how about a poetry thread?

no really,
life can be more than hardware and hanging
write your own or find your favorite. . .even you hard a**s can be soft sometimes
but look at Poe. . .sweet and evil

 

I'll start. . . .this is an old one I wrote. . . .

There was a day when love grabbed ahold of each of us. Pulling

As an everlasting spring drenching thirst. Creating

Giving life the joyful tears once deserved. Dreaming

So close, to make love only the gentedt brush of hair. Wishing

Give no thought to what lay ahead only feeling the now. Waiting

A kiss so soft and a tickle of an eyelash. Laughing

Pulling, twords each heart, becoming one

Creating, a flame not touched by darkness

Dreaming, of a life to hold so true

Wishing, for a day never to part

Waiting, for the next kiss

Laughing, into the next day

Now there is only fear and the pain, bringing anger. Pulling

The love seems hardly enough to hide what was lost. Creating

Tears of misery pour into the ocean, quenching no one. Dreaming

The slightest touch of hand brings swift turn. Wishing

Wondering the thoughts of the other alone on our own. Waiting

Even a kiss is twice thought with hidden eyes. Laughing

Pulling, apart, lost in what should be

Creating, more pain than what was

Dreaming, of what will be

Wishing, for what once was

Waiting, time to heal what may not be

Laughing, at the memory of once was

To love is certain

To live is all so true

To live in love is quite possible

To live love successful, is too

Remember the days all to well

Remember those days of love

Remember the passion

Remember it all

The happy and the sad

For the life you live is who you are

That love cannot change

Don’t love the memory

But the man you hold so true

Both lives have changed

Give love the chance to follow through

 

All my poetry is angsty and morose. And well, suckified. Havent even bothered in ages. But i'm going ot publish my journals some day... they turn out to bee eerily like the movie riding in cars with boys, if any of you have ever seen it.

 

This poem is from an AFI CD, but its still a poem.. and the most beautiful one I have ever heard. It means a lot to me....
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

We held hands on the last night on earth. Our mouths filled with dust, we kissed in the fields and under trees, screaming like dogs, bleeding dark into the leaves. It was empty on the edge of town but we knew everyone floated along the bottom of the river. So we walked through the waste where the road curved into the sea and the shattered seasons lay, and the bitter smell of burning was on you like a disease. In our cancer of passion you said, "Death is a midnight runner." The sky had come crashing down like the news of an intimate suicide. We picked up the shards and formed them into shapes of stars that wore like an antique wedding dress. The echoes of the past broke the hearts of the unborn as the ferris wheel silently slowed to a stop. The few insects skittered away in hopes of a better pastime. I kissed you at the apex of the maelstrom and asked if you would accompany me in a quick fall, but you made me realize that my ticket wasn't for two. I rode alone. You said, "The cinders are falling like snow." There is poetry in despair, and we sang with unrivaled beauty, bitter elegies of savagery and eloquence. Of blue and grey. Strange, we ran down desperate streets and carved our names in the flesh of the city. The sun was stagnated somewhere beyond the rim of the horizon and the darkness is a mystery of curves and lines. Still, we lay under the emptiness and drifted slowly outward, and somewhere in the wilderness we found salvation scratched into the earth like a message.

 

Same here Wenchie. Poems I write are all depressing and stuff lol.

 

I too have my own little collection, which some day I will have all published
I had one in a poetry book a few years back. . but I can't find it and the orig. is . . .well a woman has it.
but I do have this. . . .


As I walk along the rugged path of life

I gather upon a crossroads

I am not certain on how they are

All I know...

Is that its guidance

Is narrow... yet far

I see aside me, a place

A tremendous site...

Land to roam free in

Love and grace

The grass is green,

The trees are tall

Oh how I wish I could join them...

All

The birds coast among themselves

As the deer play in the meadow the

Butterfly dance with elves and the rabbits

Crouch and lay low

The sun shines so bright

And the lilies are more beautiful than

Ever before

I dance and I sing

And I call your name

Then I realize that you’re never there

I sit on a rock

Under a willow

On a Hill

Over the ocean

And I smile

As a tear Rolls

Down my cheek…

Now I know

As I sit

On That rock

Under that willow

On that hill

Over that ocean

I stand

I fall

I die



If you wnat more please ask. . .I cannot type very fast and I have to copy them all from poorly handwritten. . .old and faded paper

 

Heres a poem I wrote.. it sucks I know


Utterly alone
Last one there
only one standing
few blank stares
moonlight dances
smiles now rare
in this revelation of apathy and despair

 

I think I was in a bad mood when I wrote this one...


