new hand is worse.

Some people are born lucky
Some people are born unlucky

Some people have the best cards and throw them away
Some have the worst cards but make the best of them.

Sometimes you can convincingly bluff out a bad hand
You can make it appear a better one even to yourself.

Only throw your hand as a last resort
You can only play with the cards you are dealt.

134Randy_Hierodule
Modificato: Ago 24, 2007, 11:40 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

135Esta1923
Set 4, 2007, 3:33 pm

by esta1923

Traffic jams
and Jelly rolls

There's a fishfry soon
at the Fair

If you will go
I'll join you there

136clm256poetry
Set 4, 2007, 5:58 pm

Got to love those traffic jams & jelly rolls! Nice.

137clm256poetry
Set 4, 2007, 5:59 pm

I love it! I firmly believe this & tell people this all the time...that life is like a card game & it's about playing the hand that's dealt to you well.

138clm256poetry
Modificato: Set 4, 2007, 6:01 pm

I'm so jealous! I only wish I could write so well. This is terrific!
(for writer of the shells)

139sorlil
Modificato: Set 18, 2007, 7:07 am

Memory of a Dog Fight

Sand swims into sight
my hands cusp full and lift
to nose. Eyes closed and rub
between finger and thumb the slow spill
of granules. Low in the shadows the great husk
of bodies wrangle, twined like a sculpture
anatomic god-dogs. The heaving musk
of sweat and crack of leather. Teeth clash like
metal
on metal, the pulse leaps in my wrist
jaws grip a spine, mouth packed with fur
wet, matted. Red sand, arena walls smeared
and one dog dead shrunk to a pup.
The pit at dawn.

140AnneBoleyn
Set 23, 2007, 5:11 am

>>139 sorlil:

Hey sorlil well written as always!

I wonder what inspired you to write on this subject matter?

141Esta1923
Set 23, 2007, 12:12 pm

She'd never been a friendly friend,
but neighbors shuddered at her end
They found her on her kitchen floor
entire room was full of gore

Bits of meat and quartered fruit
blood all over her 2-piece suit
Whatever could have happened?
the neighbors shook their head

Whatever it was that happened
Missus was quite dead

Then someone recalled a salesman
had gone from door to door
Selling a specialty "superknife"
not available before

And some remarked that "She"
was skeptical most highly
and would demand
a proof of things
before she'd try or buy it

That did explain
the meat and fruit
The blood upon the floor?

a blade was found between her ribs,
. . . they need not wonder more.

(Responding to challenge to write a horror poem!) Esta1923

142sorlil
Set 23, 2007, 5:28 pm

thanks anneboleyn, Panorama did a programme recently on the underworld of dog fighting, it was pretty horrific viewing.

143anowalk
Set 24, 2007, 2:21 am

Titans in a Scrum

Dressed in varsity t-shirts my brothers grunted, smashing
bookshelves. Elbows & shoulders bent together like nickels

on train tracks, they never punched each other, just shoved & tripped,
squeezed until cheeks puffed out and they remembered how it felt

to be brothers. Black & white war movies played in the living
room every night after seven-thirty, muted sometimes for Greek

mythology: stories of giants & gods gorging at feasts.
Strong as I was I knew not to get between titans in a scrum.

I hid in doorways, peeked, did what I felt: stayed small, even
when I wasn’t. "Remember, never fight in anger but

defend yourself. If he swings, first guard your neck, aim for his."
I fought. Felt large, loved, finally angry—nostrils flared, arms

became heavy like steel being tempered, I held my side
where the belt landed like a rock tossed from a mountain top.

144tim_watkinson
Ott 3, 2007, 8:58 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

145jburlinson
Ott 3, 2007, 2:24 pm

I've been working on this one for a while. Still in progress. Line 3 is a placeholder. The others seem right (at least for now). Any suggestions for a better line 3?

The Sailor's Dream

Years later
he would lie stretched out with open eyes
and feel the cup of his skull drop away

He would remember these patterns of frozen lights
imagine movement beneath him and vanish
again into the sea

The moon displayed the sky
deeper than he thought
as if he were riding the jet of a fountain

146Jakeofalltrades
Ott 9, 2007, 4:46 am

Here's my "protest poem" genre poetry piece that critiques Australia's involvement in the War in Iraq:

"Remember, Remember, the 10th of September"

Remember, Remember, the 10th of September
Before the Terrorist Plot
The world was a much more certain place,
A peace that’s now forgot,
It was a happy time indeed,
Before the Climate of Fear,
Before the paranoia
Whispered in our ears,
The day before September 11th
Was rather ordinary,
There was nothing to be afraid of,
No need to be wary,
The “Axis of Evil” was unknown,
We didn’t need to fear,
Saddam, Osama, in Australia,
We simply had a beer,
And talked to our neighbours,
With sausages on the Barbie,
We even invited them over,
Now it just sounds Barmy!
We used to trust our Middle Eastern,
Allah-serving friends,
But now the bond is broken,
It’s hard to make amends
When John Howard and George Bush
Marched our troops to war,
They said it was to kick
Saddam out the Door
But we soon found out,
That this so called “Democracy”
That was heralded as Freedom
Was just sheer hypocrisy!
The war was for Oil,
The Pollies won’t admit it
But even though they’ll lose the war,
They just don’t want to quit it,
So committed and defending
Of a evil, twisted lie,
They continue to fight for “Freedom”,
Though many men will die,
If you don’t agree with them,
They accuse you of dissent
And pack you off to Guantanamo Bay
By Act of Government
What kind of “Freedom” is this?
Not the sort I like,
We should tell these war-mongering fools
To get back on their bikes,
These kinds of people,
Have no right to run a country,
Or even a hot dog stand
They’d burn the food too crunchy!

