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10/15/2007 05:32:47 PM · #26 |
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. |
Will you marry me? |
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10/15/2007 11:34:36 PM · #27 |
Originally posted by Redjulep:
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. |
Will you marry me? |
Sorry, love already rushed in on me! :)
p.s. Wow, Karen, that poem is quite good. |
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10/16/2007 03:20:52 AM · #28 |
A poem about my favorite number :)
#’s?
Have you noticed?
How things come
In certain numbers?
How you should
Buy a baker’s
Dozen that’s 13?
Or how you
Have to buy
One to get
One more free?
How there are
82 pages in
A poetry book?
Or 26 episodes
In the best
Of my shows?
Or why you
Have to count
To 10 to
Play the seeker
In that game?
And why it’s
Healthy to have
10 fingers, toes?
I guess it’s
Just “normal,” right?
But as for
Me, I prefer
The number 3.
Message edited by author 2007-10-16 03:33:49.
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10/16/2007 03:23:10 AM · #29 |
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! |
I learned it from my father as:
I eat my peas with honey.
I've done it all my life.
It makes the peas taste funny,
but it keeps them on my knife!
R.
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10/16/2007 03:25:38 AM · #30 |
Since this thread seems to be favoring light verse, here's one I did a couple months ago:
Necropolitics
When she was young, she used to plan
her funeral from A to Z:
the music, and the burial plot
beneath a lovely, spreading tree.
She pictured death as High Romance,
the culmination of her dreams:
flesh laid to rest, and soul set free
to dabble in celestial streams.
But now we’re running out of land,
nor is cremation quite PC:
global warming’s not the state
she pictures as her legacy.
Perhaps the Mafioso have
the right idea after all?
Let’s feed the fishes with our dead
and save the earth for urban sprawl.
R.
Message edited by author 2007-10-16 03:25:56.
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10/16/2007 03:28:27 AM · #31 |
( It's basically about a boy trying to bring his little brother back from the dead. Based on an anime called Fullmetal Alchemist.)
A Brother’s Plea
As my eyes well up and tears fall down,
I know that you begin to frown.
You have no right to take what's mine,
I'll bring him back so all is fine.
It can't be true-please come back now!
I know it's hard, I'll find out how.
Just come back! Come back! That's all I ask,
Through despair and hope, my only task.
I will succeed. And hope. And try.
What have you done,
O Brother,
Why?
Message edited by author 2007-10-16 03:33:23.
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10/16/2007 03:32:48 AM · #32 |
I forgot I wrote this, but it's still one of my favs, albeit grim. I wrote it on the day I thought my dad was going to die, but he didn't for another 2 weeks.
December 21st
It’s that feeling you get
Even before you awake.
Like the world is going to end today
Or someone else’s as the case might be.
On this day like any other day
When you know that the sky will fall
And that sense of deep and looming
Fear covers you.
Like a dark blanket,
Suffocates you until you can’t breathe.
It’s deep inside,
It twists in the middle
And you can’t shake it away
You can’t escape it.
Because it’s just like any other day, except
It isn’t for me.
For someone else.
Somewhere and somehow I know it’s different
And I
And we
Can feel it in our bones
Drenched in grimness
We open our eyes
As we look out upon the day
And realize
That it is like any other.
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10/16/2007 03:41:15 AM · #33 |
If I Could See Myself As Me.
If I could see myself
as meâ€Â¦
I’d wish to be happy,
Happy and free.
Maybe not happy, but
Simply content.
I would not get so angry,
But calmly would vent.
I’d see my true beauty,
That now seems to hide.
And ban all my closeness,
To objectsâ€Â¦my ride.
I would find my own niche,
Loveâ€Â¦family.
That’s how I wish to see myself.
If I could see myself
--as me.
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10/16/2007 03:43:43 AM · #34 |
Haiku
Soft whispers calling
My name in a lilting tune
Please, don’t answer them.
Message edited by author 2007-10-16 13:04:05.
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10/16/2007 07:35:22 AM · #35 |
Another I wrote a few years ago:
Fisherman
What lies beneath the surface
Of those once azure eyes?
Those deep pools of blue
Have turned a stormy grey.
And all the mysteries below,
And all the things unknown
Are no longer there.
What lies upon his face,
Once carefree, young and full?
The features so familiar
Have changed.
Swept by the wind,
Burnt by the sun,
Weathered and old.
What has happened to his hair,
Once as black as ink?
Those unruly locks
No longer shine as bright.
Drowned by the water,
Beaten by the wind,
Grey and dull.
What has happened to his hands,
Once nimble, quick and smooth?
Those that were so strong
Are now swollen claws.
Bitten by the salt,
Chafed by the nets,
Cut and worn.
Where has his body gone?
No longer standing straight and tall.
Once muscles strong and agile,
Now nothing left to give.
