I wrote these both today. The song, Human, came to me complete with a tune for the chorus. The poem, Vicious, came to me at virtually the same time. I've been tweaking them all night.
Human
Lyrics by
Solomon Zorn
It's all just human,
Seems to me.
If there's a god,
He never spoke to me.
It's all just human,
Can't you see?
If there's a god,
He must have set us free.
To think for ourselves,
Learning all that we can,
Never to know,
What's the fate of a man.
It's all just human,
Seems to me.
If there's a god,
He never spoke to me.
It's all just human,
Can't you see?
If there's a god,
He must have set us free.
To hope to continue,
Expecting to end.
Living each day
As if fate is your friend
It's all just human,
Seems to me.
If there's a god,
He never spoke to me.
It's all just human,
Can't you see?
If there's a god,
He must have set us free.
So stay fascinated,
With beauty on Earth.
Valuing each life
For what it is worth.
Human dreams
Human longing
Human works
Human art
Human thoughts
Human feelings
Human words
Human heart
It's all just human,
Seems to me.
If there's a god,
He never spoke to me.
It's all just human,
Can't you see?
If there's a god,
He must have set us free.
Set us free
Set us free
“Viciousâ€
Solomon Zorn
Wind in the woods
Brings the sound of a scream
Vicious designs
From a nightmarish dream
Proof is the scream
Crying out in the woods
God doesn't care
What is evil or good
Caught by the neck
And then lifted in fright
Suddenly falling
From dizzying height
Impact shock renders
A paralyzed state
Shadow comes heralding
Cruelest of fates
Hawk tears his prey
Its pain is intense
Stunned, but not dead
Yet it has no defense
Terrible tools
Start to rip apart flesh
Spilling red blood
On the green grass afresh
Clinging to life
Until it's last breath
Moments of torment
That end in its death
Deep in the woods
And unseen to the world
Nobody mourns
For the death of a squirrel
(Last tweaked on 11-23-14)
A Friend Without Friends
As far as I can tell
I see no god at all
I search here and there
Yonder to and fro
But theres no answer to my call
My friends all hold hands
And pray to what I do not know
They ask for forgiveness
They ask for things
But theres nothing that ever shows
I was taught to believe
To obey in faith blind
But I cannot obey
I cannot stay
The imprisoned mind
So now I walk alone
I face life real
And smile at my friends
At those who pretend
Very content in how I feel
Myke
I love it, Myke. Your poem evokes an emotional response, which, I was taught, is the first objective of poetry. I really identify with the sentiments.
If this were a class, and I were critiquing, I would only say that I wish you used that excellent rhyme-scheme from the last two stanzas throughout. The first two are similar, but lack the interest created by rhyming the 3rd line with the 4th line. (I've even got in mind a fix for it: one line and one word to perfect the rhyme scheme! Oooooo-let-me-at-it!)
That's just nit-picking though really. It's a great poem. Thanks for sharing.
A poet and don't know it are these two fools without the tools to know God. Just kidding guys! =D> Well done. Solitary
Quote from: "Solomon Zorn"I love it, Myke. Your poem evokes an emotional response, which, I was taught, is the first objective of poetry. I really identify with the sentiments.
If this were a class, and I were critiquing, I would only say that I wish you used that excellent rhyme-scheme from the last two stanzas throughout. The first two are similar, but lack the interest created by rhyming the 3rd line with the 4th line. (I've even got in mind a fix for it: one line and one word to perfect the rhyme scheme! Oooooo-let-me-at-it!)
That's just nit-picking though really. It's a great poem. Thanks for sharing.
Go for it!
I made some major changes to the song, "Human". It flows a lot better now. You're invited to read it again.
I wrote two more poems night before last, but I don't have time to post them now. Thanks for reading. :-D
Like the messages.
Here are two more I wrote this week.
Insufficient
Solomon Zorn
They say he walked on water,
And turned water into wine,
He fed a multitude,
And drove some demons into swine,
They say he raised the dead,
And gave back eyesight to the blind,
He told a crippled man to walk,
And lepers found him kind,
But these are insufficient works,
In fact they're quite mundane,
When used as evidence,
For extraordinary claims.
Like saying he's the Son of God,
Whose word is always right,
And telling all to follow him,
Because he is the light.
Or saying that the unbelievers
All are bound for Hell,
Then using this coercive threat,
His ministry to sell.
For even if the stories
Of his “miracles†were true,
(Just speaking from an onlooker's
Subjective point of view)
This still is not the kind of
Evidence I need to see.
The stories that I once believed,
Are not convincing me.
No, I've seen way too many,
Looking like a bunch of asses,
Praying to the salt-stains
Underneath of overpasses,
To think that people can't be fooled,
Especially back then,
Or swallow all the dogmas,
And the myths I can't defend.
Too Many
Solomon Zorn
Our pursuit of happiness,
Leads simple folks to find,
All of man's contentedness
Begins within the mind
Every plant is there for us
To use as we see fit.
Urgently we must discuss
The laws concerning it.
There's too many locked in jail,
For having too much fun.
How can justice here prevail
When they have hurt no one?
Once a drug conviction's made,
A price in years is paid.
Even then, the stain won't fade,
Because they disobeyed.
Silly prohibition goons,
Have spread their phantom fears:
Wild intoxication, soon
Will wreck all we hold dear.
Legal alcohol has not
Destroyed society.
Let's try legalizing pot,
And set the addicts free.
Worrying what drugs they're on
Should not be your concern.
They will change or they'll be gone,
So self-control they'll learn.
(Last tweaked 9/27/14)
Love the first one Zorn "Insufficient"
A Brave Facing of a Scary Moment
By Myke
To all 'twas a good night, but an early summer night it was. Carried on the wind floated a hope of better times so innocent its entry. I in no cap laid not to rest, hopelessly tossing, wrestling with morbid futures not yet realized. Like the rest I wished for a betterment of times, knowing full well it shall not come to pass.
I rose to view from my storied window down upon a tempest threatened bay. Could this squall foretell the fortunes of us all so blind? All storms end eventuality true, but with them they bring the cleansing rain a scourring wind that doth take those not prepared to yield. The god of power makes its demands and the economics of it determines that the weak and the stubborn are consumed by it.
Tarry not just on hope, and bother not to brace the feeble sash. So I will walk acceptingly into that wind trusting the compassion of it to not take me, relying on the foolhardiness of my action to weather it and not be my folly.
If I make it through? If it is true that I walk clear to the other side, whether that side is life or after life, I will have won but one victory of my own. That is the victory that I gave no fear just because the wind howled and the sky blackened and impending doom appeared before the horizon. It matters not where my foot falls, this world or the next, only that I took the steps necessary to reach that world.
The day hath found me drowned. My lungs filled with a wealth of emotion. My bones are tired and shake with fatigue, but I live in this world. The village is a buzz with rumor of me. No heroes welcome, no celebration of my deed. A newfound respect of my lack of sanity is expressed with every face. I care not. I am the knowing.
I have no need of explanation and will not satisfy any curiosity but my own. I will not bow to their reasoning or questions. There shall be no need to repeat my journey, so the moment ist passed. I retire in a smug repose, quite unintentional in disposition. To finally sleep with no dream, no images contented and exhausted. As easy as a child I fall asleep cradled in my confidences, fearing no more death or life.
'Promise'
by Myke
Carried in the night I was. To my dingy home of sorts. A lamp, a cot, an end table surrounded by a door, window, and four walls. My routine has taken me back while in my stupor to this most humble of humble abodes. Cigarette butts litter the floor every inch and they guide me through to the hall lavatory and back. There, I expel the poison that I worked so hard to consume.
Awake to the point of feeling the sickness I inflicted on myself, I make it back to my cell and plunge down on the cot that serves only as a platform that holds me in an eternal spin.
I fight to raise my head and search for yet more of the evil elixir. Nothing there but dead soldiers. Nothing to drive me to the blackout I so desire. My stomach wretches fruitless evacuations save the loud roar from the depths of my body.
Conscious, unceremoniously conscious, I cannot sleep. I can't do anything but wallow in my thoughts and physical pain.
I once had promise. I was bright, energetic, ambitious. "Potential" that's what they all said "That lad has potential." I find myself saying, "I once was..." and, "Years ago..." Seems like a century ago.
Don't know when all that potential ran out, when I lost my energy, ambition. Now the only thing bright in this room is the lamp and that's because there's no shade to soften it's glare.
If I live tomorrow, I'll walk down to catch a ride and hope for a labor job, if I get up that is. Even if I make it I won't be worth much. I'll have to bow and scrape and hope I can work. If not, I'll have to hope someone will take pity on me and give me enough to eat on.
And if someone does. If someone can find it in their heart to give me enough of their hard earned cash to sustain me through one more day, I promise, I really promise not to poison myself again.
I am hoping for comment by Solomon Zorn on my last two entries on this thread.
Quote from: "mykcob4"A Friend Without Friends
As far as I can tell
I see no god at all
I search here and there
Yonder to and fro
But theres no answer to my call
My friends all hold hands
And pray to what I do not know
They ask for forgiveness
They ask for things
But theres nothing that ever shows
I was taught to believe
To obey in faith blind
But I cannot obey
I cannot stay
The imprisoned mind
So now I walk alone
I face life real
And smile at my friends
At those who pretend
Very content in how I feel
Myke
There is not an atheist I know that has not at some point felt that way.
Sorry it took me so long to respond, Myke, my computer got stolen by crack-heads and I still haven't replaced it. So I'm only online every other weekend.
Anyway...great work! I especially liked the first one's subversive undertones. The second one actually has me worried about you! But it really captures the whole experience.
I actually saw your post a while ago, but didn't have time to respond. It got me thinking about poetry in general though, an so I put some of my thoughts on the subject into writing. Here's what I came up with:
On Poetry
Solomon Zorn
I don't write much free-form poetry. Although it's lofty language lifts the limits of simple prose, and presently progresses into a lot of alliteration, I feel the reader will find it ponderous. It's capable of evoking an emotional response, but I prefer more structured forms.
Poetry
Still needs to be
A challenge to the writer
Structure gives
A positive
Inducement to the reader
Poetry is evolution
Advancing in stages
Growing branches
Selecting traits
Defining functions
Adapting to the repeating patterns of words
Making them serve the central theme
Structure is environment
Establishing parameters
Limiting expression
Suggesting tangents
Separating ideas
Adapting to the unpredictable flow of thoughts
Making them serve the central theme
A poem
A child
Taking his own path
Not forced
Not restrained
Only guided
A poem
A performer
Entertaining the reader
Not trivial
Not mundane
Only inspired
Consider:
Emotion
Audience
Message
Brevity
The uneducated hick gets down from his soapbox and resumes watching television.
Quote from: "Solomon Zorn"Sorry it took me so long to respond, Myke, my computer got stolen by crack-heads and I still haven't replaced it. So I'm only online every other weekend.
Anyway...great work! I especially liked the first one's subversive undertones. The second one actually has me worried about you! But it really captures the whole experience.
I actually saw your post a while ago, but didn't have time to respond. It got me thinking about poetry in general though, an so I put some of my thoughts on the subject into writing. Here's what I came up with:
[center:35iydnbm]On Poetry
Solomon Zorn[/center:35iydnbm]
I don't write much free-form poetry. Although it's lofty language lifts the limits of simple prose, and presently progresses into a lot of alliteration, I feel the reader will find it ponderous. It's capable of evoking an emotional response, but I prefer more structured forms.
Rhyme and meter
Need to be
Challenging
Linguistically
Rhythm adds
A new dimension
Thoughts aligning
In progression
Poetry is evolution
Advancing in stages
Growing branches
Selecting traits
Defining functions
Adapting to the repeating patterns of words
Making them serve the central theme
Structure is environment
Establishing parameters
Limiting expression
Suggesting tangents
Separating ideas
Adapting to the unpredictable flow of thoughts
Making them serve the central theme
A poem
A child
Taking his own path
Not forced
Not restrained
Only guided
A poem
A performer
Entertaining the reader
Not trivial
Not mundane
Only inspired
Consider:
Emotion
Audience
Message
Brevity
The uneducated hick gets down from his soapbox an resumes watching television.
great lesson, oh and don't worry about me. I rarely write about me.
I aspire to be a writer a published writer. I have things to say and I say them differently. I have a short story that is unpolished and isa twist murder mystery. Take a look and critique.
'Turn About Is Fair Play'
by Myke
"Paul? Is that you Paul?"
The dark was filled with the eerie calm of being too silent. Marilyn was tense. Nervous about nothing really, but yet it was something.
"Paul? If that's you Paul, quit playing games. I'm just not in the mood."
"PAUL!!!! Stop it PAUL, Just stop it!!!!"
Marilyn couldn't see Paul. He wasn't four feet away from her lying face down on the floor bereft of life.
Marilyn stepped further through the dark and felt the squish of a soggy carpet beneath her feet.
"....Paaaaul?"
She bent down and felt the moister with her shaking hands.
"This had better be a Halloween joke."
But of course it wasn't. Marilyn's eyes were now adjusting to the lack of light. Her pupils dilated to take in more and more of the detail laid out before her. There just there was a man face down bloody and dead as dead as he can be. The carpet was filled with blood. Marilyn's mind was racing ("I hope to god this isn't Paul"). Of course it was Paul.
Marilyn was stricken immediately with grief as she recognized the scar just by the ear. The scar that Paul got as a boy when Marilyn first moved here and met Paul. Handsome amiable Paul. Her friend, from that quick moment until just a few moments ago when she argued with him. When he had accused her of cheating on him, and she explained most cruelly that their romance was merely in his head and didn't exist. She suddenly recalled the loud uncontrollable sobbing that only a truly insecure hurt man can impart.
Just at that moment the lights flashed on.
"Marilyn!"
"Joan? Oh Joan, it's Paul. I found him here lying on the floor. Oh Joan it's awful!"
"I know dear. Here sit down, calm down."
Several men...policemen had entered with Joan and were busy investigating the scene. One of the men approached the women as the others looked on.
"Ma'am. Can I see your hands?'
"What? Why?"
"Just let me see your hands"
Marilyn pulled out her right hand.
"And the other one."
Marilyn pulled out her left. Blood was on the tips of her fingers from searching the floor earlier, but remarkably it also was all the way up her sleeve and staining her clothes on her left side.
"Ma'am, did you stab this man?"
"What? No, no I found him that way!"
"No ma'am you didn't. Your clothes are stained on the left side. This man was stabbed in the front right through his heart from the left side of the murderer. I must insist that you go with us."
"NO , no,...Joan help me, No I didn't do it, Oh my head, JOOOOOAN help me"
"It'll be alright dear, I'll call some one. Be brave dear be brave."
The men dragged Marilyn out of the room and into the squad car. She would be charged with the murder of Paul Thayer, her lover.
Joan watched at the open front doorway. The rain obscuring the closed car window that the handcuffed Marilyn was frantically screaming her innocence from. The squad car slowly at first then with more speed pulled out into the street and left out of sight.
Detective Marx finally came out of the murder room and motioned the rest of the men to load up and leave. He waited in the hall as the men passed and went outside. Joan turned and walked back in to face Det. Marx. She slowly came closer to Marx then planted a big kiss on his awaiting lips.
"Where did you hide the knife babe?"
"In the kitchen where I hid the hammer that I hit Marilyn with."
"You should of hit her harder. Her being alive is going to make things much harder"
Joan just smiled and kissed Marx even harder. He pulled away and headed for the door. He paused and turned around.
"What? What are you waiting for?"
"Well babe, I was just thinking. This is an awful mess. Paul dead, Joan arrested for his murder. You waiting for a jury to convict her, and me dead set on convicting you. Thanks, it would have taken days for me to find the hammer."
Later at the station Marx was cleaning the wounds left by angry claw wielding Joan. She was arrested now and calming down in a straight jacket in a single cell.
Marilyn walked in and helped him with his chore.
"Man Don that hammer hurt. That wasn't such a good idea of yours".
" Well babe I wasn't figuring on you actually surviving!"
End
Grip
by Myke
For now I sleep only to wake later with the dread of events to come. The worry is that there is no control of what will happen or even knowing what will happen, only knowing when. I wax philosphofical about not caring about myself and cry out a desire that others may be saved. It all sounds so honorable. The truth is that I am not that brave. I wish for more than I can hope, the possibility that can never be realized. And now every moment weighs heavy upon me. The anticipation, the wait, the torment as time ticks slowly down. So what is it that I can't face but must? What is it that tortures me with every remaining second? What could it be that strangles me with fear to the point of paralysis?
The unknown.
I like that one, Myke. =D> In fact my only criticism would be that you misspelled "philosophical." #-o
Actually there is one thing: I didn't understand what you meant by "...only knowing when." That phrase confused me a little. :-k
And I'm sorry I didn't get around to critiquing your short story. I'm at a creative slowdown in my own writing, and have been struggling with a few things all weekend. I only have access to my sister's computer every other weekend, so I have a lot of accumulated writing to type up and polish.
Let me just say that I think it's an interesting little bunch of twists for a very short story, and I really would like to see you rewrite it from the point of view of one of the characters. My choice would be the cop. But don't reveal too much of what he's thinking. Keep the twists unfolding in the same manner.
Just curious, Myke: How old are you? Have you had any college level writing classes?
I'm 47, and although I frequently refer to myself as an uneducated hick, I actually attended bible-college from 1985-1987, and took Creative Writing 101 as well as Logic 101. (I actually could have opted out of Comp and Grammar because I received a perfect score on the writing portion of the A.C.T.) But I still consider myself to be uneducated, because I don't have formal education in any field that would yield any specialized knowledge about the world, if you understand what I mean. I have a PBS education.
Quote from: "Solomon Zorn"Sorry it took me so long to respond, Myke, my computer got stolen by crack-heads and I still haven't replaced it. So I'm only online every other weekend.
Anyway...great work! I especially liked the first one's subversive undertones. The second one actually has me worried about you! But it really captures the whole experience.
I actually saw your post a while ago, but didn't have time to respond. It got me thinking about poetry in general though, an so I put some of my thoughts on the subject into writing. Here's what I came up with:
[center:2pn5d8z7]On Poetry
Solomon Zorn[/center:2pn5d8z7]
I don't write much free-form poetry. Although it's lofty language lifts the limits of simple prose, and presently progresses into a lot of alliteration, I feel the reader will find it ponderous. It's capable of evoking an emotional response, but I prefer more structured forms.
Rhyme and meter
Need to be
Challenging
Linguistically
Rhythm adds
A new dimension
Thoughts aligning
In progression
Poetry is evolution
Advancing in stages
Growing branches
Selecting traits
Defining functions
Adapting to the repeating patterns of words
Making them serve the central theme
Structure is environment
Establishing parameters
Limiting expression
Suggesting tangents
Separating ideas
Adapting to the unpredictable flow of thoughts
Making them serve the central theme
A poem
A child
Taking his own path
Not forced
Not restrained
Only guided
A poem
A performer
Entertaining the reader
Not trivial
Not mundane
Only inspired
Consider:
Emotion
Audience
Message
Brevity
The uneducated hick gets down from his soapbox an resumes watching television.
There is a reason we write poetry, so I like the motif of "why" as a subject.
However, I do get down on people who insist it go a certain way. What does all the meter and code language mean if the message is lost? I've heard poems and read poems I love that are simplistic.
Poetry to me is ultimately the message and all it has to do is work for the reader.
Quote from: "Solomon Zorn"I like that one, Myke. =D> In fact my only criticism would be that you misspelled "philosophical." #-o
Actually there is one thing: I didn't understand what you meant by "...only knowing when." That phrase confused me a little. :-k
And I'm sorry I didn't get around to critiquing your short story. I'm at a creative slowdown in my own writing, and have been struggling with a few things all weekend. I only have access to my sister's computer every other weekend, so I have a lot of accumulated writing to type up and polish.
Let me just say that I think it's an interesting little bunch of twists for a very short story, and I really would like to see you rewrite it from the point of view of one of the characters. My choice would be the cop. But don't reveal too much of what he's thinking. Keep the twists unfolding in the same manner.
Just curious, Myke: How old are you? Have you had any college level writing classes?
I'm 47, and although I frequently refer to myself as an uneducated hick, I actually attended bible-college from 1985-1987, and took Creative Writing 101 as well as Logic 101. (I actually could have opted out of Comp and Grammar because I received a perfect score on the writing portion of the A.C.T.) But I still consider myself to be uneducated, because I don't have formal education in any field that would yield any specialized knowledge about the world, if you understand what I mean. I have a PBS education.
I have 2 degrees. I'll be 56 in two weeks. I started college, or rather ended college late as in between I had a complete military career that lasted 22 years+. No I don't have any formal writing training perse, just the basics.
I write in the venacular. I always compose runon sentences. I lack puncuation and spelling skills. When I write I am basically talking out loud. I become a character not necessarily in the story, but of the same ilk as the story. For example if I actually wrote Sherlock Holmes, I would smoke a pipe, wear a cap and Mac to write the story. I often draw about what I am writing, so if I'm using a legal pad it's covered with graffity.
I Think Therefore I......
by Myke
I thought I the Son of God
'till someone asked me "Who?"
I said that I would show them.
And they said, "Oh please do?"
I summoned all my powers near.
I called upon the sky.
"I call upon you God,
To me don't deny"
The clouds grew dark and black.
The thunder began to roar.
Then the rains fell with a crack,
And the sky began to pour.
"You see?" I said proudly.
"I've made it rain."
They laughed defiantly and said
"That can be explained."
"And it were not explained,
It doesn't mean a thing.
To claim to be the Son of God,
Much more you must bring."
"It rains everyday,
Someplace, somewhere.
You can't say that it was you.
This you cannot declare."
So I thought I the Son of God,
And it was just a thought.
To think is to assume,
But to say, I ought naught.
Modern Politics
by Myke
Have you ever notice the brat?
"I want this!"
"I want that!"
There is no end to the selfishness.
"Me' me' me"
They insist.
"I want it now,
Or I'll pout,
and I'll cry!"
"I won't even negotiate!"
"Won't consider...,
I won't try!"
"My Teaparty tells me
To rant,
And rave!"
Have you ever noticed the brat?
They just can't....
behave!
Quote from: Brian37There is a reason we write poetry, so I like the motif of "why" as a subject.
However, I do get down on people who insist it go a certain way. What does all the meter and code language mean if the message is lost? I've heard poems and read poems I love that are simplistic.
