| Author | Thread |
|
|
10/16/2007 05:15:29 PM · #51 |
I asked a cow, the other day
if it preferred any particular kind of hay
but it was a horse
and it said nay.
"Now listen here", says I, " chimeric beast,
answer fit for my imagination at least."
at which such cerebral functioning
must have ceased.
"You are created of myself." says I
"Why should you seek my volition to defy?"
and then the donkey flew away
and left a trail of muddy hoofprints
across the sky. |
|
|
|
10/16/2007 07:57:05 PM · #52 |
This is from my teenage days (eons ago)but in going back and reading again now - it still stirs old feelings:
It seems like only yesterday
You held me tight and kissed my fears away
The love we shared so wonderful and new
ourselves so naive
Now those days are far behind
yet the memories linger so fresh upon my mind
Every song I hear
Every sunset I see
Takes me back to a time I cannot forget
Every promise was made
Every promise was broken
Too much was said, too much was done
For it to ever be repaired
A summer love that turned so cold
A heart that just couldn't hold on
A mind too set on what should be right
A line that grew too old
A love that was, but never will be
________________________________________________________________________
And another oldie but goodie from my past:
One Moment
Will you understand tomorrow
what I have said today
Now is when it seems important
No yesterdays
No tomorrows
Just this one moment in time
With the world standing still
and an eternity of silence between us
there was an unspoken bond
of compassion and friendship, loyalty and love
If only for that moment
Too much needed to,
but couldn't be said
Memories that bring pain and joy
The past, the present, the future
Our lives entwined forever
In that one moment
________________________________________________________________________
And one that I never finished....
Time slips by
Days into weeks into years
Losing touch with faith
Forgetting what's important
Neverending quest
for self, for love, for truth
Questions never answered
Ideas never tried
Aimless wandering
Hopeless dreaming, keep dreaming, keep dreaming
Pieces missing, holes to fill
Reflections staring back
Sad and lonely eyes |
|
|
|
10/16/2007 08:06:39 PM · #53 |
Wow, there's some excellent work in here. I thought I might share one of mine (all are posted on taintedlife).
This is for my father. The image I made to go with it is here (warning)
Haunted
Every time it all starts to work out
Every time I feel I'm back on track
I think of you and want to die again
F**k you
Why did you do this to us?
Was it that bad that we meant nothing?
Could nothing help you see the light that shines from the world you created?
Now I can't wake, I can't sleep
Without knowing what you did
Without feeling the sting of tears welling in my eyes
I can't make friends without pain
I love you, but I hate what you've done
I can't stand it
The world is f**ked, I know
I feel like I want to die
But I know I need to live for the others around me
I'm not that f**king selfish
You live on in me, and I feel the pain
But a better life lies ahead
Whether you believe it or not
Reality can be escaped temporarily
To make it bearable, if only you could see
Sometimes reality is what we have to live with
I will never, ever be like you |
|
|
|
10/16/2007 08:26:31 PM · #54 |
Dear Zeus,
Your poem is not as easy to Google as it looks. So all I know is that it sure has the flavor of Gertrude Stein, in the best possible way (and certainly not in the worst possible way!). It is, in fact, a rapturous poem. I envy it. |
|
|
|
10/16/2007 09:35:56 PM · #55 |
Two gentlemen went to Malta.
It really wasn't their fault-a.
They swam the mote.
No stinkin' boat.
And ended in Gibraltah.
|
|
|
|
10/17/2007 01:33:46 AM · #56 |
My modern life
It's on the screen again
A word
Typed, touch typed, without looking at the keyboard
Mavis Beacon taught me, back in the day
When all the computers were in one room
Taught me patiently, gently, forgivingly
Taught me well.
And yet, there it is again.
It's not Mavis's fault, but even
With it all, with all the
Intervening years
The practice
The effort
There it is again.
A word.
