A Poem Thread

Discussion in 'Art & Culture' started by Angelus, Nov 9, 2002.

  1. cosmictraveler Be kind to yourself always. Valued Senior Member

    Messages:
    33,264
    I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud

    I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
    That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
    When all at once I saw a crowd,
    A host, of golden daffodils;
    Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
    Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

    Continuous as the stars that shine
    And twinkle on the milky way,
    The stretched in never-ending line
    Along the margin of a bay:
    Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
    Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

    The waves beside them danced; but they
    Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
    A poet could not but be gay,
    In such a jocund company;
    I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
    What wealth to me the show had brought:

    For oft, when on my couch I lie
    In vacant or in pensive mood,
    They flash upon that inward eye
    Which is the bliss of solitude;
    And then my heart with pleasure fills,
    And dances with the daffodils.

    William Wordsworth
     
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  3. Psyche Registered Senior Member

    Messages:
    135
    my lame attempt at self-expression

    The Divided Self

    spun
    as on a carousel, and
    listless as the cratered moon
    on the morning of morticians, that
    march to the death song blues
    as a calvary of numb regrets
    that glitter
    flicker
    on parade, like
    spirals on the eyelids
    or sentinels to the grave
    tracing steps the conquered road
    cloaked in ether pastel black
    the painted sheets of antique rust, caked in
    torrential, stellar dust
    spun
    as into a web
    on gossamer's thread
    all tangled up to view, my
    chemistry unbalanced
    parched, inflamed
    renewed
     
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  5. ScaryMonster I’m the whispered word. Valued Senior Member

    Messages:
    1,074
    The Razor Bird (Revision)

    The Razor Bird

    My anger lifts me up, my rage gives me wings,
    and my hate makes me powerful, vengeful and
    wise.

    Being the creature that I am now, I can’t imagine
    the thing that I was.

    Cause rage is now my craze, I have become an air
    creature, my thoughts fly, my words cut.

    I am the razor bird.

    My fingers tap, my feet stomp, my eyes flash, my
    hair flows, I am a whispered word, a shard, a bird.

    I cut the world into two juxtaposing nodes, I’m not a
    teacher, I’m the lotus eater, I stab, I cut, I wound and
    feed.

    I never ever bleed.

    My hand writes, my words all spite, I’m not a healer,
    I’m a meat eater, I lie, I cheat, I hurt everyone one I meet.

    I’m the barbwire beak that strips the corpse’s meat, a bird
    that has to eat.

    I’m the drug taker, and the mythmaker.

    So when the veins don’t pulse and when the heart beat lines,
    my lungs breath will inhale your death. I’ll smoke and
    I’ll joke.

    And with my razor feet I’ll seize the sorry grief, a bird
    whose wings cut deep.

    I’m the whispered word.

    A very nasty, spiteful curse that rages in an avian verse, too
    terse to shake, too sly to die, I’ll hit you in your blindest side.

    Shadow cloaked, I’m whispered in serrated jokes, I still adorn
    sharp-feathered hopes, and the final thing your eye’s might scope!

    Totally evil, theatrically absurd, I’m a deadly sharp Razor Bird.
     
    Last edited: Jan 31, 2011
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  7. Billy T Use Sugar Cane Alcohol car Fuel Valued Senior Member

    Messages:
    23,198
    Economic lessons, the short and long of it:

    One ship sails East, another sails West
    With the self same winds that blow.
    T’is the set of the sail, and not the gale,
    which determines the way they go.

    (Author unknown)
    ----------------------------
    Poem below is from Chapter 11 of Sylvie-and-Bruno by Lewis-Carroll, which IMHO is much more interesting book for adults than Alice as it is full of ridicule of politics, social convention, wealthy society, and even science when pretentious about its knowledge, magic and fantasy.

    As this long poem illustrates how bankers screw the public, it is as modern as it gets. (After we finish killing all the lawyers, I think we should start on the bankers.)


    'Peter is poor,' said noble Paul,
    'And I have always been his friend:
    And, though my means to give are small,
    At least I can afford to lend.
    How few, in this cold age of greed,
    Do good, except on selfish grounds!
    But I can feel for Peter's need,
    And I WILL LEND HIM FIFTY POUNDS!'

    How great was Peter's joy to find
    His friend in such a genial vein!
    How cheerfully the bond he signed,
    To pay the money back again!
    'We ca'n't,' said Paul, 'be too precise:
    'Tis best to fix the very day:
    So, by a learned friend's advice,
    I've made it Noon, the Fourth of May.

    But this is April! Peter said.
    'The First of April, as I think.
    Five little weeks will soon be fled:
    One scarcely will have time to wink!
    Give me a year to speculate--
    To buy and sell--to drive a trade--'
    Said Paul 'I cannot change the date.
    On May the Fourth it must be paid.'

    'Well, well!' said Peter, with a sigh.
    'Hand me the cash, and I will go.
    I'll form a Joint-Stock Company,
    And turn an honest pound or so.'
    'I'm grieved,' said Paul, 'to seem unkind:
    The money shalt of course be lent:
    But, for a week or two, I find
    It will not be convenient.'

    So, week by week, poor Peter came
    And turned in heaviness away;
    For still the answer was the same,
    'I cannot manage it to-day.'
    And now the April showers were dry--
    The five short weeks were nearly spent--
    Yet still he got the old reply,
    'It is not quite convenient!'

