| Author | Thread |
|
|
10/11/2007 04:30:30 PM · #1 |
Here's one of mine:
Harry is a spunky monkey
...a kinky lollygagger.
Looking for some hanky panky
With a slinky swanky swagger.
He was frankly quite cranky
And downright depressed.
Until he met 'Pinky'.
And began to undress.
She took in a gander.
Looked up and down.
Said, "Take your stinky slinky dinky
And get on out of town."
Harry is a spunky monkey
...a kinky lollygagger.
Looking for some hanky panky
With a slinky swanky swagger. |
|
|
|
10/12/2007 06:18:18 PM · #2 |
|
|
|
10/12/2007 06:23:36 PM · #3 |
AN ODE TO A ROBIN
As I awoke this morn,
When all set things are born,
I saw a robin on my window sill,
Welcoming the coming morn.
The bird was fragile, young and gay,
And so sweetly did it sing,
That thoughts of happiness and joy,
Into my heart did bring.
I smiled softly at the bird,
And as it paused to lull,
I quickly closed the window,
And crushed its F*%$+@g skull.
Some things from high school you just never forget huh???
Ray
Message edited by author 2007-10-12 18:23:58. |
|
|
|
10/12/2007 06:36:52 PM · #4 |
Love is in the eyes
and on the skin.
Love does not speak.
Love rushes in.
Blushes and blinks,
barbarous bliss,
love begins and ends
with a kiss. |
|
|
|
10/12/2007 06:41:52 PM · #5 |
| lmao@crushed its F*%$+@g skull. |
|
|
|
10/12/2007 06:50:51 PM · #6 |
Originally posted by posthumous:
Love is in the eyes
and on the skin.
Love does not speak.
Love rushes in.
Blushes and blinks,
barbarous bliss,
love begins and ends
with a kiss. |
A mind in the service of beauty and truth is not scattered and busy splitting hairs.
A man who loves is not lonely, disillusioned or evil.
Instead, he embraces his need to dissociate, recognizes his responsibility to act upon thinking
and possesses the skill to wake the dead and enthuse even matter. |
|
|
|
10/12/2007 06:53:09 PM · #7 |
Your prose is great
yet made my mind ache
Now it's quittin' time
and I gotta skate
:-P
Message edited by author 2007-10-12 18:53:18. |
|
|
|
10/12/2007 07:16:19 PM · #8 |
Originally posted by posthumous:
Love is in the eyes
and on the skin.
Love does not speak.
Love rushes in.
Blushes and blinks,
barbarous bliss,
love begins and ends
with a kiss. |
love appeals to the eyes
love congeals on the thighs
love retreats with a whine
love remains in the mind
|
|
|
|
10/15/2007 02:26:51 PM · #9 |
Casually, I walked in
To the karaoke bar.
I was barely eighteen.
And I didnât get too farâ¦
âTill the microphone was ringing
In my ear, I had to scream!
As the mullet started singing
I had to ask for more Jim Beam.
Karaoke
Wanna choke yeâ
Fingers scratch the board
âDancing Queenâ ânâ âAmarilloâ
Anxiety climbs aboard.
Several more years later
(The kids were out that night).
I was almost thirty
And again I had a fright
The girls they made me try it.
I had to sing a song
But thirty years of fears and jeers
Makes everything go wrong.
Karaoke
Need a smokey
Brand new paper cut
If I hear Bohemian
A rhapsody, Iâll shout.
I love my sister, Sweet Pea
She is so dear to me.
She wants me to come over
And drink something (not tea).
She says weâll have a good time
And turn the speakers upâ¦
The rest is all the past this time
As I hear my sisterâs rhyme.
Karaoke
With the Sweet Pea
I listen all night long
Sweet the bluegrass songs she sings
There you canât go wrong.
|
|
|
|
10/15/2007 03:14:22 PM · #10 |
âHe makes a fine looking corpse, doesnât he?â She said to nobody, a little too happily, a little too loudly.
Sarah was drunk. Not falling down, slurry tongued drunk, no, she would never allow herself to be seen like that in public. She was, instead, numb. She never drank, so she had made an exception for Seth, but then she always had, hadnât she. Her hand gripped the open edge of the coffin, knuckles white with effort as she stood so closely she could feel the coolness of the highly polished wood through her fashionable black dress and the heat from the spotlight illuminating the corpse, on her bare shoulder.