Australia deserves leaders
Both noble and true,
The kind that fight for justice
That stick their neck out for you!
We won’t see that just yet,
The fight it isn’t over,
But please, Australians, don’t give up,
Cook up some nice Pavlova!
And don’t be afraid,
To stick up for your friends,
When times are tough your Mates
Are with you to the End
Always remember,
The day before the fear,
Before the Towers collapsed,
It was a lovely year
It was a peaceful time
And it will come again,
Even though these politicians
Drive you round the bend!

147tim_watkinson
Ott 9, 2007, 9:16 am

it's good to see a young person wrestling with the issue of our governments reacting and/or overreacting to attacks. Gives some of us older folk hope.

weather or not the world was at peace the day before 9/11 is a debate for another time, an inspiration for maybe other poems, but yeah,

i like your poem.

kudos.

148MarianV
Ott 9, 2007, 10:10 am

#145 iburlinson
You asked for help w/"The Sailor's Dream" which I found intense & moving.
This is what I came up with.
Years later
he would lie upon the deck, arms streched out, eyes open
as he felt the cup of his skull crumble away,
Remember jagged patterns of frozen light & a shuddering beneath him that vanished over & over into the sea.
The moon displayed the sky
deeper than he believed possible
As he rode to it on the jet of a fountain.

I wish we could do this privately. Do you worry about other people (not necessarily members) entering the site & posting the poems as their own? I don't know a lot about computers.
Hope you don't think I messed with your stuff too much. It's really good. Are you in any workshops?

149jburlinson
Ott 13, 2007, 10:35 am

I am so impressed and moved by your post. Your version is, in many, many ways, better than mine. It really nails the original impulse. Even though it's better, though, it's different. I'll try to explain that rather lame comment offline.
I think the way to do this privately is to go to each other's profile page, post a comment and mark it private. I'm certainly willing to do so.
No workshops, I'm afraid. Time is my enemy, really the only one. Would you recommend one?
Thanks for taking your time and spending it with me.

150almigwin
Modificato: Ott 13, 2007, 8:36 pm

Adolescent Dream

I would be as beautiful
as the rose
and as silent
to seed and bloom
unaware,
Delight of lovers
and pale crown
of the dead
in ignorant peace,
Adorning
the centuries.

1946

151perodicticus
Ott 15, 2007, 5:24 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

152perodicticus
Ott 17, 2007, 4:04 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

153Jakeofalltrades
Ott 19, 2007, 1:00 am

Here's a "Rap/Spoken Word" poem I'm working on (Warning: Some Rap Lingo within might slap yo easily offended types with a hip-hop smackdown, fo' sho'!)

Mythology Rap Poem (‘Sall Greek To Me ‘Yall)
By Jacob Martin

I ain’t apologisin’
For my Mythologis’n
Zeus gets it on
In the form of a swan
Hera’s getting miffed
She’s treated like a bitch
By the King of the Gods
Sendin’ down rods
Of lightning, thunder,
Hercules nearly blundered
When he was fightin’ the Hydra
He got help when not allowed ta
So he got 12 Labours, he’s in major
Monster slayin’ now,
He’s leavin’ town
To go to the Underworld, fetching Cerberus
The King’s gettin’ nervous
When that Hell hound arrives
In his palace, paralyzin’
Him with fear, Perseus fights Medusa the Gorgon
Uglier even more than
Typhon’s backside
I hope you realise
That when I’m rapping about the Minotaur
Whose momma was a cheatin’ whore
Got busy with a Bull sent by Poseidon
I’m not just droppin’ rhymes
About ancient times
They’re real old stories
Some of them gory
But they mean somethin’ to all of us
Like the Tragedy of Oedipus
Rex he defeated the Sphinx
With a riddle, he thinks
About what walks on four legs in the Mornin’
These old Myths ain’t boring
They’re more than just stories
They’re also allegories, categories
Of Human existence
There ain’t no resistance!

154tim_watkinson
Ott 21, 2007, 9:33 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

155mrsradcliffe
Modificato: Ott 24, 2007, 4:46 am

Hi there I'm new to the group and have been writing poems on and off for a while now, so thought I'd post one, so here goes:

Roses.

Opening to light, I fight
Against the gaping air,
The thorns that scratch and screech
Tug, anchor, root in earth

Silk, velvet, rise like breath
Veins succumb to sun -
Crimson flutters, essence shudders
Fall down, back, buried

Smooth lips part to start
Mating dances, darting stances
Pollen penetration, procreation
Is done, as am I

Rushing, flashing blades of
Desire press into my heart
Picked, thorn pricked, then pressed
Amongst the parchment leaves.

156tim_watkinson
Ott 24, 2007, 1:29 pm

very nice mrsradcliffe. i love the way you've looked at your rose.