    The Fourth arrived, and punctual Paul
    Came, with his legal friend, at noon.
    'I thought it best,' said he, 'to call:
    One cannot settle things too soon.'
    Poor Peter shuddered in despair:
    His flowing locks he wildly tore:
    And very soon his yellow hair
    Was lying all about the floor.

    The legal friend was standing by,
    With sudden pity half unmanned:
    The tear-drop trembled in his eye,
    The signed agreement in his hand:
    But when at length the legal soul
    Resumed its customary force,
    'The Law,' he said, 'we ca'n't control:
    Pay, or the Law must take its course!'

    Said Paul 'How bitterly I rue
    That fatal morning when I called!
    Consider, Peter, what you do!
    You won't be richer when you're bald!
    Think you, by rending curls away,
    To make your difficulties less?
    Forbear this violence, I pray:
    You do but add to my distress!'

    'Not willingly would I inflict,'
    Said Peter, 'on that noble heart
    One needless pang. Yet why so strict?
    Is this to act a friendly part?
    However legal it may be
    To pay what never has been lent,
    This style of business seems to me
    Extremely inconvenient!

    'No Nobleness of soul have I,
    Like some that in this Age are found!'
    (Paul blushed in sheer humility,
    And cast his eyes upon the ground)
    'This debt will simply swallow all,
    And make my life a life of woe!'
    'Nay, nay, nay Peter!' answered Paul.
    'You must not rail on Fortune so!

    'You have enough to eat and drink:
    You are respected in the world:
    And at the barber's, as I think,
    You often get your whiskers curled.
    Though Nobleness you ca'n't attain
    To any very great extent--
    The path of Honesty is plain,
    However inconvenient!'

    "Tis true, 'said Peter,' I'm alive:
    I keep my station in the world:
    Once in the week I just contrive
    To get my whiskers oiled and curled.
    But my assets are very low:
    My little income's overspent:
    To trench on capital, you know,
    Is always inconvenient!'

    'But pay your debts!' cried honest Paul.
    'My gentle Peter, pay your debts!
    What matter if it swallows all
    That you describe as your "assets"?
    Already you're an hour behind:
    Yet Generosity is best.
    It pinches me--but never mind!
    I WILL NOT CHARGE YOU INTEREST!'

    'How good! How great!' poor Peter cried.
    'Yet I must sell my Sunday wig--
    The scarf-pin that has been my pride—
    My grand piano--and my pig!'
    Full soon his property took wings:
    And daily, as each treasure went,
    He sighed to find the state of things
    Grow less and less convenient.

    Weeks grew to months, and months to years:
    Peter was worn to skin and bone:
    And once he even said, with tears,
    'Remember, Paul, that promised Loan!'
    Said Paul' I'll lend you, when I can,
    All the spare money I have got--
    Ah, Peter, you're a happy man!
    Yours is an enviable lot!

    'I'm getting stout, as you may see:
    It is but seldom I am well:
    I cannot feel my ancient glee
    In listening to the dinner-bell:
    But you, you gambol like a boy,
    Your figure is so spare and light:
    The dinner-bell's a note of joy
    To such a healthy appetite!'

    Said Peter 'I am well aware
    Mine is a state of happiness:
    And yet how gladly could I spare
    Some of the comforts I possess!
    What you call healthy appetite
    I feel as Hunger's savage tooth:
    And, when no dinner is in sight,
    The dinner-bell's a sound of ruth!

    'No scare-crow would accept this coat:
    Such boots as these you seldom see.
    Ah, Paul, a single five-pound-note
    Would make another man of me!'
    Said Paul 'It fills me with surprise
    To hear you talk in such a tone:
    I fear you scarcely realise
    The blessings that are all your own!

    'You're safe frombeing overfed:
    You're sweetly picturesque in rags:
    You never know the aching head
    That comes along with money-bags:
    And you have time to cultivate
    That best of qualities, Content--
    For which you'll find your present state
    Remarkably convenient!'

    Said Peter 'Though I cannot sound
    The depths of such a man as you,
    Yet in your character I've found
    An inconsistency or two.
    You seem to have long years to spare
    When there's a promise to fulfil:
    And yet how punctual you were
    In calling with that little bill!'

    'One can't be too deliberate,'
    Said Paul, 'in parting with one's pelf.
    With bills, as you correctly state,
    I'm punctuality itself:
    A man may surely claim his dues:
    But, when there's money to be lent,
    A man must be allowed to choose
    Such times as are convenient!'

    It chanced one day, as Peter sat
    Gnawing a crust--his usual meal--
    Paul bustled in to have a chat,
    And grasped his hand with friendly zeal.
    'I knew,' said he, 'your frugal ways:
    So, that I might not wound your pride
    By bringing strangers in to gaze,
    I've left my legal friend outside!

    'You well remember, I am sure,
    When first your wealth began to go,
    And people sneered at one so poor,
    I never used my Peter so!
    And when you'd lost your little all,
    And found yourself a thing despised,
    I need not ask you to recall
    How tenderly I sympathised!

    'Then the advice I've poured on you,
    So full of wisdom and of wit:
    All given gratis, though 'tis true
    I might have fairly charged for it!
    But I refrain from mentioning
    Full many a deed I might relate
    For boasting is a kind of thing
    That I particularly hate.

    'How vast the total sum appears
    Of all the kindnesses I've done,
    From Childhood's half-forgotten years
    Down to that Loan of April One!
    That Fifty Pounds! You little guessed
    How deep it drained my slender store:
    But there's a heart within this breast,
    And I WILL LEND YOU FIFTY MORE!'

