The paradox of this paradigm, is it leads these words to form, in time, a rhyme that echoes answers lost and never found. But if forces you cannot control, would somehow come and take over the little mind you thought you could not lose. Would you see that which is and not be caught inside the sieve of lies that hold the little minded back. Is it that you're somehow blind and cannot find inside that mind the path that leads to truth and not the path that leads to ties. Shackles and chains await you, friend, to carry you unto the end. To hold your brain inside the mold that they would use to take control of everything we think we're fighting for. They twist the words of those who came before they ever had a name. Before they even ever dreamed of coming to this world. They would twist the precedence that was set by presidents who never had to face this malformed world in which we live. They send our soldiers off to war when, in truth, our soldiers are no more than children lost and seeking for a freedom that was never there. The darkness they have brought this earth has caused, in light, a subtle dearth that no one seems to see but all have sensed in misery. They look away from what is there, and weild a shield of apathy to keep away the monsters that are grief and loss and fear. If only we would take a stand and finally say, "This is OUR land, and we will no longer idly sit and watch it die." Then, at last we would be free and maybe then the world would see that we are not as stupid as our leaders make us seem. That is what I call a dream.
Gendanken: Here is a rose for your summer potpourri, Bask in its scented glory. Take care to not condense your nose In the litany of yet another triumph to gloze. Apollo’s whore-- Readings and pilfering(s) of the past, Following always, the insidious thoughts of the dead. Sophocles’ whore— The pupil of those whose opine and desecrate the glory of the dead. Webster’s whore— Alluding to the obscure—visit your lover. Hypocrisy’s whore— Feverish in the rat race against the capricious and indestructible dawn of another day in the rat race. Steal ahead, by God, poison it! Refrain from screaming when the burning steak Is planted again and again in your vindictive heart. Poetry, my dearest pitiful, Has no student s or classrooms to measure up to the glory of the past. Poetry is for the living to do as they may. In the granary where we store and amass the wealth or hurt of life’s most miniscule, I say stay if you wish, but, Oh!---
Fountainhed: You forgot Thesauric's whore. That's where I breastfeed, my liege. Fountainheadaches And here is some prose for your wordy bouquet that garland fit for prize pigs at the Carnival! Ope thine eyes again, fair subject 'tis Gendanken with her fingers breathing new life in those cinders. Hepheastus' boar Given the Word, with it spin you a fabric for royalty Let a monarch believe himself king with his coin and fat lands- but we lively ones know 'tis the robes he wears that speak of his deeds praising his name that we spin brings him royalty. Not a shroud meant for lepers. With our words a vessel of warmth for the cold mail for the valiant knight who is weak without praise and food for the minds sicklied with ennui. Minerva's boar Verse, fair subject, she's a wonderous tune fit to be put in metre with ancient ones Other else 'tis a tired mule fit for flogging. Carry with her the breeze of tricky landcapes, one with demons and dark lands with strange moons, golden harps and viols as light as faries made of nacre- 'tis good verse. Kindles there the magic of childhood, my liege, magic staffs and sorcery! Not the cheapened glitz of the charlattan.
Yearning, Burning, Churning, The wheel is ever-turning. Trapped beneath the weight of 6 billion lives, I wait For the end Of the Beginning.
I don't know if I'd call it country music, but I definitely wouldn't call it good poetry. Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image! It's just something I came up with one day when I was playing a MUD. Put it in my whois. It definitely is a bit passive. Waiting for whatever. I like the end of the beginning part though. Although I'm sure I'm not the first to have that idea. I've tried writing poetry and I just can't do it, that's the best I got. Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!
Sorry, I just tried putting my 1/2 cent in. Carry on. BTW, it doesn't say good poem thread. I may not call it good, but is most definitely a poem.
You pathetic and vindictive fool, what have you given this thread, but the parading of your ability to copy from the style of others? I’d think that after parading your ability to provide the most delicately woven piece, the sound of which is pure music, you’d give better than some insult of a poem that references shit you’d have no clue about. The language of a port is the language of his heart and mind. The sights and therefore images of a poet are those he sees in his mind or in his life. Yours lacked originality, rhyme,… But ‘twas a poem, and you made it, so Kudos to you. The falling rose that had lost its beauty starts to swagger and sway— Its dance, propelled by the warm rush of air coming from the erstwhile silent watcher. His massive torso rhythmically heaves— Flashes of white illuminate his face. ‘tis laughter, oh, ‘tis laughter that moves him so. The memory: Promises of wreaths of gold have become compromises of stone and bronze. The legs have forever stayed opened that promised to close— the scent of a thousand men poison the velvety—a virgin you are not. Promises of light; and the darkness keeps growing. She has stolen from the man she calls a child; even his pity won’t save her.