157Jakeofalltrades
Ott 25, 2007, 3:36 am

Pixie
By Jacob Martin

1.

I saw a Pixie
I ain’t just whistling Dixie
It was on my lawn
From dusk till dawn

Why was it there?
Without a care, and
Strangely enough
Looked rather gruff

I asked it its name
It replied “Charlemagne”
Master of Kings
And Faerie rings

What a joke!
Why would it stoke
The fires of my rage
Pretending to be sage?

2.

It occurred to me
This was not common to see
I took his photograph
It summoned the riff-raff

The rogues and dregs
Of Faerieland, the
imagination begs
For answers grand

They took me away
These treacherous Fey
Binding me in a Faerie ring
(Then they forced me to sing!)

“Sing us a Human song”
Said an Elf lad from the back
“Make sure it is not too long,
Sing a reasonable, musical track”

3.

I sung them a Stairway to Heaven
They were moved, even to tears
The genius of Jimmy Paige
Was the best rock we’ve had for years

The Fey agreed to release me
After my show was done
They hid back inside the trees
Well I guess; you could call that fun

I never saw the Fey again
But this is where the tale ends
In old age, memory remains
And ‘tis there we keep our friends

I saw a Pixie on the lawn
I dearly miss him already
He came so quickly, now he’s gone
The mere thought of him makes me unsteady.

158mrsradcliffe
Ott 25, 2007, 7:35 am

#157 - I really enjoyed your piece, very evocative.

#156 - Thanks so much for your kind comments. I seen some work of yours up on this thread, very inspirational.

159naflapp Primo messaggio
Ott 25, 2007, 11:48 am

hellooo

160zinkel101
Modificato: Nov 9, 2007, 5:42 pm

Deli Sandwich (2005)

At a family gathering it’s impossible
to get through a complex thought,
like when I discovered
Favre should hang it up,
and I really don’t need anything, thanks.
I’m not a modern or a postmodern. I’m a
reality show? that’s anything but real,
and did you see that man was arrested for his lewd
anachronism, preferring order in meter and rhyme,
using prepositions, conjunctions, and
the Exorcism of Emily Rose? A scary
punctuation to make my words a little more
greasy for my taste. I’d rather have a deli sandwich that’s
understandable for the average reader.

161virgingloves
Nov 13, 2007, 3:45 pm

Film Strip

We’re not dating anymore
That never stopped us before
But on the back of the car?
Yes
In the driveway?
Yes
But someone might see us
Exactly

She pursed her lips
And looked down at his nightstand
Two hundred

I don’t have that kind of money
I know
Then why?
If you can’t pay…
But this is art
It’s sex
It’s sex in an artistic medium
VHS is an artistic medium?

Breaking up was becoming a matter
For lawyers
So many details
Compromises & negotiations
Some stranger than others

You can wear the top ok?
I’ll still be naked
You’ll be partially naked
Let me wear the skirt too
Fine but you only get fifty

If he couldn’t have her
He’d have celluloid memories
Play, pause, masturbate
Rewind to the money shot
She knew how to moan
Like a starlet

Like this?
Bent over under sparkling skies
Yes, don’t move
Pavement under her feet
Ready for action?
Camera rolling

He had learned so much from her
She was the experienced traveler
He the novice lover
She was growing bored
He had grown obsessive

Yes
Make it good
This is the last time he’d know her secrets
A last time that would replay forever in his VCR
On many lonely nights
But she’d be gone

Yes, Harder, Yes
A tear rolled down his face
And landed on her back
The intensity was purely psychological
An expression of loss

Give it to me!
His arms gripped around her
She bucked back into him
Her shrieks echoed into the night sky
He shuddered with awe

Cut
The scene ended too quickly
It’s over? She asked surprised
Yes He wept to himself
It’s over
We’re done

Film Strip is from a book of poems called Anarchy Bell
It is now available at www.suburbanfiction.com

162bobmcconnaughey
Modificato: Nov 26, 2007, 10:22 pm

Gravity Waves (after a phrase attr. to Einstein)

Gravitation
Gravitation can not
Gravitation can not be held
Gravitation can not be held responsible
Gravitation can not be held responsible for people
Gravitation can not be held responsible for people falling
Gravitation can not be held responsible for people falling in love.
Gravitation can not be held responsible for people falling
Gravitation can not be held responsible for people
Gravitation can not be held responsible
Gravitation can not be held
Gravitation can not
Gravitation
Gravity
Grave
Gave
Ave
Al
in
L
o
v
e

apologies in advance..i don't write, just read, as a rule.
This was modeled, roughly, after a statistical function.

163Netea
Nov 27, 2007, 1:19 pm

I'm not as good as most of those that I've read in this, but I'll give a shot. I've written a couple free verse but I'm not very... good at it yet. So I'll stay with a few of my rhyme scheme ones right now. I'm not one for happy so sorry if this may creep you out.

Shut up
Go AWAY!
Don't come near me
Pleas don't STAY!