Poetry to me is ultimately the message and all it has to do is work for the reader.
I would never
insist on structure, but it's what works for me as a reader. And it's what interests me as a writer. To me the free-form stuff is just a lot of prose trying to be a poem. It doesn't need rhyme and meter, necessarily, just some kind of structure to give it a pattern for the reader to enjoy. And
most importantly, to challenge the writer. There's nothing wrong with free-form poetry, it's just that I think it should be called prose. I actually wrote some free form poems when I was a Christian. I used a lot of King James language and alliteration.
Poetry is message-first to me as well, but I was
taught that emotional response should be the prime consideration. Message-first poetry can be dry, which is the case with a lot of mine. :embarrassed:
Quote from: "mykcob4"I have 2 degrees. I'll be 56 in two weeks. I started college, or rather ended college late as in between I had a complete military career that lasted 22 years+. No I don't have any formal writing training perse, just the basics.
I write in the venacular. I always compose runon sentences. I lack puncuation and spelling skills. When I write I am basically talking out loud. I become a character not necessarily in the story, but of the same ilk as the story. For example if I actually wrote Sherlock Holmes, I would smoke a pipe, wear a cap and Mac to write the story. I often draw about what I am writing, so if I'm using a legal pad it's covered with graffity.
Being 56 doesn't mean you can't still get started as a writer, in my opinion. I would rather read the words of someone who is older than me. You have a lot more life to draw on than a youngster. That's where your appeal lies. 8-)
I liked both the new poems. Especially
Modern Politics. Very relevant.
Well I was on fire this week!
Since last Friday, I have written three more poems, two political cartoons, 30 stanzas of proverbs, a short essay, and ten pages of outline for an X-Men sequel! :geek:
I got up at 6AM yesterday, and started writing this one:
The Salesman
Solomon Zorn
http://www.solomonzorn.com/the-salesman.html
EDIT: I have changed the poem significantly since writing it. The repost below is no longer accurate.
Quote from: "Solomon Zorn"Well I was on fire this week!
Since last Friday, I have written three more poems, two political cartoons, 30 stanzas of proverbs, a short essay, and ten pages of outline for an X-Men sequel! 8-)
I got up at 6AM yesterday, and started writing this one:
[center:3296omay]The Salesman
Solomon Zorn
He sold you a book
That's based on a story
By people who look
For post-mortum glory
Did you buy it?
He sold you a myth
That's based on tradition
Of conquering death
And that was his mission
Did you buy it?
He sold you advice
That's based on a notion
That walks the thin line
Of doubt-free devotion
Did you buy it?
He sold you a light
That's based on a lie
He told you a fright
Of after you die
Did you buy it?
He sold you a fear
That's based on a threat
Of burning and tears
And endless regret
Did you buy it?
He sold you a cell
That's based on your guilt
Controlling you well
With fears that you felt
Did you buy it?
He sold you a Lord
Who's based on himself
He promised reward
And scared you with Hell
Did you buy it?
He sold you a tale
That's based on religion
And wrapped up the sale
What was your decision?
Did you buy it?[/center:3296omay]
No shit. That's awesome. I like the meter as well as the messege.
I love to free form and just spew what is inside. Funny how when someone else writes, you just have to write. Please read my thoughts on a movie script.
For Soloman and anyone that whats to add.
Thoughts for a movie script a loose treatment
'The Brazilian Nut Job'
In 2014 Brazil host the Olympics AND the Woirld Soccer Cup.
I thought a comedy about it would be fun. 'Imagine the Italian Job' and 'It's a MAD MAD MAD world.'
The story begins with high Brazilian officials discussing the world events they are hosting and the security that that entails. Primary on their minds is a national treasure. "The Brazilian Star". It's a 50 carat chocolate diamond, cresent shaped. The officials which include the president believe that many thieves and criminals will attend the games and use them as a cover to steal the Brazilian Star. Attending this metting purely out of courtesy is the Chief of police of Sao Paulo (Cheech Marin). He is largely ignored and stands quitly in the background. While everyone to include Intelpol, the US FBI, Scotland Yard, and various foriegn and Brazilian security officials are arguing juridiction and method for security. In the meantime the Chief decides to just put the jewel in his well worn suit pocket for safe keeping.
That's a small glimpse and it doesn't reveal the comic episodes that I have written down, nor the hundreds of international characters I want to use. Basicly Rio de Junero is one of the biggest stars of the script. I want it to be fast paced, wacky, hairbrained and funny.
Bumbling cops, inept thieves, colorful extras, flamboyant types, somewhat stereotypical types.
I have many stars in mind: Albert Brooks, Alan Arkin, Steven Colbert, Tosh, John Stewart, Cheech Marin, Matt Damon, George Clooney, All races, genders, every type!
Sounds like a good start. I will be typing up my own movie-plot this weekend, just to make it neater. Altogether I have 14 pages to type up. :shocked:
Hello. I couldn't sleep and it's almost 3am so I'll force myself to in a few moments. Please provide your feedback. I enjoy reading what's posted on this thread, too. Thank you for allowing me to share mine here.
This girl I knew
Fell madly in love
She was loyal and true
Her spirits high up above
Six seven years passed
Her love didn't last
This girl I once knew
Fell madly once again
Overwhelming feelings grew
High spirits' confusion began
Over a year went by
His shattered soul bid goodbye
Now getting back on her feet
She cried
Why do we fuckin fall
He lied
To learn how to get ourselves back up
This girl I once knew was me
Doing my very best you see
Life is for the living.
This is how I let go.
Alt
This girl I once knew was me
Trying to get back on my feet
Why do we fall, I cried
So we can learn to get ourselves back up, he lied.
Life is for the living.
I must let go.
Quote from: "Anonymousjane"Hello. I couldn't sleep and it's almost 3am so I'll force myself to in a few moments. Please provide your feedback. I enjoy reading what's posted on this thread, too. Thank you for allowing me to share mine here.
This girl I knew
Fell madly in love
She was loyal and true
Her spirits high up above
Six seven years passed
Her love didn't last
This girl I once knew
Fell madly once again
Overwhelming feelings grew
High spirits' confusion began
Over a year went by
His shattered soul bid goodbye
Now getting back on her feet
She cried
Why do we fuckin fall
He lied
To learn how to get ourselves back up
This girl I once knew was me
Doing my very best you see
Life is for the living.
This is how I let go.
Alt
This girl I once knew was me
Trying to get back on my feet
Why do we fall, I cried
So we can learn to get ourselves back up, he lied.
Life is for the living.
I must let go.
Great! A heartfelt poem. Keep going!
Good work, Jane. Very emotive.
Thanks. I do have a few more but I'm too sleepy to share right now. I'll be back.
Just read some of Brian37's poetry. :clap: Good stuff. The link is at the bottom of his posts.
Thanks, Brian, for the info on Hypatia. Truly ahead of her time. Very sad.
Distracting mind with jumbled words
Drenching soul with premium wine
Soothing sounds
Winding down
Doing what I can
To redirect and rhyme
Because it's right
And the future looks bright
Life is for the living
Oh my Darjeeling.
And you say, "Live and let die."
OK fine. I say, "Goodbye."
Bittersweet tears
Letting go of fears
While sipping my late night tea.
Good poem, Jane. Sounds like an emotional night. Hope things are looking brighter this morning.
5 Alive
by Myke
I read a rant
That I can't
Debate
Nor negate.
I heard a song
That made me long
For the care
That isn't there.
I viewed the art
That swelled my heart
And left me saddened
And yet gladdened.
I felt the touch
Although not much
Fired inside me
Though twas beside me.
I smelled the air
The wind would share
And found my way
Through the day.
I sensed it all
As I recall
Filled with elation
Of having the sensation.
Thank you for your comment, Solomon Zorn.
=D> I enjoyed your "5 Alive" poem, Myke.
Thank you for creating this thread. I feel like it's a safe haven.
I'm glad you feel comfortable here, Jane. Poetry can be very therapeutic. I use it just to put my many weird thoughts into something that is more enjoyable to read.
Here's my most recent one.
“Children of a Starâ€
http://www.solomonzorn.com/children-of-a-star.html
EDIT: I have changed this poem significantly since writing it. The repost below is no longer accurate.
Quote from: "Solomon Zorn"Just read some of Brian37's poetry. =D> Good stuff. The link is at the bottom of his posts.
Thanks, Brian, for the info on Hypatia. Truly ahead of her time. Very sad.
Wow thanks, seriously. To be honest, I won't lie and say all of them are great. But this really gives me a boost considering getting raked over the coals sometimes.
Quote from: "Anonymousjane"Distracting mind with jumbled words
Drenching soul with premium wine
Soothing sounds
Winding down
Doing what I can
To redirect and rhyme
Because it's right
And the future looks bright
Life is for the living
Oh my Darjeeling.
And you say, "Live and let die."
OK fine. I say, "Goodbye."
Bittersweet tears
Letting go of fears
While sipping my late night tea.
Take away the wine and tea, replace it with beer, for me it reminds me of all the rejection I got as when I was younger, especially with women.
Quote from: "mykcob4"5 Alive
by Myke
I read a rant
That I can't
Debate
Nor negate.
I heard a song
That made me long
For the care
That isn't there.
I viewed the art
That swelled my heart
And left me saddened
And yet gladdened.
I felt the touch
Although not much
Fired inside me
Though twas beside me.
I smelled the air
The wind would share
And found my way
Through the day.
I sensed it all
As I recall
Filled with elation
Of having the sensation.
Nice. If you are not feeling you are not living.
Quote from: "Solomon Zorn"Here's my most recent one.
[center:16kdvxr3]Children of a Star
Solomon Zorn
Black dominates
So vast
The empty distances
So barren dead and dark
Between
The lonely instances
Of silent glowing stars
Light penetrates
Suspended
In the nothing
Moving through the endless night
Cohesive
Spheres of something
Massive engines burning bright
Energy radiates
Fueled
By a furnace
Lying deep within the core
Shining
On the surface
Through the darkness it abhors
Matter differentiates
Chaos
Not malevolent
Just random probabilities
Order
Not benevolent
Just branching possibilities
Change generates
Moments
Of complexity
Emerging in the sunshine
Eons
Not eternity
Just bubbles in the time-line
Life proliferates
See their graceful motion
Children of the ocean
See them learn to fly
Children of the sky
See us giving birth
Children of the earth
See the dust we are
Children of a star[/center:16kdvxr3]
I love poems with this type of message. It is really a Sagan view in the realization of how massive the universe is, and how complex everything is and still humbled by the knowledge that myth holds no candle to reality.
We really are star stuff! Great poem.
My Therapy, By Brian37
The paintings we paint
Are cubist or realist
Some more coded in lexicon
Others Fresco reliefs
Some looking inward
Some looking out
Some whimsical
Some scream out loud
My quill and papyrus
Are now in modern form
I move mouse and click submit
You read it on this forum
But much more satisfying
Than getting a complement
Is reading that of others
Who bleed the same blood
Dare to bare emotions
For all the world to see
Zorn and Jane and cob4
Kindred you feel to me
Our lives completely different
On all subjects we may not agree
But there is this glorious thing
We call poetry
This one I wrote yesterday morning:
“Impotent Omnipotentâ€
http://www.solomonzorn.com/impotent-omnipotent.html
EDIT: I have changed this poem significantly since writing it. The repost below, "God Pretends," is no longer accurate.
Fishing Village
by Myke
For out on a distance toils the men,
Pulling the nets each day.
They venture beyond sight as day begins,
Nothing but sea in their way.
They commune their thoughts,
They share their dreams,
They feel each others pain.
And seagulls mark their wake,
Cascading closer they come.
Marking the boats take,
Hoping that they share in some.
And they commune their thoughts,
And share their dreams,
And feel each others pain.
On the shore the women wait,
For men and boats to come home.
They hope all are safe,
And they'll not go home alone.
And they commune their thoughts,
And share their dreams,
And feel each others pain.
Everyday is the same,
Of the men, the birds, and women.
A labor of love and need,
Of lives among them.
Communing their thoughts,
Sharing their dreams,
And feeling their pain.
The village sleeps for now,
Rest sorely needed.
By light they'll arise,
And their task will be heeded.
They'll commune again,
They'll share again,
And agian feel each others pain.
For the village lives to be,
An interwoven community.
A place knowing each,
And each knowing,
Their thoughts,
Their dreams,
And their pain.
I'm going to give it a shot in a bit, maybe post it later tonight.
Quote from: "mykcob4"Fishing Village
by Myke
For out on a distance toils the men,
Pulling the nets each day.
They venture beyond sight as day begins,
Nothing but sea in their way.
They commune their thoughts,
They share their dreams,
They feel each others pain.
And seagulls mark their wake,
Cascading closer they come.
Marking the boats take,
Hoping that they share in some.
And they commune their thoughts,
And share their dreams,
And feel each others pain.
On the shore the women wait,
For men and boats to come home.
They hope all are safe,
And they'll not go home alone.
And they commune their thoughts,
And share their dreams,
And feel each others pain.
Everyday is the same,
Of the men, the birds, and women.
A labor of love and need,
Of lives among them.
Communing their thoughts,
Sharing their dreams,
And feeling their pain.
The village sleeps for now,
Rest sorely needed.
By light they'll arise,
And their task will be heeded.
They'll commune again,
They'll share again,
And agian feel each others pain.
For the village lives to be,
An interwoven community.
A place knowing each,
And each knowing,
Their thoughts,
Their dreams,
And their pain.
Great poem, Myke. Do you live near a fishing village?
I want to apologize by saying I have never done a poem before. And I don't think I mean that in like, "...since I was a kid." ... I honestly think I have never done a poem before in my life. So keep that in mind when you see how bad this attempt is and if you have any advice... I am happy to hear it :P.
---------
An ocean before
The countless drops are as one
Waves crash and recede
For the ocean we can see
Is but fragment of one thing
We are as the sand,
Billions line the ocean's edge
Thought of as detached
Yet just as much part of ocean
As the wave in the water
What is the ocean
Without sand? It exists yet
It is without shape
So too life brings shape to the
Universe and defines it
Yet the seas before
Contains and transport the sand
Waves crash and recede
The sand exists as ocean
Then returns to alike shores
As ocean and sand
So is man and universe
Thought of as detached
Man defines the universe
As sand defines the border
Waves crash and recede
Man exists, then he does not
The sand is returned.
-----------
So, how was it? I wanted to expand more on man's attitude that he is somehow something separate but I just couldn't think of a way to incorporate it :.
Quote from: "Solomon Zorn"This one I wrote yesterday morning:
[center:2avxftuj]God Pretends
Solomon Zorn
God saw the worker
Who fell in the chipper
All his thoughts are
With the family
God hears the prayers
Of children with cancer
He just lacks
A medical degree
God has such love
For the faithful devoted
Just to have them near
He crashed their bus
God stayed his hand
As a young heart exploded
All part of his plan
You have to trust
God knew beforehand
The planes' destinations
On the day
The twin towers would fall
God can't be bothered
With terror prevention
When busy with the outcomes
Of football
God made the world
So worship him for it
Only wicked people
Will resist
God wrote a book
And you dare not ignore it
God only pretends
Not to exist[/center:2avxftuj]
AWESOME!
Quote from: "Shiranu"I want to apologize by saying I have never done a poem before. And I don't think I mean that in like, "...since I was a kid." ... I honestly think I have never done a poem before in my life. So keep that in mind when you see how bad this attempt is and if you have any advice... I am happy to hear it :P.
---------
An ocean before
The countless drops are as one
Waves crash and recede
For the ocean we can see
Is but fragment of one thing
We are as the sand,
Billions line the ocean's edge
Thought of as detached
Yet just as much part of ocean
As the wave in the water
What is the ocean
Without sand? It exists yet
It is without shape
So too life brings shape to the
Universe and defines it
Yet the seas before
Contains and transport the sand
Waves crash and recede
The sand exists as ocean
Then returns to alike shores
As ocean and sand
So is man and universe
Thought of as detached
Man defines the universe
As sand defines the border
Waves crash and recede
Man exists, then he does not
The sand is returned.
-----------
So, how was it? I wanted to expand more on man's attitude that he is somehow something separate but I just couldn't think of a way to incorporate it :.
I like the message, but you didn't follow protocol with your meter or rhyme. YOU SHOULD BE SHOT AT DAWN! (Actually poking fun at my critics who hate my style and as a result miss the message)
We are star stuff, but although everything is made of atoms, and we do interact with other atoms being made up of atoms, the realty is that we are NOT connected with everything, The quark on the other side of the universe will never have an affect on us.
Your poem reflects a very local reality on an island, but the sand is not the ocean and the ocean is not the sand, they merely exchange atoms in the interaction.
It is more a flow than a connection.
Still much more in tune with nature than superstition. I do like it.
I like Shiranu's poem a lot. I don't think he meant we are connected with the entire universe, just that we are a part of nature, and not a separate "special" creation.
I was writing this poem early this morning, and I heard about Nelson Mandela passing. He was on my mind as the poem progressed. (No rhyme and meter this time)
Inconsolable
Solomon Zorn
No sadness more
Profound
No absence more
Permanent
A human
Cannot be replaced
A heart in mourning
Will accept no comfort
Promises of heavenly reunion
Offer soothing
For a pain
That cannot be soothed
Death is tragic
Death is final
Death is painful
For those who survive
But survive they will
And build on the
Legacy
Of the one who died
The same fire
Which burned in that soul
Continues
In those who were touched
Eventually time heals
Survivors move on
But not today
Today we are inconsolable
Quote from: "Solomon Zorn"I was writing this poem early this morning, and I heard about Nelson Mandela passing. He was on my mind as the poem progressed. (No rhyme and meter this time)
[center:3sz770on]Inconsolable
Solomon Zorn
No sadness more
Profound
No absence more
Permanent
A human
Cannot be replaced
A heart in mourning
Will accept no comfort
Promises of heavenly reunion
Offer soothing
For a pain
That cannot be soothed
Death is tragic
Death is final
Death is painful
For those who survive
But survive they will
And build on the
Legacy
Of the one who died
The same fire
Which burned in that soul
Continues
In those who were touched
Eventually time heals
Survivors move on
With or without their faith
But today we are inconsolable[/center:3sz770on]
Thanx Zorn. I needed that to deal with the great mans passing.
Christianity Unveiled (Ode to the father of modern atheism), By Brian37
Epicurus
And Lucretius
Skeptical
Long ago
The dark night
The cloak of theism
For centuries
Buried inquiry
Deism arose
In response
To human cruelty
As a compromise to allow for a god
But amongst these enlightened ones
A refusal to do so
Gave birth
To modern atheism
Authorities as expected
Upon his public denial
The frightened ones
Ceased his books upon publishing
10 years elapse
After his death
Books with pseudonyms
Publicly burned
Paul Heinrich Dietrich
Took blasphemy
Further than anyone
Dared to go
"If the ignorance of nature
Gave birth to such a variety of gods,
The knowledge of this nature
Is calculated to destroy them"
*The bluntness of his quill
Put men in their infancy of thought
Which they were infatuated with
Viewing them as enslaved fanatics*
Their vanity
Based on concoctions
The needless distraction
Of mere superstition
(end)
Second to last stanza is a paraphrase of this quote "It is thus superstition infatuates man from his infancy, fills him with vanity, and enslaves him with fanaticism."
Quotes sourced from this link.
http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Baron_d%27Holbach#Sourced (http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Baron_d%27Holbach#Sourced)
Books quoted and paraphrased are
"Le Christianisme devoile(Christianity Unveiled)
"The System of Nature"
QuoteWe are star stuff, but although everything is made of atoms, and we do interact with other atoms being made up of atoms, the realty is that we are NOT connected with everything, The quark on the other side of the universe will never have an affect on us.
Your poem reflects a very local reality on an island, but the sand is not the ocean and the ocean is not the sand, they merely exchange atoms in the interaction.
To address this, even though the quark is on the other side of the universe and will never effect us, it is still a part of the same universe as us; just as a fish in Hawai'i, nor it's offspring, may ever have an interaction with a fish in Alaska, they are still part of the same ocean.
The sand/ocean is suppose to be humanity/universe; we become a part of the ocean (life), and before that/after that we are returned to the beach (death). What I meant, and I guess I didn't convey well, is that the sand (our life) is just as much a part of the ocean as the fish, the pollution or what ever else finds itself in the waters (everything in the universe). We like to think ourselves as something beyond the universe, something semi-divine and special, but really while we are alive we are just as much a part of the universe as anything else.
QuoteI like Shiranu's poem a lot. I don't think he meant we are connected with the entire universe, just that we are a part of nature, and not a separate "special" creation.
This.
Random Survivor
by Myke
Cast thine eyes outward past
The sun will ner last
And see 'for the light doth die
That which ist upon us
A storm she rises soon
And well it cometh boon
To tear and rip the nye
A struggle us to last
Dare we not take it on
But bear it till it gone
Then we shall hear the cry
Of which our fate be cast
Old and young die or live
Fates not ours to give
Words not ever heard
Things not ours for the askin'
Luck will have its way
Carin' not what we say
Choose and not choosin"
Whats left to be baskin'
I will play, I wrote this for my brother in law after his father died, a thing I have been doing most my life, writing specific poems for friends or family when life smacks them.
[spoil:2dy9u5ca]Guardian Of The Way
I've driven down this road before, so many times it seems
that I know every curve and every bend and even every tree.
I know it all so very well though rarely stop to look
I arrive not knowing when I left, nor how long that it took.
This road of mine is nearly home, its path leads to my door.
So when homeward bound I steer myself, I see the road no more.
The years and miles have passed for us, but neither have we seen.
How much we've changed the two of us, ageing through the years.
Now in this morning mist, I stand with a heavy heart.
And view the carnage about my feet, a sight so very stark.
The old tree that stood this ground and weathered the many years
Now lay silently across my road, shattered bark its' tears,
So familiar to its presence I ignored its gentle bend,
Though once in awhile it caught my eye like a wave to a passing friend
Memories of how it grew with me, marking the road I take.
Like an old guard that guided me, when homeward bound I make.
A Sentry of old who marked my path, to keep me on my way,
Pointing, gently nudging, should I chose to stray
And it always strengthened me by its ever present state
Though often I did not see it, I knew it marked the gate.
And now it lay amidst my feet, no longer there to say
"the way to home lay this way son, now be on your way".