I see certain aspects of another thread creeping it's way in here. Hmm, I hope it doesn't cause this thread to go the way of that one. It's a decent poem. You should keep writing, no matter what other people say. Practice makes perfect. Or at least better.
Angelus: A little nonsense now and then Is relished by the wisest men..... (Cross my heart and hope to die, this thread here is virgin soil. It will not corrupt down to that other one pissed on by a gypsy- promise. So lighten up.) Fountainheadlice: But the language of the poet is what?
Another poetry thread was polluted once long ago and closed down. It was mine, but people who know little outside of cynic pedancy and hard living did not know how to read it and so spoilt it with their presence. In rememberance (this was written to them as a scolding): (Loosely based on "Dover Beach") In past I came here, a place sure like Dover Where sea of prose swoll at the full And on banks that girdled its wordy shores like rainbowed ribbons I stood there once on hollowed ground.... But now I only hear its melancholy long withdrawing roar It pains me lords, it does eat holes in me To see its rosy cheeks trod mad by hoofs of swine Fools, you smote a helpless babe I mothered once! This here was child of mine Why the fangled mutiny? 'twas beauty here that grew once 'twas fairies here that flew once but coil now in your fires with their wings ablaze And so a shadow looms and where it casts in caverns brothels yawn, from whence through broken windows air that chokes will strangle It rests on you then fellow scifers- Restore my babe his rosy cheeks or choke him with the airy filth of whores while yet he rattles in his grave In nature there is no blemish but the mind, was wrote once But mind so easy for the brothels slave
Fountainhead, Are you defending me or attacking me? I'm getting mixed vibes. Too many you's involved. If all the you's are me, then thanks for "parading your ability to provide the most delicately woven piece, the sound of which is pure music". I think. Poetry is confusing. The problems I have writing poetry is that it seems to degenerate into wanting to throw in a bunch of flowery this and that, but in the end it's not saying anything. The poem provided is the only one I can remember writing that actually meant anything. Even if it means wishy-washy, it's better than nothing. And I don't do rhyme to well. I prefer more of a free flowing type thing. Although, I do count 5 rhyming words. So it rhymes. Sorry, I don't know anything about formal poetry, iamic pentameter and all that. I know some words but no meaning.
Invert: Why would I attack you? You have done absolutely nothing to me. I addressed Gendanken, who for her nonsense about how poetry should be written, did not have the originality to compose somethign entirely her own, or a rhyme scheme to back up her owns--I expected no less...but hey. Mind you, I have no respect for formulaic poetry. You need not concern yourself with metres and nonsense like that--poetry is not a bloody math. Enjoy or pain yourself with it, simply write and let the naysayers remain just that--naysayers. Most often than not, thhey cannot write.... Angelus: Don't worry I'm done with her, as far as this thread is concerned. She has shown nothing so far to hold my interest. Besides, I have too much respect for some pieces in here, especially the one I alerted you of...
Left My love, you love me this way, and I can't be any way. The silent voice that echoes from within my heart shall forever remain silent. I dare not expose it, Lest it it runs free-- (That I miss you) I dare not release it-- (That I want you in my arms, the light of moon on your face, the sight of bay to share, the softness of your lips to feel, the sweetness of your mouth to taste, oh, the smoothness of your skin to feel) I dare not uncage it-- (That I miss the smile that brightens my day-- threathens the wall) I am a cold heart, the pain of your loss shall surely kill me-- Not warm enough, I dare not tempt the icy lake with jumps.
[Girl's morning song] Below the mud I know the stars shine as fine, as fine as they did last night. Got drunk, got fucked, was kicked and soaked in sweet lemonade. Oh, my lord, my sins, they know my sins; my shower is my prince. No wine, no drugs today for me, keep the guns in a safe distance from me. -- 30.04.2004.;16:26 © 2004 by Avatar
The tiger crawls through the grass, no one see's the tiger crawls with it's claws sharp shining this night. No one hears it's steps, no one dares to scream this night. Fires burn, blood is frozen cold just like the moon behind the clouds. No one stares where the tiger crawls, no one hears tiger's claws tear my skin. -- 30.04.2004.;18:56 © 2004 by Avatar
wow! look whos here,Its been Loooooooooooooooooong Time Av,with a new Av too?! Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image! Pleasure's all mine,believe me. bye!