Hide swiftly and often
In places so small
So That upon your throat
Shall my blade not fall

My heart is cold
And black as the nigh sky
My only dream
Is to see you die

I used to be chippish
I used to be cheery
But now I'm dark black
And horribly scary

But now something is wrong
I don't understand
I no longer control
This pen or my hand

I had an idea
I knew what to write
But somethings messed up
And my hand and head continue to fight

I wanted to write
Something kind, something sweet
But at this point in time
It proves an impossible feat

You've taken my joy
My one safe haven
With me so angry
There's no shame to be craven

Your perfect rhymes
They create so much fear
Now the school is set
That you've made every tear

My poems and rhymes
They made me an outcast wronged
For you they didn't
They gave you attention so longed

The simple minded fools
They don't understand
That I was the one who taught
The flow of a pen in your hand

So one of us must go
Either you or I
And I tell you this
I will not die

You've found my pen
My once skilled hand
Now I'll destroy you
And all thought of you shall be banned

You'r quick temper
Is now evenly matched
And it all begins
As my plan is hatched

A thick river of blood
And a fatal cry of pain
Never again for you
Shall there be a cleansing rain

You now hide in a spot
Where you think I cannot find
But you seem to forget
I'm inside your miind

I see you, you know
And with a swish of my blade
I smile so brilliantly
As I see your life fade

Stupidly I turn
Not knowing what to do
Simply forgetting the rage
Still held within you

A swift jap of pain
Runs through my back
I pull out the knife and fall
Feeling every bone crack

I take your hand
And realize my mistake
That I was the one
I was the fake

In a pool of blood
Together we cry
And I hold you still
Until you die

I brush away a tear and stand
And for once I didn't lie
I had warned you
That I wouldn't die

"How can it be?"
Your floating soul said
Quite simply really
You killed me long ago
My heart is already dead

164tim_watkinson
Nov 28, 2007, 8:32 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

165Netea
Nov 28, 2007, 12:47 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

166tim_watkinson
Nov 28, 2007, 1:11 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

167Netea
Nov 28, 2007, 3:01 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

168Jakeofalltrades
Dic 1, 2007, 1:16 am

Here's a poem I composed on the subject of a bad review I got for my first short story collection. It's not whiney, I hope you like it!

* * * * *

A Bad Review
By Jacob Martin

My book received a bad review
My work it was compared
To a Saturday Morning Cartoon
It left me in despair

I suppose such a critique was fair
My first collection had no flair
Only plodding prose was there
I should have put in much more care

Such reviews fill me with dread
When the critic’s pen stabs me
And leaves me in the gutter dead
My penniless corpse for all to see

Normally I should be stronger
My resilience lasting longer
But these past three months
Leaves me dumped

In a pit of grief
There’s simply no relief
From a poisoned pen of a critic
Those creatures are parasitic

But on the other hand,
Though my prose may be bland
We need the critics to take a stand
And to offer reprimand

To Authors who commit crimes
Against literature at all times
Perhaps I was wrong
To publish a book of short stories too long

Perhaps, perhaps
My book was crap
My romantic tales filled with sap
Making my readers take a nap

As they drift into sleep
I’m at the bottom of the heap
Being an Author isn’t cheap
It costs your sanity, madness creeps

Upon you, in your despair
You wish that review wasn’t there
You’d like to think that you don’t care
But really, you want to rip out your hair

As you mope in a grim quagmire
Wearing unsuitable attire
Going out to a place that you desire
At this point you can’t retire

Not now, after you worked so hard
Even though you’re emotionally scarred
One bad review can leave you tarred
And feathered, ridiculed, marred

In this business only the strong survive
And while an abundance of critics thrive
Their words like stabbing knives
An Author’s reputation can be revived

Patrick White
Would never say
His first book was perfect
It filled him with dismay

He scoured that book from the Earth
Never to have it seen again
It was like he treated it as dirt
Few copies still remain

But failure is a strange curse
That the Shaman of Rebirth
Must remove from your depressed state
Don’t worry about it, She’ll be Right Mate!

A bad review is such a shame
A black mark against your name
But really one should not complain
Not all reviews will be the same

It is the Ego of Man
That makes a perfectionist sham
Of your life, self-pity is rife
In those who suffer strife

But one should learn from one’s mistakes
As a poet I’m no William Blake
But I know when my work stinks
If I could I’d burn it in a blink

But it’s not that easy
Even if your work makes people queasy
It’s part of you
Sticking like glue

To your body and mind
Your eyes blind
To the ugliness of your losses
The scorn of them tosses

You around in an ocean of doubt
Normal people wouldn’t float about
They’d get the lifeboat the first minute
But for an Author, your career, as you begin it

Seems rose-tinted,
Freshly minted
That is when things look the best
But as it ages you get depressed

Age turns beauty into decay
It fills you sometimes with dismay
It hurts you when the critics say
Your work is a mess, all disarrayed

It seemed so good, long ago
Your early work has turned to snow
From lovely, beautiful, fertile Spring
To hideous, cold, Winter things

I suppose it isn’t so bad
Writing a poem about it makes me glad
Instead of moping about it
I hardly need to shout it

The wounds of Art despised
Are healed by Art itself
Though critics make you cry
Continuing on is the key to good health

If one writes, and is spurned, you cannot remain
Writhing on the ground in pain
As a Painter who is reviled
Must always be reconciled

With their own self
The key to good health
I have already said
Is to continue for your butter and bread

Your Art and Craft feeds your mind
By going on you will find
That you will get better
A drenched man in the rain can’t get wetter

One review can strike you down
And make the public scowl and frown
Your name made fun of throughout the town
The pen can dig your burial mound

As much as it can create
It can be used as a tool of hate
But if you are strong
It will not be long

Before the darkness will pass
I’m sure your next piece
Will at the very least
Be kicking some literary arse!