    'Not so,' was Peter's mild reply,
    His cheeks all wet with grateful tears;
    No man recalls, so well as I,
    Your services in bygone years:
    And this new offer, I admit,
    Is very very kindly meant--
    Still, to avail myself of it
    Would not be quite convenient!'
     
    Last edited by a moderator: Jan 30, 2011
  8. Me-Ki-Gal Banned Banned

    Messages:
    4,634
    What did you call Me when you first saw me , Lick my style gave Me a pile , Ran to the dirt , but you called out Burt, Hurt skirt shirt then been him for a while , to see both sides now and how side kicking to goad a load only we road the mode to the toad . To rise alive inside , the spark like an ark the gift swift to the point , sharp lark and ready to fart
     
  9. Me-Ki-Gal Banned Banned

    Messages:
    4,634
    I like this one , Yeah Man , I know you. You are Me and Me is You. Closed Hand hit my chest and I hold it out to you open. Eagles live and may fly with doves , Don't forget eagles eat doves
     
  10. EmptyForceOfChi Banned Banned

    Messages:
    10,848
    A Poetory

    Time Doesn't Exist in my mind state,
    Find the Great Lake, if you wish to see the heavenly Estate,
    Beyond the Ley Line, Shines the Holy Stream Divine.
    Where Eternal Energies Manifest Creational Design.

    The Shen of my spirit guides reside in the Reincarnation of a Blood-Line of Felines
    With an Out-Stretched Lion Claw I draw A Door in the Ether, Traveling through the realms of Samsara,
    Fully Incased in the Most Highs Armour,
    As We entered the Astral Portal, There stood the Hologramatic Remnants of the 3 Immortals.

    The Black Cat on the Left of me Said, "What did you expect to see, Hurry up Continue with your Destiny".

    "Quickly take the key" I heard whispered silently, down by my right Knee.

    I reached down to the The Light Striped Kitten, From his Tanned White Mitten I was given the Password to the System.

    With-out Inter-mission I struck a static spark on Collision with this Key of Decision, It felt as if I was bit but Resembled no Feeling I In-visioned.


    I Began Looking for Some Kind of Door or Entrance, I wasnt aware of the Instant Instincts, Before the 4 cat eyes Blinked I was Standing before a 7 Headed Sphinx wearing the Robes of a Prince.


    To Be Continued...
     
  11. James R Just this guy, you know? Staff Member

    Messages:
    39,397
    Yikes! :runaway::runaway:
     
  12. Fraggle Rocker Staff Member

    Messages:
    24,690
    This thread was merged with the existing poets' thread.
     
  13. EmptyForceOfChi Banned Banned

    Messages:
    10,848

    Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!

    oke: Hey I was going to finish or add more to my poetory and it got all discombobulated and Fused with this melting pot. :shrug:



    Peace.
     
  14. EmptyForceOfChi Banned Banned

    Messages:
    10,848

    LSD was not a benefactor to this piece
     
  15. SciWriter Valued Senior Member

    Messages:
    3,028
    Well, I do have some science-related poems, some perfectly poetic, and some just so, but all delving into both older and more recent facts and also the humorous follies of some of the scientific exploits, as well as some summaries of theoretical hypotheses. I'll have to see which could be thread-starters instead, but may still put some in-between ones here as well to see if any one thinks they could be, because, well, perhaps here is a more blog-like place, and for any kinds of poems, without the normal science discussion in other thread, but I didn't really look too far in yet. Any suggestions?

    The poems provide more than just dull and sterile textbook kinds of things, looking more into the excitement and glory of science, as well as at some eccentric scientists (which dogged 'craziness' may even have helped them accomplish things, sometimes).
     
  16. EmptyForceOfChi Banned Banned

    Messages:
    10,848
    The Days of Old, Whence story's told.


    Simply parables by the Lake was enough to give them faith.
    I wandered from land to land, across mountains down in-to sand.
    I steal from the poor and give to the rich,
    I open the door and cast in the ditch,

    Eternity, Faith is the Key.
    Vividly, Blind people See.



    Exquisitely, His Majesty.
     
  17. Fraggle Rocker Staff Member

    Messages:
    24,690
    I assure you that every effort was made to prevent even the slightest discombobulation. Your masterpiece was carefully packed in a shipping carton, padded with styrofoam peanuts, sprayed with insecticide to ward off the dreaded verse-mites and rhyme-borers, sealed tightly with tape, clearly labeled on two sides (in iambic pentameter), express-shipped overnight to its new location, and unpacked with the same care used in the packing, with every item on the shipping list checked off.

    If you find anything amiss, please contact our customer service representative, Miss H. Waite. I repeat: if you have any complaints, go to Helen Waite.

    This is the thread for all poetry composition. Welcome!

    If you wish to expand on a verse already posted, just quote it and include it in the new post.

    Sorry, but we discourage the creation of vanity threads for one person's writing.
     
  18. EmptyForceOfChi Banned Banned

    Messages:
    10,848

    They ***** Put me on hold!. (You didn't think I would call your customer care line did you)


    Check and Mate.... Lol *Slap* Wiseguy!.



    Peace.






    Peace.
     
  19. Fraggle Rocker Staff Member

    Messages:
    24,690
    Of course. I told you to go to Helen Waite.
     
  20. EmptyForceOfChi Banned Banned

    Messages:
    10,848

    I approached Helen Waite by the front Gate,
    We basked in the early's of Late,
    Off to a Dinner-Date was the destined fate.
    It ended abruptly without Time to await,
    I had to skip out on her, Mid coctail in-take.