The other hand was suspended between the agony surrounding her and the abyss within. It was forgotten, abandoned to the moment, allowed to float, half open, fingers spread as if in conflict between a fist of bitter anger and open surprise. It would start, as if to wipe away her tears and then stop and move toward the corpse, to touch him, to run fingers through his hair, where it would stop again, unable to do either and ignoring her conflicted directions, it floated beside her.
The casket lay on a draped gurney in a small alcove of the larger room; its floor raised slightly higher necessitating visitors to file along the sculptured carpet of the curved ramp. A single pedestal, cast from plastic in the style of the Greeks, stood at the casketâs head supporting a tall, multi faceted glass vase which contained a lone bird of paradise bloom in front of a Palmetto fan. The lights were directed on them making them the obvious point of focus, brighter than anything else in the room. During a truly wonderful funeral, the casket, as well as the visitors, would be hidden behind a beautiful wall of flowers arraigned along the drop between dais and floor, but today there were only posts with dark red velvet ropes strung between them.
First few paragraphs of my new novel.
|
|
|
|
10/15/2007 03:24:13 PM · #11 |
Iâveâ¦
Iâve made people clean the things Iâve messed
While I only sit, watch them and rest.
Iâve chosen pets based only on their looks
Gone to the Library without reading books.
Iâve stepped on spiders that were outside
And cursed the teachers whoâve only tried.
Iâve spent too much money
When I bet for the losers.
Iâve made friends come to movies
That turn out to be snoozers.
Iâve snuck into places I shouldnât be
Locked up strange locks and then stolen the key.
Iâve taken the last one, then asked for more
And said awful words that mothers abhor.
Iâve woken my pets while they simply slept
Thrown up on my doctor who ran and wept.
But the worst thing Iâve done is make YOU buy:
This poem, this story, this façade, thisâ¦lie.
Message edited by author 2007-10-16 03:35:14.
|
|
|
|
10/15/2007 03:26:50 PM · #12 |
 dsray,
Good start. I'm interested in the character, drunk at a funeral home. But I would suggest getting the corpse off her shoulder and not taking the flowers to court. |
|
|
|
10/15/2007 03:27:35 PM · #13 |
What am I.
I step onto the train before anyone else. Itâs too early, I got on right after everyone got off and now theyâre doing checks-security checks. But they donât check this car. I sit alone in car 1829 of BART, bay area rapid transit, in case you care. I sit alone and wait and listen. Iâm toward the end of the train, so hopefully not many people will come onto it. I wait. I wonder about this time in limbo Iâm in by accident. I got on before anyone was supposed to be and the doors are closed. What if it were the future and in this time before anyone got on, they sprayed the cars with some toxic gas to clean and sanitize things? I would be dead by accident. I hold my breath. The red light blinks and the doors slide open. A businessman and a woman with brown hair come in. Into my car. But I let them on anyway. They always move towards the back. Why do they do that? It frustrates me. But then I call myself a hypocrite because I too, am sitting in the back with my legs out next to me, my duffle taking up the rest of the seat as I lean against the window that blows cold air up in a line, floating my hair up, like little strands of gold straw moving about in a breeze in Kansas. Of course they sit near me. They have to of course. The whole rest of the car, maybe the train is empty, but the woman sits in front of me and the man sits it the corner opposite of me, his own little back corner of the train, just like mine, but maybe better somehow. The woman looks forward at nothing and the man takes out his silver blackberry, absorbing himself into it like an ice cold bath of silent communication. I sit poised with my obsolete CD player with my obsolete CD in it of a soundtrack to a show that will soon too, become obsolete. I rest my finger on the play/pause button and watch the doors in anticipation, waiting for the click, the shutter, the light and excitement. I wait. The red circle blinks as the doors slowly close, closer, closerâ¦wait. Click. The batteries are dead. Anticipation ruined by little obsolete cylinders of power. I delve my hand into my other bag thatâs filled too tightly and my hand gets stuck in the materialism. The train jerks forward along with my brain, rattling in my head. I lift my hand along with everything attached to it and slowly pull it out with struggle, two batteries clutched in my ugly fingers. I carefully turn my music player over and lift the coffin door. With great respect and care I remove the bodies quietly, gently. I consider for a moment, setting them side by side on the blue floor of the train and letting them roll gracefully toward the end of the train. Thatâs what they would have wanted--to have been together, forever and ever. True love. The blackberry man would stand and bow his head in respect. The brown haired faceless woman would cry beneath a veil and the bodies would be at peace in oblivion. I throw the obsolete batteries onto the stained seat next to me. I put the new ones in and start my player, my rhythm disrupted. The brown-haired woman really is crying. Why is she crying?
wrote this when I was 15, wish I had finished it :(
|
|
|
|
10/15/2007 03:34:20 PM · #14 |
My Adventures at Photography School
Not allowed a camera, I found
flat pictures in the world, stored them
as regrets. When every season
faded out, they said I was ready....