169Jakeofalltrades
Dic 4, 2007, 7:26 am

I've written a new, saucy poem...

BE WARNED!

* * * * *

Reading in the Nude – A Poem by Jacob Martin

Reading in the Nude
It’s rather rude
To cop that attitude
That puts you in an angry mood

See the man on the deckchair
In summer’s heat of December
See that he is reading, bare
Exposing his large member

For all to view
It’ll make you spew
“That man is Nude!”
Cry the people in pews

The Church goers ruffle their feathers
As the man soaks up the weather
So nice, and hot,
A nice reading spot

The bystanders are not mistaken
This man sits on his lawn stark naked
But he intends his bareness
And in all certain fairness

The Human Body is not crude
Never meaning to be rude
All natural, too often hidden
Any exposure forbidden

Truth goes naked
So they say
Maybe this man
Thinks that way

He is completely revealed
No part of his soul concealed
His body not hiding
He’s hardly law abiding

But who would really win,
If the police arrested him?
Only censorship would be
The Victor, and that we do not need.

170juv3nal
Dic 12, 2007, 4:03 am

Just a heads up. I occasionally post new stuff to that link I posted at the beginning of this thread, so if you're interested, there's probably a couple of new pieces up since I originally posted.

171tim_watkinson
Dic 18, 2007, 11:46 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

172PandoraLuvsBooks
Dic 29, 2007, 2:44 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

173tcw
Gen 7, 2008, 12:15 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

174Smiley_Scorpio
Gen 10, 2008, 10:03 pm

here's my poem,Once, dedicated to my Grandpa

ONCE
Once a day, there is no day
Once an hour, there is no time
Once a minute, there is no reaction
Once a second, there is no way
Once one's loved, there is a power
A power of love comes once, & once only
Once one’s gone, you keep them with you
Your heart is stronger than your mind.

~Smiley_Scorpio~

175beatles1964
Feb 15, 2008, 10:29 am

So what does everyone think of the idea of us trying
to get our own Poetry Book Published? Everyone that
is interested would submit their own original poems for
the book and maybe we would be given some complimentary copies of the book when it's Published.

Librariawannabe

176beatles1964
Feb 15, 2008, 10:33 am

It's just a thought. Personally it sounds great to me that way we can all say we have had our poems Published in a poetry book It would be nice if enough
people liked the idea and were willing to do this. I think
it would be a fun project to do myself.

Librarianwannabe

177tcw
Feb 15, 2008, 11:37 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

178Netea
Feb 18, 2008, 8:28 pm

Late one night
My dreams
Haunt a love forgotten
A love unknown
Except to myself
And to him
Will I see his face
I do not know
But one day
This love will grow
And I'll be his maid
For one short time
And when it ends
will I see
again
The Beauty of his pen
And when it ends
Again
Will all remember what has been
Tell me my love
Do you recall my name
Tell me my love
Do you bear this secret with shame
When all is said and done
Who will walk away
Will you tell me goodbye
Will you tell me one more lie
Tell me my love
Do you know which way you'll go
And tell me my love
Do you know
Do you know
That this is your last breath
That this is your last kiss
This will be our last dance
So swept across the floor
The band is playing
Our love is growing
The peak is reached but to fall
Is it not
Gracefully turning
My love is Burning
Tell me my love
Does yours respond to me
Tell me my love
Do you open your eyes and see
This one last dance
One sweet spin
Tell me my love
Do you know
Do you know
We love only to fall
Tell me my love
And tell me my love
That you will slay me to crawl
Is it true
These that I say
Tell me my love
Or is there another way

179Smiley_Scorpio
Feb 18, 2008, 9:51 pm

OMG I LOVE IT!!!!!!!

180yareader2
Feb 22, 2008, 7:03 pm

I love it too

181Netea
Feb 22, 2008, 8:17 pm

thank you very much

sitting in such a state
as the breath of many reaches my ears
a quiet deemed palce
So loud
near me is my heart
Beside me speaking
Listening with dull eyes
Holding my every attention
I not it
Not his
Not this
Not you and I
Just...
Me
I drone about hings
You should not consider
I dream of things
So ill thought of
But when I speak
I know you hear
And this is enough
The scent of my heart
Is close at hand
It fills me
Chooses me
But does not stay
I have but a brief moment
Until it fades away
Yet again
As this is not the first
My heart has been many
And I know this well
Unchosen and very ill placed
It stays with those it knows not
Everytime they walk
So does it
And I don't get it back
Until the next breath
My breath
My breath
My breath
My breath
Short and to the point
It cannot sustain my life
Is this for real?
My every trusting heart?
Is this your final choice?
Or just another fancy

182yareader2
Feb 22, 2008, 8:43 pm

beautiful. I hope I don't say anything wrong, but are there any typos in this? Maybe I am just a novice, but would you discuss them or should I just read and enjoy them. :)

183Smiley_Scorpio
Feb 23, 2008, 9:24 am

gooooooooooooooooooooooooood

184Jakeofalltrades
Feb 24, 2008, 10:42 am

Standard Issue Teenage Angst Poem, Only 99c
By Jacob Martin

The beast inside me kills me
the face of death it thrills me
the sight of his bones chills me
The heat of battle grills me

I’m fighting my inner demons
Nobody else can see them
My mind it screams like a museum
of Freakshows and Oddities by the dozen

I laugh in pain I want to cry
So much disgust I want to die
Sometimes I wonder why
I live on when the end is nigh

This crap is the kind of stuff I write
When I listen to Grunge so late at night
Nirvana and Alice In Chains
Puts crazy angst into my brain.