    Flashed her with an MIB peace of Apparatus,
    And leaped into my car Like Dukes Of Hazrds,
    Never Mind her memory was Left in tatters,
    Not simply Torn It actualy imploded before shatters.

    With haste I must return to my Chatuax
    Rendezvous with my victim to hang from my Gallows.
     
  21. SciWriter Valued Senior Member

    Messages:
    3,028
    FLORA SYMBOLICA

    A tale I’ve written, invented, yes, hence,
    An attempt to unite the Christian pense
    With the non-belief, in a middle ground,
    Somewhere between mystery and good sense:


    With flora mystical and magical,
    Eden’s botanical garden was blest,
    So Eve, taking more than just the Apple,
    Plucked off the loveliest of the best.

    Thus it’s to Eve that we must give our thanks
    For Earth’s variety of fruits and plants,
    For when she was out of Paradise thrown,
    She stole all the flowers we’ve ever known.

    Therewith, through sensuous beauty and grace,
    Eve with Adam brought forth the human race,
    But our world would never have come to be,
    Had not GOD allowed them HIS mystery,

    For when they were banished from HIS bosom,
    Eve saw more than just the Apple Blossom,
    And took, on her way through Eden’s bowers,
    Many wondrous plants and fruitful flowers.

    Mighty GOD, upon seeing this great theft,
    At first was angered, but soon smiled and wept,
    For human nature was made in HIS name—
    So HE had no one but HIMSELF to blame!

    But still HE made ready HIS thunderbolt,
    As HIS Old Testament wrath cast its vote
    To end this experiment gone so wrong—
    And then HE felt the joy of life’s new song.

    Eve had all the plants that she could carry—
    GOD in HIS wisdom grew uncontrary.
    Out of Eden she waved the flowered wands,
    The seeds spilling upon the barren lands.

    GOD held the lightning bolt already lit,
    No longer knowing what to do with it,
    So HE threw it into the heart of Hell,
    Forming of it a place where all was well.

    Thus the world from molten fire had birth,
    As Hell faded and was turned into Earth.
    This HE gave to Adam and Eve with love,
    For them and theirs to make a Heaven of.

    From HIS bolt grew the Hawthorn and Bluebell,
    And HE be damned, for Eve stole these as well!
    So HE laughed and pretended not to see,
    Retreating into eternity.

    “So be it,” HE said, when time was young,
    “That such is the life MY design has wrung,
    For in their souls some part of ME has sprung—
    So let them enjoy all the songs I’ve sung.

    “Life was much too easy in Paradise,
    And lacked therefore of any real meaning,
    For without the lows there can be no highs—
    All that remains is a dull flat feeling!

    “There’s no Devil to blame for their great zest—
    This mix of good and ‘bad’ makes them best!
    The human nature that lets them survive,
    Also makes them feel very much alive.

    “That same beastful soul that makes them glad
    Does also make them seem a little bad.
    If only I could strip the wrong from right,
    But I cannot have the day without the night!”

    So it was that with fertile delight Eve
    Seeded the lifeless Earth for us to receive.
    Though many flowers she had to leave behind,
    These we have from the Mother of Mankind:

    Eve gathered the amiable Jasmine,
    Which soft exhales its breath of friendship, and,
    By a delicious fragrance in the night,
    Overpowers the stars with its sweet delight.

    The Jasmine impregnates the dew each night
    With its friendly perfume of good and right;
    Thus morning’s incense carries its odour,
    Keeping everyone in fresh good humor.

    Love’s first emotion comes from the Lilac,
    For it blooms when Nature is first aroused;
    Yes, it’s love’s youngest dream to us come back,
    Where it will ne’er again remain unspoused.

    When Thyme she sowed, the bees came all abuzz,
    And all around it flew their dance of love.
    So now we know that those who would savor
    The sweets of love mustn’t neglect the flower.

    Camphire, the scent of Paradise, inspires,
    Reminding us to what our soul aspires,
    As spontaneous desires overspill
    To tell us of duties we must fulfill.

    Daffodils, arranged in their elfin way,
    Wear their yellow skirts, like Fairies’ Dresses,
    And brighten, through the spirit light of morn,
    Into the fuller radiance of day.

    Butterflies come to life in Pansies’ psyches,
    Embodied by extension into flight.
    They’re flowers floating on the air, propelled,
    Leaving shadow prints behind on the petals.

    The air fills with Honeysuckles’ scented nets,
    From fairies blowing those honey trumpets.
    There they sow vermilion red Geraniums,
    That grow wild into many countless sums.

    The Golden-Throated Lilies sing at morn;
    Maiden Flower blushes, its pureness reborn;
    There, galaxies of Sunflowers sway,
    Echoing the luminosity of day.

    She picked some Dandelions ripe enough
    To have gone from gold to just so much fluff,
    Reminding us, when soft blown with a puff,
    That time will spread us, too, amid the dust.

    Chrysanthemums drink the mellow day;
    Falling petals carry the light away.
    The autumn fog enswirls, the mist upcurls;
    Into nothingness the wisp slow unfurls.

    Woodbine wets the air with its cooling musk;
    Bluebells herald the dim and dewy dusk
    And ring the dance and song of evening knells,
    Music tinkling in fairy festivals.

    The Evening Primrose only in the night
    Opens its cup to drink-in the moonlight,
    Then gazes round with silent love and smiles,
    Much as we would upon a sleeping child.