Even though this road I know a thousand times to one,
I stand here now, not knowing how far it is to home.
For so long it has guided me, and put me on my path,
That I've long stopped caring of the miles once I'm safely past.
And yet I know, the roads not changed, the way is still the same
Shown a thousand times to me, by my Guardian of the Way.
Thomas Brumfield[/spoil:2dy9u5ca]
Hide And Go Seek, By Brian37
An insidious game
Of Peekaboo
The child counts
And looks through rooms
Elaborate prose
In ancient books
All do claim
He is somewhere
They look and look
And insist
He is real
And point to their books
They count to ten
Then to 100
Then to 1,000
And where is he
The empty mansion
Of fictional rooms
He hides somewhere
Through limitless excuse
I refuse with vigor
To play this game
There is nothing to find
No one is up there
Christianity Unveiled (Ode to the father of modern atheism), By Brian37
Epicurus
And Lucretius
Skeptical
Long ago
The dark night
The cloak of theism
For centuries
Buried inquiry
Deism arose
In response
To human cruelty
As a compromise to allow for a god
But amongst these enlightened ones
A refusal to do so
Gave birth
To modern atheism
Authorities as expected
Upon his public denial
The frightened ones
Ceased his books upon publishing
10 years elapse
After his death
Books with pseudonyms
Publicly burned
Paul Heinrich Dietrich
Took blasphemy
Further than anyone
Dared to go
"If the ignorance of nature
Gave birth to such a variety of gods,
The knowledge of this nature
Is calculated to destroy them"
*The bluntness of his quill
Put men in their infancy of thought
Which they were infatuated with
Viewing them as enslaved fanatics*
Their vanity
Based on concoctions
The needless distraction
Of mere superstition
(end)
Second to last stanza is a paraphrase of this quote "It is thus superstition infatuates man from his infancy, fills him with vanity, and enslaves him with fanaticism."
Quotes sourced from this link.
http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Baron_d%27Holbach#Sourced (http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Baron_d%27Holbach#Sourced)
Books quoted and paraphrased are
"Le Christianisme devoile(Christianity Unveiled)
"The System of Nature"
And so he sat, that man in his cage; the cage he built with his own hands, with his own blood and sweat. It was a lovely cage, the grandest cage he had ever seen... but yet a cage is a cage, no matter how grand it may seem. And beneath its luster and beneath shine stood a rotten man with a rotten mind.
This was a cage of many years work; a cage that could not be fractured or broke. In this cage he lived, ate and worked. Once and awhile he would glance out to see what he may see, but never did he leave; This cage was a world that bonged only to he. What he saw outside tore at his heart; violence, hatred and all things of the sort. Men killing men for trivial reasons, women and children left starving for no logical reasons.
This cage would be his home in all of its grandeur, no one from the outside could ever corrupt it. And so in this cage he began to grow jaded; came to hate the world and all of its faces. And then inside the man became what he had despised; in his heart violence and hatred for all he had seen. If man could not love one another, what love did they deserve from him? They had chosen their fates as he had chosen his.
Annnnnd I'm too intoxicated to finish.
Good morning, Shiranu! Up early, or up late? I like what you did so far, and I'm interested to see where you will go with it. :-D
Quote from: "Solomon Zorn"Good morning, Shiranu! Up early, or up late? I like what you did so far, and I'm interested to see where you will go with it. :-D
Late... I think.
It started to feel like a Doctor Susess poem or something with the rhyming... probably cant do that sober. I'll see what I can come up with later, otherwise it will have to wait till tomorrow night to be finished.
Edit: Well, I have a bottle of Sake only half finished. I could take a couple more swigs and see if I can continue it. I feel the problem may be the next bit of the story is still a work in progress, and I am not so good at predicting the future :.
Also; I now want to try writing while high. Alcohol is fine, but... meh.
Here's the poem I wrote this week:
"A Quiet Voice"
http://www.solomonzorn.com/a-quiet-voice.html
I may have posted this before but I thought I would submit it:
[center:16njutmv]A Brave Facing of a Scary Moment
By Myke
To all 'twas a good night, but an early summer night it was. Carried on the wind floated a hope of better times so innocent its entry. I in no cap laid not to rest, hopelessly tossing, wrestling with morbid futures not yet realized. Like the rest I wished for a betterment of times, knowing full well it shall not come to pass.
I rose to view from my storied window down upon a tempest threatened bay. Could this squall foretell the fortunes of us all so blind? All storms end eventuality true, but with them they bring the cleansing rain a scourring wind that doth take those not prepared to yield. The god of power makes its demands and the economics of it determines that the weak and the stubborn are consumed by it.
Tarry not just on hope, and bother not to brace the feeble sash. So I will walk acceptingly into that wind trusting the compassion of it to not take me, relying on the foolhardiness of my action to weather it and not be my folly.
If I make it through? If it is true that I walk clear to the other side, whether that side is life or after life, I will have won but one victory of my own. That is the victory that I gave no fear just because the wind howled and the sky blackened and impending doom appeared before the horizon. It matters not where my foot falls, this world or the next, only that I took the steps necessary to reach that world.
The day hath found me drowned. My lungs filled with a wealth of emotion. My bones are tired and shake with fatigue, but I live in this world. The village is a buzz with rumor of me. No heroes welcome, no celebration of my deed. A newfound respect of my lack of sanity is expressed with every face. I care not. I am the knowing.
I have no need of explanation and will not satisfy any curiosity but my own. I will not bow to their reasoning or questions. There shall be no need to repeat my journey, so the moment ist passed. I retire in a smug repose, quite unintentional in disposition. To finally sleep with no dream, no images contented and exhausted. As easy as a child I fall asleep cradled in my confidences, fearing no more death or life.[/center:16njutmv]
Neon lights shine bright.
Outside, the city breathes out.
Across, sits happiness.
Oh, her time here is fleeting.
Soon she will leave me once more.
I grasp out for her,
Yet she slips through my fingers.
The harder I hold
The faster she falls away.
Doubt begins to take my mind.
Neon lights now cold,
The city is calm and silent.
I alone stay up,
Trying to recall her face,
had she ever existed?
My memories blur.
Useless, I cast them aside.
It was just a dream
Of a world I don't belong to.
Isolated is my home.
Not my best, but I feel like shit and it helped a little bit so...
Quote from: "Shiranu"Neon lights shine bright.
Outside, the city breathes out.
Across, sits happiness.
Oh, her time here is fleeting.
Soon she will leave me once more.
I grasp out for her,
Yet she slips through my fingers.
The harder I hold
The faster she falls away.
Doubt begins to take my mind.
Neon lights now cold,
The city is calm and silent.
I alone stay up,
Trying to recall her face,
had she ever existed?
My memories blur.
Useless, I cast them aside.
It was just a dream
Of a world I don't belong to.
Isolated is my home.
Not my best, but I feel like shit and it helped a little bit so...
Been there, it was nice, I can identify.
Well I just did it! I put my writings into an e-book on Amazon! It should be available by tomorrow some time. It's called, IF GOD EXISTS, WHY DOES HE PRETEND NOT TO EXIST? by Solomon Zorn. It's $2.99, which is the minimum price. It's a very short book. Takes about an hour to read. It's just my poetry and proverbs. The ponderings of an uneducated hick.
All of the writings in the book, and a few more, can be read for free on my website however: http://solomonzorn.com/home.html (http://solomonzorn.com/home.html)
I can read everything on the website, out-loud, in under 90 minutes. You are all welcome to check it out. I think I finally have it how I want it. I welcome any feedback.
Just checked...I'm on Amazon! Cool! Doesn't mean much really, though. Anyone can do it. I just got the idea from a couple I saw on the news. They lost their jobs and started writing steamy romance novels to sell on Amazon. If anyone wants to write a review, it's only three bucks... 8)
Solomon post the one you sent me in PM or I will beat the shit out of you, it is damned good!
It's on my website.
Here's one I wrote after listening to the Governor of Indiana last week.
I Like Pizza
Solomon Zorn
I like pizza
Most people do
In fact you could say
I support pizza
I don't like liver
Some people do
There are a lot of
Liver-eaters out there
I don't feel a need
To outlaw liver-eating
Just because
It disgusts me
How does their
Eating liver
Possibly affect my
Eating pizza?
I'll still be free
To eat pizza
Even if the liver-eaters
Are liberated
It's a metaphor about kittens?
Kittens who want to marry each other. ;)
Not poetry, but wasn't sure where stories should go so... here is something short I am working on. Like poetry, I have never really written that much outside of pure fantasy.
[spoil:2wtlntzm]
Quote"The worst part is getting started, isn't it?", she asked, peering me over from across the table.
"Huh?"
"Starting... it is always the hardest part.". She stared me down, peering at me as some sort of oddity, some puzzle to figure out. And then as if I had been solved just like that, or she had lost all interest, her attention was gone to some passing car or a bird perched on a building across the street.
"I would suppose it is." I mumbled back. Of course, she wasn't there. No one was. Not even an empty chair. Just me, a table, a laptop and an empty patio. Every once in awhile a noisy truck or a city bus, occasionally the loud choppers revved up so that they could announce their existence to the world would zip by, interrupting the gentle hum of the smaller cars that went through.
I couldn't help but wonder who "she" was. Had I met her, or was she purely imagination? That seemed unlikely, given the detail I could see in her from the corner of my eye. And yet if I turned to look at her, all that greeted me was the red walls of the café or one of the various other patrons enjoying the sunny, windy afternoon.
The city was a nice reprieve from the solidarity of home, or this pale imitation of one, and the small confines of the coffin others referred to as "my room" and in it the T.V. I would spend hour after hour escaping from one world to the next. Occasionally the solidarity would be broken, mostly when I came out to eat or to watch someone with a hundred times my motivation make the most of their life. I suppose there was some semblance of socializing to be found in my distraction; from time to time me and my friend would log into a game together, substituting the reality, the art, of soccer with a pale imitation. Yet no matter how "fun" it would be, it could never replace the the real thing; friends just 15 minutes apart who never saw each other, choosing instead to enjoy each others presence through television tubes, microphones and speakers.
Of course the "companionship" of the city was not much different. Though they sat, flesh and blood, around me, we did not interact besides the occasional glance or the, "pardon" as we would walk past one another. Still, in their solitude I found a odd companionship; they sat alone with their books, their laptops and their coffees as did I. Together we made a strange fellowship of loners, each with our own stories to tell and yet no one around to tell it to.
She looks at me again from across the table, and I cant help but wonder if she is looking straight through the back of the screen and to the words I am writing. I have little choice but to muse about the concept of my subconscious being unaware of the words I write, and yet there she sits, curiously looking at me. Perhaps she is wondering not what I have written, but what I have yet to write. She seems to have taken a curiosity to that, and has also chosen to hide herself again.
She only appeared recently, so far that I can remember. This would give some weight to the idea that she is someone I know, or at least mimicking her. If she wasn't being so damn elusive I could perhaps get a good enough view of her to figure that out, maybe even ask for a name or to hear her simultaneously familiar and foreign voice again.
Back in the coffin, I find myself unable to enjoy the distractions I have spent my life apart of. While lacking enjoyment is nothing new, as it has been several years since they could hold my full attention, I suddenly find myself more drawn to writing than escaping reality. She sits at the foot of my bed, staring at the closet as if beyond it's doors she can see into a different world. I find myself eying the doors as she eyes me, but just see them closed, four white rectangles making a cross through the middle of them. I hear her sigh, yet she has already disappeared.
I cannot remember when the distractions began, nor the desire to indulge in them. To ask when I started being alone is to ask when the sun first rose upon the Earth; after such a length, it is irrelevant. It simply always has and always seems to be. And yet lately I have been offered brief glimpses of what companionship means, what it is like to share this life in all its glory and all its suffering with another person. Like an eclipse it appears out of no where, and like an eclipse it disappears, until all that is left is the fading memory of something you know was amazing yet cannot recreate no matter how hard you try. It simply lays outside of your control.
I cannot help but wonder how much of this is of my own making. It was only within the last year that I learned what true friendship was. Yes, I had my few friends who I would hang out with, kick the ball around, make fools of myself with in public, and yet there is a difference between a friend, even a best friend, and a true friend. A friend and a best friend is someone you enjoy life with; a true friend is someone with whom you can share your pain and fear with. For 22 years I have kept these true pains bottled up, and even the little I have revealed of myself is only a drop from the container. I fear that if I was to fully open the bottle it would flood and wash them away from me.
Doubly odd is the fact that I have never met one of them in the flesh. Hundreds of miles away, they feel more a concept than a person, and yet I cannot help but feel attached to them. Through their words I can feel them as a human being far more than nearly anyone I have ever met in the flesh, and their concerns and fears are my concerns and fears, even if I am unable to express this.
The second was forged in a rush of feelings; attraction, sorrow it wasn't shared, admiration for their drive, remorse that it had to end so quickly. If not for the fact we only had two weeks, perhaps this friendship would have never even formed; given a deadline, what we had to say came out in a rush with little time to think about if it was awkward. The pain of it being taken away is perhaps rooted to the same thing that brought it to fruition, and though it was short I learned much and experienced more than I had before. It was the first time I can recall anyone sharing something "private" with me, and only the second time I had put the "real", raw me out for another soul to see. As cliché as it is, what I found in this closing door has opened my eyes to the possibility that other doors may be opening and I just have to reach out and find them.
[/spoil:2wtlntzm]
I might work more on this if I feel inspired to.
Quote from: "mykcob4"Fishing Village
by Myke
For out on a distance toils the men,
Pulling the nets each day.
They venture beyond sight as day begins,
Nothing but sea in their way.
They commune their thoughts,
They share their dreams,
They feel each others pain.
And seagulls mark their wake,
Cascading closer they come.
Marking the boats take,
Hoping that they share in some.
And they commune their thoughts,
And share their dreams,
And feel each others pain.
On the shore the women wait,
For men and boats to come home.
They hope all are safe,
And they'll not go home alone.
And they commune their thoughts,
And share their dreams,
And feel each others pain.
Everyday is the same,
Of the men, the birds, and women.
A labor of love and need,
Of lives among them.
Communing their thoughts,
Sharing their dreams,
And feeling their pain.
The village sleeps for now,
Rest sorely needed.
By light they'll arise,
And their task will be heeded.
They'll commune again,
They'll share again,
And agian feel each others pain.
For the village lives to be,
An interwoven community.
A place knowing each,
And each knowing,
Their thoughts,
Their dreams,
And their pain.
I just re-read this poem and realized that I never gave it the proper respect. Great poem, Myke!
Shiranu, I like what you've written there. It is very poignant. It could easily be a poem.
There is a writer's thread: viewtopic.php?f=6&t=811 (http://atheistforums.com/viewtopic.php?f=6&t=811) but it hasn't had any posts in awhile.
Danke, and alright if I keep on working on it (or another) I'll try to rez that thread :P.
OK here's one I wrote a couple of months ago, that more or less qualifies as a poem. Its what I call a proverb.
"The Joke Is On You"
http://www.solomonzorn.com/the-joke-is-on-you.html
Just renamed the thread, again. Been thinking about it for awhile. More inviting sound to it.
I write poetry but it always rhymes
can't get that rhyme scheme
outside my mind
Iambic pentameter is a bitch
Or is it Scottish Stanza
Which is which?
I'm condemned for life to stick to rhyme
blank verse will forever
be a blank in my mind
O twisted fate! Thou has decreed
that all my efforts
will never succeed
Without the couplets of matching words
my voice, it seems,
will never be heard. :sad2:
Slow feet shuffle down
The dark hall towards it's dark rooms.
The body walks on
But it's mind lays somewhere else,
trapped in it's own creation.
Behind deep, dark eyes
lays a deeper, darker land.
The path forward steep,
And the ground beneath hidden
From the lone travelers sight.
He stumbles forward,
His "companions" the demons,
of flesh and shadow.
The memories of failures
And the cold hearts of the men.
He reaches the door,
and finds himself in his bed.
Bourbon at his side,
his body seeks to escape
the shell that lives inside it.
Back in the mind
the demons reach up from cracks
previously filed;
they burst forth, rabid and cruel,
To remind him of the truth.
In this creation,
There is no one to reach for.
One's suppose to love
Had beat, shamed and abandoned;
The young mind withered away.
The body stands and leaves,
mindlessly to the bathroom
it finds its own way.
At the mirror it watches,
looking for traces of itself.
A turn of a knob,
and scalding water comes forth.
The body lays down,
unaware of the burning
it stares into the celling.
The traveler stops,
before him lays a dark pool,
and the demons cry,
"Come, join us in salvation!"
Beckoning him to the water.
-------
The demons were his only friends, he reckoned. After all, they had accompanied him all this time when the others all left. Surely no enemy could have such persistence as to follow him all this way across the dark path and all it's treacherous twists and turns that could easily have one finding himself losing the trail and stumbling out into the never-ending darkness that surrounded it. And besides, all the events of the road had led him here; the doors all had closed on the road here, those grand doors with feasts and merriment and companionship that would slam in his face the moment he got near. The demons said all doors close for a reason and that reason was he did not deserve to pass through or that fate simply had no intention of that world belonging to him or him to that world.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Atheists rock
Fundies eat poo.
E = MC²
In the end, we are all standing in the dark,
trying to figure out why we are here.
But let us not choose one direction
without proof of where it is headed.
Check your pocket for matches
so we can observe and learn together
as fast friends and relative idiots.
-Mr.Obvious
Quote from: stromboli on March 28, 2014, 01:31:54 PM
I write poetry but it always rhymes
can't get that rhyme scheme
outside my mind
Iambic pentameter is a bitch
Or is it Scottish Stanza
Which is which?
I'm condemned for life to stick to rhyme
blank verse will forever
be a blank in my mind
O twisted fate! Thou has decreed
that all my efforts
will never succeed
Without the couplets of matching words
my voice, it seems,
will never be heard. :sad2:
I have been writing poetry for almost 24 years now. I've read codeded stuff that meets the meter motif some writers like. I've also read simplistic poetry that does not rhyme I loved. Art is never an either or or one way thing with me. With poetry especially, to me it means nothing if the message in it doesn't reach the person reading it. I rarely criticize others works merely because I have seen far to much reaction of their work and or my work to know whomever writes it, you will always find some who like it and some who don't. Be yourself and do you own thing when you write and fuck what other people think.
I personally like this one regardless of the rhyming. I got the message to it. It just happens to rhyme and you like rhyming.
If I Had My Way By Brian37, (Also on my FB page BrianJames Rational Poet)
Entropy confirms
Energy transfer
Will never
Lead to such
To think of whims
In terms of utopias
To thus of boarders
Are absurd nonsense
Our conflict resides
In all of us
Stupidly thinking
It all matters
Time frame lost
To a universe
That will continue
Without any of us
If I had my way
I'd been not rejected
By my high school pine
Who had no interest
If you had your way
I would submit
Conform to you
And by way of force
If I had my way
There would be no death
No pain or suffering
Or any conflict
No old age
No wars or crime
No disease
Or suffering
"If I had my way"
We'd all say
Our narcissism
It only conveys
One of the same
We've always been
That after resources
Is all it is.
(End)
This is one of the few times I make mine rhyme to some degree. When I started writing this yesterday I simply went with it as it came out. But I really don't go out of my way to rhyme. It simply amounts to did it work for someone. So again, when you write for yourself no matter your style, you are not faking it and you have more of a chance of others liking it when it is not faked or forced.
Neil Before Me, By Brian37
The vacuous mind rot
Scourge of most media
Shows of "reality"
Reflecting no such thing
A beacon of reason
Revived once more
Sagan once hosted
Now on Sundays again
Neil before me
Enlightening humanity
Fear has no respite
When faced with reality
Comets worldwide
Most humans feared
Neil before me
Said it was needless
That when we question
When we observe
Real predictions
Can we rightfully glean
Neil before me
With real tools
Observation and testing
Control groups and peer review
On a Empire street
In the Apple they met
Sagan before him
Was the path that led
Seth the producer
Saw the value
Neil to reality
The Cosmos we value
I'm on this website call 'allpoetry', and I gotta tell you guys. It's great to see some poetry on agnostic, atheist and secular points of view. Over there it's 'god this' and 'god that' and 'save me' and 'I'm a sheep' all the time. This is so refreshing. Keep it up.
Notorious, By Brian37
Have you ever
Touched a wall
Thinking falsely
The paint was dry?
Have you ever
Picked up a bottle
Only to realize
It was the wrong one?
I once drove down
A winding road
Seeing smoke
In the sky
A brush fire
Off in the distance
Seemed to be
Shifting from side to side
The antelope
On the African plains
Has to make quick decisions
Not always having the time
To assess
If the swaying grass
Is that of wind
Or a lion stalking them
Our perceptions
Can be false too
In what we think
Is really true
In that of ink blots
And butterflies
Of ghosts and gods
And conspiracies
We fill in gaps
Not realizing it
And faulty conclusions
Are the result
Our perceptions
Are notoriously flawed
And only one tool
Can counter this
Take a step back
And don't just question
Add to that
Control groups and testing
It is the only way
We can be sure
That our senses
Are not fooling us.
(end)
This poem also to be posted at www.rationalresponders.com under the name Brian37 at that website. All publishing disclaimers associated with my poetry thread at that website apply here as well.
Illuminati
We are truly but feeble creatures
of blood and rust and static,
searching for logic amidst the erratic,
choosing between preachers and teachers.
Mankind is said to be inherently sinful
and weak to the touch of temptation,
with one way to avoid being an abomination
by fearfully cowering in a harness of wool.
But what man standing in ominous oblivion
has the wisdom to choose the right path
and be unbridled in his knowledge that
he has chosen the one true religion?
The darkness of not knowing grasps us all.
Yet is blind faith our best trait?
Should we not light a fire before it's to late
and our blind eyes lead us to a final fall?
It's a thirst for knowledge that is our prize,
which helped us throughout our entire evolution,
allowed us to shatter more than just one illusion
and question critically all dogma and lies.
Let us all stand together and bask in ignorance.
Let us all shed the talk of absolute truth.
Let us all move away from our dumb youth.
Let us all make the most of our gifted consience.
We'll make a flame so great it'll illuminate the skies
so we may look upon all that we can learn.
As fuel, fairytales inevitably might burn
but from their ashes a better mankind shall rise.
Great poem Mr. O! I like the unusual rhyme scheme as well as the message.
On the edge of infinite sadness
We are apes returned home.