185Netea
Feb 25, 2008, 12:51 pm

you have to realize most of my stuff is written and not looked at again. I just write and type and the end. I don't contemplate my wrtiings usually

186tcw
Mar 11, 2008, 11:12 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

187Netea
Mar 12, 2008, 4:04 pm

I breath in the spring air
I remind myself of souls in my midst
Watching the stars I count them
How many are between here and there
A thousand
A Million
Is this so impossible?
To have only taste such thoughts
Such words and wisdom
It is our kiss
Will you ever breathe me in?
Will you ever see?
Will I ever touch
What souls should be parted
When never come together
Such breath these writings of your hand
Such strength in these words that I see
I know
You know
We know each other
Better than those long loved
My addiction these words
Your words
Millions, I say
There must be millions
From here to there
Yet with each word
My soul glows and I know
There is here

188bookstopshere
Mar 13, 2008, 2:06 pm

Poem with awkward title longer than itself

Sometimes
words
Just
Get in the way.

189Smiley_Scorpio
Mar 13, 2008, 7:59 pm

lol, i love that

190JNagarya
Mar 14, 2008, 1:57 am

This is an old first draft. I like it, but despite working at it for years, it doesn't seem quite right:

The Dance

Dancing is the only recreation
I find worthy of pursuit;
But I don't know any steps,
so my successes balance moot.

So the ballet is a question-mark
Which stands upon one toe,
And the waltz so slow and easy
I forget where I'm to go.

But the Charleston is a city--
it grants to me a destiny;
And the fox trot as a way to travel
Seems to furnish me the key.

But along comes Mr. Pirouette,
a spin designed to dizzy me.
So I'm lost again without a style,
Without some well known way to see.

Dancing is the only recreation
I find worthy of pursuit;
But I don't know any steps,
so my successes balance moot.

2/24/74

Copyright 1974-2008 (of course)

191bookstopshere
Mar 14, 2008, 9:40 am

I almost like it - many smiles, but can a dancing verse be wrong footed?

192JNagarya
Mar 14, 2008, 5:06 pm

#191

I think the problem with it might be the apparent humor -- it's intended to be serious about the realities, and ultimate outcome, of one's "dance" with life.

I've considered researching dance so I could put a bunch more kinds in it; but the kinds of dances are actually irrelevant, as the ballet and Pirouette lines indicate.

193bookstopshere
Mar 14, 2008, 5:21 pm

I enjoyed the humor - and light verse can be a very effective mechanism for serious ideas. I think the rhyme & meter provide a structure entirely suitable, but, if I were discussing over beer (or scotch) I'd probably point to a couple rough spots ("it grants to me a destiny" or "without some well know way to see") where scansion or usage jar. The lost steps can be pretty well mirrored by violating the metrical structure - and to nice comic effect - but I think only once (or regularly repeated - though that seems a bit like overkill.) I think you're right about not needing more - length not really a virtue in that kind of thing. The above to suggest that I like the piece, so please do not take the observations as criticism. :)

194Jakeofalltrades
Mar 15, 2008, 9:03 am

This one is a howler:

Breakfast of Eternal Champions
A Poem by Jacob Martin

Hear! The moans of dissatisfied swordsmen
Legendary Heroes, bored by breakfast
The endless sugar flakes they endorse
inspires in their hearts the woe of routine!

Even Conan himself would sneer
at a cereal eaten throughout the years
Heroes that sold out, no doubt
there was hunger for the dollar

But what is best in life
cannot be measured in gold
paid from advertisements
for what is barely food

Hear the moans of the sold out
sell-swords, blades for hire
in a quagmire, of capitalist
consumerist dragon-like greed

195JNagarya
Mar 15, 2008, 1:42 pm

#193

It is a first draft. But I don't see the jarring.

A later change was to title it "The Audition," or just "Audition". And "Ballet is a question mark" -- I try remove the inessentials, as they tend to be filler, and to slow things down. Tend to make passive voice where active is preferable. I've not thought to accomodate the apparent humor -- it's not what I want for it. Otherwise, as to length: it seems it needs another stanza or three in order to put more distance between first and last, as the last repeats (as it should).

This is one (another old first draft) in which passive -- lethargic, even -- voice is essential (and the third line is perfect) -- the first word being the "lame" "The". Unfortunately, the title is too obvious:

Writer's Block

The stale dissatisfaction presses
like lid on abandoned well;
restless, tree across the road,
I scan a book, but on no line dwell.

This shy boredom, a stubborn Death,
lingers, leans down upon
my foreign, starting dreams--
cuts them off again half-born.

These traces weakly wonder
when will this wall undo--
Life this lid soon must shatter,
And axe in this hand cut anew.

10/10/77

I don't necessarly like the inversions -- it's too much like straining to rhyme. Then again, that does fit the topic. (I was reading a lot of "little emily" Dickinson during that period.)

