Wow! You all are great!
A Poem Thread
- Thread starter Angelus
- Start date
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.
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!---
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:
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.
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.
Last edited:
Yearning, Burning, Churning,
The wheel is ever-turning.
Trapped beneath the weight of 6 billion lives,
I wait
For the end
Of the Beginning.
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. 
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Invert Nexus said:
It's a decent poem. You should keep writing, no matter what other people say. Practice makes perfect. Or at least better.
Angelus:
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:
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
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.
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:
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...
Ok, that's what I thought at first, just wanted to be clear. Carry on.
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.
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
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
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