Crippled by the weight
Of a thousand lifetimes lived.
Spent, worn and gone.
Where has his mind gone?
No longer full of life.
Once laughing, sharing, giving.
Now taken from us.
Clouded by the years
Of hardships and struggles -
Lost.
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10/16/2007 08:18:55 AM · #36 |
Some time back I had a monkey climb up my back onto my shoulders. He took a long time to do it. First, he just walked in my shadow, poking me with his pointy fingers. Most times he would poke me in my sides, but it also, and increasingly poked me directly in the middle of my back on the spine. You know the spot. It's not as much pain that shoots up your back, but sheer shock. He almost looked bored as he did it, dragging his other hand on the ground and breathing audibly at times. A long, slow, deep growl of a breath. He would do this, I suspect, only if I started to forget he was there. After a while he got bored with thatâ€Â¦ or just tired of walking.
The damn thing didn’t just hop up, thank the Lord. It drug itself behind me just clinching my shoulders with its wicked long arms for a while. It made me fatigued. I slumbered around all day dragging him along, finding it hard to get anything accomplished. I had to stop frequently to rest because I was always exhausted. After a while, I adjusted. I studied yoga and he must have liked it as well because his grip loosened. He was tired, too. Had to be. Then I got some much needed sleepâ€Â¦for a while.
Well, the poor thing got tired of draggin’ I guess, and wasn’t about to start walking again. So he climbed on up, wrapped his legs around my lower back and clutched his arms around my neck. I struggled to breathe. Sometimes I struggled so hard my heart would feel like it would explode. My lower back ached constantly. Usually just a dull ache, but sometimes he needed to adjust and a sharp pain would shoot through me leaving me feeling like I was hung by a grappling hook pierced through my back. The monkey was getting increasingly as irritated as me, as though he didn’t like it any more than I did. Then he finished climbing upâ€Â¦which was bitter sweet, then just plain bitter.
He was a big giant jerk of a monkey too. It didn’t take me long to figure that out. By now he was having fits and striking out without warning. Striking its tail against me when he was irritated. That was just plain annoying. Then other times he was relentless, taking his claws to my back, not scratching but piercing. Sometimes he would use his legs as a vice and squeeze my head until my eyes felt like they would pop out. One day it shoved a grapefruit down my throat in a fit of rage. It sat in my stomach like a bowling ball for months.
One day not long ago it climbed down. I heard it sigh aloud hoping his job was done. My big giant jerk of a monkey now walks beside me. His heavy hand laid on my shoulder as an unsettling reminder. A reminder of things yet to come, probably, but part of me likes to think it's also a small sign of support. Who knows? Maybe he's just doing his job, a job that irritates the hell out of him...like a road-kill collector or a septic tank technician.
I'll tell you what, though, you never really know just how bad you feel until you start to feel better. And you never appreciate how good you got it until you lose it. So thanks, you big giant jerk. Appreciate it...now go away. |
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10/16/2007 08:33:21 AM · #37 |
if 3 is your favorite number, why does the poem only have 29 lines? Here's a possibility:
#’s?
Have you noticed?
How things come
In certain numbers?
How you should
Buy a baker’s
Dozen that’s 13?
Or how you
Have to buy
One to get
One more free?
How there are
82 pages in
A poetry book?
Or 26 episodes
In the best
Of my shows?
Or why you
Have to count
To 10 to
Play the seeker
In that game?
And why it’s
Healthy to have
10 fingers, toes?
I guess it’s
Just “normal,” right?
But as for
Me, I prefer
The number 3,
drenched in grimness. |
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10/16/2007 01:01:56 PM · #38 |
Originally posted by posthumous:
if 3 is your favorite number, why does the poem only have 29 lines? Here's a possibility:
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Makin' a joke are we? ;)
Honestly I never thought about the number of lines, I was just more concerned with how many words were in a line. I suppose I could end it with "just for me" or "for lucky me" or something like that. Not sure drenched in grimness works in this particular poem, lol.
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10/16/2007 01:07:02 PM · #39 |
Originally posted by KarenNfld:
Fisherman
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very nice
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10/16/2007 01:12:33 PM · #40 |
The Severed Hand
I saw a severed hand today,
I saw a severed hand.
It lay on the road,
Worn and forgotten.
Yet I wonder if it’s missed
Or missing another.
The protector needs protecting,
From the other one.
It belonged to the worker.
It belonged to the doctor.
Maybe it belonged to “god”
But in any caseâ€Â¦
I saw a severed hand today,
I saw a severed hand.
(a poem about a glove on the road) :)
Message edited by author 2007-10-16 13:12:57.
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10/16/2007 01:57:06 PM · #41 |
Originally posted by Blue Moon:
Originally posted by posthumous:
if 3 is your favorite number, why does the poem only have 29 lines? Here's a possibility:
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Makin' a joke are we? ;) |
ok, I admit that's not the best solution, but I think you should consider the number of lines as well as the number of words per line. The more threes the better. |
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10/16/2007 03:22:37 PM · #42 |
The tedious lack of variety
That currently exists
In her life.