Withering flower
watered with despair
rotting in a soil of hatred
a thin layer of air
suffocating lily in a garden of weeds

 

those are neat cano. . .your sitll young, don't stop

and where are all the "MEN"

 

Neat...lolol

Heh thanks

 

men? you dont need me. a stiff drink and a good pet will ease an inkling you have to date. men.... THAT will make you angsty.

 

I am a man. . .and I need me

 

A MAN has the ability in and of himself to be worthwhile in every respect
MEN as a species need extra blood infused so they can operate both heads at the same time. If they could, there may be hope yet...

 

*falls over laughing* Oh, Wenchie, I have missed you.

 

I missed you too

 

We need some more wench around here.

So post some of your melancholy poetry, you know it's good. Oh, I nosed over to your site earlier, that's a new pretty young thing on the front page one of yours I assume?

 

ah yes, mine all mine. proof positive that i have no life. i sit there and do that stuff with a mouse

 

Well, i'd be fairly pleased with myself if my average day was that productive.
You've got a real talent there. If you don't mind me saying looking at your stuff throughout the last...however long, it has improved. At one stage I didn't think the proportions looked quite right sometimes (i'm not an artist mind!) but that one is beautiful. *dribbles*

you should exploit it.

 

i do, i have t-shirts and prints for sale, but noone ever buys them. and i've decided that my style is really too long winded and freeform to write poetry... i pretty much write a short story and call it a poem... so i might as well just call it a short story

 

I do agree MEN are asls. .but a man can feel things too

 

I'm not generally moved to write poetry. Lots of prose, but not much with rhyme & meter.

Only thing I've done in decades was the one I did for Wenchie last year, and that's already been posted twice. No point in doing it again.

 

I know two who can feel... pain at least... I watched them get pummeled and cry like little girls, so at least its been proven that men can feel SOMETHING



hehe, don't mind me, my man is an absolute control freak needy clingy pain in my petute, so im on another anti-man bender until they either drug him into submission or i throw him out.

 

actually, can you? in all the eath and carnage my computer brought on itself, i lost it.

 

Men can feel... most of us anyway. Most of us aren't good at SHARING those feelings though.

More man problems Wenchie? I feel..............sorry for you.

 

I dont feel sorry for me, i feel rather annoyed that i fell for it again. And this one... boy oh boy. I cant even leave the house without him freakin out. See, ive been with him every minute of every day for like.. a month. so OBVIOUSLY every moment i pass out of his line of vision im intending to cheat on him.

yeah....

so its going great, but on the brightside ive found an open forum for venting all my frustration on the world to a deserving soul who will start a fight with me and end up crying in fetal position on strict orders not to move or i may kill him.... so well... hey.

i give it two more weeks, until he moves into his new place... then i just kinda forget to call.

 

Ah, you could be a sell out and go poke some big company to sell them for you.

My business plans suck.

Anyway, I have the man pouting and waiting for me to go to bed.
I don't neeeed him, but I do want him, heh.
See you Wench, have a good night.

 

night night, missy

 

Awe, and I thought this was a good'un. *hugs to you*

 

he will be, if the medicine they give him helps. i mean hes a wonderful person, just kinda too immature for this magnatude of commitment and tryingt o deal with life with a good sized bipolar disorder and no medication. i talked him into both aggressive therapy (4 days a week) and medication (the appointment for appraisal is wed.) so if he can get it under control, and it trying on his own and working hard, i will support him every step of the way. But if he doesn and keeps acting like a lost puppy and telling me who i can see and where i can go - which usually ends up with me going anyway with a stern reminder that if he doesnt like it - oh look! the DOOR!!!! - then well... cest la vie. im going to wait and see, but im not banking on forever anymore. its a nice thing to imagine though...

 

Sure.... I think... should have it stored somewhere. I'll check when I get home from work.

 

well, here is a short stoy. . .if you like. . .


It was mid-afternoon in mid-May in fact, it was Sunday.

A woman with explicit stature and prose happened upon me. I was quite impressed with her for upon approach, and honestly shocked on how the follow of events took (speaking only of my actions), I will tell you the story, but first, I will explain myself. . .

I am a simple man, tall, dark, early twenties. A good Christian soul and have never been subject to persuasion and completely untouched by any unearthly action or pleasure. I have been away from home many years in school while my love lays home only to wonder when I shall return. I often write and speak of the stars in which we gaze are the same here or there. Though we cannot hold each other, we are still together crying at the same night sky. And how I wish I where there arm in arm, reciting poems, and listing names for or future children…

I am a poet at heart though I practice law in one of the pristine schools in England. . .

Anyway, enough about me… You understand. This magnificent perfection of a woman, whom I did notice at the service this early morn, upon me again. In the marketplace.