    Its phosphorescent light guides the flight
    Of the flying creatures that love the night.
    It looks the swelling moon straight in the sight
    As they make love in the haunt of midnight.

    Pearly Everlasting, frozen in time
    By Eve’s purity, survives cold and rime—
    It’s a bit of Heaven come to our clime,
    Where it still ignores the knell of Death’s chime.

    With willowy grace, Eve fished with vines—
    And the Willow yet throws out her lines
    As drooping branches that fill the streams
    With tears for flowers that we’ve never seen.

    The innocent Daisy, or the “day’s eye”,
    Is a lot like the sun—it cannot die;
    It far outlasts every other flower,
    Shining even when the sun has no power.

    Arbutus, too, whose fruits and flowers of
    Grew together in inseparable love,
    Eve took along with her as Heaven’s boon
    When she felt the kiss of the rising moon.

    Out of God’s thunderbolt grew the Hawthorn
    On that day when man and Earth were born.
    Its snowy blossoms of hope and union
    Gave this blesséd world its first communion.

    The fleecy Hawthorn sheds its summer snow
    To remind us of our birth so long ago—
    So Joseph’s Hawthorn staff along the way
    Still blooms in winter on Christmas Day.

    Hawthorn once was known by the name of May,
    Its thorns by then having been bred away.
    Thus for it the children went a-maying,
    And built the maypole, all around it playing.

    But the calendar was set back twelve days,
    So Mayday was no more! But, memory stays,
    And the Queen of Blossom’s day is made
    When writers and lovers seek out her shade.

    Ever, the immortal Periwinkle,
    Which, like the winter stars that twinkle,
    Spreads through the snow its glossy flowers,
    To remind us of the spring’s sunny hours.

    Though laughing with all the smiles she wore,
    Eve now more serious her burden bore
    When she brought forth the mournful Asphodel,
    Dedicating it to the souls of Hell.

    The Asphodel sustains the Dis dwellers,
    Where they rest beyond that fatal river—
    There the wretched shades drink forgetfulness,
    And to oblivion sink without distress.

    Fireweed grows from Hell’s sulfurous embers,
    As does Purple Loosestrife—dead men’s fingers;
    But wildflower air revives the dead—and then
    Those happy souls can thrive on Earth again.

    Quick sprout the Buttercups, all bright and new,
    Goblets from which the fairies drink the dew.
    From the Eglantine springs poetry’s power—
    It’s the only way to describe this flower!

    The Heliotrope turns towards the sun,
    Closely tracking its path throughout the day,
    But when clouds appear or when day is done,
    It forgets about the sun and looks away.

    Eve brought the Magnolia’s magnificence,
    The playful Hyacinth in its sprightly dance,
    And Marigolds that follow the summer lost,
    Enduring well into the final frost.

    From the Poppy we gain full sensation,
    Elation, and oblivion’s consolation;
    When life’s miserable pain is too deep,
    It simulates death with a balmy sleep.

    Growing in the cold, near the leafless trees,
    Snowdrop bells ring out for friends in need;
    They bring hearty hopes to those with hardships—
    Icicles changed to flowers by friendships.

    Eve carried forth Forget-Me-Not bouquets
    That sprouted fast wherever heroes fell;
    They bring back all of the happiest days
    To sound in our hearts as memory’s bell.

    Holly, the harbinger of spring desires,
    Blooms all winter long, and with hope inspires
    Our cold and dreary hearts to chime and ring
    With good cheer and love for everything.

    Eve took poisonous Foxglove and Nightshade
    To balance with woe the good that she gave,
    Offset by Amaranth, which, if kept in shade,
    Would not, even after death, ever fade.

    And for the romantic art, Cupid’s Dart,
    To spur men and women to make their move.
    Connected by Nature’s arrow of love,
    They deep impart the passion of the heart.

    And Coral Bells, rung by bees and hum-birds—
    A melody of tones without the words,
    And airy sprays of frothy Baby’s Breath—
    Gurgling with all that’s much too sweet to purge.

    Here, sweet spikes of aromatic Lavender—
    Ready potpourri from Heaven’s splendor,
    As all around lay the symbolic flowers
    That soft drowse our spirits into slumber.

    Yet more we know, from myth, lore, and legend,
    Of flowers that gemmed the fields of Eden,
    And from symbols and wisdom handed down
    Through oral tradition in floral towns.

    Wherever Eve breathed, sprung floral dreams;
    Ever she walked, followed water in streams;
    ’Ere she wept, tears bedewed the Earth in bloom—
    A Cedar tree even grew from her tomb.

    So, “dead” flowers are reborn by Spring’s breath—
    An ethereal floral wonderland
    Of everlasting recollections, and,
    Some even retain their color after death,

    Like Amaranth, as mentioned earlier,
    Or Lasting Beauty, whose secret elixir
    Grants us flowers red through a year of days—
    Oh but that life and love would never fade!

    Or Cedar, “life from the dead”, the emblem
    Of eternity and preservation
    Used for mummy cases and carved figures
    That last forever: immortal rigor.

    Tracking Eve’s trail throughout the ageless years,
    We find Lady’s Slippers, Lady’s Fingers,
    And Lady’s Smock—all parts of Madonna,
    Her whole self, in fact, in Belladonna.

    She wore a chaplet of sweetening buds
    That burst in bloom when fed by air and mud,
    And a garland of sprouts to strew about,
    With a rosary of shoots to put out.