I held the Canon like a heart in my hands,
wore it like a mask, stood by it
like a treated skin, burning
a year of light into myself,
after which, they gave me a flash card.
|
|
|
|
10/15/2007 03:37:43 PM · #15 |
The Elephant is a pretty bird,
It flies from bough to bough.
It builds its nest in a Rhubarb Tree,
And whistles like a cow... |
|
|
|
10/15/2007 03:39:10 PM · #16 |
I like peas and honey,
I've had them all my life,
I don't like peas with honey,
But it keeps them on the knife! |
|
|
|
10/15/2007 03:40:40 PM · #17 |
Originally posted by formerlee:
I like peas and honey,
I've had them all my life,
I don't like peas with honey,
But it keeps them on the knife! |
hmm... you're not plagiarizing, are you?? Somebody's going to take your peas away. |
|
|
|
10/15/2007 03:48:40 PM · #18 |
Hervus Nabbit the bunny rabbit
Had an itch behind his ear.
He scratched and scratched, but couldn't grab it.
Mom asked, "What's wrong, my dear?"
"Mom, I itch and twitch and reach and pray
But I cannot get it to go away."
Hervus Nabbit the bunny rabbit
Had an itch behind his ear. |
|
|
|
10/15/2007 04:46:59 PM · #19 |
Go, go,  Blue Moon. |
|
|
|
10/15/2007 04:50:48 PM · #20 |
The best kind of beer
is any kind of beer,
with the foam way up there
and the glass down to here,
and if such a beer were near or far,
it wouldn't take me long to get to
um
yar. |
|
|
|
10/15/2007 04:51:40 PM · #21 |
| anything else that rhymes with far? |
|
|
|
10/15/2007 05:00:40 PM · #22 |
Heat is Fuel
My highest rated shot is pretty with a deep depth of field, true white/black points and a solid range of tones. The composition is equally simple, ordered and familiar from millions of other images like it. The photo carries no particular emotional charge, has no agenda, invites no conceivable controversy. It is, for all intent and purposes, a photo rendering a tangible subject accurately. Its aesthetics, also, are borrowed from the subject. It is a taken photograph of an outer reality.
My best shots do not receive the same kind of exposure (by display, not by metering), because they have not been spawned in pursuit of a topic but via an inevitable involvement with the nature of a thing, being, location or circumstance.
These are photographs which in themselves are subjects and rather gritty than pretty, which, I suppose, is commensurate with human experience, the state of affairs or the nature of nature, depending on individual perspective and temperament.
The real difference between these two kinds of images, to me, lies in the amount of heat (a form of energy) they pack. The pretty ones are, of course, comforting to those who seek comfort. The gritty ones will appeal to the few to whom heat is fuel.
[ZZ 2006]
Message edited by author 2007-10-15 17:02:59. |
|
|
|
10/15/2007 05:22:52 PM · #23 |
I write poetry off and on. One I wrote a few years ago:
My Grandfatherâs House
As I walked along the beach
The wind blew a salt-laden mist into my face.
The stones beneath my feet shifted
And made me stumble.
I looked back to the place I had come from.
The grassy hill sloped gently to the shore
Then surrendered itself to the sea.
I walked once more to the stone in the grass.
I pictured the house as it must have once been.
A lonely sentinel watching the waves of wind and tide.
If you stood on the porch you could see Cecâs house
Across the cove on the point.
I sat on the stone and let the grasses cover me.
We let the wind blow over us,
The grasses bending and I staying still.
I always come to the stone when I pass this way.
The stone that used to be my grandfatherâs house.
|
|
|
|
10/15/2007 05:27:21 PM · #24 |
Originally posted by KarenNfld:
My Grandfatherâs House... |
That's pretty. Very evocative from some reason of Newfoundland, though I've never been. I've never been east, only all the way west, and your poem really makes me want to see the rest of this beautiful country. |
|
|
|
10/15/2007 05:29:09 PM · #25 |
Originally posted by Louis:
Originally posted by KarenNfld:
My Grandfatherâs House... |
That's pretty. Very evocative from some reason of Newfoundland, though I've never been. I've never been east, only all the way west, and your poem really makes me want to see the rest of this beautiful country. |
Thank you very much.
|
|