“When were these fruits picked?” she so gently asked? Shocked that I looked so common, I almost responded in rue, catching myself stuttering

“I am sorry madam, I do not work here. I can not be much assistance”

“Oh.. Well I do apologize. . .” a pause “Yes. You where in the service this morning. The choir did magnificently well”!

“We have worked very hard to become so” I felt I had known her a lifetime.

Her eyes brighter than any star to gaze upon, and a smile even more enlightening than the heavens. Skin softer than a dove, hands of such power and strength, and her voice. . .Her voice so soft and light, Her German accent sharp and poignant. I had never known such perfection could even be fathomable, let alone exist.

The conversation went on… Tales of childhood hopes and dreams. As she spoke, I heard not words but he song in her voice. Engaged in her eyes I found myself grasping her hand and walking along the creek. Barefoot we danced, as young lovers in springtime. Soon we discovered that we shared common interests, the same passions and dreamt the same dreams.

We sat under a willow aside a small stream and set up a picnic with our goods. We lay as I wisp her auburn hair and seep into her eyes. Laughing at our tales and sharing tears of our pain. That last glass of champagne was the sweetest, for by then it was Monday and the dawn had arose. We kissed upon its arrival. As the day moved on we had grown closer and we walked on. . . It began to rain…

“ I live just up this path. …Would you like to freshen. . “ soft and encouraging she spoke?

“Yes, I would. In fact I would be pleasantly honored to enter your home” I interrupted.

“A fine cup of tea then” so calming so, calling?

“Ten, almost. I wouldn’t want to miss it” almost teasing.

We missed teatime, all of them. I did not go to school that day, for we spent it together. We made love that entire day. Never have I felt so much. Never have I desired so much (not even with my Serina).

I will not go into detail but passion is too subtle of a word… That was the first I had lay with a woman and that only I remember. The only I still feel…

A few months passed and I had not finished my remembrance of such an event, the semester was at leave. I could not afford a trip home but I could stay home and rent a room for a week. My room was located on the north- west side of the inn and often I would watch the sun set behind the mountains. And each night I dreamed of her unsurpassable beauty. . .

On my last eve, on my way to dine, I heard a voice. Softer than the clouds and more pleasant than the morning bird-song. I turned to see a smile and aglow. In familiar eyes. Yes, it was she . . . A very welcome and pleasant surprise indeed… This was her first night and I explained that I was leaving at dawn.

“I have been dreaming about you, wondering if I would ever see you again. You know my home and you are always welcome” sadly almost pouting. It pained me so

“I too have been thinking of you. And my commitment back home. I am to be wed come fall” words cannot explain the pain behind her eyes as I spoke. “I am sorry to pain you so. I myself weep at night.”

We finished eating in silence I stood to leave knowing this would be the last. . . .

“You must always follow your heart . . .Always” her words stopped me.

I wiped my brow. Deep in my mind, I kept trying to think of why I could not be with her, even as much as I wanted to. The woman I have loved since I was a child, the one I am to wed. I cannot remember what she looks like. I CANNOT EVEN REMEMBER HER NAME! I did, though, remember that aged willow as the rain flashed in and out of my mind.

It was a love affair, no one knows. There had to be a reason for all of it. It was a test of sorts.

A test of my faith. My faith in God and Serina‘s. It is so sad that I was about to fail. For this creature, of such compassion and love for life, was all I could think. . . I turn and I see, my beloved wife, Serina. . .

We come together like two deer at a stream, soft and so full of the things in life that are worth living for. . . .

 

Here ya go...


Moth To The Flame

The room is dark, the shades drawn tight, the ambience, funeral pall.
No furnishings, no paintings bright adorn the barren wall.
Where once dwelt hope and love and life, sad echoes only ring,
Of crying, rage, mistrust and strife, where memories only sting.

In the center of this dark abode a single flick’ring light,
A candle burning all alone, malevolent and bright,
Makes no attempt to cheer or warm or push away the gloom,
It only is a funeral pyre marking loves embittered tomb.

One solitary movement in this tomb of dark despair,
A moth, confused, hungry, alone, disturbs the fetid air,
Back and forth, up high down low, in search of enlightenment
Needing, yearning, seeking for an end to this imprisonment.

Drawn inexorably inward to the solitary glow
That mocking glowing symbol of life’s tragedy and woe,
The moth sought release and freedom in the only way it knew,
With nothing else to focus on, in to the flame it flew.

Alas, it found no freedom, no direction and no gain,
Each attempt to reach the light brought only heat, confusion, pain.
Away it flew in horror, back to seeking for an end,
But seeing nothing better, it spiraled in again.