It's a different word this time,
It's always either the same word or a different word,
But it's always a word
Underlined in red
Always underlined
Always in red.
|
|
|
|
10/17/2007 01:43:53 AM · #57 |
| You all may be interested in checking out the Winners of the annual Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest -- for bad writing ... |
|
|
|
10/17/2007 02:09:32 AM · #58 |
|
|
|
10/17/2007 02:16:41 AM · #59 |
Way too interesting. (When the General posts his poem, I'll post mine).
Re  zeuszen's improvement on Gstein, wasn't there a lot of bad feeling between her and M. Hugnet over her translations; I think he rejected them entirely? |
|
|
|
10/17/2007 07:32:07 AM · #60 |
I am very very strange..
Reality TV
Wash the drama of faked blood
Wipe the boots with a kiss and hug
Tantrum derived, reality bribed
Gulp away forsaken pride
Dream in cash, flaunt your ass
Belief sublime, intervene in time
And weâll all come tumbling after
Like dominoes, on prime
Colour oppresses
Barbarians spew vile
Colour brings the riled
hypocrisy vomited from you
Defensive oppresses anew
Goals are shattered glass
Fragments bitter and sharp
they hurt you as you turn back
Piercing, avenging the colour back
Reality
F*** this bloody reality, Itâs broken from inside
Its shattered, soulless countenance needs its respite
No glue can weld its trembling cracks
No pixie dust can mend
Dreams find death in reality
So Iâm pushing it away to end
|
|
|
|
10/19/2007 07:27:03 AM · #61 |
Originally posted by rheverly:
My modern life
It's on the screen again
A word
Typed, touch typed, without looking at the keyboard
Mavis Beacon taught me, back in the day
When all the computers were in one room
Taught me patiently, gently, forgivingly
Taught me well.
And yet, there it is again.
It's not Mavis's fault, but even
With it all, with all the
Intervening years
The practice
The effort
There it is again.
A word.
It's a different word this time,
It's always either the same word or a different word,
But it's always a word
Underlined in red
Always underlined
Always in red. |
Take heart, Rob, it's a US english spellchecker. (2 red lines there).
I like the poem though - you've obviously either mastered, or have an innate talent for, controlling rhythm with line breaks.
(Edited to control rhythm with commas).
Message edited by author 2007-10-19 07:27:58. |
|
|
|
10/21/2007 04:24:06 PM · #62 |
Originally posted by raish:
Take heart, Rob, it's a US english spellchecker. (2 red lines there).
I like the poem though - you've obviously either mastered, or have an innate talent for, controlling rhythm with line breaks.
(Edited to control rhythm with commas). |
Very kind of you, Peter; I haven't studied it so I'm not sure I could truly have mastered any part of writing in this way. It just sort of happens . . .
Who's next with some writing?
|
|
|
|
10/21/2007 04:59:17 PM · #63 |
plato said something and he said it
[Plato: The Republic, Book III and X]
Plato said something and he said it because he needed to say something that would make a difference in the way we live. A poet says something else either because he has nothing better to do or something is saying it through him. A poet says something mainly because no one else does so someone can hear something he has not heard before. If then anyone chooses to do so. Since everything has been said before, what is the point of saying it again and how is he going to say it without squandering interest.
When Plato said something he probably did not worry about poetry in this way nor did he likely stop to consider a language made for the sole purpose of being. Plato also said something about poets and poetry that he need not have said if he could have studied Kung*.
If poets would take Plato seriously there would be no poetry or it would be a very different poetry made by copywriters and sentimentalists. Plato would have been right about everything in the known universe and poets would not be poets, they would be copywriters or terrorists.
So Plato said something and the known universe would be good. Poets by need would have to become useful non-poets before there would be anyone saying something that could not be construed to be useful to anyone in particular, including his nature.
* Kung: Confucius
|
|
|
|
10/21/2007 08:15:29 PM · #64 |
Dear Zeus,
I feel the same way about writing poetry. Or was that about being a poet?
So instead of a poet writing a poem how about
A Fan Killed at a David Cassidy Concert
The mountain of your eyes,
impassably beautiful,
cannot distinguish me.
I cannot imagine
you could ever accept
my kisses.
