A Poem Thread

Words in Red Ink.

Ticks and crosses, words in red ink,
things of far fancy furnish my thoughts.

I sweep and I swagger and focus on
forms.
Finding dead feeling come into the
fore.

The dip of her pelvis, the shape of
her gait, you stride my minds
musings, you transfix my state.

Too sharp bright and painful the
memory now seems, and all this
past hurts still buried in me.

She did it for self, for fear and to me.
And I knew her madness; it’s burned
there for years.

That Fire’s now rekindled and I feel her
curse, and I can’t forgive her and I never
will.

But nothing is spoken and nothing is
guessed! What more will you ask, and
ask evermore?

My thoughts soon find focus, my fingers
do write, my heart still beats slowly as it
starts to bite.

My will sets the motion of words on the
page and opens the deluge of my inner
rage.

Ticks and crosses, words in red ink, torn
from within, a darkness that’s guarded and
locked in a safe.

But I jiggled the keyhole, I opened the latch
and from this dark portal my, my visions
dispatched.
 
ScaryMonster said:
Ruddiger Pew

Ruddiger Pew was just is
like you,
he counts them all out two
by two.

And when there’s only two
more left, he adds them to
the one that’s next.

And when he measures he
checks them twice, he licks
his lips and wipes his knife.

He drains the blood and wraps
the bones; he fits them in their
future homes.

And in the basement he bricks
them in, he carves the corpses
and wears the skins

And when he’s ready he does
prepare, he bites the tongues
and wears the hair.

He combs his crop and dons he’s
hat, grabs his hooks and pats
the cat.

So into the night he does repair,
to capture those who don’t
prepare.

And he waits and bides his
time; he cuts the thoughts and
slits the lies.

And then he sprinkles it all in lime;
this is Ruddiger’s feeding time!

His hooks glint brightly and with
hands blood red he drags them all
back to his slaughter shed.

Yes Ruddiger Pew is just like you,
and lives in number 32, so when you
see him wave real nice and try to stay
inside at night.
Click to expand...

I love this poem! It's so dark, but at the same time has a catchy flow. I like the contrast between the style and subject matter. It reminds me of old nursery rhymes (when they were used to scare children into behaving:D).

I think my favorite stanzas are:

And when he measures he
checks them twice, he licks
his lips and wipes his knife.

He drains the blood and wraps
the bones; he fits them in their
future homes.

And in the basement he bricks
them in, he carves the corpses
and wears the skins

It's so morbid, but your word choice is amazing. Very strong imagery.
 
Zen, Fermat, Gauss, Germain
Met Carroll, on the Plane
To Athens,
Greek Romance, and later on
There was a Dance.

They gave a holler "Yellow Submarine!"
And decorated it with Monde Green in Space
They built a vessel which V,p
Might sail through Time itself,
And make some T.

The Hatter sells, for 1-/6
A scone that clangs like tonnes
Of bricks He pulls out from his Hat, when
He tries to tell you where you're at, then,
You see the price: "Sesquiplicate!"

Tile the rudder, till the Sail!
We are there already...
 
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Bewayre the Bandersnotch, ma soon.

Blag-ol' the Bandersnatcher stays and plays
And tries to catch yer.
But don't get close
You will end up toast,
or Sunday's roast on Fridays.
 
jessiej920 said:
I love this poem! It's so dark, but at the same time has a catchy flow. I like the contrast between the style and subject matter. It reminds me of old nursery rhymes (when they were used to scare children into behaving:D).

I think my favorite stanzas are:

And when he measures he
checks them twice, he licks
his lips and wipes his knife.

He drains the blood and wraps
the bones; he fits them in their
future homes.

And in the basement he bricks
them in, he carves the corpses
and wears the skins

It's so morbid, but your word choice is amazing. Very strong imagery.
Click to expand...

Did you see this one, I like it better.

ScaryMonster said:
The Ghost’s of Nain.

They gird their loins; they drag their chains,
and reap the rising of the tide.
And slake their thirst on the sea, and cry their
salty sad lament.

The ghost’s of Nain are here again, and whom
could they themselves do blame, ill said,
said ill and out again! And hit the houses with
the chains.

