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Author Topic: the poems thread  (Read 254177 times)

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gargantuan

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #30 on: July 31, 2007, 10:04:04 AM »

In creative writing class I worked everyday (not for the class... just for the hell of it) on what I called "The Epic Poem"
now keep in mind...this was just spewed out of me without thought. It was sort of tongue-in-cheek while I did it, but looking back, i see some definate subconscious things coming through. I'll just share certain parts for the sake of brevity.

Part 6
                I,
                he who stands before you,
                aware of my fate.
eternally forgotten.
       strand
       after
       strand
          removed,
          torn from you.
       But I will go.
       unto you,
       Forever remaining in a timeless illusion.

Part 7
Smoke!
    It billows.
Wanders:
    they begin.

creeds hater:
cold realms await!

a crescent wave of souls
loses its chance for failure.

Part 9
I really shouldn't
lie so much.
Or tell those around me anything.

[intermission]

"A Letter to the Editor"

"I have suscribed to your paper for some time now and feel as though our time together is drawing to a close. Without your newsletter, things will be more difficult or perhaps better. I've lost interest in your headlines and no longer find your editorials to be thought-provoking. God, forgive me.

Part 14

A predator can never quite come to terms with its existance.

A negative side effect of being on top.

It desires,
needs, to feel,
but does not.

I am jealous of the apathy, for only the sake of those around me.

Part 15

pendulums are alike
    never stopping
    for those who would
    appreciate
       a moment
       of silence.

Part 16
A king once spoke
of a dream he had.

The empty house at the
end of a dirt road,

wooden door
two windows
no shudders

An ant makes its way cross
the field
    while an elderly couple
    ponders.

Around back:
downed soldiers


ummmmmmm


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"Think outside the box, collapse the box, and take a fucking sharp knife to it." —Banksy

Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #31 on: August 01, 2007, 04:24:18 AM »


when Daphne
left her ghost
remained,
spread out
on the furniture,
lying across
your bed.
before she knew
her fate, it
listened to
your thoughts
echo and twist,
and sucked your
essence sated
with anger and
tears.

she dreamed with
new eyes and a
voice that
summoned her
ghost back to
her. it told
her nothing.

she didn't want
to be a sacred
thing, born of
jealousy, her
secret lost,
where she
now stands firm
and wooden and
alone.
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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #32 on: August 02, 2007, 07:16:00 AM »

Aftermath to a Dream

wake to morning cool
early breeze and reverie
time begins its march
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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

armyoflarry

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #33 on: August 02, 2007, 11:32:08 AM »

STEPS

take a step
the wrong one
take one hundred steps to compensate
end up at the same place
take a step back
still the wrong one

stand in one place
now you can't breathe
now you can't move
without breaking glass
make a mess
destroy what you built

any step could be wrong
but to stand still would be disaster
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Also, oh my God I could eat your family pets right now. GNNFFGH!!

ThirtyWhacks

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #34 on: August 03, 2007, 02:57:09 AM »

Defeated

Unique but uninspired, I will sit here and wait for something to find me. I will wait, malnutritioned and starving. I will not give into the hunger eating away my insides. Every noise I hear in this solitude is beating the drums of my ears. Pounding wildly, it shatters soundbarriars and deafens my senses. the minimal light will burn my eyes until i close their lids. Everything turning ugly before my blinding eyes, I will watch it transform. The birds will crash into the earth at a thundering pace. The trees will lose their leaves as they crumple on the ground and the sun will be clouded with grey water vapor. I will sit and wait, sleep depraived and shaking. Saturated in my own filth, I will wait defeated beneath my sorrow.

It's a paragraph because thats how i wrote it, and was too lazy to find a way to format it.

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mangosta

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #35 on: August 03, 2007, 08:02:56 PM »

I guess I'm included in the "everyone else". Hehe.

One of my newest poems. It's sorta childlike, but I like it.