Face to face with a greater power
expressed in crashing foam
from whence mankind did flower.
Arriving at a sea of realization
that this force does not care
'bout it's awe-strikken creation
nor speaks of just and unfair.
Here we stand naked and dry
on the edge of infinite sadness.
On uncertain sands, eye to eye
with waves of chaotic madness.
And we roar mad with laughter,
fueled by an insanity from within,
given to us by the blind disaster
that spawned us and our kin.
For this is a time of low tide,
allowing us to build on our bay
'till no secrets are left to hide.
Here we are and here we stay.
Based on a quote by Racheal Carson: "The edge of the sea is a strange and beautiful place".
Also found on: http://allpoetry-classic.com/poem/11513395-On_the_edge_of_infinite_sadness-by-Mr.Obvious (http://allpoetry-classic.com/poem/11513395-On_the_edge_of_infinite_sadness-by-Mr.Obvious)
There once was a man from Nantucket,
Whose dick was so long he could suck it.
Said he, with a grin,
As he wiped off his chin,
"If my ear were a cunt, I could fuck it!"
OK, here's my latest. It doesn't have the same bite as some of my better stuff. I think I might be losing my edge.
Faith Healer
http://www.solomonzorn.com/faith-healer.html
I dunno SZ, I liked it. Might not be 'edgy', but sure is entertaining.
Here's another example of losing my edge:
A Particle
Solomon Zorn
I am a particle
Just a very tiny speck
In a vast universe
Of particles
I am a particle
Like all particles
I am composed of
Smaller particles
I am a particle
With unique properties
I can choose
I open and close the gate
I am a particle
Directing it's own motion
And directing the motion
Of other particles
I am a particle
In a group of particles
We interact
Forming complex systems
I am a particle
Responding to other particles
And assigning value
To those particles
I am a particle
Trading particles
With other particles
In need of a particle
I am a particle
Experiencing
The nature of being
A particle
I have never been a fan of telling others how poetry should be written. Art is simply that which works. I have read so much in my life of others and even seen people love some of mine that I didn't think was that special. To tell another poet how to write is to put shackles on them.
Mendacity, By Brian37(Originally posted at Rational Responders.com
The enticing falsehood
Drenched in delusion
Self inflicted
From false perceptions
That angel is no angel
That hero is no hero
It is you lying to yourself
In want of the non-existent
The scourge of thought
To be complacent
With mere emotion
With mere tradition
You are not
Looking for evidence
You are looking for
Excuses
Excuses to cling
To empty claims
Too afraid
To self examine
So you lie
To yourself
And in turn
Lie to others
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What Happens In Vegas, By Brian37
When Dawkins spoke
Of meme theory
Upon the first time
Hearing about it
I scoffed
But be the issue
Religion or guns
Ideas and ideology sell
Why did this couple
Shout "Revolution"
Why did 9/11 happen
Why do they murder abortion doctors
Because marketing works
Play off of fear or vanity
Sell a utopia
In an imperfect world
Humans will futilely
Fight for Plato's essence
At the cost
Of compassion
Those evil cops
Simply eating pizza
Deserved to die
They were the bullies
Yes, the bullies
We trained collectively
To fear the worst
We are responsible
Absurd to expect
As some do
They should fight crime
With pea shooters
When we have A-R 15s
When 45s and Glocks
Infest every home
Made like Skittles
And you assholes
Have the nerve
To be shocked
At the body count
Have the nerve
To be paranoid
Of how well armed
Law enforcement is
When you yourself
Like a petulant child
Think Dirty Harry
Is Constitutional documentary
Your high capacity phallus
Does not impress us
Your deadly selfish
We've had enough of
These are not the days of muskets
You are no one's hero
If all you want to do
Is live in a bubble, concerned only with yourself
"High capacity phallus!" Excellent! :grin:
I wrote this poem waayyy back in high school.
Darkness, lust, tormented by the sight,
Blood, love, killed by the light.
Hatred, death, feelings going no where.
Killing, fate, love that's not fair.
My cage is small and cold,
Aging feeling old.
Please let me be free,
Let loose my mind and you will see.
What it's like to be me.
Let loose my soul that you have caged,
Old and battered but never aged.
Nice.
I wrote this 8 years ago and still pisses some people off. I have no idea why. It's a love story...
[Spoiler]
99 bottles of love on the wallscripture told me to love
and like a good s.o.b
I did what jesus told me
I loved many girls each night
they were like
individually wrapped
acid trips
sweat and cum made
the sheets warm and cozy
the lights were pretty
like disco balls in studio 69
and when I grew tired
I'd lay there and dream
of heaven while being raped
by the love of a woman
while I slept
I'd see jesus in front of me
and he'd tell me to get
undressed and I would call him
a fag and say I didn't swing
that way
but
it was jesus
if I didn't swing perhaps
I'd go to hell
so I undressed and
woke up to a guy
sucking my cock
it felt strangely fine
and I let it happen
jesus wanted it to happen
the nights were abstract
the stars seemed to move
like spaceships
we wanted to go home
and we cried out loud
for them to rescue us
from a world at war with itself
vietnam was waking us up to love
yet our government was killing
us
I burnt a flag on capitol hill
and got beaten with a club
by some pansy cop who looked
like he was the re-incarnated
jesus who went down on me
that other night
I've been photographed in incense
and burned as a god
yet the god I am is the god they are
and there's nothing more
I can do but hope that life's
more than a re-occurring trip
and not held in the palm of a white man
who calls himself a leader
true leaders don't send young men and women
to die in a battle
that they obviously will not come back from
and if they do
they won't be whole
they won't
be innocent anymore
they'll be fucked and raped
like a little girl
finding out her daddy hates her
I've seen more on tv
than what they show
or perhaps
it's all just a show
and we are the puppets
waiting for our strings
to be cut
or for us to cut
them
ourselves
give me a gun
I'll assassinate Kennedy
just so I can dream of
not being drafted
dream of being fucked
by many women
know that jesus loves me
dance in a crowd
and see better stars
at night
David Garrett Arnold
May 16 2006
[/spoiler]
:-)
-Nam
Submit, By Brian37
If the other tribe
Would just do so
If my women
Would just do so
My liberal brethren
So well intended
Lending cover
To the literalists
My qualm with you
Is your ignorance
That they read
The same words you do
Your kindness does show
And you know
Other labels
Can be kind too
Still not my point
Or argument
About any of
Your good intent
You skip some parts
Like they do too
And with the same god
Come to different conclusions
There is a source
As to which
Female cattle
They are treated
There is a source
Whence violence arises
And use words in a book
To thus justify
The violent ones
Are getting it right
Because back then
You defended your tribe
Back then
You obeyed the king
You dared not
Step out of line
Back then
Vaginas were fields
Men gave the seed
Girls were crops
The words in those books
Are hardly modern
Having nothing to do
With secular pluralism
The only peace
Holy books sell
Is peace through submission
Or burn in hell
an imperfection of arta dream can show you lies
sorrowful good-byes
from the woman you wish to forget
it can show you happiness
gentle waves of bliss
yet seemingly poorly lit
still ..
it's worth to note
in each thought rote
this woman you wish to forget
is that gentle wave of bliss
that shows you happiness
and makes your heart offset
and ..
I know it could be true
this woman who is you
is the one who holds my heart
a ring upon a finger
a soul that could linger
an imperfection of art
I ..
could believe in this dream
an impossible scheme
for you to marry me
yet there's more than you and I
in each tear that is cried
from every touch that we breathe
still ..
a dream can show you lies
a glisten in one's eye
a soul that seems offset
each beat of my heart
that won't stop 'til it starts
from the woman I wish to forget
David Garrett Arnold
January 16 2009
-Nam
Not helping in Africa
preventing mishap,
Almighty God
is watching you fap.
T- Boned, By Brian37
Someone texting
Someone smoking
Someone eating
While they are driving
Some one speeding
Someone drunk
Runs the red light
Hitting another
I have detractors
Who don't like me
What would they do
If I was the perp
What if I
Was the innocent victim
Would politics or religion
Prevent them from helping?
I certianly know
What I would do
When someone is helpless
And I could lend aid
I would not at all
Pass them by
Just because
I hate what they say
I am fine with the frey
With those who are lucid
Yet all of us
Are still the same species
Carroll's Fieldin Carroll's Field where pecans sleep
and the days become cool as the night
there are dreams vibrant in hours we keep
rippling in ponds filled within the light
echoes of a past turned to a present
and life becomes the knot untied
the stars appear in a spiral descent
graciously upon those who have died
and in Carroll's Field where tree limbs felt
like the rain from emptying clouds
we gather in prayer where worn tongues knelt
upon breaths deepened beneath the shrouds
we cannot falter in this life of greater solitude
just happen upon that light in air
having not wrenched in sunpour attitude
it's only the love that whispers fair. . .
David Garrett Arnold
April 09 2013
--
[Spoiler]
Tijuana Tequila
hairy legs
and saggy tits
wet tongue
pressed
against a dirty wall
tryin' to hear
the thump of a heart
broken in pieces
in the spittoon on a
floor where shit wipes
the asses of
the tender behind the
grave of the bar
it's all business
the seeing eye-dogs
straddling the throat
of pussies
'tween legs
where hard dicks
go limp in the shine
of the moon
it could've been the tequila
swallowed by semen
and worms that become
drunk in
the orgasm of a whore
or the donkey
who knows...
David Garrett Arnold
July 08 2012[/spoiler]
--
river greenI could not hope more to breathe
in each luminescent aura
where wind carries leaves beyond
each silhouette of your form
It could be the happiness growing
like the leaf to the root
or the touch of a lip upon a lip
upon the single wave salted in
rivergreen eyes
like tears wiped from the face
gazing upon the autumn sun
gently slipping into the womb
of the earth
I could not hope more to breathe
in each whisper you echo in my heart
where the wind carries us beyond
the silhouette of the moon
David Garrett Arnold
May 08 2013
-Nam
Drawn into this maze I find
A world quite unlike any in my mind.
With each intricate twist and twirl
I watch the minds unwrap and unfurl.
A voice cries out,
"By god's, I've seen the light!"
I see a man in stained whites,
and a broken halo around his head.
He believes himself to be high above,
transcending, flying above all these walls.
I watch as through the maze he blindly crawls.
Another walks past, his eyes blank and dull.
He is a slave to his routine; a broken, deprogrammed machine.
What life he had has gone black and cold,
And the music of his soul is a quiet, lonesome note.
The walls will guide his every move, and till his end their path he stays glued.
Omnibenevolent, By Brian37
They all claim peace
Their goal so true
Here are some verses
For each of you
Hebrews first
And from the OT
From the book
Of Exodus
"2:11 And it came to pass
In those days,
When Moses was grown,
That he went out
Unto his brethren,
And looked on their burdens:
And he spied an Egyptian
Smiting an Hebrew,
One of his brethren."
"2:12 And he looked this way
And that way,
And when he saw
That there was no man,
He slew
The Egyptian,
And hid him
In the sand."
Street justice
Sanctioned by God
No civil court
Was involved
Now to that
Of the NT
Lets see what that
Has to say
In John 3
Verse 36
Here is what
It really says
"He that believeth on the Son
Hath everlasting life: And he that believeth
Not the Son shall not see life
But but the wrath of God abideth on him."
Tough luck Muslims
Atheists and Hindus
And even tough luck
To most Jews
I'd be remiss
If I forgot Islam
With all it's peace
And all it's charm
So lets take a look
At Allah's love
For the outsiders
Who don't subscribe
In book two
Named "The Cow"
Unbelievers fate
Under Allah's brow
Verse 161
And 162
Tell tells the unbelievers
Where they will go
"Lo! Those who disbelieve
And die while they are disbelievers;
And them is the curse of Allah
And of angels and of men combined.........
They ever dwell therein.
The doom
Will not be lightened for them,
Neither will they be reprieved"
Now I know
Others of these three
Others will claim
"Out of context"
But that is precisely
The same problem
Even with in the same religion
All do fight
Orthodox Jews
Do not like it when
Liberal Jews
Of Muslims befriend
Baptists think Catholics
Are not real Christians
German Christians
Once killed Jews
Sunnis kill Shiites
And their enemies still
Are Jews, Christians and atheists
They burn in hell
But all read the same
Exact books
Look for justifications
For what they do
And all the same god
All three have
How can this god
Sit up above
And watch us all fight
Like children with knives
Stabbing each other
To win a prize
You point to kindness
All of you do
But the kindess ends
When challenges arise
To take these books
Word for word
You all become monsters
In the name of your God
Quote from: Brian37 on June 30, 2014, 06:28:38 PM
...I'd be remiss
If I forgot Islam
With all it's peace
And all it's charm...
:rotflmao:
Quote from: Nam on June 24, 2014, 03:23:23 AM
river green
I could not hope more to breathe
in each luminescent aura
where wind carries leaves beyond
each silhouette of your form
It could be the happiness growing
like the leaf to the root
or the touch of a lip upon a lip
upon the single wave salted in
rivergreen eyes
like tears wiped from the face
gazing upon the autumn sun
gently slipping into the womb
of the earth
I could not hope more to breathe
in each whisper you echo in my heart
where the wind carries us beyond
the silhouette of the moon
David Garrett Arnold
May 08 2013
-Nam
Interesting work, Nam. Please use a larger font, so I don't have to mess with my settings in order to read it. My eyesight is terrible these days. :biggrin:
Best I could do is probably bold it next time.
-Nam
I wrote this one yesterday morning. Appreciate any feedback.
“Humansâ€
http://www.solomonzorn.com/humans.html
Wow, I like all your poems Solomon Zorn. They are really good.
My hands are tied
Picture a suffering world reminiscent of a pit,
with horrors more intense the deeper you traverse.
I'm repulsed by my own cowardice as I do sit
idly by staring and allow it to grow worse.
I am, as a Roman poet 'n guide once said;
'che visser sanza ‘nfamia e sanza lodo'.
Should Dante know what awaits the dead
I'd expect a warm place due to my motto.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
As metaphore, christian-based mythology and literature still has it's use. (Though that's about it.) Inspired by Dante's inferno.
hatethere isn't a "we", there is just an...
lacking the architectural structure of the mind
where visions bre ak like waves in the sea
it isn't just the regrettable lies
where each breadth becomes farther to breathe
it's the noise that becomes deafening
where lights flicker like the star of the moon
voices echo in coloseums that tremble
hands clasping hands and the sweat falls expectantly
why haven't we murdered our brothers ?
why haven't we raped our mothers ?
why haven't we sung our songs ?
is this not our treading breath ?
is this not our deepening grave ?
is this not our trampled flags ?
there isn't a "we", there is just an...
another lynching has taken place
bullets bitten by the hands that feed
the homeless become the wealthy
and gold turns into the mud beneath
our feet
children are weeping for their fathers
who have gone off to a war they'll lose
the aborted are weeping for their mothers
to a hell they'll forever burn
because
the Christianâ,,¢ is impeaching the world
for all the sins they commit
they blame the president for not being
white enough
Earth may survive
but where will we be ?
the animals may survive
perhaps that's how it should be ?
there isn't a "we", there is just an...
US
David Garrett Arnold
July 06 2014
-Nam
Crashing to my right,
sea mist reaches the sky.
The seawall holds firm.
"Identity" By Brian37(also posted at Rationalresponders.com)
I am a Muslim
I am a Jew
I am a German
I am a Hindu
I am from India
I am from Mexico
I am from America
I am from Morocco
I am Japanese
I am Chinese
I am Native American
I am Aborigine
I am the universe
I am much older
I'll be around
After the smolder
Of this planet
When it dies
There will be no record
Of our species tribes
What is important
Is here and now
And the only "Identity"
That I value
Is that of human
We are all
On one planet
Our only home
You need to edit it. "Idinia" for example. That's the only spelling error but...
-Nam
My word pad doesn't have spellcheck, and my keyboard is fucked up so I like to hit submit before I lose something.
So many poets that are so good, but still I haven't understood. Little lies, and big bad truths. The dripping of tears, from many fears, all for nothing in my ears. Once upon a morning clearly, while I wondered dumb and teary. I saw the light, and took a flight, into heavenly bliss, of sleeps wonderful kiss from poetry's might. Seriously, good poetry guys! Solitary
Awesome one yourself.
:biggrin2: That was nice. Thanks!
Slightly off topic: I think I was a bit hasty on my seawall haiku... it's now facing back to back hurricanes. Probably won't be holding the sea back now :P.
it's all just a story
I don't know if I am stuck in forever
if this will be the breath that I shall
always breathe
as if encompassed upon all thoughts
or all conclusions
that I'll ever have in my life
from now on until the day I breathe
my last breath
that I will be stuck in this period
of time
this moment that seems to go on forever for me
that never ends
as each moment never ends
in the solitude of one-dimensions
like darkness
it consists and rests
but
is it really there in the end?
I don't know if I am stuck or I am just
jammed in a hole that has no in
or no out
just a middle
that's what it feels like to me
a middle
and it will never end
it will never
end
I feel
thoughts
period of inclusion that isn't included
a book that is left on the ground
and is picked up by a stranger
though the stranger isn't really a stranger
but your best friend
or a friend that you considered to
be your best friend or
one
of your best friends at one
point/moment in your life
or is that one moment in time?
quagmire of sorts I feel
but
it still hinges there
as if it won't ever let
go
and you ponder
and you
ponder
and nothing comes to you
because the book is blank
but only to you
when your friend picks it
up
it tells a story
a story that you just can't seem
to finish
and you just can't remember
if it
ever had a beginning and you ask
yourself
do beginnings have endings?
and if they do
why isn't there an ending to your beginning?
he (or whoever) picks up the book
that seems to have been discarded on a lonely road
there are many people on that road
you just can't see them
and they can't see you
for they
only exist in their own realities
as you
only exist in your own reality
the reality that there is an ending
and that you are already there
and there is joy
or
sadness
but either way it is joy
because it's the ending
he picks up the book
and he opens it up and reads it
and it is about love
as they all are - love I mean
they are all about love
some type of love
some type of disgust from love
and the stories all seem to be the same
they really are the same
but different in ways
some are lost stories
some
are found stories
some are just stories
and they mean nothing
not even to the person who wrote it
or to the person it is for
it is just there for comfort
it is just there
and there is no letting go
you just wish to let go
but you just can't seem to let
go
though you wish to
and you repeat the action
until your fingers let loose
and there is nothing
left
not even your brain
just your heart
and it beats too slow
always too slow
he reads this book and
he sees it is about a girl
a girl that is unknown to the
person
who wrote the book
but known to the person
who is reading
the book as well
and why?
because they are friends
or used to be
or still are
and they just don't know
it
or maybe it's a past
a content past
of solitude
that leaves one nude
from everyday life
he knows her
and he knows who wrote the
book
at least he pretends he does
at least the writer pretends
that he does
as well
quagmire - comes back to that
forthcoming and un-ending
pretending and contemplating
it's all just run a-rounds
but the birds are all
who are running a-round
he reads the book
as if
in some manner
he wrote it himself
and he cries tears
but he doesn't know why he is crying these tears
he wishes to know why
but he doesn't
maybe it's sorrow
maybe he felt the same way about this girl
and just didn't know the words
to tell her
like the words written in this unknown book
filled page to page
about a girl
a girl first seen through the eyes of a loving
but a violent
yes a violent soul
why violent?
that's how some souls are: violent
but she calmed it down
and made this writer see peace
that he never knew existed
but there are no names
in this book
no names mentioned
so
how does the reader
who could be the writer
but just
as well be the reader
know
deep down who this is written about?
do the words entwine themselves into her image?
are they in her image?
he wonders this himself
(the reader of course
the writer
knows who it is about
but though he sees nothing written in the book
he sees her
as if she had never left his eyes
as if she travelled into his dreams
and told him
to love her
and told him
to hate her
and told him
to give up on her
and told him
to love her
and told him
that years have passed
though they only
seem
like mere seconds
and she wants to love him
but it would be false
and he thinks this for her
because after all
she is just his imagination
since she is just a dream
a figment
of his own reality
but
he sees her)
the image of her is there
in the dog-ears
in the crackle of his throat
and the reader can
read this
the reader can hear this
the reader knows
who the writer is
he met him in a lifetime that
has passed
and he does know the girl
and her name
is in in his brain
but he just can't remember
or maybe he chooses to not remember
for the sake of the writer
continued thoughts
the sun is the moon
the moon is the sun
the stars are children
and the earth seems to not even exist
not in the mindset of time
it as well is just a figment
a dream
and when the writer
wakes up
nothing will exist
as if he died in some way
or maybe he didn't die
but time died
and if time died
then she never existed
and the traveller never
persisted beyond the
boundaries of dog-ears
and friends that no one knew
or couldn't remember
and the writer wasn't born
he never had parents
or grandparents
or siblings
or even a pet
he just never existed
and he never fell in love
he never
no he never fell in love
with a girl he wrote about
in an empty book
and why is it still empty?
because still he can't see what he wrote
for her
he can't smell her hair
or see her smile
he can't taste her lips
though he never tasted them before
but the thought
is there
the thought is always there
he just wants
just wants
or pretends to want
or doesn't want
because he doesn't exist
or she doesn't exist
or nothing exists
did anything ever exist
he's not asking
nor wanting to know
so the reader doesn't need to answer
and the reader knows who the reader is
or does the reader know?
probably not
do they ever?
there are no words
there never were any words
just pictures
just photograph's
just time
that never ended
just a book stuck in the middle of nowhere
everything is stuck in the
middle of nowhere
just ask everyone who has ever loved
or thinks they have loved
or knows they have loved
or lost a love
or haven't lost a love
or wanted to lose a love
just ask
and they will tell you
that this writer isn't alone
even the reader has been there
or will be there
even she has been there
or hasn't and he pretends she has
or she has and she pretends she hasn't
and all three of them
like everyone else
in the entire world
don't really see the words
they
aren't there - nothing is there - nothing is here - nothing exists
it's all a faery-tale
and that is what the writer wants to believe
for if everything is a faery-tale
does the writer really have a broken heart?
and if he does
did he cause it or did the notion of her cause it?
he knows she didn't cause it
or doesn't want to believe she caused it
or thinks that maybe when she made him cry
that she meant to hurt him
and he never got over it
or maybe it was all always in his mind
and he always thought with
his mind
and he never thought with his heart
and he never listened to his soul
and thus
he lost her
from his own ignorance
from his own fear
from his own pitiful disguises
and she and the reader
just laughed at him
or he thought they did
or thinks they do
and paranoia is just an occurrence of subtlety
and the love is gone
he just doesn't know it
or can't fathom to know it
so he continues on loving her
though she doesn't love him
and probably had never loved him
for she was young and he was naive
or he was young and she was naive
and in the end
when there is an end
it's all just a story
David Garrett Arnold
April 30 2004
-Nam
:super:
http://lit.genius.com/William-shakespeare-the-seven-ages-of-man-annotated
Quote
The Seven Ages of Man
William Shakespeare
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.