They gird their girths, they ride the rain, and fly
this fear torn phantom frame.
And fear does fly; they filch the fowls and skirt,
the myriad shantytowns.

And there they creep, through cracks they peep,
And all they see, they see and eat!

And those that run? They chase for fun, and pluck them
all up one by one.
And those that hide? They skin alive and chortle whist
they tan your hide.

And those that fight? Might, just might! Live to see
another night.
And when they go, they go away! But will be back
another day.

Ill said, said ill and out again! Beware the coming
of the Nain.
Click to expand...

When are we going to see some more of your poems?
 
noodler said:
Bewayre the Bandersnotch, ma soon.

Blag-ol' the Bandersnatcher stays and plays
And tries to catch yer.
But don't get close
You will end up toast,
or Sunday's roast on Fridays.
Click to expand...

Kind of like the Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jabberwocky

jabberwocky.jpeg
 
"It all just seems so bloody pointless, you know?"

A pome:

Rack me no rackman, inoffs
But van me a lud's wig.
Fred me no fredrics! Show pan, and bay toven.
Debus the debusies; appogiaturas for ron!

A (Lud) Ennysson

:D
 
Last edited:
ScaryMonster said:
When are we going to see some more of your poems?
Click to expand...

Thinking

A blank page is waiting and watching
As if time and balance hang upon its pale face
But the words never seem to fit right
They feel too tight
And the voice seems to sound out of place
 
For Scary ;)

The Tale of the Grinning Man

The Grinning Man has come to town
To gobble your children upside down
He’ll start with their toes and when he reaches their knees
He’ll bite them in half as quick as you please

His teeth are wide his eyes are round
He stands at least six feet from the ground
Donned in green with hide for skin
His sharp white teeth will split you thin

Beware the cunning of his grin!

He appears at will in the darkest of nights
To give you one of the greatest frights
He leers, he leans, he gnashes wide
He’ll break your bones to get inside

The Grinning Man has come to town
To eat your children pound by pound
He’ll strip them clean, down to the bone
And with their bodies, he’ll build his home

He foretells of doom with his Cheshire smile
He invades your mind and stays a while
And when he’s ripped free your greatest sin
It’s then you know you belong to him

Beware the cunning of his grin!

The Grinning Man has come to town
To suck out your soul and swallow it down!
 
Whoo Hoo Jessie! The first metrical/accentual verse of yours I’ve read! How do you find writing using Iambic pentameter?
It’s a bit old school but it does give the poem a nice pace. I like your non-metrical poems as well but it’s nice to see you try something like this.
(Sorry if I sound like I've got my head up my ass)

jessiej920 said:
For Scary ;)

The Tale of the Grinning Man

The Grinning Man has come to town
To gobble your children upside down
He’ll start with their toes and when he reaches their knees
He’ll bite them in half as quick as you please

His teeth are wide his eyes are round
He stands at least six feet from the ground
Donned in green with hide for skin
His sharp white teeth will split you thin

Beware the cunning of his grin!



He appears at will in the darkest of nights
To give you one of the greatest frights
He leers, he leans, he gnashes wide
He’ll break your bones to get inside

The Grinning Man has come to town
To eat your children pound by pound
He’ll strip them clean, down to the bone
And with their bodies, he’ll build his home

He foretells of doom with his Cheshire smile
He invades your mind and stays a while
And when he’s ripped free your greatest sin
It’s then you know you belong to him

Beware the cunning of his grin!

The Grinning Man has come to town
To suck out your soul and swallow it down!
Click to expand...

I love stories and poems about monsters and supernatural themes(As you might have guessed); writing about feelings and profound thoughts always seems to drain me, after a while I can’t dredge up anymore profound feelings to write about. So I write something fun like your poem here.
I love it; I’m going to read it to my little nieces and nephew when I’m looking after them, they love scary stuff too.
 
ScaryMonster said:
Whoo Hoo Jessie! The first metrical/accentual verse of yours I’ve read! How do you find writing using Iambic pentameter?
It’s a bit old school but it does give the poem a nice pace. I like your non-metrical poems as well but it’s nice to see you try something like this.
(Sorry if I sound like I've got my head up my ass)
Click to expand...