"Death By Black Hole"

She's got this black hole in the middle of her world
And it just keeps pulling her in
She grabs some tree branches and tries to hold on
But the force just gets stronger and then
She's gone in a flash and she'll never come back
What happened to that frowny faced girl?
She was here, now she's not, is she dead, hit her head?
Death by black hole in the middle of the world

A happy girl in pink sits on the end of the street
Wondering what all the noise is about
She's head over heels for Jesus Christ
She's one of those ones who scream and shout
But then she wakes up and she laughs to herself
Someday they'll get what they deserve
But in a split second she's sucked into the ground
Death by black hole in the middle of the world

---

And here's another recent one. I didn't like it at first. It's sorta everywhere... if you know what I mean. But lentower read it on my myspace blog and seemed to like it, so I'll post it.

"Me"

My life - a lonely windowpane
The rest shattered long ago
But mine is still pulling her weight
Cracked and aching, but still standing
Holding up through the icy wind
And the tapping of the midnight rain

Through this lonely prism you see
The empty space within the "me"
Creaking floors home to lonely souls
Dark corners camouflage a horror
That innocent eyes can never see
Even shadows need a place to call home

So I am a safe haven for the dark ones
Who cannot find refuge in summer light
They'd risk being seen, and maybe heard
They'd risk being happy, and maybe loved
So they hide away from happy thoughts
I am a carnival for the absurd

But deep within all that sleeps here
There is a light brighter than any before
Just waiting to erupt, spread out, and sing
"I am the beauty you long to see!"
But to share it they must see it first
I must find the light within the "me"
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Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #36 on: August 04, 2007, 08:58:43 AM »

The Ghost

There's a ghost in my house
I felt it as I entered
I pride myself on sanest thought
And now I'm not quite centered

I call the Master Carpenter
Because the walls are thin
To brace it all with flesh and blood
Which once were just sanguine

Perhaps it comes from lineage
A common visage in the mist
I'll try to flush and call it out
Without a Spiritualist

Late at night I hear it
Pace the upstairs halls
I turn myself to dreaming
Of snakes and garden walls

Outside in morning light
A flicker shines within
It comes from neither current
Nor hardest paraffin

But then I knew the answer
'Twas tapping all the time
This thing was hardly specter
For it's fused complete in rhyme
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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #37 on: August 04, 2007, 09:58:42 PM »

An Understanding


go ahead
take the
car-
drive on
home with
the girl
at the bar

i'll just
stay-
get lost
again
enjoy my
haunt
my little
 sins

but tomorrow-
for sure
we'll meet
and speak
of love and
other things

bind it
tight with
where we've
been
and bring
to us a
night
complete
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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Rob

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #38 on: August 04, 2007, 11:15:39 PM »

Devery...You are killing with these things.  Let them all out!
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Everybody dies
Frustrated and sad
And that is beautiful

lifeisnocabaret

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #39 on: August 05, 2007, 11:44:03 PM »

all of these are really good.
i try to write poetry.
but every time i do, it ends up sounding corny/cheesy/fake and i throw it away.
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guuurrrrrllltakeiteasy

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #40 on: August 06, 2007, 02:21:50 AM »

Moonlight Draws In Rythm

i wonder what you smell like
do you wreak of cologne or smell like the sun skimming my skin?
look up into the sky -- we are breathing it in.
home alone on a saturday nite
11:24 PM
playing non-existant chords

the moonlight draws in rythm, helps me cast my spells

playing with my sore gums
wisdom teeth know-it-all
beating my heart out just for you
writing blogs about the letter "I"
accused & astounded, shocked from what i've done
i coloured my white shirt with permanent marker

the moonlight draws in rythm, helps me cast my spells

making noise
fantasizing of killing my younger self
darkness is here I'll stand from now on
making no sense at -- all this is so much fun
where have all the warnings gone?
what have you become?
hold the door, but she walks on by
SLAP upside the head.....
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Fo' shizzle, ma Bizzle.