And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound.
Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
And you were there
Sheltering underneath
a flickering vacancy sign
stands a lonely Kansas girl.
Red lips, red dress, ruby shoes.
Sad eyes speak: "No place like home."
I lose all instantaneously:
my heart, brain and courage.
Someone told me I should post this poem on here... so here it is :)
My God, My God
There once was a girl, poisoned by life and left alone,
rescued by God, the God of men.
all she knew to do, between the cry, between the moan,
was dripped into her by men, by kin.
from a booth, of truth and hidden lies,
it said if she believed, she'd own the skies.
and far from fear, was hope of happiness,
So she happily believed, hit or miss.
but happiness never came, only mistakes and harm,
and each new problem brought another one.
happiness waited just out of reach,
as God sucked her dry like a leach.
She stood by a cliff, surrounded by God's men.
Yelling at her, "SIN SIN SIN!"
All at once she fell from the cliff,
she became weightless, no longer stiff,
She looked up as she fell from the lies,
she took up heart, and started to fly.
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on August 11, 2014, 12:54:37 PM
And you were there
Sheltering underneath
a flickering vacancy sign
stands a lonely Kansas girl.
Red lips, red dress, ruby shoes.
Sad eyes speak: "No place like home."
I lose all instantaneously:
my heart, brain and courage.
I like it. Simple and emotive. I can identify with the theme, because, as I understood it, it's a universal one.
Quote from: renasimplified on August 14, 2014, 10:33:06 PM
Someone told me I should post this poem on here... so here it is :)
My God, My God
There once was a girl, poisoned by life and left alone,
rescued by God, the God of men.
all she knew to do, between the cry, between the moan,
was dripped into her by men, by kin.
from a booth, of truth and hidden lies,
it said if she believed, she'd own the skies.
and far from fear, was hope of happiness,
So she happily believed, hit or miss.
but happiness never came, only mistakes and harm,
and each new problem brought another one.
happiness waited just out of reach,
as God sucked her dry like a leach.
She stood by a cliff, surrounded by God's men.
Yelling at her, "SIN SIN SIN!"
All at once she fell from the cliff,
she became weightless, no longer stiff,
She looked up as she fell from the lies,
she took up heart, and started to fly.
Wow. What can I say? I had to reread it before it sunk in for me. Great poem.
OK. I just noticed that we are about a month away from the first anniversary of "The Poetry Thread."
I would like to challenge everyone to write a poem to post on September 15th. Something new. Just consider your audience, and try to be relevant to the forum.
And no, Brian, it doesn't have to rhyme. :blahblah: :rotflmao: :naughty:
True Lies, By Brian37 (also posted at www.rationalresponders. com in my poetry thread link listed in my sig)
Tumble tumble
Down the stairs
Rat a tat tat
Only bad guys die
Blame the owner
When things go wrong
General Motors
Was held responsible
Instructor dead
A girl traumatized
Gun manufactures
Sell True Lies
They want our highways
And public roads
With no street lights
Or stop signs
A free for all
Is what they want
For shear profit
At all costs
"Controlled environment"
At a gun range
Yet it still happened
Because of "True Lies"
Liberals do not
To get rid of all guns
Just some sanity
Instead of "True Lies"
You don't need an Uzi
To shoot a deer
You don't need an assault riffle
To protect your house
The police do not need
Tanks or gear
This is the industry
Selling fear
This is about profit
And nothing more
About a lobby
That does not care.
I heard my mother pray.
"Be my light in the dark."
And I came beside her to say.
"Be my darkness in the light."
The Shadow March
We are the ice people. Of the world of Grey.
We lived in darkness, said those of the Dey.
They came, riding the fireflies.
“We’ve told ourselves terrible lies.â€
Dancing among them, a Great Light.
It was great, and white and bright.
But as it neared us, it stung.
Our crops it killed and left hung.
We begged them take the Light and go.
The people of the Light were confused
But it was slight; they were amused
At our concern, at our growing fright.
It proved that they were right.
We retreated and they approached
The light came closer, larger; and they coached
On how to make it not burn
We would know and we would turn.
First close your eye.
What the eye tells is a lie.
What it tells not is right.
Now step towards the light.
We did, and there was the burn.
And in time, we did turn.
We saw our buildings were boiling,
Our melting ice trees foiling.
And we begged them take the Light and go.
But they approached, faster
And the light circled after
To our horror it grew and grew
We saw our village became a stew.
We begged them take the light and go.
But they approached and they were mad.
This was proof that we were bad.
And we quickened and quickened.
And the Great Light made us sickened.
But they approached faster and faster
And the light circled after
And we smoldered and fried
And hundreds of us died.
But they approached faster and faster
The people of the Light circled after.
Then we happened among the moonflies,
They too had told themselves lies.
There were other peoples with other Lights.
The retreating moonflies proved that they were right.
My name is Dancer: I spoke to the moonflies.
I said, “Let us tell each other lies.â€
We rode the moonflies, and then we fled.
We were offered the sickened Light and instead
Began the shadow march away,
To a darker place to stay.
I posted this poem I wrote, recently on a site for deconverts...
All This Time
All this time
I spent chasing You
When I could've spent it
Chasing my dreams
All this time
I spent trusting in Your Word
When I could've spent it
Trusting my intuition
All this time
I spent in church
Waiting, praying, hoping
For You to show up
All this time
I spent on my knees
When I could've spent it
Dancing or swimming or something else
All this time
I spent feeling guilty
When I could've spent it
Planting a garden
All this time
I spent loving You
When I could've spent it
Loving myself
In honor of the one year anniversary of this thread. Thanks for starting it Solomon.
P.S. I do hope it's the 15th in America already. It is where I live and I don't have much time for the rest of the day.
The Oddysey
A battered boat in the eye of a great storm,
with wailing winds and waves without wholesome form
fighting our craft through forceful insanity,
providing clouds on our course for clarity.
Plagued by plagues of creatures from the dark deep sea,
both mythological, in our odyssey,
and their real sirens; desiring reaction
who are to us foe, victim and distraction.
Among the crew heated arguments do rise
when the ominous ocean offers no lies.
Swiftly disbands the bond of community
replaced by weary whispers of mutiny.
For us present pirates who seek precious truth
atop our known cargo of forbidden fruit
need the Cyclops, even the circe and more
to keep us longing for those logical shores.
Yet a careful glance thrown at those on our ark,
tells me that this quest on which we did embark
can reach Ithaka's Penelope waiting,
through our modest love for honest debating.
Yes, my days upon this vessel are well spent,
for in this hull of free minds I feel content
to sit and talk with you as for truth we roam
to find out what lies in this most epic poem.
Brave friends, Troy's walls of ignorance are no more.
After a long fight, we waltzed right through the door.
And though our voyage home may truly be odd,
we won the war and can travel free of god.
Quote from: Deidre32 on September 11, 2014, 06:07:06 PM
I posted this poem I wrote, recently on a site for deconverts...
All This Time
All this time
I spent chasing You
When I could've spent it
Chasing my dreams
All this time
I spent trusting in Your Word
When I could've spent it
Trusting my intuition
All this time
I spent in church
Waiting, praying, hoping
For You to show up
All this time
I spent on my knees
When I could've spent it
Dancing or swimming or something else
All this time
I spent feeling guilty
When I could've spent it
Planting a garden
All this time
I spent loving You
When I could've spent it
Loving myself
Great Poem, Deidre! :clap: Really evokes a strong emotion. Thanks for sharing it.
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on September 15, 2014, 03:41:25 AM
In honor of the one year anniversary of this thread. Thanks for starting it Solomon.
P.S. I do hope it's the 15th in America already. It is where I live and I don't have much time for the rest of the day.
The Oddysey
A battered boat in the eye of a great storm,
with wailing winds and waves without wholesome form
fighting our craft through forceful insanity,
providing clouds on our course for clarity.
Plagued by plagues of creatures from the dark deep sea,
both mythological, in our odyssey,
and their real sirens; desiring reaction
who are to us foe, victim and distraction.
Among the crew heated arguments do rise
when the ominous ocean offers no lies.
Swiftly disbands the bond of community
replaced by weary whispers of mutiny.
For us present pirates who seek precious truth
atop our known cargo of forbidden fruit
need the Cyclops, even the circe and more
to keep us longing for those logical shores.
Yet a careful glance thrown at those on our ark,
tells me that this quest on which we did embark
can reach Ithaka's Penelope waiting,
through our modest love for honest debating.
Yes, my days upon this vessel are well spent,
for in this hull of free minds I feel content
to sit and talk with you as for truth we roam
to find out what lies in this most epic poem.
Brave friends, Troy's walls of ignorance are no more.
After a long fight, we waltzed right through the door.
And though our voyage home may truly be odd,
we won the war and can travel free of god.
I like it better on the second reading. Very good. Thanks for meeting the challenge!
In celebration of the Poetry thread first anniversary, here's one I just finished. It's a little off-topic, but it's the best I can do at the moment.
“Waiting for the Sequelâ€
Solomon Zorn
Heartache pang,
Our Yin and Yang
Were action and reaction.
Heavy sigh,
For you and I
Are lacking interaction.
So why is it,
We don't visit?
Seems it's been forever.
Sun goes down,
Your golden crown
Is turning into silver.
Still, to me,
You'll always be
My perfect life companion.
Age and grace
Will shape your face,
Until our next reunion.
One more year,
I still don't hear
Your voice's simple magic.
Not to try,
Before we die,
Would certainly be tragic.
It's no sin,
Our Yang and Yin
Are opposite and equal.
If we dare,
Our love affair
Could one day write a sequel.
Quote from: Solomon Zorn on September 15, 2014, 06:59:26 AM
Great Poem, Deidre! :clap: Really evokes a strong emotion. Thanks for sharing it.
Thank you so much! :)
I really like ''Waiting for the Sequel'' ... you are talented!
This is one of my favorite poems. It always gives me a good chuckle.
QuoteI'm not grass
Why do you step on my heart
I'm so not grass
You treat me like grass
Do I look green
no
Only on roast beef day
Do I look "grassy"
no
Only when I go out side aka
Never
So I'm not grass go away don't mess with my feelings
http://allpoetry.com/poem/10970961-Im-not-grass-by-arianabootytiara
Also another one of this author's is
QuotePizza
Rough when you touch
Soft when you bite
maybe it's the way it's made
yum
ooh
ah
pizza
[[cue snaps]]
http://allpoetry.com/poem/10971005-Pizza-by-arianabootytiara
All young debaters over the belief
Of the soul’s immortality delusion,
I who lie here was the village idiot,
Talkative, contentious, versed in the arguments conclusion.
Of the atheists no Gods relief.
But after a long sickness of superstitious not
of unbearable pain I welcomed para nirvana.
I read the Upanishads and the poetry of Christ.
And they lighted a torch of hope and wisdom's savanna,
And desire within the Shadow of death's heist,
Leading me swiftly through the abyss of darkness,
Could not be extinguished for evermore.
Listen to me, you who live in realities starkness,
And think of realities only door:
Immortality is not a gift of magical business ,
Immortality is an achievement from living;
And only those who strive to live life to the fullest
Shall possess it's giving.
I must be the only person I know who when I read poetry I just shrug which isn't a knock on poetry, just that it doesn't often do anything for me.. Take no offence.. I've always been this way. I'm a prose kinda guy I guess.
Quote from: Solitary on September 19, 2014, 04:55:56 PM
All young debaters over the belief
Of the soul’s immortality delusion,
I who lie here was the village idiot,
Talkative, contentious, versed in the arguments conclusion.
Of the atheists no Gods relief.
But after a long sickness of superstitious not
of unbearable pain I welcomed para nirvana.
I read the Upanishads and the poetry of Christ.
And they lighted a torch of hope and wisdom's savanna,
And desire within the Shadow of death's heist,
Leading me swiftly through the abyss of darkness,
Could not be extinguished for evermore.
Listen to me, you who live in realities starkness,
And think of realities only door:
Immortality is not a gift of magical business ,
Immortality is an achievement from living;
And only those who strive to live life to the fullest
Shall possess it's giving.
One caveat "Living life to the fullest", to me does not mean being a workoholic, or outdoor sports nut or travel nut. It simply means to me, be yourself.
Other than that it was a great poem.
There once was a girl from Leads who swallowed two packets of seeds....... I don't remember the rest..
Dictator, By Brian37(AKA Brian James Rational Poet)
Never elected
Needs no consent
Laws unchangeable
Crushes dissent,
A manifestation
Of human desires
Their dear leader
Fights all outsiders
The call to loyalty
Thus he demands
A scorched earth
Is where it all ends
He set it up
Forced your existence
All to obey
To do his bidding
Maladroitness
Albatross strangles
Invisible chains
All enslave
Bring the bolt cutters
Of question and querry
Bring all reason
Ridicule and blasphemy
He has no chance
Under scrutiny
Employ freethought
Set your mind free
.......END..........
Also posted at my home poetry thread last page of the thread link location listed in the following link.
http://www.rationalresponders.com/forum/31771
after Lucretius I can't read atheist poetry. If the point can't be made in four lines succinctly and decisively no one other than atheists will bother with it and why preach to the choir?
Quote from: aitm on September 20, 2014, 08:39:33 AM
after Lucretius I can't read atheist poetry. If the point can't be made in four lines succinctly and decisively no one other than atheists will bother with it and why preach to the choir?
Really? Um please do not decide for others what they should do and why they write it or how they write it. It is written for everyone to read and people have different motivations and styles and the readers always respond to different poems for different reasons.
Everyone here is an individual and every poem is individual. If you want to write your own stuff do so, other than that, food critics, movie critics and book critics are a dime a dozen and poetry is no different.
ATM, you are going to love this one:
Quote
An Essay on Criticism
Alexander Pope
'Tis hard to say, if greater Want of Skill
Appear in Writing or in Judging ill,
But, of the two, less dang'rous is th' Offence,
To tire our Patience, than mis-lead our Sense:
Some few in that, but Numbers err in this,
Ten Censure wrong for one who Writes amiss;
A Fool might once himself alone expose,
Now One in Verse makes many more in Prose.
'Tis with our Judgments as our Watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critick's Share;
Both must alike from Heav'n derive their Light,
These born to Judge, as well as those to Write.
Let such teach others who themselves excell,
And censure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their Wit, 'tis true,
But are not Criticks to their Judgment too?
Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the Seeds of Judgment in their Mind;
Nature affords at least a glimm'ring Light;
The Lines, tho' touch'd but faintly, are drawn right.
But as the slightest Sketch, if justly trac'd,
Is by ill Colouring but the more disgrac'd,
So by false Learning is good Sense defac'd.
Some are bewilder'd in the Maze of Schools,
And some made Coxcombs Nature meant but Fools.
In search of Wit these lose their common Sense,
And then turn Criticks in their own Defence.
Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write,
Or with a Rival's or an Eunuch's spite.
All Fools have still an Itching to deride,
And fain wou'd be upon the Laughing Side;
If Maevius Scribble in Apollo's spight,
There are, who judge still worse than he can write
When first young Maro in his boundless Mind
A Work t' outlast Immortal Rome design'd,
Perhaps he seem'd above the Critick's Law,
And but from Nature's Fountains scorn'd to draw:
But when t'examine ev'ry Part he came,
Nature and Homer were, he found, the same:
Convinc'd, amaz'd, he checks the bold Design,
And Rules as strict his labour'd Work confine,
As if the Stagyrite o'er looked each Line.
Learn hence for Ancient Rules a just Esteem;
To copy Nature is to copy Them.
Some Beauties yet, no Precepts can declare,
For there's a Happiness as well as Care.
Musick resembles Poetry, in each
Are nameless Graces which no Methods teach,
And which a Master-Hand alone can reach.
If, where the Rules not far enough extend,
(Since Rules were made but to promote their End)
Some Lucky LICENCE answers to the full
Th' Intent propos'd, that Licence is a Rule.
Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take,
May boldly deviate from the common Track.
Great Wits sometimes may gloriously offend,
And rise to Faults true Criticks dare not mend;
From vulgar Bounds with brave Disorder part,
And snatch a Grace beyond the Reach of Art,
Which, without passing thro' the Judgment, gains
The Heart, and all its End at once attains.
In Prospects, thus, some Objects please our Eyes,
Which out of Nature's common Order rise,
The shapeless Rock, or hanging Precipice.
But tho' the Ancients thus their Rules invade,
(As Kings dispense with Laws Themselves have made)
Moderns, beware! Or if you must offend
Against the Precept, ne'er transgress its End,
Let it be seldom, and compell'd by Need,
And have, at least, Their Precedent to plead.
The Critick else proceeds without Remorse,
Seizes your Fame, and puts his Laws in force.
I know there are, to whose presumptuous Thoughts
Those Freer Beauties, ev'n in Them, seem Faults:
Some Figures monstrous and mis-shap'd appear,
Consider'd singly, or beheld too near,
Which, but proportion'd to their Light, or Place,
Due Distance reconciles to Form and Grace.
A prudent Chief not always must display
His Pow'rs in equal Ranks, and fair Array,
But with th' Occasion and the Place comply,
Conceal his Force, nay seem sometimes to Fly.
Those oft are Stratagems which Errors seem,
Nor is it Homer Nods, but We that Dream.
Still green with Bays each ancient Altar stands,
Above the reach of Sacrilegious Hands,
Secure from Flames, from Envy's fiercer Rage,
Destructive War, and all-involving Age.
See, from each Clime the Learn'd their Incense bring;
Hear, in all Tongues consenting Paeans ring!
In Praise so just, let ev'ry Voice be join'd,
And fill the Gen'ral Chorus of Mankind!
Hail Bards Triumphant! born in happier Days;
Immortal Heirs of Universal Praise!
Whose Honours with Increase of Ages grow,
As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow!
Nations unborn your mighty Names shall sound,
And Worlds applaud that must not yet be found!
Oh may some Spark of your Coelestial Fire
The last, the meanest of your Sons inspire,
(That on weak Wings, from far, pursues your Flights;
Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes)
To teach vain Wits a Science little known,
T' admire Superior Sense, and doubt their own!
Of all the Causes which conspire to blind
Man's erring Judgment, and misguide the Mind,
What the weak Head with strongest Byass rules,
Is Pride, the never-failing Vice of Fools.
Whatever Nature has in Worth deny'd,
She gives in large Recruits of needful Pride;
For as in Bodies, thus in Souls, we find
What wants in Blood and Spirits, swell'd with Wind;
Pride, where Wit fails, steps in to our Defence,
And fills up all the mighty Void of Sense!
If once right Reason drives that Cloud away,
Truth breaks upon us with resistless Day;
Trust not your self; but your Defects to know,
Make use of ev'ry Friend--and ev'ry Foe.
A little Learning is a dang'rous Thing;
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring:
There shallow Draughts intoxicate the Brain,
And drinking largely sobers us again.
Fir'd at first Sight with what the Muse imparts,
In fearless Youth we tempt the Heights of Arts,
While from the bounded Level of our Mind,
Short Views we take, nor see the lengths behind,
But more advanc'd, behold with strange Surprize
New, distant Scenes of endless Science rise!
So pleas'd at first, the towring Alps we try,
Mount o'er the Vales, and seem to tread the Sky;
Th' Eternal Snows appear already past,
And the first Clouds and Mountains seem the last:
But those attain'd, we tremble to survey
The growing Labours of the lengthen'd Way,
Th' increasing Prospect tires our wandering Eyes,
Hills peep o'er Hills, and Alps on Alps arise!
A perfect Judge will read each Work of Wit
With the same Spirit that its Author writ,
Survey the Whole, nor seek slight Faults to find,
Where Nature moves, and Rapture warms the Mind;
Nor lose, for that malignant dull Delight,
The gen'rous Pleasure to be charm'd with Wit.
But in such Lays as neither ebb, nor flow,
Correctly cold, and regularly low,
That shunning Faults, one quiet Tenour keep;
We cannot blame indeed--but we may sleep.
In Wit, as Nature, what affects our Hearts
Is nor th' Exactness of peculiar Parts;
'Tis not a Lip, or Eye, we Beauty call,
But the joint Force and full Result of all.
Thus when we view some well-proportion'd Dome,
The World's just Wonder, and ev'n thine O Rome!)
No single Parts unequally surprize;
All comes united to th' admiring Eyes;
No monstrous Height, or Breadth, or Length appear;
The Whole at once is Bold, and Regular.
Whoever thinks a faultless Piece to see,
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.
In ev'ry Work regard the Writer's End,
Since none can compass more than they Intend;
And if the Means be just, the Conduct true,
Applause, in spite of trivial Faults, is due.
As Men of Breeding, sometimes Men of Wit,
T' avoid great Errors, must the less commit,
Neglect the Rules each Verbal Critick lays,
For not to know some Trifles, is a Praise.
Most Criticks, fond of some subservient Art,
Still make the Whole depend upon a Part,
They talk of Principles, but Notions prize,
And All to one lov'd Folly Sacrifice.
Once on a time, La Mancha's Knight, they say,
A certain Bard encountring on the Way,
Discours'd in Terms as just, with Looks as Sage,
As e'er cou'd Dennis, of the Grecian Stage;
Concluding all were desp'rate Sots and Fools,
Who durst depart from Aristotle's Rules.
Our Author, happy in a Judge so nice,
Produc'd his Play, and beg'd the Knight's Advice,
Made him observe the Subject and the Plot,
The Manners, Passions, Unities, what not?
All which, exact to Rule were brought about,
Were but a Combate in the Lists left out.
What! Leave the Combate out? Exclaims the Knight;
Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite.
Not so by Heav'n (he answers in a Rage)
Knights, Squires, and Steeds, must enter on the Stage.
So vast a Throng the Stage can ne'er contain.
Then build a New, or act it in a Plain.
Thus Criticks, of less Judgment than Caprice,
Curious, not Knowing, not exact, but nice,
Form short Ideas; and offend in Arts
(As most in Manners) by a Love to Parts.