Copyright 1977-2008

196Netea
Mar 16, 2008, 11:57 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

197Jakeofalltrades
Modificato: Mar 17, 2008, 2:47 am

Technological Love Obstructed
A Poem by Jacob Martin

I waited for you to call
one day, you never called to see
in love a young man doomed to fall
For a girl who neglected me

They say that mobile phones connect us
That’s something I’m yet to find
Our acquaintances tend to forget us
As they ache inside our minds

I tried to IM you late one night
Girl that I loved, and maybe lost?
Could it be that I had lost the fight
for a love that’s turned from flame to frost?

One day I’ll try and find you
In the oasis of the hourglass’s sands
A desert, I am lost in time, it’s true
Your picture, in my hands

198yareader2
Mar 17, 2008, 8:58 pm

:)

199Netea
Modificato: Apr 23, 2008, 1:07 pm

Yet here it ends
As all things must
And the tears flow down her face
Such joy
Such sorrow
Times bitter friends
Memories in droves
And goals unaccoplished
When time has took a life
Her life's reason
And love has ended its season
Yet she stands at his side
Cold and beautiful
Silent and still
She mourns such terrible a loss
And cheers with loving remourse
Though gone her heart still remains
Still beating
Still breathing
In a chest that will be silent
For the rest of her years
While blood still flows
In blessings from love
His heart she'll always miss
She sees him in this
In that
And as always her first
He smiles like his father
And his laugh is just the same
Thank the lord someone took it
That it will always remain
Walking haunts of love
And dreaming their same dream
She wonders if it's possible
She can hear him
This fear she's always had
Has come true
She still alive
If for only her family
And the love he'd want her to have
But she lingers in the middle
Waiting
Just waiting
To yet again hold his hand
Sitting on the edge
At several stories high
She watches stars
And clouds drift by
And holds onto her memories
Of teenage years so long passed by
Of kisses stolen
From lips like heaven
That taught her how to love
She whispers here
It's been five years
And hangs her head and weeps
When a stanger walks
To see her there
In her lowest of lowly states
Tell me ma'am why you so weep
And she tells him
Of love so sweet
And he puts her on her feet
I'll do you a favor
This one for free
Which is something i never do
But when I'm done
I ask that you remember me
She gave a shy smile
And a queer look
But still she nodded her head
He picked her up
And through her off
Of her loved ledge so many
Stories high
And she fell with a resounding crash
When she stood up and dusted herself off
She said with such disgust
How rude a man to do such a thing
Though when she looked down
There she saw
By a miricale or trick of the light
Her own special wedding ring
Before she could
A hand picked it up
And lifted up her hand
And placed it in its place
He looked at her and said so low
Till death do we part
For now and forever
Please say you'll have me again
She nodded and smiled
Tears filling her eyes
There they placed their vow again
He clasped her hand and brought it to his lips
Though puzzled he said
Who was that man
To do such a thing
Truthfully she knew not
They looked at one another
Young once again
And smiled and said
Till Death do us part again

200Esta1923
Apr 14, 2008, 6:48 pm

Poetry month
Puts us all on the spot
Yes, some have talent
Some have not
But the fact that we try
Is a boon to us all
We can cheer when it's called for
Or say nothing at all.

201Jakeofalltrades
Apr 17, 2008, 10:26 am

English-Japanese Dictionary
A Poem by Jacob Martin

Dictionary, why are you more useful
than my Japanese teacher ever was?
The list of phrases is so thoughtful
These foreign words, together because

of the love of language, not of hate
I’ll be talking to my Nippon mates
if I can master this tongue
these words, vocabulary far flung

I suppose when I say kaji da!
It means what it means
But even a simple grammar mistake
Could make a phrase obscene

You couldn’t turn me Japanese
overnight, I really don’t think so
But overall I aim to please
and voyage, to boldly go

visiting the ancient land
of the Rising Sun
Though I am a novice,
my grasp of language just begun

202BarbN
Apr 20, 2008, 1:38 am

Tsunami

the earth shrugs and little ripples
build to cataclysm
to death and sorrow uncountable
to a world's broken heart
how slight the differences for those
who perch unsheltered on the thin skin
of island, continental plate,
mountain or coast
shook loose like a lace shawl torn and broken
when earth and sea dance
only a ghostly shadow of chance
keeps me apart

Dec 29, 2004

203tcw
Apr 21, 2008, 1:08 pm

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

204Netea
Apr 23, 2008, 1:08 pm

thank you very much,

I agree all these poems are quite wonderfull

205tcw
Mag 4, 2008, 4:32 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

206tcw
Modificato: Mag 5, 2008, 10:03 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

207yareader2
Modificato: Mag 5, 2008, 6:47 pm

I liked the two new postings tcw, but
I can't help wondering what needed editing?
What changed?
Maybe it was just a typographical error, you were entering it in the very late night/ or very early morning depending on whether you slept.
Maybe you had a change of heart.
You don't have to answer, it just makes me wonder why.
Do you see what I mean?

208tcw
Mag 6, 2008, 9:06 am

Questo messaggio è stato cancellato dall'autore.