Tempts her to find that offbeat melody
That's currently amiss
As a wife.
And albeit true
She was overdue
For the time at the prime of her life.
She looked up and sighed.
"I'm happy", she lied.
"As a wife". |
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10/16/2007 03:23:56 PM · #43 |
Torturing my racing heart,
Encouraging spite.
Nerves with pickaxes.
Stomach so tight.
It’s the terror of knowing
Or guessing what’s right, and
Never to achieve. |
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10/16/2007 03:39:13 PM · #44 |
Overture
We sang a song this morning
my voice doesn't carry
but her voice sounds like Bette Davis
as a child and we laughed
her mirth caught from mine
her swallowed soprano about a hag
named Magdelina
We sang a song last night
your bass and my alto in
a smile that caught somewhere
in a turn of a joke
that only we would understand
little secrets mortar the
gaps of history we overcame
There was a chorus this afternoon
small voices and large in
a strangled effort born of a notion
to teach our children the music of our youth
but the eldest was right
that decade just produced bad sounds
and a lot of hair
so we sang the Beatles instead
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10/16/2007 03:45:02 PM · #45 |
| Very very nice notesinstones!! |
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10/16/2007 03:51:24 PM · #46 |
Originally posted by cynthiann:
Very very nice notesinstones!! |
hear, hear! |
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10/16/2007 03:55:56 PM · #47 |
Relative Values
Earth Mother, Sun Father,
Moon Sister, Man Brother.
Soul Searcher, Wish Taker,
Dream Creator, Heart Breaker.
Food Grower, Light Giver,
Love Maker, Land Raper.
Earth Mother, Home Builder,
Sun Father, Warmth Provider,
Moon Sister, Serenade Singer,
Man Brother, War Bringer.
From the dawn of time,
As we rose from the mists of uncertainty,
Our feet trod the soft earth, Earth Mother.
Across the deserts of life,
Hungry and alone, we journeyed,
Welcoming the warmth and light, Sun Father.
Full of dreams, caressed at night,
We were seduced by your pale beauty,
Aloof, so far away, my spectral lover, Moon Sister.
Clever and cruel, heedless of others,
We fought our battles amid the flowers,
Killing each other, greedy for power, Man Brother.
Polluted and raped, sick Earth Mother,
Smog hidden and alone, sick Sun Father,
Molested by the foot of man, Moon Sister,
Healer, you can be, Man Brother.
4.4.95
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10/16/2007 04:02:53 PM · #48 |
Angels
Majestic phantoms of the night,
Bearers of good news,
Winged messengers, bathed in light.
Saints with slipped halo,
Celestial hordes,
Alien intelligence, visit those below.
Robed in white, spread wings,
Harp players, Holy rockers,
Rainbow chaser, choir boy sings.
Robert Plants or Jimmy Pages,
Led Zeppelin, Dire Straits,
Stairway to Heaven, Rock of Ages.
Terrestrial star or omni-present being,
Call the worshippers,
A vision seeing.
Sent to convey a message of joy,
Rock and Roll, choir on high,
Preach to the converted, Oh boy!
Roll over Beethoven, Blue Suede Shoes,
Purple Haze and Hey Joe,
Hark the Herald Angel, I Heard the News.
Men in Black, Silver Machine,
What's the connection?
Talked about but seldom seen.
UFO, silent flyer or fiery chariot in the sky,
Appears at will, no warning signs,
Angels or aliens passing by.
Bring on the girls, come on get down,
Feel the beat and move your feet,
The Angels, the alien angels, are back in town.
12.7.95 |
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10/16/2007 04:49:58 PM · #49 |
je vous remercie beaucoup
Written on a poem by Gertrude Stein
who wrote one on a poem by Georges Hugnet
Birds, long tender birds of birds.
They come and thank you for the red and black.
The blue without which often thought about you
As of birds and trees and oceans.
And the sun much older than you.
Three little lakes and flying can be so
Live and die and o... I seem so sent.
Because hope is white for me.
My little house is green.
And with it all is not without
The singing and deceipt.
And what is likely is no doubt unless.
And what is easy without care.
They like it.
Birds,
They can see and sing and they all follow
A cow or a clock or a hat, quicker than I.
And I am very pleased.
And anyone can come and thank you for being.
The rest can follow.
They can sleep
With doubt and honey.
And their feathers torn to beds.
And their beds think of them a little long
As old and not very young.
And they never thank you.
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10/16/2007 04:54:21 PM · #50 |
Originally posted by posthumous:
Originally posted by cynthiann:
Very very nice notesinstones!! |
hear, hear! |
*Blush*
Thank you both! |
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