Some to Conceit alone their Taste confine,
And glitt'ring Thoughts struck out at ev'ry Line;
Pleas'd with a Work where nothing's just or fit;
One glaring Chaos and wild Heap of Wit;
Poets like Painters, thus, unskill'd to trace
The naked Nature and the living Grace,
With Gold and Jewels cover ev'ry Part,
And hide with Ornaments their Want of Art.
True Wit is Nature to Advantage drest,
What oft was Thought, but ne'er so well Exprest,
Something, whose Truth convinc'd at Sight we find,
That gives us back the Image of our Mind:
As Shades more sweetly recommend the Light,
So modest Plainness sets off sprightly Wit:
For Works may have more Wit than does 'em good,
As Bodies perish through Excess of Blood.
Others for Language all their Care express,
And value Books, as Women Men, for Dress:
Their Praise is still--The Stile is excellent:
The Sense, they humbly take upon Content.
Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound,
Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.
False Eloquence, like the Prismatic Glass,
Its gawdy Colours spreads on ev'ry place;
The Face of Nature was no more Survey,
All glares alike, without Distinction gay:
But true Expression, like th' unchanging Sun,
Clears, and improves whate'er it shines upon,
It gilds all Objects, but it alters none.
Expression is the Dress of Thought, and still
Appears more decent as more suitable;
A vile Conceit in pompous Words exprest,
Is like a Clown in regal Purple drest;
For diff'rent Styles with diff'rent Subjects sort,
As several Garbs with Country, Town, and Court.
Some by Old Words to Fame have made Pretence;
Ancients in Phrase, meer Moderns in their Sense!
Such labour'd Nothings, in so strange a Style,
Amaze th'unlearn'd, and make the Learned Smile.
Unlucky, as Fungoso in the Play,
These Sparks with aukward Vanity display
What the Fine Gentleman wore Yesterday!
And but so mimick ancient Wits at best,
As Apes our Grandsires in their Doublets treat.
In Words, as Fashions, the same Rule will hold;
Alike Fantastick, if too New, or Old;
Be not the first by whom the New are try'd,
Nor yet the last to lay the Old aside.
Some praise at Morning what they blame at Night;
But always think the last Opinion right.
A Muse by these is like a Mistress us'd,
This hour she's idoliz'd, the next abus'd,
While their weak Heads, like Towns unfortify'd,
'Twixt Sense and Nonsense daily change their Side.
Ask them the Cause; They're wiser still, they say;
And still to Morrow's wiser than to Day.
We think our Fathers Fools, so wise we grow;
Our wiser Sons, no doubt, will think us so.
Once School-Divines this zealous Isle o'erspread;
Who knew most Sentences was deepest read;
Faith, Gospel, All, seem'd made to be disputed,
And none had Sense enough to be Confuted.
Scotists and Thomists, now, in Peace remain,
Amidst their kindred Cobwebs in Duck-Lane.
If Faith it self has diff'rent Dresses worn,
What wonder Modes in Wit shou'd take their Turn?
Oft, leaving what is Natural and fit,
The current Folly proves the ready Wit,
And Authors think their Reputation safe,
Which lives as long as Fools are pleas'd to Laugh.
Unhappy Wit, like most mistaken Things,
Attones not for that Envy which it brings.
In Youth alone its empty Praise we boast,
But soon the Short-liv'd Vanity is lost!
Like some fair Flow'r the early Spring supplies,
That gaily Blooms, but ev'n in blooming Dies.
What is this Wit which must our Cares employ?
The Owner's Wife, that other Men enjoy,
Then most our Trouble still when most admir'd,
And still the more we give, the more requir'd;
Whose Fame with Pains we guard, but lose with Ease,
Sure some to vex, but never all to please;
'Tis what the Vicious fear, the Virtuous shun;
By Fools 'tis hated, and by Knaves undone!
If Wit so much from Ign'rance undergo,
Ah let not Learning too commence its Foe!
Of old, those met Rewards who cou'd excel,
And such were Prais'd who but endeavour'd well:
Tho' Triumphs were to Gen'rals only due,
Crowns were reserv'd to grace the Soldiers too.
Now, they who reached Parnassus' lofty Crown,
Employ their Pains to spurn some others down;
And while Self-Love each jealous Writer rules,
Contending Wits becomes the Sport of Fools:
But still the Worst with most Regret commend,
For each Ill Author is as bad a Friend.
To what base Ends, and by what abject Ways,
Are Mortals urg'd thro' Sacred Lust of praise!
Ah ne'er so dire a Thirst of Glory boast,
Nor in the Critick let the Man be lost!
Good-Nature and Good-Sense must ever join;
To err is Humane; to Forgive, Divine.
This is edited and cut from a much larger one. :eek: :lol:
Quote from: AllPurposeAtheist on September 19, 2014, 05:37:16 PM
There once was a girl from Leads who swallowed two packets of seeds....... I don't remember the rest..
There once was a MAN from Nantucket
Whose d*ck was so long, he could suck it.
He said with a grin
As he rubbed on his chin
"If my ear were a c**t, I could f**k it. :tongue: :lol:
We already have a poetry thread.
*merge*
The Dark Room, By Brian37(AKA Brian James Rational Poet)
In your infancy
Your Iris fooled you
Kailedescope apiture
Gaps of the fool
Incert your film
Of ignorance
Only to develope
Utter nonsense
The broken camera
Was never there
The exposed film
Still unaware
The red light
Outside the door
Warns others
Not to enter
Open that door
There is nothing there
Open that door
Nothing to fear
Tis the con man
That dwells within
Holding no tools
Of real observation
It is the dark room
Empty and void
No real pictures
Ever emerge
........end......
Aso available in this thread link..........
http://www.rationalresponders.com/forum/31771
Quote from: Solitary on September 20, 2014, 11:54:05 AM
ATM, you are going to love this one:
An Essay on Criticism
Alexander Pope...
...This is edited and cut from a much larger one. :eek: :lol:
I've never read the whole thing, but it took him three years to write it.
A Pennie For Your Thoughts, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB & Twitter)
The Union Jack
Never holds back
A sailor's language
She does not lack
Her body ravaged
In the same way
By crimes of men
Has had cancer too
Yet even with that
She does not want
Anyone at all
To feel sorry for her
She'll fight back
With Hitchens fervor
Razor sharp bluntness
She'll run you over
Not out of hate
Not out of anger
But freedom from fear
Of what others think of her
And does so too
With no magic
No divine being
To explain anything
The Union Jack
I'll hang out with
Much more fun
Than snooty rich men
She cares not for
Those who judge
No fear in her
Holds back no words
Prefers to party
In jeans and T-shirt
Would be out of place
As a debutant
No no
She's not lawless
Just not shallow
Pretending to be flawless
The Union Jack
Accepts everything
Does not gloss it over
Will tell you what she thinks
(end)
This is a poem about a friend I met last year on FB. She's from the UK and not afraid of telling you exactly what she thinks.
Also available on the last page of my poetry thread listed at Brian Sapient's Rational Responders....
http://www.rationalresponders.com/forum/31771
No Con CERNS, By Brian37(AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)
Do not ask me
To ponder the past
To give superstition
Equal weight
There is a collision
Brought on by question
Destroying absurd
Antiquated pasts
The ship's bosun
Is a petty past
The officer of
Merchants of myth
The real warrent
Is large in pyhysics
Giving Higgs Boson
It's now standard name
Mesons and pions
And keons long before
Discovered in the 40s and 50s
Studying cosmic rays
The study
Of kenetic energy
A game of chicken
Where they don't swereve
The old clip
Of the trains on same track
Aimed at each other
Avoid they cannot
The scientist's boon
Is what it is
To give us insight
On what really is.
Old Main -
To a sky of silver and sapphire the vanilla-walled Chateau reaches; Burgundy capped, touching skies now crystal clear.
From the trees it rises, 300 steps my path above. Yet it beacons not for wealth or opulence, a manor of the sciences it stands. It's spire capped not with the cross but an old metal scale; a cathedral of knowledge.
For a hundred years it's stood vigil, an iconic figure of the estate. Dwarfed in size by it's young, it stands tall and proud, confident and defiant of the modern age it lives.
Do you guyz like haikus at all? If so, I'll post some of mine. <3
Quote from: Deidre32 on October 19, 2014, 04:01:47 PM
Do you guyz like haikus at all? If so, I'll post some of mine. <3
Yes, I do.
Quote from: Deidre32 on October 19, 2014, 04:01:47 PM
Do you guyz like haikus at all? If so, I'll post some of mine. <3
Sure!
To do them well is an art I've never mastered. But I enjoy reading them a lot.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue;
God isn't real,
Fundies eat poo.
Quote from: PickelledEggs on September 20, 2014, 12:40:03 PM
We already have a poetry thread.
*merge*
I think you might be thinking of
this thread, It was originally titled, "Two Poems in One Evening."
Quote from: Solomon Zorn on October 25, 2014, 07:26:31 AM
I think you might be thinking of this thread, It was originally titled, "Two Poems in One Evening."
No someone made another poetry thread. I already merged it though.
Sent from your mom
I wrote this for a friend whose boyfriend died in a car accident, two years ago. She was wrestling with her faith at the time... and I tried to observe through her eyes, her pain.
This Dance
Falling in the dark
Stumbling
Unable to catch my balance
Swaying to the distant melodies
We drip with anticipation
Hungry, but unfed
This wild ride
That winds around
Up and down
Colorful like a carnival
My head spins
Promises in the wind
That never come true
Your mouth meets mine
Frozen, I do nothing
This dance
This romance
Tell me it will never end
Tell me I’m not dreaming
Then, my world explodes
You are gone
Only fragments of you exist in my head
This dance
This romance
Vanishes…
Without a trace
Were you here at all?
He is in a better place
Heaven awaits
Say a prayer
Take care
And, The One will be sure to hear your despair
This ache, this suffering
It would be better to have never met you
Never loved you
This dance
This romance
Sifting through my hands, like a summer rain
Ah, but the heart never lets go
It winds around and holds tight
To even the mundane of all we shared
It won’t let me forget
This dance
This romance
This life
This pain
This suffering
This void
This… breakable heart o’mine
Tell God…I miss you.
Mine from when I was young Ahh nostalgia
I LIVE FOR THE DAY
FOR THE GLORIOUS LIGHT THAT ILLUMINATES THE SOUL AND CREATES DREAMS
FOR THE STORY THAT STILL REMAINS TO BE TOLD
FOR THE NIGHT THAT IS DARK AND MYSTERIOUS
FOR THE BOOK OF FICTION THAT OPENS UP TO BARE REALITY
AND FOR THE PROMISE OF ANOTHER TIME
ANOTHER TALE AND ANOTHER INVENTION
I LIVE FOR THE TRUTH
FOR THE IMPOVERISHED MINDS BEGGING RELEASE
FOR THE WASHED UP BOTTLE ON THE SIDE OF THE SHORE
FOR THE TIME BOMB THAT TICKS RESOLUTELY INSIDE THE DRAGONS MIND
FOR THOSE STRUCK DUMB BY THE FEAR OF THE UNKNOWN
AND FOR THE LOVE AND COURAGE FORSAKED BY MOST
ANOTHER DAWN AND ANOTHER BATTLE
I wrote it years ago. It took me about 50 seconds but I like it somehow
Sorry about the capslocks but I copied it from my facebook and was too lazy to downsize
Don't blame it all on gravity
when the only direction is down
Your life in broken pieces
there laying on the ground.
And every friend you ever had
has quietly slipped away
Nothing to be gained my friend
however hard you pray.
You can wallow in your sadness
and crawl down deep inside
Or shout your name to the world at large
and ride the Ghostwind, ride.
The Ghostwind doesn't judge you
or care from whence you came
But if you listen in the stillness
It'll softly call your name.
And like that distant eagle
on a wide and empty sky
You can seek for new horizons
and ride the Ghostwind, ride.
Fortune decrees your fate, they say
you may not have a choice
You can shake your fists in the face of death
and curse till you have no voice.
Whenever you regret your life
is when you start to die
So shrug off all your failures
and look to the distant sky.
Seek beneath the rubble
to find where your courage lies
Strap life to your belt like a knife-
and ride the Ghostwind, ride.
Stephen Young
Song of My Heart, I wrote this today. Mostly because I am very lonely and afraid.
Song of my heart,
broken wing,
let us part,
falling down,
fields flowing,
winds blowing,
Song of my heart,
broken wing,
A falling start,
no sound,
earth shaking,
walls crumbling,
Song of my heart,
Broken.
Very nice, Rena. A little humor maybe....
Read my lips- Apocalypse!
we're gonna get Raptured into the sky
Don't get rowdy or you won't fly
(you realize there's half a chance
you might get caught in your underpants)
For atheists that has appeal
them suddenly free automobiles!
And don't be sinful, oh my dears!
You'll be stuck here for 7 years!
Who's the Beast? Well, we're not sure
but watch your back and bar the door
Current thinking, fundie trauma
They all swear it must be Obama
You or me? Mmm nope
(although they say it could be the Pope)
Jesus is coming with his angel chorus
riding a horse like ol' Chuck Norris
All us sinners don't have a chance
so for 7 years let's sing and dance!
When Jesus said he was coming soon
Everybody thought- "this afternoon!"
Unfortunately, it appears
he decided to wait 2,000 years
If you're worried (I'm really not)
because us atheists don't worry a lot.
Don't be frettin' and don't be a grousin'
'cause it might take another thousand.
And don't be afraid of what you heard-
Apocalypse is just a word!
Stephen Young
This is my darkest poem yet. I wrote it last weekend. It was inspired by a news story I heard some time ago.
“Fingersâ€
http://www.solomonzorn.com/fingers.html
Nice Zorn.
The Eyes, Voice, And Black Heart Of An Angel
It is the years when from the wows
The Queen of Rock scream is heard;
It is the day---when lover's nows
Seem sweet in every erotic word;
And gentle caresses and bodies near,
Make music to the lovers ear.
Each rose the dews have aerially wet,
And in the heavens with the moon we met,
And on the wave is deeper crimson and blue,
And on the skin a reddish hue,
And in the sky that is mostly obscure
So softly dark hair, and dark eyes pure,
That stalking the never more of day,
As twilight last glowing beneath the moon gone away.
Oh how I miss my Jay Jay my love and soul mate.
Just because I was stupid and didn't show for a date.
Damn, Sol, that's deep. Seeing a whole different person lately. You aren't just a cranky old man after all.. :biggrin:
Thanks! It means a lot coming from you. I didn't know I came across cranky, sorry about that, I only get like that with ignorant people, then I'm more than cranky. Did I ask for your fucking opinion? DID I? Just kidding, that was a response from the person I wrote the poem about, when I told her three years ago I loved her. I didn't know at the time that she kind of did me too. I still do, considering I'm married to the love of my life, it's ridiculous, but love is a form of insanity and being too brave in my opinion. It's idealizing someone that may not be one that should be , like people loving God.
Friendship and lover
Gust! Gust! the winter wind,
You aren't so very kind.
As a bigots ingratitude;
Your fang is not so clean
Because you are not seen,
Although your puff be rude.
You blow! and blow! at the green holly:
Most friendship is counterfeit, most lovers mere folly:
Then, you blast! destroying the holly!
This existence is most jolly.
Frigid, frigid, the bitter sky,
You shall not bite so high.
As advantage forgot:
Though from you the waters part,
Your sting is not so smart.
As friends recollect not.
You blow! yodel blow! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is counterfeit, most lovers mere folly:
Then, you blow the holly!
This existence is most jolly.
Pizza.
You are my love.
You fill me with joy and satisfaction.
How are you not in my stomach today?
I yearn for you.
One day I will see you again.
Sent from your mom
:biggrin: I know what you mean, I so wanted a pizza for supper tonight.
Not mine, but one that feels relevant to my life so far.
"The Lovesong Of J. Alfred Prufrock"
[spoiler]
QuoteS’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?â€
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?†and, “Do I dare?â€
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair â€"
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!â€)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin â€"
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!â€)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them allâ€"
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them allâ€"
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet â€" and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you allâ€â€"
If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.â€
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floorâ€"
And this, and so much more?â€"
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.â€
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculousâ€"
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
[/spoiler]
I forgot that the "Sent from your mom" thing happens when I send things from my phone... lol Whatever it works haha
Peace and Joy
Peace and joy, peace and joy,
Colours and comfort and peace and joy.
Peace and joy, peace and joy,
Love and happiness and bliss and peace.
I glow within and I reach it,
That place of stillness, peace and calm.
Stress melts away, light years away,
And light shines out and colours and scents.
Vivid transformation,
Like a butterfly from a cocoon.
All seems vivid and glowing and peaceful,
Life shines forth in calm repose.
Peace and joy, peace and joy,
Light shines within and darkness does leave me.
I sit in joy, warm peace and glow,
Reach out in contentment, stretch out a hand.
So pleasant to simply be,
Sit at rest, stretch, breathe and wonder.
- Mequa
Maybe we are in a cocoon of illusion, and will become an eternal being, free from suffering and pain. Nice poem!
Quote from: Mequa on November 26, 2014, 02:11:56 AM
Peace and Joy
Peace and joy, peace and joy,
Colours and comfort and peace and joy.
Peace and joy, peace and joy,
Love and happiness and bliss and peace.
I glow within and I reach it,
That place of stillness, peace and calm.
Stress melts away, light years away,
And light shines out and colours and scents.
Vivid transformation,
Like a butterfly from a cocoon.
All seems vivid and glowing and peaceful,
Life shines forth in calm repose.
Peace and joy, peace and joy,
Light shines within and darkness does leave me.
I sit in joy, warm peace and glow,
Reach out in contentment, stretch out a hand.
So pleasant to simply be,
Sit at rest, stretch, breathe and wonder.
- Mequa
I grok you, man.
An Old Man's Anguish And Self Pity
My mental life is a painful chart, drawn by a black rabbit
Under a glowing moon while she perceived it.
Instrument with brass strings, cheeks like jugs.
And eyes bright as the moon, under illicit drugs.
Here there be love lost, buried in the body slim.
Here is the dark cave eyeless fish swim
About their perfect idol so cold.
He wipes away his eyes both salty and old.
A place like the dark side of the moon.
A deserted counntry harsh too soon.
A country savage as a lunatics fury blind.
A land of black witches out of their mind.
Your mental life is as dark as night.
A crimson branch with its clover white.
A lavender as sweet as your words.
A place where love and honor sing like birds,
Throwing golden coins upon a tragic cloth,
A heavy fate and scorn like a doomed moth,
Strumbing and beats your lovely things.
You are the soul, enchanting me with your glorious wings.
The lonely voice whos scream awakens the dead,
To shake the pride of angels, I have said.
Beauty beyond lies
The beauty of the natural world is not bound
to the restrictions of the fantasy of men.
More beyond, rather than within is found
regarding a liar’s or coward’s den.
There is more truth than words can speak
or language can even start to comprehend.
Answers give birth to questions as we seek
the picture in an exploration that can’t end.
But we’ll pass the lit torch none the less;
filled with pride of the works of mankind.
‘Cause though they amount to nothingness,
it’s marvelous what in this world one can find.
Eleven, By Brian37 (aka Brian James Rational Poet on FB and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)
No video of me
When we smashed cars
No video of those
When I witnessed shoplifting
No video of
The fights on my block
In the sports bars
Or frat house parties
No video of
My own parties
Underage drinking
And smoking pot
No video in my young 20s
In the parking lot
Acquaintances
Busted for drinking in public
No video
When pulled over
I was a passenger in a car
Of a guy in no shape
Staten Island
To Ohio
12 year olds
Or in a Walmart
Video or not
What is wrong
There are separate rules
Within our deep denial
A disturbed man
Sitting in a chair
Waves his gun
All around
Another man
Shoots at a lawyer
In front of a court house
For all to see
In both cases
They stay alive
Even with a gun
While others unarmed
Prosecutors
Indict a ham sandwich
Cozy with cops
Video or not
I can't breathe
I can't breathe
I can't breathe
I can't breathe
I can't breathe
I can't breathe
I can't breathe
I can't breathe
I can't breathe
I can't breathe
I can't breathe
Post #517 "Eleven" about Eric Garner, also posted here. http://www.rationalresponders.com/forum/31771?page=10
Strip Mining, (aka Brian James Rational Poet on FB and @brianrrs37 on Twitter)
You are not a shovel
You are not a wrench
You are not there
To simply make them rich
It is all a ploy
Make you sweat
Dangle the carrot
You will never get
Then they throw tantrums
Crying robbery
Merely because you want
Human dignity
Tell me how much
You are suffering
In your downtown penthouse
While the pay gap keeps exploding
Masturbating over
Third world cheap labor
Wanting to replicate it here
Throwing crumbs of cheap oil
In a hunderd years
Your extraction market
Will cost our planet more
And hurt our species more
Quit your strip mining
Quit claiming morality
Merely because of your tax bracket
Making excuses for your greed.
We are not your tools
Merely for you to use
We are not shovels
We are not your dirt
Rise up rise up
Workers arround the world
It is no longer about boarders
It is about our global market
We are being pitted
Against each other
By those with the money
Those with the power
Trickel up is golbal
You and I are shovels
Sold the idea
To be their slave labor
Rise up rise up
Put money it it's place
Not to rid the private sector
Just ot get it to behave
No more strip mining
Humans are not mere numbers
We are not here for you
To simply make you rich.
We are not your tools
Born to make you rich
We are human beings
Who merely want to live
(end)
Also posted at my home poetry thread post #519 here. http://www.rationalresponders.com/forum/31771?page=10
Check out my new poem "Shooting Star" post #520 hosted by Rational Responders here.http://www.rationalresponders.com/forum/31771?page=10
Shooting Star, By Brian37 (aka Brian James Rational Poet on FB and @Brianrrs37"RationalPoet" on Twitter"
How many here
Reading this
Can name
Every President
How many here
Reading this
Can name
Every Pharaoh
How many here
Reading this
Can name every
Prime minister of China
How many here
Reading this
Can name
Every Caesar
How many here
Reading this
Can name all prior
Leaders of the world
How many here
Can name
All the pop icons
Prior to their birth
How many here
Can name
The leaders
Of the Mayans
Fame is local
Fortune is finite
Powers shift
And life goes on
Trump to Tut
Isis to Jesus
Wealth to poverty
We are still finite.