    She scattered a Fern’s seed at midnight’s peal,
    To ask that treasures of the Earth would reveal:
    The flowers of woods, waysides, and shorelines—
    All remembered by florigraphic signs.

    Eve planted the Tree of Life, from which we
    Could obtain lumber, fuel, and homes, for free,
    Plus weapons, wood, tools, food, and medicine—
    And mold the Earth into a place we could live in.

    And Clover bushes, the haunt of the bee,
    Bamboo grass, too, for home and social need,
    And Lumeria, whose transparent seed
    Looks much like the moon in all honesty.

    Continual Morning-Glories each dawn
    Guarantee that day will always come on.
    Bindweed and Honeysuckle yet entwist
    To tell us that lovers will ever persist.

    The melancholy Thistle is a cure
    For the blues when taken with wine that’s pure.
    Chicory, in blossoms maroon is clad,
    Its young and tender leaves used for salad.

    Eve gave freshness, fragrance, to the Lily,
    And seized Hemlock, the Devil’s property,
    Left us Hawkweed to clear the sight and wits,
    And brought Hellebore to purge evil spirits.

    The Hawthorn, here yet again, blooms redux,
    Like Blackthorn in Christ’s crown, as thorns do,
    Or as wood of the true cross where HE died—
    All seem to miraculously multiply!

    Eve’s saplings drank of the Earth’s gushing breast
    And produced the primeval forest.
    Somewhere this secret wood remains, unguessed,
    The place where all man’s sorrows come to rest.

    Life is a flower whose leaf is summer green,
    Whose spring was purple passion Eglantine.
    Although fall’s second spring may intervene,
    The frost at last is the winter seen.

    All Earthly pleasures dear to us Eve brought,
    Provided by the Master’s afterthought:
    Honey, juices, syrups—all hand wrought,
    Nuts, berries, and fruits—nothing went for naught.

    Eden’s sinful Apple, the cause of it,
    Made for harsh apple cider, but, when it
    Was heated with sulfurous brimstone it
    Soon turned smooth, the Hell taken out of it!

    The Clematis, with its clinging habit,
    Makes shade of Travelers Joy at inn porches
    For wayfarers wearied, warm, or unfit;
    Its leaves are the clouds, its fruit: star torches.

    From Quinine, medicine that could relieve;
    Of Citron, cure for snakebite—death’s reprieve;
    The Ginseng refreshes memory’s streams,
    Calms the passions, and begets pleasant dreams.

    Basil Leaf is a ticket to rapture,
    Passion Flower, to atonement—a day-star,
    And Yew, the oldest living thing on Earth,
    Yet remains alive—six thousand years worth.

    The Trefoil, for love, heroism, and wit,
    Grants power over banshees of moor and pit,
    Who would steal the soul, and against all snakes
    Poisonous—they scuttle into the lakes!

    Edelweiss, a white flower most gallant,
    Is the heart left by an angel visitant.
    Mistletoe lends a green indoor refuge
    For the wintering spirits of the wood.

    The dusk deepens, night’s pot of tea steepens;
    Silence descends, as when a gift opens;
    Eventide rises. On high, Orion camps.
    Our eyes catch stars like fireflies in lamps.

    Our shadows are touching, in the same shade—
    We embody, in third dimension made;
    We kiss, drift, cross into each other’s role;
    Spirits open—rainbows meld in the soul.

    If Nightshade you eat, you’ll become as so
    And can see the ghosts, shades, and dark shadows
    Of those who came before our humankind,
    Those whose spirit-worlds overlap the mind.

    The Tuberose, too, a dangerous pleasure,
    Even when taken in but small measure:
    Its exquisite scent has such great power
    That it can wither you within the hour.

    What’s that? Phantoms that are but a glimmer
    Of the life and light of some halfway scene;
    Of beings twixt man and angel—they shimmer,
    As one might remember them from a dream.

    They, cupid like, are the souls of flowers,
    And wear petal cloaks, and have wings that blur;
    They sleep in Cowslips, where, with childhood’s ear,
    You, listening, all their music can hear.

    They’re sylphs, tree spirits, wood folk, and fays
    Gathered in posies of living bouquets;
    Knowing well the language of the flowers,
    They bestow their favors on the growers.

    There’s a tunnel back to Eden’s Garden,
    A funnel, really—our small end open,
    And through this fairyland we’ll return, free,
    To hang Adam’s Apple back on the tree.

    Sprites shadowed Adam’s Eve throughout the land,
    The seeds sprouting everywhere by their hand,
    The growth blessed by a pixie’s twinkling wand
    That showered the plants with a fine dewy sand.

    The naiads, too, spread germinating seeds,
    Among them these many blossoming deeds:
    Perpetual-Flowering Carnations,
    And, sparkling Buttercup potions, as in

    The silken saucers for Hollyhock tea,
    In which a child would capture the wild bee
    To hear the aggravated buzz, in play,
    Then, unstung, free the bee to fly away.

    The Elves grew Basil, Wolf’s-Bane, Cucumber,
    Cinquefoil, Meadow-Saffron, and Germander,
    Even Gillyflower and Primroses,
    To which the fays gave their dewy kisses.

    Cotton grew, woven by the wee people
    Into clothes, with a whirling spinning wheel,
    Whose spindle was the stinger of a bee,
    Weavings that surpassed the spider’s best web.

    Fireflies followed, and lit the way for the
    Little weavers who were chased by jealous
    Spiders—the folk hid in a Cotton ball,
    The spider finding nothing there at all.