209Sparrowing
Mag 6, 2008, 10:18 pm

Rain Machines

Singing songs of starlight to you,
hoping you can hear me beyond the whispers of that ancient lore.
Asking for a god, a truth
that can protect from the pain that pours
like rain across my face;
gathering the sweet water, pools of grace,
of love,
of hope beyond sensibility.
Into life I'm running
and the world flies by
too fast to understand.
I'm losing myself in a dash past cold walls that
persecute the damned,
the poor humanity, lost from salvation.
why won't they listen?
can't they see that hope is gone now?
Run the gauntlet,
feel the pain,
let the stinging rain
burn your wounds away,
strip the hard skin down,
and course through your veins
to destroy the trace amounts of identity
that permeate entity.

210kelisha94
Dic 9, 2009, 12:44 pm

"Glitter Has No Shine, well, has it ever"

of dark paths in the forest dancing through tiaras sequins stilettos glitter
facades chimera to mud slime ash sodden with independence
cinderella to clinton
of butterflies bursting into ash and bees nose-diving into the ground
schools of fish swimming toward a shattered goal polluted by false
promises and hopes spewing from the mouthes of those in power
of the illness and the cure the diagnosis of corruption and those who cower
in fear and denial of what is
of dying breeds of non-conformity slipping into the blonde into the shorter
tighter translucent gaudy flesh
of children poisoned with words and bruises seeing the faults and
cracks in safety at too young an age
of the taking and the egocentric the plundering of the weak and building
fortresses of hate and greed and power
of mindless garbage flowing from the screen into the eyes and brain
robbing willpower slowly chipping away at stubbornness to make way for
immorality mercenary
of puzzles of the mind heart soul past present future love hate anger
sadness but the pieces never fit too many shards cut from too many
different cores
of water stained ceiling growing the mold of lies while below girls
on their knees give their minds love souls bodies blood for their turn
at the crack pipe
of the beats that flow through your head like mind control no thoughts no
feelings just there stuck engrained on the eyes tinting your images of
earth and sky
of heroin and marijuana and cocaine and alcohol and hitting and punching
and abuse screaming from the houses of infants
of blood sweat semen tears dripping from bodies pumping pulsing red wine
through veins
of blackness taking over the light closing eyes to possibilities and drawing
out hope ambition love all given to grief tearing souls apart dirt oh
encrusted dreams saturated with dust and grime
of difference being downtrodden and caked with hatred and fear eyes hid
for the unease of judgements cast as freely as wounded girls pulling
down their skirts
of men of boys bound to their egos hurting but faces never divulging the
secrets of the male mind lips opening only to take tongue searching
for an outlet but only finding the other half’s teeth
of brain words of grave importance succumbing to the dark side intelligence
being stabbed with pure desire and misogyny using the body for the
quick fix of dirty pleasure
of magazines and T.V. 6 foot 90 pound women parading their bones across
stages and back drops girls in the bathrooms with their fingers down
their throats laxatives in stomachs refusing the fuel of life tears
in eyes dying to compare
of the old and crumbling losing everything slowly to disease hanging on
until nothing is left but a body with a blank stare soul
lost in the dreams of youth still held dear
of standing up and out screaming to the stars and sun whispering truth to the
closed bud
roses listening to the winds of autumn and living today
in change hope light of tomorrow

Please comment!!!

211almigwin
Ott 15, 2014, 10:56 am

I found your critique of our civilization powerful and moving, although sometimes hard to understand in sentences in the beginning lines containing butterflies and schools of fish.

212kandinsky
Nov 1, 2014, 3:25 am

God i've got a headache
thick as blood flowing from my toes
mountain boy
seeing the world in fingernails
travelling upon the infinity of lines
never to come back
never to go
bleeding feet
leaving tracks
for some other murderer of heaven

213almigwin
Set 19, 2015, 2:22 pm

The New Wars, etcetera

Groupings of warriors costumed in camouflage
In Syria
Iraq
Yemen
Afghanistan
(and even the Ukraine)
Are daily shooting at each other. Most with guns
We sent to depose dictators, loathed and much despised
But not fundamentalist. (Afraid, we left the Ukraine alone).
We try to give up warring with bodies, arguing
About when or how or whether to pay for fleeing
Families, transport, housing, bandages, food and sometimes
Limbs that were lost. None of the warriors are there
For Allah, only for lunch, independence or
Payday. Meanwhile in the west we watch
The pictures of people fleeing daily
Over the borders to anywhere.
In Jordan the food has run out, the tents are wet
And winter is coming. Smugglers are rowing groups to Europe
In leaky boats and refugees are trucked in makeshift mortuaries.
Help has been promised but not delivered.
The Kuwaities or the Saudis could resettle them
But the refugees are not invited. Anyway they prefer
Places where religion is not required and a living
can be earned.

Miriam Gwin, September 12, 2015

214lwilks
Gen 25, 2016, 4:52 pm

This one is an erasure poem

Responsibility

a plan for
following the fire
and skimming areas
began activity

by day’s end,
in our power,
well and remotely,
assisting in
recovery capacity,
the effects of the
extensive oil spill
in required response.

go ahead.
standby for their use
with supplies of
storage, flotilla of vessels
and determined to do
everything in sinking
a boom.
© July 28, 2014

215carusmm
Mag 19, 2016, 6:55 am

Questo utente è stato eliminato perché considerato spam.