Sagan
As right as he was
Knows that all this
Is Shakespeare's furry
INRI, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)
Introspection
Nowhere to be found
Rational thought
Is forbidden
In to do so
Negates the norm
Reason the victim
Inquisition
If to ban query
Never to question
Relegate oneself
In submission
In thus they claim
Never to falter
Rebel hero
In written word
In pior mytholgy
Never consider
Reject the truth
It is nothing new
It was Socrates
Not afraid
Reveled in challenge
In that of authority
In history proir
Not unique
Refused to submit
If those above him
If those above him
Never considered
Reason in question
In introspection
It's not a trope
New to Jesus
Rebels existed
In prior history.
(end)
Also posted at my home thread at Rational Responders post #521 hosted here http://www.rationalresponders.com/forum/31771#comment-414817
Xmas Haiku....
A merry christmas
You'll eat too much and get drunk
And a hangover
World's shortest Xmas poem..
Och Aye
Mince Pie. :dance:
Well I just bought a computer, and I'm finally online at home! I plan on getting Dragon Naturally Speaking to use for dictating when I get inspired.
Here's my latest poem. It's a follow-up to the last one.
"Fingers 2: Tell the Good News"
http://www.solomonzorn.com/fingers-2.html
A great poem. I especially liked The last few lines.
I don't know if it's a great poem - I did use both girl and child as two syllable words, after all (because that's the way they sound to my ear), when technically they are both one syllable words. But it does have a more difficult meter than I usually use. It was a much longer poem, but I deleted four stanzas for being weak. I spent probably three weeks on it, all told.
Hayhaoya Ishishdo, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)
Kenji Kenji
What have they done
Kenji Kenji
They've taken your son
Mother Ishishido
Is everyone
Crying from
The rising sun
He carried no weapon
He will rise above
No matter how many
They needlessly murder
Kenji Kenji
No parent wants
To survive the death
Of their children
Ichiban
To the world you are
Kenji Kenji
The real hero
Kenji Kenji
Junko knows
The pain of the loss
Hahaoya Ishido
(end)
"Hahaoya" means "Mother". Ishido is Junko Ishido the mother of the murdered reporter Kenji Goto.
Also posted at my home thread listed in my signature post #553 hosted by Rational Responders.http://www.rationalresponders.com/forum/31771?page=11
I've kept this poem for a while since I didn't like it, but ironically it's the only one I found worth sharing. Hope you enjoy it!
"Seven"
Your body grows from life,
How can you not love yourself?
Born from the best kind
Green eyes they wander.
Searching to be the best ones,
Wandering they go.
Sans rest you wither,
Repose is what you must seek,
Even at alert times.
The man and woman,
Adam and Even copulate.
Harlots seem quite close.
Food and Drink welcome,
How else one enjoy surplus?
Ichors and Nectars
Mammon oh wise one.
Aid me plan many days time.
Everlasting toys.
Wrath the core of us.
As spark to revolution,
For better or for worse.
Why do you even bother?
Why do you waste your time and mine with rhymes imagining yourself sublime while using and abusing words that have been spewed and spit a thousand million times
before you were even born.
What have you to say
exactly?
What have you that none gone before has already discarded?
as worthless
Is it worthwhile to compile a vile and tepid profile
of mediocrity?
or more so to remain silent and aloof appearing the fool
or the faceless everyman.
All the while
knowing what is
and what is not
QuoteWhy do you even bother?
Why do you waste your time and mine with rhymes imagining yourself sublime while using and abusing words that have been spewed and spit a thousand million times
before you were even born.
What have you to say
exactly?
What have you that none gone before has already discarded?
as worthless
Is it worthwhile to compile a vile and tepid profile
of mediocrity?
or more so to remain silent and aloof appearing the fool
or the faceless everyman.
All the while
knowing what is
and what is not
Mmmm...irony...I wonder if it's intentional...
Mmmm...irony...I wonder if it's intentional...
Both poet and poem seem sadly one dimensional
with a meter that's predictable, and a measure so conventional
though the effort is commendable, the result is
unexceptional.
(https://d262ilb51hltx0.cloudfront.net/max/800/1*GPhnXZ98NJ0Cehb3crURig.jpeg)
I critiqued my own poem. With your help, of course.
I'm inquiring about your first poem, were you aiming it at someone, or "talking to yourself," so to speak. It's a very harsh review.
I don't critique other people's poetry. I only talk about myself. I've been at it a long time.
Oh. Cool. I thought we were going to have a rumble.
All you poets need to read this:
http://writing2.richmond.edu/writing/wweb/creativewriting/Poetry/mistakes.html
Quote from: Solomon Zorn on February 05, 2015, 10:15:31 PM
Oh. Cool. I thought we were going to have a rumble.
All you poets need to read this:
http://writing2.richmond.edu/writing/wweb/creativewriting/Poetry/mistakes.html
How do you think of mine? (I have my opinions, but I want to hear someone else's)
Quote from: dtq123 on February 01, 2015, 11:54:13 AM
"Seven"
Your body grows from life,
How can you not love yourself?
Born from the best kind
Green eyes they wander.
Searching to be the best ones,
Wandering they go.
Sans rest you wither,
Repose is what you must seek,
Even at alert times.
The man and woman,
Adam and Even copulate.
Harlots seem quite close.
Food and Drink welcome,
How else one enjoy surplus?
Ichors and Nectars
Mammon oh wise one.
Aid me plan many days time.
Everlasting toys.
Wrath the core of us.
As spark to revolution,
For better or for worse.
I found the last stanza interesting, but the rest seemed too personal to follow exactly what you were getting at. Maybe a little vague.
Quote from: Solomon Zorn on February 06, 2015, 07:26:26 AM
I found the last stanza interesting, but the rest seemed too personal to follow exactly what you were getting at. Maybe a little vague.
Are you content with your understanding or would you like me to try and explain this.
I made this in one sitting half-asleep, so I would expect it to be bad.
QuoteI made this in one sitting...
That's where the problem lies: it's not finished. It's just a start at something that could, perhaps, be a good poem, if you make it cohesive. It seems to me like a lot of disconnected thoughts.
As for explaining the meaning of the poem, I don't think it makes the poem any better to do so. Rewrite it and see if you can get the meaning across better. At least that's my suggestion.
And read the post I linked to about beginners mistakes. I don't think you'll find it hard to be a self critic.
OH WAIT! I SEE! GOOD POEM! :redface:
I'm not Catholic, so I didn't catch on to the meaning of seven. I have a habit of making poems of seven stanzas, and It didn't seem significant.
Still though, read the article I linked to. It's one of several I've read that I've found insightful.
Good poem though, seriously!
Quote from: Solomon Zorn on February 06, 2015, 07:31:35 PM
OH WAIT! I SEE! GOOD POEM! :redface:
I'm not Catholic, so I didn't catch on to the meaning of seven. I have a habit of making poems of seven stanzas, and It didn't seem significant.
Still though, read the article I linked to. It's one of several I've read that I've found insightful.
Good poem though, seriously!
Thanks, I'll look into it.
I tried writing an epic poem once but couldn't find anything that rhymed with epic.
Here you go, Strom: http://www.rhymer.com/RhymingDictionary/epic.html
Nothings holding you back now! :biggrin:
Here's a forum post that might be helpful as well.
Five beginners mistakes:
http://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-15730.html
Anybody still writing poetry besides Brian and me? I think it was Deirdre that was going to share some Haikus with us. I wrote a poem last month that I linked to elsewhere on the forum. Here it is:
"The Anti-Miracle"
http://www.solomonzorn.com/the-anti-miracle.html
Starting a job has tremendously cut down my inspiration to write. :/ shame really, not that my works are any good but they sure are theraputic to me.
I enjoy your writing, Mr. O. Glad you found a job though.
Ditto!
Valentines Day Breaks My Heart
You were as a spirit of flesh in my arms JJ my love,
You laid your head just below my chin on my chest,
like a black dove that and flew too far and needed rest,
Your whole body pressed up to mine with delightful charms.
My whole life's painful longing could not win;
With still the whisper of your attraction in me,
You made musical-tones of all my lifelong desires,
With honest and true humanity like a Saint.
I wished that we had started eternally
And secure forever that sweet rapture;
Blinded by infatuation beyond gender,
And soul mates for ever, and ever, and ever----
And as it is history, my thoughts are now for you
As every star is hidden by the sun,
And so the sun itself will perished too,
And with it, every dream of mine, but one---you.
Thank you whomever liked it. I've been really depressed to day from thoughts of the past that I can't let go of because it makes me feel like death if I do. Solitary
I don't even need a smidgen
Of that thing they call religion.
Quote from: Solitary on March 09, 2015, 05:05:20 PM
Valentines Day Breaks My Heart
You were as a spirit of flesh in my arms JJ my love,
You laid your head just below my chin on my chest,
like a black dove that and flew too far and needed rest,
Your whole body pressed up to mine with delightful charms.
My whole life's painful longing could not win;
With still the whisper of your attraction in me,
You made musical-tones of all my lifelong desires,
With honest and true humanity like a Saint.
I wished that we had started eternally
And secure forever that sweet rapture;
Blinded by infatuation beyond gender,
And soul mates for ever, and ever, and ever----
And as it is history, my thoughts are now for you
As every star is hidden by the sun,
And so the sun itself will perished too,
And with it, every dream of mine, but one---you.
I'm of the opinion that pining is good for the soul, as long as you don't let it make you miserable. I think about my soulmate daily, though I haven't seen her in years. I'm grateful for the years we had, but I long for more time in her presence. Consider this: proximity is relative. As long as someone is still alive, they can be said to be "with us," in an expanded sense of proximity. This idea comforts me.
http://youtu.be/NetlfJlzm_c
Hickory Dickory Dock
My dick is as tall as a clock
I'm posting this one again, as it ended up at the bottom of the previous page, and I think you guys will like it. I worked on it for several weeks, and finished it last month:
"The Anti-Miracle"
http://www.solomonzorn.com/the-anti-miracle.html
A friend just turned me on to this video. It's the poetry of William S. Burroughs read by the author, and set to music:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ESXW7_LUlmc
I've really been struggling with the concept of "simplicity" and it's relationship with beauty (or "artsy-ness") lately. I want to write about it, but just haven't had any good ideas for it :\.
Quote from: Shiranu on March 19, 2015, 11:11:53 PM
I've really been struggling with the concept of "simplicity" and it's relationship with beauty (or "artsy-ness") lately. I want to write about it, but just haven't had any good ideas for it :\.
Yeah, we haven't heard from you on this thread in awhile.
Quote from: Solomon Zorn on March 19, 2015, 11:24:07 PM
Yeah, we haven't heard from you on this thread in awhile.
I felt too many of mine were too... personal emotional driven... rather than something that should be shared and had an actual message :\.
Quote from: Shiranu on March 19, 2015, 11:30:38 PM
I felt too many of mine were too... personal emotional driven... rather than something that should be shared and had an actual message :\.
Mine are too ._.
The Fake And The Furious, (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter) also post #641 at http://www.rationalresponders.com/forum/31771?page=12 my home thread.
The Fake And The Furious, By Brian37
Hagee and Robertson
Rush and Coulter
Even DeePak
Full of bluster
Hinn on a stage
No real doctor
Fleecing the gullible
Furious with anger
Warren's Purpose
Countered by Dan
The fake ringmasters
Exposed by skeptics
The clowns get angry
When they are challenged
They don't like it
When you expose them
Their muscle cars
Impractical
Fueld by magic
Drifting off cliffs
Fast and furious
A race to doomsday
They'd rather commit sucide
If they don't get their way
Their diesil driven
Fantasy book
Has a vin number
With a death wish
Their rumbels and roars
And pealing tires
They crash and burn
Over selfish desires
They're on the run
Futile speed
A highway to nowhere
They know we see
The expansion of
The universe
Is the real
Fast and furious
Love is Pain
I touch my lips upon your forehead
And, in leaving from you looking ahead,
this confession let me declare--
You are not in error, who's love I scream
That our years have been but a dream;
Yet if desire has flown away
In a night club, or in a sunny day,
In a band, or in a bed,
Is it therefore hell instead?
All that we experience as a team
Is but a vision inside a dream.
I sit withen the roar
Of a surf-harassed shore,
And I grasp within my hand
grandular bits of the golden sand--
How they flew! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I cry in pain--while I cry in pain!
Oh crap! can I not hold with a tighter resist,
Them with a tighter fist?
Oh hell! can I not save
One from the cold harsh wave?
Is all that we see or experience as a team
But a vision within a dream?
Fighting Fossils
I shan't please self-imposed apostles
who beckon me with their chime;
Herders who waste lives fighting fossils,
worn out by the sands of time.
Unaware they are that an empty shell
bereft of flesh, blood and even bone
can not speak but certainly does tell
more than commandments in stone.
Behind the frames of those who went before
there lie ideas which can never pass away;
Even when heroes fade and are no more
their truths and legacies forever stay.
Which is exactly why in this incantation
I call my verses rhyme
In another life, with depth and feeling
I might have sent emotions reeling
but I just don't have the time.
To Rime like an ancient mariner
about a troublesome bird of woe
Moody words that haunt and linger
About lives both full and meager
but instead just rhyme and go
Once I sought to be a poet true
but life is unfair and ruthless
along the way I realized
that words, like leaden skies
can be epic, but also truthless
so emote and write your epic words
and cast your thoughts upon the water
There's nothing wrong with words that rhyme
it gets you through your day, sometimes
if it don't- well hell, it ought'er :biggrin:
Poems and equations are similar, in that I can appreciate either, but can generate neither.
Sure you can, just put down in words what you feel.
SAND & STONE
JJ AND I WERE WALKING
THROUGH THE DESERT .
DURING SOME POINT OF THE
JOURNEY, WE HAD AN
ARGUMENT; AND SHE
SLAPPED ME IN THE FACE.
WHEN I GOT SLAPPED I
WAS HURT, BUT WITHOUT
SAYING ANYTHING, I
WROTE IN THE SAND ,
TODAY MY BEST FRIEND
SLAPPED ME IN THE FACE AND HURT ME.
WE KEPT ON WALKING,
UNTIL WE FOUND A NICE PLACE TO REST
WHERE WE DECIDED
TO GO SKINNY DIPPING IN BEAVER CREEK.
I GOT STUCK IN THE WET SAND ALONG THE BANK
AND I THOUGHT I WAS DROWNING,
BUT THEN JJ SAVED ME.
AFTER I RECOVERED FROM
THE NEAR DROWNING,
I SCRATCHED
ON A STONE:
TODAY MY BEST FRIEND JJ
SAVED MY LIFE!
JJ WHO HAD SLAPPED
AND SAVED ME
ASKED ME, "AFTER I HURT YOU,
YOU WROTE IN THE SAND AND NOW,
YOU WRITE ON A STONE, WHY?'"
I REPLIED,
'WHEN SOMEONE HURTS ME
I SHOULD WRITE IT DOWN
IN SAND, WHERE THE WINDS OF
FORGIVENESS CAN ERASE IT AWAY.."
"BUT, WHEN SOMEONE DOES SOMETHING GOOD FOR US,
WE MUST ENGRAVE IT IN STONE
WHERE NO WIND
CAN EVER ERASE IT'"
LEARN TO WRITE
YOUR HURTS IN
THE SAND AND TO
CARVE YOUR
BENEFITS IN STONE.
THEY SAY IT TAKES A
MINUTE TO FIND A SPECIAL
PERSON,
AN HOUR TO
APPRECIATE THEM,
A DAY
TO LOVE THEM,
BUT THEN ,
AN ENTIRE LIFE
TO FORGET THEM!
OK, you asked for it!
Ode to Gaia
Sunlight and water engendered a form,
Once the planet became just a bit less warm,
Made up of bacteria well able to swarm
That could thrive in all climates, endure any storm.
Divinities didn't create planet Earth,
But scientists might just've witnessed the birth
Of an organism of far greater worth
Than deities of cosmic girth.
The Earth was blind, but now it sees,
By the light of its new-found faculties,
A candle lit by those whose knees
Wouldn't bend for kings nor deities.
With instrumentation we can now show
What before we couldn't hope to know,
From protons and photons to galaxies aglow,
From space/time and energy to how life can grow.
We've traced our genetics to eons long past,
When the new molten Earth had cooled at last,
When enough CO2 had been out-gassed,
When the moon first drew tides on oceans vast.
Once life struggled up from wherever it came,
It kept the Earth's temp'rature nearly the same,
Though the sun puts out more of its hot solar flame,
We simply metabolize it like it's a game.
Mars and Venus, our neighbors, are sterile, we've found,
One's too hot, one's too cold, not a bug on the ground,
It's only on Earth that life moves around,
Like Goldilocks here, life laid itself down.
Now we're searching throughout all celestial space
To discover another intelligent race,
For anything there that can maybe keep pace,
But we've heard not a peep, not even a trace.
Nowhere else in the universe have we yet seen
A stable wet planet that's even as green,
A globe with an atmospherical screen,
With a chemical brew that could stir up a gene.
No gods and no aliens do we discern,
We need them the less the more we can learn,
Our fortunes, our fates and our lives do not turn
On whether we're saved or whether we'll burn.
Apparently then we're a planet alone,
All the problems we have are solely our own,
So that what we have planted is what will have grown,
And what we will harvest is what we have sown.
See, I told ya!
That was great! I can't believe this has gotten into a poetry contest with some really great poems. I have always thought atheists were very creative, and the best comedians, even if religious nuts aren't laughing. :butt: :popcorn:
I don't know if I should say what I think. I know some people don't take criticism well, but I think this thread would be more interesting if we critiqued each other. So here goes.
I see a lot of great starts to what could be great poems with a little (or sometimes a lot) of polishing. One of my best teachers once told me, "Never be in love with your own words." In other words, be tough on yourself. I see that as applying to poetry most of all. I have one poem, that I tweaked on for 10 years before I considered it finished.
Work on your meter. Some of you have terrific rhyme schemes, but that's the easy part of the struggle. If I don't have the cadence, I don't consider it a finished poem.
Even when you forgo rhyme and meter, it's not just some sappy, tug-at-your-heart-strings, anecdote. It has to have a purpose. A message expressed in emotional imagery. Universal themes, woven into an eloquence of language.
I find insightful criticism to be as helpful, as praise is encouraging. Anyone who want's constructive criticism, from others on the thread, just mention that you would like some, and I at least will try to help. And I welcome feedback of any kind on my own poetry.
Poetry is hard to write. It's not for the lazy. The last one I posted took me two weeks to write. But apparently no one liked it.
Hit me with your best shot.
I used be a member on AllPoetry, but couldn't stand it after a while on account of it being one enormous circlejerk.
"Oh, you're so briliant. I really like everything in this poem. There isn't a word I'd change. You can really tell you put your heart and soul into this."
Right... There were some poets who I could honestly say something like that to, about some of their poems. But even people who were much better than me made faults and ugly constructions. So I sure as hell knew I had some of my own.
It's only that I find it hard to offer constructive criticism. Because often when you suggest one thing to change, the entire poem must change with it.
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on April 15, 2015, 07:32:49 AM
Hit me with your best shot.
I'm not sure I understand exactly what you mean by "fighting fossils." But here's what I would suggest to get the meter stable on the first stanza.
I shan't please self-proclaimed apostles,
Beckoning me with their chime,
Who waste their lives on fighting fossils,
Worn out by the sands of time.
Using "herders" and "fossils" in the same line is a mixed metaphor, so I left it out.
It might even work better to stress the first syllable in each line:
Hear the self-proclaimed apostles,
Herding people with their chime.
Wasting lives on fighting fossils,
Worn out by the sands of time.
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on April 15, 2015, 07:32:49 AM
It's only that I find it hard to offer constructive criticism. Because often when you suggest one thing to change, the entire poem must change with it.
Perhaps the flaws are part of the beauty of the construction, as in the purposeful mistake in Persian carpets, so as to avoid the hubris of perfection.
Here's on I've been struggling with for about eight hours. Any criticism is welcome:
“Beyond the Blueâ€
Solomon Zorn
Sunlight shining on my face
Traveled here from outer space
Moving very fast
Beyond the blue
Crossed a distance to the Earth
More than seven times its girth
In one second passed
Beyond the blue
If you were to time its course
Since it left its blazing source
Eight minutes surpassed
Beyond the blue
Like the sun the stars at night
Bathe our planet with their light
Galaxies amassed
Beyond the blue
Pondering those shining spheres
Looking back so many years
I can see the past
Beyond the blue
Stars that seem to have no end
Finally I comprehend
Space is truly vast
Beyond the blue
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered your poem weak and wearying, I asked myself, who makes up these fucking rules? :eek: Just kidding, I liker your poetry, and you are correct, it isn't easy to make a poem profound. Poe did it the best in my opinion. I believe he also write the first mystery. Only Truman Capote did anything original in my time that I know about.
Here's the same poem, after tweaking it this morning. My aim, with these changes, is tho keep the speed of light as the focus of my fascination through each stanza, progressing from a light-second, to intergalactic distance.
“Beyond the Blueâ€
Solomon Zorn
Sunlight shining on my face,
Traveled here from outer space,
Moving very fast,
Beyond the blue.
Crossed a distance to the Earth,
More than seven times its girth,
In one second passed,
Beyond the blue.
If you were to time its course,
From the sun, its blazing source,
Eight minutes surpassed,
Beyond the blue.
Looking to the sky at night,
Nearest neighbor shone it's light,
Four years in the past,
Beyond the blue.
Pondering those shining spheres,
Looking back so many years,
Galaxies are massed,
Beyond the blue.
Stars that seem to have no end,
Finally I comprehend:
Space is truly vast,
Beyond the blue.
OK, how many of you fabulous femmes, or gay guys, want to jerk him off after reading that poem? :eek: :winkle: :biggrin2:
*drops pants, and coughs* "I love you too, Sol!" :lol:
This is actually from an earlier version, but I think I prefer this phrasing:
Sunlight shining on my face,
Just arrived from outer space,
Moving very fast,
Beyond the blue.
I tweaked it some more this morning, mainly to get the rhythm better.
“Beyond the Blueâ€
Solomon Zorn
Sunlight shining on my face,
Just arrived from outer space,
Moving very fast,
Beyond the blue.
Crossed a distance to the Earth,
More than seven times its girth,
In a second passed,
Beyond the blue.