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preferpencil

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #41 on: August 06, 2007, 05:13:13 AM »

 :-\<this is where I've been, and now that I am reading all these darling poems, I am absolutely thrilled and I am home. It was ugly. Many people are still stuck in the sewage. I can't go into the full details except to tell you that it is very late. You are asleep. I am not. And I MISSED ALL OF YOU AS WELL. And it seems that we may have some others coming in? Fantastic! So, now a couple little offerings. Don't judge too harsh. It was a very, very long brain surgery to get the crap out....
I'm amazed I can even tyep. <heh.

another Ting episode first:

Ting was marching up a kind
of scaffold
or so it felt,
and it swayed with the weight
of what had to be 
Revolutionaries.
a small breeze bent at her
knees, but oddly a solid footing.
and as she gazed down
she was stunned to see
that there were nubs of plastic.
maybe rubber bubbles.

holding her feet firm as if
to stick them to each step
she took.
people were laughing all around
and the sound of something
splashing
just had to be
just had to be
putting the victims in the
dunking chair,
the crowd rising in ecstacy
at the suffering.

but why such care in her
footing?
why handle rails to steady
the vertigo?
wasn't it sad enough she was
going to be tortured?
put to death for the un-
named.
but to suffer the pretense
of security beforehand.
 to watch.
 to see.

plunging towards doom
made the crowds hysterical
and Ting imagined the throng
showing signs of choking,
drowning,
or a final chop and severing
of head from neck.
the gesticulations of the
peasants on this sunny day
would be enough
she hoped.

would be enough in itself
she hoped.

to kill her at the very top
of this wooden ladder.

everything she had seen and
flinched-- and had she not
even ordered it for others?
had she not even witnessed
her own Uncle disemboweled
for treason?
what of being drawn and
quartered ? or when she
was forbidden the castle's
back steps...

she had creeped down
and watched in solid shock
as a man's arms were ripped
inch by inch from his shoulders.
she had creeped down
at some point in the luxury
car.
and the bird she had healed
was now back on the hood
of the car.

that bird knew her very
sins.
her very dreams and aspirations.
her very taste in food and
the time she awoke in morning
light.
that bird was making her march
and its call was a wild
wicked
mast of a laugh.
for she had given life and it
would now take hers.

just as the books knealt
and had warned.
just as the fires she had
read about where ladies
fell through brick sidewalks
rupturing the ground
itself.
rupturing.
rupturing.

and as she was busy
thinking of bodies falling
through the ground, her feet
perched at the top of some
awful chute.
this was unlike anything.
unlike anything.
except a giant laundry
tumble to nothing she
could envision.

the blue sky blinked at her.
the --no. a relative was in
front of her. holding her hands.
"come on!" the young woman
laughed.

Ting looked down at her bare legs
and felt shame saddle up her
neck.
she looked down at a kind of
shirt, only covering her upper arms.
now blushing,
she realized her torso was in
some sort of tights.
not for dancing or show.

at the bottom of this huge
blue chute would be servants
who scalded their feet in piss
and ammonia
just to keep her Royal gowns
clean and white.
these serfs, servants, indigents.
they hated her very birth.
would have been merry
for her to perish by some
"accidental" toxin...
Ting knew this just as she
knew the bird was now
inside the windshield of the
black-stretched-car.
they would be delighted to see
her neck broken at the bottom
of that barrel...

"come ON!"
and with that final statement,
Ting started to fly.
she was swirling, arms spread
out and collapsed on water,
water or oil.
it didn't matter as she had
no hold on either.
and this river of rapids
was no straight descent.

her body rotated left and
right with malice
but she couldn't help the
smile
that was spreading.
she went so high on one
turn,
Ting was sure she would be
belly-down.
face-down.
talons in her back or a
blade waiting to fall.

and still.
she kept on smiling.
ridiculously grinning at the
thought of a blue liquid
tunnel to die in or upon
arrival at the bricks

that just had to be
had to be.

waiting at the bottom,
smirking at her ignorance
just as she laughed a hearty
release at the swift
swarm of the ride itself.
this would be how it
could go.

not the bird and not
the dream of the beautiful
fields.
her hands folding in hands.
a kiss before lips touching.
not the mirror that pounced
around the room following
her steps...

the end of this ride was a
sidewalk,
and as she was shoved at
the speed of gravity.
she knew.
she thought.
her body might go into it
four to five feet deep.

but instead.

one giant splash of water.
no one watching
except adults. elders.
her mouth came
up in the perfect
oval
only seen for breath.