    The weed flowers came, marking autumn’s track,
    The blossoms that almost brought the spring back,
    But—winter’s white death wrap was drawn over,
    Smothering the earth’s last warm sweet odour.

    Such then, comes the end of summer’s dreams,
    The blanching of the grassy banks of streams,
    But all fragrances the elves remember
    Through their sleep during the winter embers.

    Youth and Beauty made agèd Winter mourn
    For Summer’s grain—the waving wheat and corn;
    For Old Autumn, withered, wan, had passed on,
    Leaving the earth a widow, weather worn.

    The blossoms fall, showers of fragrant beauty,
    As leaves fade while the bulbs store up energy;
    Faeries’ floral dreams grant this destiny,
    For these leavings enrich earth’s potpourri.

    Flowers lay their heads to sleep in soft beds,
    Blanketed by webs of gossamer threads;
    The fairy creatures cast their spectral glow,
    As winter stars—floral twins—start to grow.

    Later, when surely all the world is dead,
    A fairy stands atop Old Winter’s grave
    And says “’tis not dead”, and, by magic bred,
    Makes Snowdrops flower in the tomb’s heat wave.

    Winter Aconite, an early flower,
    Grows even under the season’s dim power—
    Soon its bright corollas far out-splendor
    The winter sun’s pale and paltry color.

    Nymphs slide from their cocoons, their pinions
    Yet wrapped and wet, then breathe the earthy air
    That calls them forth into life’s dominion
    To fly and flutter in flux, here and there.

    Flowers spring from the footfalls of a lass—
    Foliage withers where evil spirits pass;
    But where unknown colors shine, fairies mass,
    And drink the twilight dew off of the grass.

    The elves blow their pipes to awaken
    Nature’s Flora, that her step may quicken—
    And from these odours memories recur
    As we’re given back our youth of summer.

    The blooms are a crimson mist, in green blade,
    Through yellow air, beyond a deep blue shade;
    A white mist drifts through azure skies, bade
    Toward purple mountains—fragrance of the glade.

    In the spirit world, the grass is greener,
    The hearts redder, and the passions pinker—
    Orange, Cherry, and Violet are planted colors,
    And twixt blue and green falls a new tincture.

    Petunias grow wherever rainbows touch,
    Their colors vibrant, a bouquet, as such,
    Of rays that make the flowers glow so much:
    Heaven’s prismatic radiance, life’s clutch.

    Love is reason enough for its giving,
    As beauty is its own excuse for being;
    The doing of good becomes its own reward,
    And the truth does best define its meaning.

    In the luminous backwood haunts, night plants
    Are seen growing fast from the touch of nymphs:
    Fairy’s Frocks, made of elfin sowing—of
    Heart-halves of Lady’s Lockets joined in love.

    At night, Tulip lamps light the lover’s gate,
    As Hollyhock torches illuminate;
    The secret hollows glow from Crocuses,
    For they’re cups of sunlight stored for muses.

    At woodland’s edge, wee folk leave sentinels,
    The Bugle flowers, to announce to dells
    The entrance of lovers into the wood,
    So all can enjoy the amorous mood.

    Wherever the elves themselves have romance,
    Wild Pansies, known as Jump-Up-and-Kiss-Me,
    Spring from the power of their loving dance—
    Emanations from the sprites’ imagery.

    The eyes love to rest on the sky of blue
    While Eve upon the greensward smiles at you—
    A new life colors the world in between
    Devils and Angels: Earth’s human pristine.

    Eve set tufts of Anemones, fully blown,
    Ever after given as the wind’s own,
    And vines, wreathing and twining, overgrown,
    And odoriferous blooms in bunches sown.

    Across the lea and on the moor she shows.
    Along the lane and through woodland meadows,
    Eve—Mother Nature—yet lives in boughs
    And thickets, still imparting all she knows.

    Some flowers close, protecting their pollen
    By “sleeping”, some at morn, some at even,
    Some at other flower-clock hours—somewhen;
    And some, like Jewelweed, never open.

    The glowworms, fairy stars come down to ground,
    Gleam the shadowy woods through summer’s round;
    Then fall’s leaves flutter through the quiet air,
    The autumn being the sunset of the year.

    Brown is Death’s coloring of all that grows,
    So—faeries don’t allow it in their rainbows;
    But beyond the spectrum, where we can’t see,
    New hues paint their phantom activity.

    Elves find Venus shining in broad daylight,
    Knowing where to look as if it were night,
    Then follow her as the evening star,
    Till with her fiery lover she takes flight.

    Just before dawn, amid the dew and moss,
    Elves ride on a moonbeam made of Bugloss,
    And see the North Star and the Southern Cross
    In the same sky, ’most all the way across.

    Now the Earth is very old, but each spring it
    Turns young again when nature reinvents it,
    Constructing the Temple of Flora outside,
    In desert, field, wetland, woodland, and wayside.

    Spring had kissed the earth, leaving flowers there,
    Like those whose perfume first scented virgin air,
    As again, the fragrant glen, in Heaven’s prayer,
    Hailed Earth’s anniversary with flowers fair.

    Slake love’s thirst in life’s earthly endeavor
    Near a stream where wildflowers grow forever.
    Flowers influence our feelings—deep they roam:
    Flora’s fairest flowers compose Heaven’s poem.