Lol, I'm glad you liked it. I was reading up on legends of "cryptids" and came upon the Grinning Man and this poem just flowed right out onto the page. I didn't even have to think about it. It was fun to write :D

I love stories and poems about monsters and supernatural themes(As you might have guessed); writing about feelings and profound thoughts always seems to drain me, after a while I can’t dredge up anymore profound feelings to write about.So I write something fun like your poem here.
Click to expand...

I feel you on that one. I think that's why I haven't been writing. Profundity is beyond me right now.

I love it; I’m going to read it to my little nieces and nephew when I’m looking after them, they love scary stuff too.
Click to expand...

I'm glad. I hope they enjoy it!:p
 
Jibber Jabber

T'was silly, how the 'lectric stove
Did grind and jangle, when one made
A tinsy, or a board of scoves,
And the ov'n cloth got frayed.
 
King of the Hairy Monkeymen

Of fruit and bones and half cast turns, in trees and brooks they take
their looks, they read no books, they’re not uncouth and seeks no truth!
They are the one and only proof.

They are the Hairy Monkeymen, in their varied monkey clans; they plan
no plans, make no demands of you or I or of the land.

They jump through trees and there they veer, from snakes and snares and
all they fear.
They dance and pound and scurry round and climb the sweet and scented
ground, and up the mound they do bound to find the door and bang it down.

There they roar, and do implore for their King to come once more, and here he
comes! They’re all struck dumb; he makes the gibbons bang the drums, and
trumpets call and the monkeys brawl and chatter all throughout the halls.

He is the immortal Monkey King, and see the things his maidens bring, there’s
cans of spam and marzipan and bamboo rushes in their hands.
He’s planed his plans and roused his clan’s just see the way he commands his
bands!

‘Equal to Heaven’ his standard says, And he rides a stately pachyderm, and for
all the wisdom he has learned, he goes to fight and might, just might? Win the
thing that’s beyond mans sight, and of Heaven he’ll take an humungus bite.

But a mountain will fell upon to his head, and for 500 years he’ll grow his beard and
little monkeys will play with his ears.

And what of the myriad monkey men? Who weep for their imprisoned King? But their
tears are soon forgotten hence, and playful thoughts fill up their heads, because ambition
might make a Monkey King, but most monkeys value other things.
 
Fear The Reaper

Fear the Reaper,
fear his cry,
hear him laugh,
as you die,
now you're dead,
six feet below,
listen as,
the church bells toll.
 
Sammy Dawg

Sammy Dawg, he’s ma homey,
the tats he has tell a story.
Around his back flows a storm sea
and the ship’s it casts upon Dawg’s shoulder
are there devoured by a monster.

Yes Sammy Dawg ma one and only, his arms
a long and lean and bony, and the eye there
has a weary journey up roads track marked and
hoary, there lives up there a very different story.

O Sammy Dawg ma wounded brother, I’m here
for you and no other, on you is inked the pure
redeemer, he walks across an ocean torso and
there he finds a lot and more so.

What up my Dawg! I feel like saying, but Sammy
Dawg is just not playing, but a story still his tats are
saying, in vivid hues but they’re decaying.

Sammy Dawg he was ma Homey, his story’s sad
but his tats are narly!
 
Album: Balance
Song: Remind My Soul

Lyrics:

Yeah, it's gettin' wild out here
It makes me wonder how a black man could ever raise a child out here
You know the old krumbsnatcha's in this land of decay
So why we killin' for the crumbs when there's so much to stay?
We're no longer suposed to be slaves
I bet Harriet Tubman will be turnin' in her grave
Like remind my soul

Of the time we were great before the self hate

My elders all feel the same there's no bravery
We're suposed to fight for freedom not just the end of slavery
Are we too selfish to even bless the kids with jewels
So our youth don't get played out for fools?
Will they get program how to behave?
Malcolm X must be turnin' in his grave
Like remind my soul

Of the time we were great before the self hate
The time we were great before the self hate (x3)
The time we were great
Wait, we still great, but

I met up with this dread, said "Peace, Respect"
To set respect and not seen that around here yet
Black man kill himself for limited amount of wealth
And them disrespecting women saw him disrespect himself
I agree for what the dread haven't get off of his chest
Bob Marley will be disturbed from his rest
Like remind my soul