In this way
you are like dying,
a crossing improvised
in desperation,
and only in darkness
can I meet your gaze.
|
|
|
|
10/21/2007 08:53:22 PM · #65 |
I haven't written any since I was at school but here's one I quite like which I did when I was 14 or 15
"Tick, Tock,
Tick, Tock,"
Ticks this ticking tocking clock.
"Ticketty Tock,
Ticketty Tock,"
The ticking clock,
just won't stop.
"Tick, Tocketty,
Ticketty Tock,"
Ticks the ticking clocking tock.
"Tick, Clock,
Tick, Tock"
Clicks the Ticking, tocking tock.
"Click, Clock
Tick, Tock"
Clocks the Tocking Tick Tick Tock"
TICK
TOCK
TUCK
TUCK
THIS TUCKING CLOCK IS DRIVING ME MAD!
|
|
|
|
10/24/2007 02:09:13 AM · #66 |
Plato was a writer in a writing time who wrote about writing:
when invented
someone said
what was written
having been writed
would sooner be
forgetted. |
|
|
|
10/24/2007 02:47:25 AM · #67 |
Originally posted by tnun:
Way too interesting. (When the General posts his poem, I'll post mine). |
OK, this is the lyric to a song I wrote over 25 years ago -- whether it's a poem or not you'll have to judge for yourself ...
You're Not Alone
© 1981 Paradise Park Music
The situation shattered -- I knew that by the morning you'd be gone
Tried to fall asleep that night knowing there were tears that wouldn't come
But even if the fault was mine I couldn't bear the blame
'Cause I think that I might fall apart on feeling so ashamed
Though, I guess I could stand it if I tried
But I really don't know why I never cried
I knew just what you wanted, but it was simpler "not to understand"
You knew what you wanted, too, but somehow let yourself fall in my hands
And every time you handed off to me I dropped the ball
Though you seemed to be so certain that I'd never let you fall
Well, maybe, but I sure did let you slide
And I really don't know why I never cried
You said, "Don't forsake me -- can't you see I cannot let you go
"Like the stream falls from the mountain, I just don't have another path to flow"
Nothing you could promise me would make me change my mind
In thnking I could somehow make the water taste like wine
If I let you down, at least I never lied
But I really don't know why I never cried
The candlelight, it's burning, throws its crazy patterns on your face
You say the pain is over, but in your eyes I still can see a trace
You looked to me, I looked away -- it's always been the same
Although, in time, I'm changing -- for the better, so I claimed
By now I thought those changes would apply
So I really don't know why I never cried
I've shared your fears -- you're not alone
And now I wish that you had known
Those hidden parts of me I never shared with you
And as the water passes down the valley never to return
There are no easy answers, and not too many chances left to learn
Now I have the strangest feeling, as if I were afraid
Though there really isn't anything you did I would trade
What you left me will out last the longest storm
And I wish that I were crying in your arms
I've shared your fears -- you're not alone
And now I wish that you had known
Those hidden parts of me I never shared with you |
|
|
|
10/24/2007 02:50:10 AM · #68 |
| Also, I have quite a few "poems" of the limerick variety posted over at the OEDILF ... |
|
|
|
10/24/2007 07:32:42 AM · #69 |
I just wrote a 2000 word story in the past 2 hours if anyone cares to read it I can have it PMed to them. I think it might be too big to include here, so i'll add the intro:
If you ignore the gashes and cuts and blood and the dirt thatâs pooling over the floor, I actually look quite peaceful. Almost serene. Granted, my ability to care has been somewhat diminished since it happened. Itâs strange when you are forced to look only at yourself- you want to look away but itâs impossible, like your eyes are being rigidly held in position and can gaze in one unblinking direction.
I can still hear them. I can hear everything they say- the discussions, fast, terse, insensitive. I can pick up the incessant buzz and hum of machinery, the footsteps on the polished corridor outside that echo across the tiles, and somewhere, I hear crying, and it is turning the air black.