and that's when Ting
realized she was a child
again.
learning to swim by
being plunged.
plummeted.
ruptured...
Logged
"But it's never too late for the poetry of regret."--lee upton

preferpencil

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #42 on: August 06, 2007, 05:32:25 AM »

I know, Devery. Not too good, was it? I really just got tired and that is "lame" but it's the truth. It can be "fixed" you know. Oh. And one comment, because I've seen it in here and in the past--I ALWAYS feel like what I write is crap, the only difference is on the 1 to 10 scale of how bad it is. Doesn't mean I won't post it though, as someone may find some sort of use from it. Maybe? Eh. don't be afraid your poems aren't "worthy" or something--I have not seen a poet--eer come down harshly on anyone, and if they did, I'd put them in a sewer. The ONLY thing you might get is advice, and that's not so bad. So knock it off! Stop teasing me telling me you're writing things and then not show them!!! O0

hey. Larry. Amanda. Devery. All you poets! It will take me some time to review everything, but from what I've seen--I am truly knocked out so far...and introductions have to be made because there are either new people or new names. "spill" them to me please. we could have coffee and a bagel or something...

here:


you said
you just wanted
a hug

and two seconds
later
your pelvis

was leaning
into mine.

and that was
not where I wanted
any body part
of yours.

and that was
not the right moment
to tell me you
felt lonely.

and that was
the last time I
wrapped my arms
around

something
like the shape
of my pity
for your

hips.





(simple...and not exactly true)
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"But it's never too late for the poetry of regret."--lee upton

preferpencil

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #43 on: August 06, 2007, 05:49:25 AM »

BlondeRedhead--who let your rabid self in? splendid. SLAP ending. splendid.

I slip into the Zoo
in a dress made only
for Miss America contests
or something so
ostentatious
that the meal before
viewing
would cost more than
one year's salary.

for sure.
for sure.

I slide open my father's
drawer
to look for treasure,
only I am in a business
suit.
hurried out of a shower.
looking for leather loafers.
and that's when I come to
knowing...
I am either my father
or treasure is fiction.

for sure.
for sure.

I smack on the headphones
to Lennon, Cobain, Janis and Jim.
Perhaps a hundred or more
dead voices trapped on
recordable devices...
at least for the time I'm here
to listen.
and with arrogance, I write
the word "arrogance"
wondering if I'll become
something of a record.

for sure.
surely not.

I'm done with at least
half my life
and so are you--or will be.
or have passed me.
unless you land on my
picket fence,
I can offer no sage
wisdom--
but will tell one thing
true. ?
Your brain never casts
an image of your mirrored
Self, past the desires of
18 or so--

it's sure
i'm sure

I open my new cd or
book with the same
anticipation of a bunny's
heartbeat, the drool
of being a teen.
and all my attempts at
everlasting
Disneyland
Love
were immature infatuations
or a delicate need my
mouth elected.

it always comes down to food.
food as a metaphor.
or food from someone's fryer.

for me.
for sure.
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"But it's never too late for the poetry of regret."--lee upton

Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #44 on: August 06, 2007, 07:27:43 AM »

:-\<this is where I've been, and now that I am reading all these darling poems, I am absolutely thrilled and I am home. It was ugly. Many people are still stuck in the sewage. I can't go into the full details except to tell you that it is very late. You are asleep. I am not. And I MISSED ALL OF YOU AS WELL. And it seems that we may have some others coming in? Fantastic! So, now a couple little offerings. Don't judge too harsh. It was a very, very long brain surgery to get the crap out....
I'm amazed I can even tyep. <heh.

another Ting episode first:

Jennifer - you've brought Ting back to life!  Daphne saw her last week, but caught just a glimpse as Ting hurried by in the street.  She still had her notebook, though!  And last night, I saw her in a dream.  She was standing on a wooden platform (coincidence?), but it was low and in the dark, her back was against a wall, and the brightest light shone on a beautiful pair of golden boots standing tight together just by her feet.  And now - this - from you!    Not very good?  How do you say "perfection" in dream-speak?   :glasses9:
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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa
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