Damaging wings and spirit both with each desperate attempt,
Adding to dejection, confusion, rejection, and growing self-contempt,
Stripping hope and joy and peace and love with every single pass,
The moth’s strength and endurance fade and cannot possibly last.

Oh damaged moth, abandon please the obvious beckoning flame,
Look outward and more carefully and find a healthier game.
Along one wall a faint ray of light escapes a heavy drape.
Behind it is a window open, leading to freedom and escape.

Outside the sun is shining, the world is bright and clear.
Other moths dance on the wind, sipping nectar with good cheer.
Companionship and sustenance await outside your cell,
But you must abandon your fixation on that flame born in Hell.

G.T.

 

thank you!

 

You're welcome. It was yours to begin with.

 

Depakote- 1500mg a day(500am 1000pm)
Xanex - 10mg every six hrs
hydrcodone 3000mg a night
and 300000 kicks in the ass
then when he is asleep . . tie him down and poop on him, and leave

 

I cocked an eye at her,
She cocked an eye at me.
There we sat,
just as cock-eyed as could be.

Ahhhhh.true feeling in that one......

 

. . . .nice. . ..

 

Wenchie- you want macabre?Its not poetic. . .

The blood rolls off his cold fingers, coral crushing beneath his feet as he rolls the body into the water. The old lighthouse lamp burns bright yet flickers a morbid flare with the splash of the corpse. Blood glistening in his three-day beard, repugnant **** odors fill his nostrils and the hatred burns in his eyes. The taste of slu* *uice is acid in his mouth still, he smiles. Death is just a release. He gave her more than just pleasure, he set her free.

 

I fell asleep and I found a book, a diary. It was mine
I had never seen it before. . .but written where my dreams, my thoughts
tken aback by the awsome feeling of remorse
I swallowed my heart. . as the last page. . .was my death. . .

 

I wrote this after watching a ceremony on TV honoring the soldiers who had landed at Normandy.


<FONT size=3>The Men of

 

This is when I wish I could delete a post. It won't post my poem, what the heck is going on?


I'll try on this post and see if it works....



<FONT size=3><B><FONT color=black><FONT face=Tahoma>The Men of


<FONT size=3>The Men of


Nope, no luck.

 

Well that was a quick one!

 

Hehe, yeah, it was eas;y too!

I'm not sure why I can't paste it. It pastes in my message box, but when I post it, that''s all that shows up. Frustrating.

 

Eric, I've run into this myself. When I copy/paste something over from MS Word, it will get cut off, just like it did for you. However, if I copy from Word to Notepad and copy from Notepad to here, then the whole thing comes off okay. Plus using the Post Preview button will help . If you entered the stuff using the Quick Reply, click on the Go Advanced button, then a preview will occur at the top with the "Reply to Thread" box below it.

 

Thanks Ken, I'm trying that right now.

 

The Men of Normandy

Where are the Men of Normandy, those bravest of the brave?
Where, those alive and with us? Where, those in sandy grave?

I looked for the Men of Normandy, been searching all my life.
I’ve scanned in books and movie plots, and in today’s headlines.

We look to them to teach us, we need their strength and valor.
Tip the scales back against our weakness and our pallor.

We need those Men of Normandy who gave it all that day,
Bravely facing certain death yet going anyway.

We love the Men of Normandy though only boys back then,
We need their courage and fortitude to change our sons to Men.

We owe the Men of Normandy but nothing can repay
What can give them back their life and fade the memories away?

Where are the Men of Normandy, those bravest of the brave?
Where, those alive and with us? Where, those in sandy grave?



I found the Men of Normandy, they’d been there all along,
Quietly uncomplaining, bronzed, sooty, strong.

They were on the stairs in New York City, and the caves of Kandahar,
On the streets of Fallujah and in cockpits in the air.

From emptied palaces in Baghdad, and the outskirts of Kabul,
Resurrected and fighting for the end of tyranny’s rule.

Salute the Men of Normandy with silent voice and hat in hand,
Honor them! Revere them! that strong and frail band.

-Eric Clayton, June 6, 2004

 

Very nice poem, Eric!

 

Okay that makes sense now, Eric.

It was a good read anyway - well done!

 

la vie en tant que nous une fois scie il ne serons jamais les mêmes.
notre amour est nevermore, et les feux de l'échine sont dépensés. la passion est une mémoire d'effacement. et l'espoir n'est pas même un mot.

 

I memorized this in Jr. High (YEARS ago) -- don't know who wrote it...


I'd Rather Be

I'd rather be a Could Be
If I could not be an Are
For a Could Be is a Maybe
With a chance of reaching par

I'd rather be a Has Been
Than a Might Have Been by far
For a Might Have Been has never been
But a Has was once an Are.