âSuction. I need suction.â
âGot itâ
âAdrenaline. Get me 10ccs of Adrenaline! Now! The heart rate, itâs droppedâ
âLooks like shock. Heâs not gonna make it.â
âBullshit. Heâs healthy, young... Where is that fucking adrenaline?!â
Plenty more after that...
|
|
|
|
10/24/2007 09:50:10 PM · #70 |
Originally posted by dsray:
âHe makes a fine looking corpse, doesnât he?â She said to nobody, a little too happily, a little too loudly. |
That line is great, really makes you want to read the rest. It seems you've created a detailed environment but I have a hard time picturing it myself. Not sure why. What is the story about?
Originally posted by cynthiann:
Some time back I had a monkey climb up my back onto my shoulders. |
Hilarious and riddled with hidden meaning. Where'd that come from?
Tez: Send it on over. I am a writer myself, though I've only got about 16,000 words so far for the novel I am writing. I have written a short story though, and plan to write more just to sharpen my skills. It's always good to write a few short stories before tackling a novel because once you have, you have experienced what it takes to finish a story and are better prepared to tackle the daunting task of a full length novel. |
|
|
|
10/25/2007 02:31:38 AM · #71 |
Sorry  GeneralE, I couldn't wait. Your poem/song..., well, we've been there. Actually I got all excited by zeuszen's Gertrude Steining Plato. Plato is surely a mystery: he has all these good stories, and in Greek he is not without feel for language, and yet he proposes all those anal things in The Republic. I used to hope that he was paying the poets and flautists the greatest compliment in banning them from the perfect state. I wonder what he would have made of Isaak Dinesin's (sp?) short story about the flute.
Think my silly ditty could be rearranged to scan and rhyme better, but not now Murray. |
|
|
|
12/27/2007 03:58:57 AM · #72 |
Wrote a couple of poems just now...why? I'm bored!
An Ocean's Tale
Quite footsteps on the sand
A little rock held in my hand.
A chilly breeze, a crashing wave
Whispers softly to the paths they pave.
A broken shell and shiney sphere
Tell me all there is to hear.
Glistening greens and icy blues
Show the story in an aray of hues.
Tangled weeds on my bare toes
Depict all of the water's woes.
Nothing before is so pure and true
As this ocean's tale I tell to you.
?What?
I've been places that I've never seen.
Or maybe I have but it was in between
The lives I've lived that were now and when.
Or was I anyone, anywhere, again?
How do I know that I'm really here?
Can you see me? Do I dissapear?
No, no it can't be, it can't be fact!
Or is it a lie when you interact?
Is this real? am I? are you?
Or is it a fallacy that has come true?
I can't find the answer, so it must be a lie.
I must know the truth or I will yell out and cry!
But so what if I do, will anyone care?
I'll guess I'll look up and wonder and stare,
Into the cosoms and guess what it means,
Even though I KNOW that I've been to places that I've never seen.
^^^Was kinda freestyling this (not lifting the pen from the paper, a continual flow of thoughts) but I was thinking about past lives and faith and how I feel I know about certain things even though I haven't actually experienced them...Or is that just being a teenager? :P ^^^
Friend
I thought "I don't need them" but it turns out I do.
I thought "how meaningless to depend on a crew."
I should be strong and do things alone.
I don't need them to call on the phone.
I don't need IM, notes or a letter.
Now I know that I should have known better.
Not having others made me so weak.
I would sit in the corner until I would leak,
All over the floor my emotions spilled out,
and soaked into the carpet as I continued to pout.
They ran down throught the floorboards and into the street
Containing the mess was an impossible feat!
Until a voice mumbled softly "I can help you with that"
I turned away at first, but beside me they sat.
I looked into eyes that held nothing but love,
And pushed away my melancholy with one final shove.
I took that hand that was offered to me
And cleaned up that mess as clean as could be
With that help I made a friend
Who I'll keep with me until the end.
^^^Some people might think it's weird that I used "love" but I think the only way to have a friend is to love them, not just "like" having them around^^^
ok, a little too deep for tonight. Off to bed! *snooore*
Message edited by author 2007-12-27 03:59:55.
|
|