Of the time we were great before the self hate

Can't work a dead end 9 to 5 for what
To be another victim of social security cuts?
I gotta cut myself from the chains and run free
Empower myself to be my own authority
People die so I don't have to be a runaway slave
Nat Turner must be turnin' in his grave
Like remind my soul

Of the time we were great before the self hate
The time we were great before the self hate (x3)
The time we were great
Wait, we still great, but

We thought to worship these rappers and athletes and actors
Many who think they better in the walk right passed ya
It's what you do off camera and off the court
That really makes you worthy of the people support
But some brothers get those millions and forget how to behave
Arther Ashe must be turnin' in his grave
Like remind my soul

Of the time we were great before the self hate

We crabs in a barrel, you ain't gettin out until I do first
And that's why the guns burst
Whatever happened to strenght in numbers?
Some of the greatest minds on the planet are among us
But so many start on strugglin' and never get saved
Man, Martin must be turnin' in his grave
Like remind my soul

Of the time we were great before the self hate
The time we were great before the self hate (x3)
The time we were great

Remind my soul
Of the time we were great before the self hate yo
Yeah
 
scarymonster said:
:facepalm:
Click to expand...

lmao! Hey, he tried...sorta' ;)

Anyways...

I Hate Your Living Room

It’s not that chairs aren’t useful
Because they are
Especially your favorite chair

Or maybe that broken and dilapidated, yet comfy couch
Useful for sitting on
Useful for ignoring when its use is not useful

Always there, dependable because you made it so
The chair
It never moves from it’s perfectly positioned spot

It doesn’t blink or shed a tear
It sits quietly; waiting
Waiting for you to come sit your big, dumb, lazy ass in it

Because that’s what favorite chairs do
They hold you when you’re tired
They comfort you when you’re cold

They don’t cry on your shoulder
They don’t ask for attention
They don’t even complain when you mistreat them

You can kick that chair
Step on it; let your dog chew a hole in the side
Pull out the stuffing; yank out its guts like a butcher

Dig your way in until you fit just right
Until only you can fit that chair
Until only you can lay claim

And the chair, the useful chair
Sits placidly, meekly, eerily quiet in the corner
You know that chair will never leave

Because chairs just don’t get up and walk away
It’s not that chairs aren’t useful
It’s just that I don’t want to be a piece of furniture in your life
 
Chatha said:
Imagination is a drag, think about it, Imagination causes the most trouble. All the lunatics and creeps of the world are a result of their imigaination; Adolf Hilter, George W., and even God. The problem is you can't live without imagination, I mean, what are you going to do without imaginaion. Sometimes I think to myself what the world will be without magination, with my imagination. 99% of all the horrible shit that ever happened is because of someone's will and imagination. George Lucas has Imagination, Steven Spielberg has imagination, Karl max, the rich and the poor, the old, the young, and everybody therewithin. Imagining is the best gift we humans can ever freakin achieve. Just Imagine.
Click to expand...

'Logic will get you from A to B, Imagination will take you everywhere.' — Albert Einstein
 
On a too bright Sunday afternoon.

He liked the way she walked, when she hurried past her ass
bopped rhythmically, she was just a girl walking by on a too
bright Sunday afternoon.

A statuesque figure against the gray concrete, a boppy Jazz
tune on the car radio played counterpoint to her passing ass.

It was the syncopated essence of lust, it moved within him.
Strange how a pleasing juxtaposition of curves can make a man
suffer with longing.

As the passing cars blurred to smears and the trudging humanity
became indistinct, only his fulsome dancer and he lived in this
moment.

Their glints collided as their eyes caught, was her smile for him? The
perving young punk in the pickup. But it was so sweet.

Its unselfconsciousness shamed him, but he couldn’t help looking
it was as wired into him, he wanted her to be all the things he knew
she couldn’t really be.

And then she was gone! Why did he look at her like that? She knew
he was watching; a random voyeur captured by the tilt of her hips.

The world started again, too hot, too bright, too painfully real and the
city ate him up again, made a particle out of him and he was dissolved
back into its body, the system pushed the particle on.

The girl behind the store window watched him glide past, the young man
with the fierce blue eyes, she’d lived a timeless second in those points of
fire ice. Strange how a knowing smile on a well-made face can make a
woman suffer with longing.
 
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