    The pure white flowers of Paradisea grow
    Only within the sub-alpine meadow,
    Not to mention Sundrop, Saffron, Twinflower,
    Pomander, and a thousand other flowers.

    For supper, Eve savored salad made from
    Thyme, Mallow, Bibleleaf, and Sugarplum,
    All edible and flavorful flowers,
    Mixed with Chervil, Lovage, and Sunflower.

    The Lavender, Rosemary, and Sage all
    Release fragrance when crushed by a footfall,
    So herbs are strewn on floors to clean and scent—
    Odoured ornaments preventing aliments.

    Early Sage, before it became dilute,
    Kept man immortal—an ever-green root.
    Though now diminished in its once great power,
    It still keeps us healthful in summer’s bower.
    The Crown Imperial refused to hang
    Its head at the foot of the cross, so vain
    And proud in its majestic reign—so now,
    Its petals must droop and weep nectar rain.

    Heaven’s patron of arts, grace, and license,
    Left us sweet-smelling plants, with flowered scents
    And aromas redolent—florescence
    In flush and prime of days reminiscent.

    Blooms have eternal life in Heaven’s glade,
    An ethereal floral wonderland
    Of everlasting recollections—
    Oh, but that mortal life would never fade!

    When Eden fell, all elfin creatures, too,
    Were loosed with Eve into the world anew.
    They’re tenders of the precious flowers few,
    Of the flora that in the Garden grew.

    There! What uncanny things flock, in between,
    Unknown in the shadows, there but unseen?
    They’re dream-visions—completing the triad of
    Earth’s Heavenly things, with flowers and love.

    Breathe flowered air and you’ll never know death,
    Your incarnate life an eternal wreath.
    Breathe ambrosial incense, balm, and spice
    Of flowers as fragrant as a Fairy’s breath.

    Eve’s elves gave us the taste of Strawberry,
    The messages of the Honeysuckle,
    The signals of Wisteria, and the once
    Neglected memories of Rosemary—

    And the sweet breath of purple Violets
    As the enamored voice of rivulets,
    And Scarlet Pimpernels, that, aft nice days pass,
    Enfold—they are the poor man’s weather-glass!

    And brilliant clumps of Blue Delphiniums,
    Soft Irises and sharp Nasturtiums,
    Dewy-eyed Pensings, velvet smooth and dear,
    And Lilies of the Valley—they’re Eve’s tears.

    Eve carried Myrtle, too, meaning perfume,
    To rouse Beauty from her watery tomb:
    Myrtilla rose from the sea in old Greece,
    Adding Myrtle sprigs to their laurel wreath;

    The arts were first born from the Acanthus,
    In the wreaths of it made at tournaments—
    They’re engraved in the columns of Corinth
    As Greek architectural ornaments.

    Vervain, too, with the power that enchants—
    That brings on visions of a sweet romance,
    Gathered as Druids did, by inner sight,
    When Sirius rose against a moonless night.

    Orange Blossoms are generosity’s shower,
    Being at once fruit, foliage, and flower.
    They bear the legendary apples golden—
    Often guarded by a ne’er-sleeping dragon.

    For remembrance, Eve brought us Rosemary,
    The Lily, too, white for its purity,
    And the Tulip, which does declare its love
    By the truth which it is the beauty of.

    But all the flowers mentioned herein above
    Would not have made this life worthy of,
    So Eve took the Rose—the bloom of love,
    Right under the eyes of Heaven above.

    The Rose was pure white when it first was born,
    Until she kissed it with her ruby lips—
    Or ’came it red when Venus fell on a thorn,
    Rushing to the aid of struck Adonis?

    Or did the Rose sprout forth, all fully blown,
    From the heart of a Goddess, do you think?
    Or was it out of Cupid’s nectar grown,
    When he poured to Earth that Heavenly drink?

    Or when the nightingale, with hope forlorn,
    Overpowered by the Rose’s perfume,
    Impaled himself in love upon her thorn,
    Then revived in the beauty of the bloom?

    With the Rose the Earth is rich forever—
    It’s born from spring’s dying kiss to summer;
    It wears all the gems that the dew has wreathed,
    Blooming wherever summer’s breath has breathed.

    The winds make love to the flowers of May—
    The woods burst with the joy of Eve’s bouquet!
    Like Flora, we, too, from Eden have come—
    From all that’s gone before, we are the sum.

    Now Heaven’s favors are spread all around,
    For the flowers, fully blossomed and grown,
    Wave and smile as miracles from the ground—
    Reminding us all of what love has sown.
     
  22. Stoniphi obscurely fossiliferous Valued Senior Member

    Messages:
    3,256
    As I wandered like a clod,

    just picking up old rags and bottles,

    as onward on my way I plod,

    I spied a host of axolotls,

    beside the lake, beneath the trees,

    a sight to make a mans blood freeze!


    Some had spots,

    and some were plain,

    some were blue,

    and some were green,

    the damnedest sight I've ever seen!


    Now when on the couch I lie,

    the doctor asks me what I see,

    they flash before my tortured eyes,

    and make me laugh in fiendish glee,

    I take my solace then in bottles,

    and I forget them axolotls!



    from Mad magazine
     
  23. EmptyForceOfChi Banned Banned

    Messages:
    10,848

    Aww i was going to say thats really Nice and positive. but then I see it wasn;t your own and im dissapointed

    Please Register or Log in to view the hidden image!

    .

    Now you have to go and write your own poem that is themed like his one you quoted. ^_^ I will now freestyle another poem too so it's fair.


    Peace.
     

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