If you were to time its course,
From the sun, its blazing source,
Minute eight surpassed,
Beyond the blue.
Pondering the sky at night,
Nearest neighbor shone it's light,
Four years in the past,
Beyond the blue.
Far beyond those shining spheres,
Looking back so many years,
Galaxies amassed,
Beyond the blue.
Stars that seem to have no end,
Can a human comprehend?
Space is truly vast,
Beyond the blue.
I love it. I'm a fan of space science and that sort of thing. I went to the dermatologist a couple months ago. He had a whole mess of space paintings and information. Really awesome was a stage by stage detailing of the conception of the solar system and GASP! The Earth is not 6,000 years old! WHAT LIBERAL PROPAGANDA!
There is no god,
There is no Jeeze.
You're free to do
Whate'er you please.
Here's a little ditty I just typed:
the ultimate cabal
when they divide us - black from white
when they divide us - left from right
when they divide us - sick from healthy
when they divide us - poor from wealthy
when they divide us - gay from straight
when they divide us - church from state
when they divide us - far from near
when they divide us - hope from fear
when they divide us - faith from facts
when they divide us - from their golden stacks
then they'll have us kill each other
then the rest of life will surely smother
then they will have conquered all
and will become the ultimate cabal
Quote from: Savior2006 on May 10, 2015, 01:50:45 PM
I love it. I'm a fan of space science and that sort of thing...
If you liked that one, you might like this one, that I wrote since then:
"The True Sky"By Solomon Zorn
We look
Staring up at blue illusion
Witness heavenly deception
Hiding realms beyond our vision
Color filters our perception
We see
Background hue for puffy masses
Painted with a vapor palette
On a canvas made of gasses
High above our verdant planet
We wait
Sunset watchers wax emotive
Curtains part in revelation
Nightfall brings the true perspective
Darkness holds illumination
We learn
As the haze is disappearing
Gazing deep into the distance
Products of our engineering
Scan the cosmos with persistence
We search
Past the atmosphere's distortion
Far beyond mankind's dominion
Sights of such sublime description
Stars that number in the billions
We yearn
Implementing innovations
Meant to move our limits forward
Breaks the bonds of gravitation
Thrusting human beings upward
We reach
Rocket riders feeling fearless
Blasting through the azure ceiling
Walking on the lunar surface
Make the sky a human dwelling
We grasp
Solomon, you aught to be a poet! :) You are very good!
Thanks, Mike! I will be posting a few more in the next half hour, so watch for them!
This is a poem in a classic form, called a "Roundel." I wrote it for a contest (I'll let you guys know if I win anything).
"Unspoken Objection"
Solomon Zorn
Keep it quiet, spare your speaking
When extremist words exhibit
Notions that deserve debunking
Keep it quiet
Rantings of a biased bigot
Unenlightened ways of thinking
Issue from some mental midget
Callous comments he is squawking
Push my patience to the limit
Held in check until I'm choking
Keep it quiet
If anyone is interested in writing one in this form, just google it, and you'll see how. I added the meter and alliteration, just for fun. The form doesn't require it.
These next two were for another contest. They are done in a classic form called, "Villanelle."
"Mutton"
Solomon Zorn
I'll no longer be a willing sheep
For the shepherd leading us astray
Like the faithful flock of Miss Bo-Peep
Followers who have the faith to leap
Trust the shepherd never to betray
I'll no longer be a willing sheep
Mother prays a little soul to keep
As the shepherd takes a lamb away
From the passive flock of Miss Bo-Peep
Building on a hill that's tall and steep
Room where hanging knives and cleavers sway
I'll no longer be a willing sheep
Hunger craves the tender flesh to reap
Bleating won't this final act forestay
Nor spare the fated flock of Miss Bo-Peep
Mutton is expensive, life is cheap
Soon the butcher's blade will end the play
I'll no longer be a willing sheep
Like the faithful flock of Miss Bo-Peep
"Appeasement"
Solomon Zorn
Go call the righteous gathering
The church bell tolls at twelve o'clock
So let us bind the offering
The cause of recent suffering
Will all your godly senses shock
Go call the righteous gathering
His actions were dishonoring
He's made our town a laughingstock
So let us bind the offering
The people all are clamoring
Bring forth the sinner to the block
And call the righteous gathering
The judge's voice is thundering
"They caught him sucking on a cock!"
So let us bind the offering
Appeasement is empowering
Let's bash his head in with a rock
Before the righteous gathering
May God approve our offering
Once again, I added a meter to the required form, so that it flow more smoothly.
Quote from: Solomon Zorn on May 23, 2015, 05:36:16 PM
These next two were for another contest. They are done in a classic form called, "Villanelle."
"Mutton"
"Thou Shalt Not Suck"
I do hope you win, fine sir.
Thanks, D. There's some stiff competition, but I'm hoping to, at least, place.
Quote from: Solomon Zorn on May 24, 2015, 07:08:20 AM
Thanks, D. There's some stiff competition, but I'm hoping to, at least, place.
Well, Solomon, if you don't win, then the contest must be rigged.
Thanks. "Fingers" got shot down in my first contest, when I thought it would at least make the finalists, so I don't have my hopes up.
It was a little edgy though, I think, for the judge's taste.
“Fingersâ€
Solomon Zorn
Fingers chopped off,
In the shredder,
Little girl
Asks her mother,
“Will the Lord,
With his great power,
Make them grow back
In an hour?â€
“Will he hear me
When I pray,
Make them grow back
In a day?â€
“Tell me mother,
Be sincere,
Will they grow back
In a year?â€
Mother doesn't
Dare reply,
With some
Condescending lie.
As her daughter
Bows to pray,
Mother has
No words to say.
God should give
An explanation,
For this
Senseless amputation.
God should tell her
His intention,
When withholding
Intervention.
Leaving fingers
To be severed,
Tell her why
They're gone forever.
Mother swallows
Past a lump
Seeing tragic
Little stump
Hand and nub
Are posed in prayer
To a God
That isn't there
I like it--and it is edgy. And if the judges are theistic, then you are dead before you start. But yeah, I really do like it.
It was entered in the "Favorite Poem" contest. I selected this one, because I have seen two different people (one a man and one a woman), get choked up a little at the end.
It's over though. Here's the winner:
http://allpoetry.com/poem/11907219-A-Letter-up-to-Heaven-by-Louise..xx-noguest
Well, I just won bronze in a "Dark Micro-Poem" contest (under 50 words). Here is the poem:
"Pleasure Center"
Solomon Zorn
A tiny little dose,
My paradise is close,
When smoking my cocaine.
I kiss the bliss I missed,
An alabaster mist,
That's stroking-off my brain.
But soon the soul atones,
And moans away the jones,
Until the next refrain.
I had a short-lived habit, about 15 years ago, but I don't have anything to do with the stuff anymore.
Quote from: Solomon Zorn on May 24, 2015, 05:07:00 PM
Well, I just won bronze in a "Dark Micro-Poem" contest (under 50 words). Here is the poem:
"Pleasure Center"
Solomon Zorn
A tiny little dose,
My paradise is close,
When smoking my cocaine.
I kiss the bliss I missed,
An alabaster mist,
That's stroking-off my brain.
But soon the soul atones,
And moans away the jones,
Until the next refrain.
I had a short-lived habit, about 15 years ago, but I don't have anything to do with the stuff anymore.
Congrats! I like the one that won, but I like Fingers better. :)
Wow Sol, you've been busy! :super:
I like the ones you've posted so far. I wonder how many more you've got? Have you tried putting some of them to music?
The True Sky was right on - especially the final bit about making the sky our home.
Just...WOW!
I've got a short one I'll post later, after I peruse the other recent posts.
Here's one of my all time favorites, by a fellow named Phil George, that I thought y'all might like:
BATTLE WON IS LOST
They said, "You are no longer a lad."
I nodded.
They said, "Enter the council lodge."
I sat.
They said, "Our lands are at stake."
I scowled.
They said, "We are at war."
I hated.
They said, "Prepare red war symbols."
I painted.
They said, "Count coups."
I scalped.
They said, "You'll see friends die."
I cringed.
They said, "Desperate warriors fight best."
I charged.
They said, "Some will be wounded."
I bled.
They said, "To die is glorious."
They lied.
Quote from: Unbeliever on May 27, 2015, 06:36:45 PM
Here's one of my all time favorites, by a fellow named Phil George, that I thought y'all might like:
BATTLE WON IS LOST
They said, "You are no longer a lad."
I nodded.
They said, "Enter the council lodge."
I sat.
They said, "Our lands are at stake."
I scowled.
They said, "We are at war."
I hated.
They said, "Prepare red war symbols."
I painted.
They said, "Count coups."
I scalped.
They said, "You'll see friends die."
I cringed.
They said, "Desperate warriors fight best."
I charged.
They said, "Some will be wounded."
I bled.
They said, "To die is glorious."
They lied.
You are right, I liked.
OK, I've gotta go soon, so here's one I just finished:
What Next?
At first, there were only particles and fields
that clumped into atoms in the void
that fused in the stars to become all the elements
that then accreted into molecules galore
that developed into life of countless breeds
that complexified into mind of great imagination...
I wonder -
What might be next in this series?
Quote from: Mike Cl on May 27, 2015, 08:08:09 PM
You are right, I liked.
That's a poem I came across in maybe 7th grade. It's almost the only poetry I recall from so long ago!
I am the emperor
As my own swindlers weave my mind;
to the truth they tend to keep me blind.
Yet no amount of velvet cloth can hide,
my own vanity on par with Satan's pride.
But with my fears exposed I feel alright
as long as your arms hold me tight.
Open to improvement, as per your opinion.
Inspired bya quote: 'What we want is someone to be naked with, not only in body, but in soul'. By J. Iron Word.
Also inspired by Hans Christian Andersen's 'The Emperor's New Clothes'.
License And Registration Please, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB and @Brianrrs37 on twitter)
Just a moment ago
I received a call
My mom was worried
About my vehicle
My itinarary
Was to get legal
My vehicle
Before my plates expired
So this morning
I did just that
Got it inspected
And paid my taxes
And once I did
They gave me a sticker
Denoting next year's
Experation date
And dutifly I did
In the parking lot
Put the sticker
On my license plate
Now finished
On the way home
Stopped by my mom's
To tell her I was done
After our chat
She watched me leave
But somthing bothered her
Looking at my bumper
Improperly placed
Or it fell off
That sticker required
Is what she thought
Insistent she was
That I go out
To the front of my house
To check it out
So I did
To placate her
Knowing sure well
I had done it correctly
It is the false perception
We evolved with
The the brain gap fills
With out us realizing
It is why
Humans once thought
That angry volcano
Was a god
It is why
Dawkins is right
That god is a result
Of our flawed perceptions
Amused I was
But thankful too
That she bothered to call
To make sure
(end)
Also posted at my host poetry thread at Rational Reponders, post #733 here http://www.rationalresponders.com/forum/31771?page=14
I wrote this after a phone call from my mom who was worried that I messed something up in the process of getting my vehicle legal. Nice she was worried, but it was a false perception of what she thought she saw on the back of my vehicle for whatever reason.
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on May 29, 2015, 06:51:07 AM
I am the emperor
As my own swindlers weave my mind;
to the truth they tend to keep me blind.
Yet no amount of velvet cloth can hide,
my own vanity on par with Satan's pride.
But with my fears exposed I feel alright
as long as your arms hold me tight.
Open to improvement, as per your opinion.
Inspired bya quote: 'What we want is someone to be naked with, not only in body, but in soul'. By J. Iron Word.
Also inspired by Hans Christian Andersen's 'The Emperor's New Clothes'.
I don't know about this one, O. I usually try to stick to just one simple idea with a micro-poem. You're going to need some more space to bring together the vanity idea of The Emperor's New Clothes, with the tenderness of the quote from J. Iron Word.
Maybe a longer poem exploring the vanity of clothing in general, told as a love poem for the empress. What do you think?
Quote from: Solomon Zorn on June 01, 2015, 01:56:38 PM
I don't know about this one, O. I usually try to stick to just one simple idea with a micro-poem. You're going to need some more space to bring together the vanity idea of The Emperor's New Clothes, with the tenderness of the quote from J. Iron Word.
Maybe a longer poem exploring the vanity of clothing in general, told as a love poem for the empress. What do you think?
I can definitely feel that. I agree it is... Cramped. But it was for a Max 50 words contest; perhaps i was overambitious. Might stretch it out and give it time to breathe once The contest is over.
Quote from: Unbeliever on May 27, 2015, 05:53:53 PM
Wow Sol, you've been busy! :super:
I like the ones you've posted so far. I wonder how many more you've got? Have you tried putting some of them to music?
The True Sky was right on - especially the final bit about making the sky our home.
Just...WOW!
I've got a short one I'll post later, after I peruse the other recent posts.
Thanks, you're too kind.
Now that my brain seems to be working again, here is a mushy poem I wrote today:
Brave Courageous And Bold
We, fearful to bravery and courage
banishment ourselves from delight
alone suffering in prisons of rage
until love swings its knife
and ventures into our sight
to free us into life.
Love arrives
and with its passions come ecstasies
old recollections of pleasure survives
past histories of pain so queer.
Yet if we are courageous and bold,
love eats away the chains of fear
from our hearts be told.
We are free from our timidity and dependence
In the blush of love’s brilliant light
we dare be brave in decadence.
And suddenly we see with clarity
that love requires all we are and more
and will be for eternity.
Yet it is only love's sentence
which causes us to be free.
roses are red
my balls are blue
screw you and you
Just finished a major rewrite on this Villanelle:
"Mutton"
Solomon Zorn
I'll no longer be a passive sheep
For the shepherd leading us astray
Faithful like the flock of Father Creep
Followers who have the faith to leap
Trust his guidance never to betray
I'll no longer be a passive sheep
Mother prays a little soul to keep
As a carrot leads her lamb away
Chosen from the flock of Father Creep
Building on a hill that's tall and steep
Room where hanging knives and cleavers sway
Destiny of all the passive sheep
Hunger craves the tender flesh to reap
Bleating won't this bloody act forestay
Severed from the flock of Father Creep
Mutton is expensive, life is cheap
Soon the butcher's blade will end the play
I'll no longer be a passive sheep
Faithful like the flock of Father Creep
Do you guys think "Father Creep" is better than what I had before (Miss Bo Peep)?
Pour le sud de la Hollande
un petit hommage flamande
sur la tragedié sous Hollande.
Le Bataclan
Vous étiez déjà bruyant.
Concerts. Soirées. Spectacles.
Bruyant. Tout. Toujours.
Vous étiez déjà rouge.
Chaises. Murs. Rideau.
Rouge. Tout. Toujours.
Vous étiez déjà coûts inoubliables.
Café. Infirmerie. Cinéma.
Coûts inoubliables. Tout. Toujours.
Et maintenant... Du vendredi le treizième.
Après un moment bruyant.
Vous êtes silencieux.
Mais le monde est pas.
Vous êtes rouge.
Mais les victimes encore plus.
Et nous ne vous oublierons jamais.
Peanut Butter And Jelly, By Brian37(AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB and @Brianrrs37 on twitter)
Please understand
I do agree
That with the East
There is a PR problem
Saudi Arabia and Iran
Are not exactly bastions
Of political or religious
Freedom
And they too
Are willing take up arms
Willing do die
For what they believe
I find it hard
While pointing
In the right direction
A mirror you lack
I guess it is ok
If in killing the other
It is done in the name
Of the right book
Even locally
You fear change
Willing to kill
To protect a gun
As if it were living
Just like Isis
Murders over criticism
Of their prized possession
As if a gun
Were an unborn child
As if it were Mohammed
Or even Jesus
This is no sandwich
To be admired
Worship of old books
Or tools of death
Dont talk about peace
And be willing to kill
Over old books or objects
Vile peanut butter and jelly
(end)
This poem was originally posted at my host website graciously hosted by Brian Sapient's Rational Responders, post #781 here http://www.rationalresponders.com/forum/31771?page=15
Did another rewrite, to change the meter on this one. I think it reads more smoothly now.
"The Beginning of Wisdom"
Solomon Zorn
Wisdom starts when you first own,
The true unknowns, as true unknowns.
When reason greets you at the gate,
You venture to investigate.
A modern thinker will progress,
Although it seems like such a mess,
Discerning fact, from raw opinion,
Peeling layers like an onion.
Learning everything you can,
You study, till you understand,
There's always more you want to know,
Though now your head is all aglow,
With just a little bit of knowledge,
All those things you learned in college.
Always keep an open mind,
Consider both sides, and you'll find,
You soon may change your point of view,
Encountering a thinker, who
Will contradict your dearest notion,
Separate it from emotion,
See if it withstands the hit,
Or demonstrates what doesn't fit.
Your own ideas must compete,
To show your basis is concrete.
Then once you have a strong foundation,
You may lend illumination,
To a part of the discussion,
When you draw a sound conclusion.
On an island long lost to man stands a doorway, long since used has it's once intricate carvings, once marvelled upon, now remain worn by aeons of salty mist and piercing winds laying bear. Only gray, cold, lifeless stone stands now upon those bitter shores.
Were one to lightly run their fingers across, perhaps yet it's former beauty could be found; a knick where carved a mural of flowers and their mistresses once adormed, or the tinniest shards and flecks of sapphire, ruby and obsidian depicting calmer seas, setting suns and embracing nights could still be felt. Only the cold, lifeless hands of time will touch the door which stands now upon those bitter shores.
It is unclear who built this relic of lives long past, or of what splendor and wealth laid beyond the adorned portal. For long ago the door will sealed tight, it's walls crumbled and those who built it set sail, leaving only this skeletal remain of the lifeless door which stands upon those hateful, bitter shores.
"If It Sounds Too Good" By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet On Facebook and @Brianrrs37 on twitter)
The soothsayers
And Seers
Oracles
And prophets
Psychics
And Ouija boards
Homeopathy
Don't doubt them
Of holy men, old writings
Blindly beleive them
Don't ever dare
To even question
They are the fine print
In any contract
There to serve you
Payday loan or cell phone
They are the woman
Sawed in half
PT Barnum
Has the last laugh
You'd have me believe
The claims of antiquity
Don't thrive on the same marketing
Of infomercial TV
Deities remove stains
Get your carpet clean
Read the fine print
Before you subscribe to Dish
Oxi clean
In omni fashion
Get's the mouse on the wheel
To chase utopia cheese
Reverse mortgage
Is what religion is
Henry Winkler
Is a scam
You still own
Your brain
Until the bookmaker
Demands you pay
Racketeering
Is all the same
Be it old
Or oxy clean
If it sounds too good to be true
It probably is
And that is why
All gods are dead
(end)
Original host thread here post #844 hosted here http://www.rationalresponders.com/forum/31771?page=16
Quote from: Shiranu on June 20, 2016, 10:28:43 PM
On an island long lost to man stands a doorway, long since used has it's once intricate carvings, once marvelled upon, now remain worn by aeons of salty mist and piercing winds laying bear. Only gray, cold, lifeless stone stands now upon those bitter shores.
Were one to lightly run their fingers across, perhaps yet it's former beauty could be found; a knick where carved a mural of flowers and their mistresses once adormed, or the tinniest shards and flecks of sapphire, ruby and obsidian depicting calmer seas, setting suns and embracing nights could still be felt. Only the cold, lifeless hands of time will touch the door which stands now upon those bitter shores.
It is unclear who built this relic of lives long past, or of what splendor and wealth laid beyond the adorned portal. For long ago the door will sealed tight, it's walls crumbled and those who built it set sail, leaving only this skeletal remain of the lifeless door which stands upon those hateful, bitter shores.
Not quite sure what you are talking about, specifically, as is the case so often with(bad?) poetry. But I get the emotion of the imagery, and that may be the essence of good free verse.
That being said,
I HATE FREE VERSE.From you and Brian both, I would so much like to read a real poem. You both have an eloquence of speech, all you lack are formal challenges to that eloquence. In other words, a structure. Something to touch my sense of beauty, even as I may read about something ugly. Use some repetition, like a rhyme scheme, or a strict meter, or maybe a refrain, or all of the above. There are so many ways of doing it, that you shouldn't feel constricted. You both have the poetic heart for it, all you have to do is struggle with the construction a little, and I think you could write poetry.
Free verse is for teenagers, who believe that their every thought is so
profound, that it qualifies as a poem.
Quote from: Brian37 on July 14, 2016, 06:35:03 PM
"If It Sounds Too Good" By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet On Facebook and @Brianrrs37 on twitter)
The soothsayers
And Seers
Oracles
And prophets
Psychics
And Ouija boards
Homeopathy
Don't doubt them
Of holy men, old writings
Blindly beleive them
Don't ever dare
To even question
They are the fine print
In any contract
There to serve you
Payday loan or cell phone
They are the woman
Sawed in half
PT Barnum
Has the last laugh
You'd have me believe
The claims of antiquity
Don't thrive on the same marketing
Of infomercial TV
Deities remove stains
Get your carpet clean
Read the fine print
Before you subscribe to Dish
Oxi clean
In omni fashion
Get's the mouse on the wheel
To chase utopia cheese
Reverse mortgage
Is what religion is
Henry Winkler
Is a scam
You still own
Your brain
Until the bookmaker
Demands you pay
Racketeering
Is all the same
Be it old
Or oxy clean
If it sounds too good to be true
It probably is
And that is why
All gods are dead
(end)
Original host thread here post #844 hosted here http://www.rationalresponders.com/forum/31771?page=16
I love the imagery, Brian.
The Farther Shore
The sun is slowly rising away in the Eastern sky
To the West the dark horizon fades away to slowly die
The shadows of the morning are long upon the land
the wise and ancient mountains in silhouette silence stand
Awestruck by the beauty begun with coming day
and awestruck by the diamond night now lit and gone away
To lose myself in silence in the endless depth of sky
And sleepless lay forever lost in endless flight
I have been a sailor who voyaged on the sea
I saw the lights of distant shores that beckoned, called to me
I see the lights of midnight skies wherever I may roam
and wonder about those sailors who call those stars their home
Unknown distant voyager- on a light ship do you sail?
Is there someone breathless waiting, afraid your quest might fail?
You cross the endless darkness to another shore to see
And in your quest a voyager no different than me
So ever beckoning the stars like distant beacon lights
bonfires on a distant beach to guide their way at night
And someone there awaiting for you to return once more?
So go then, sailor, travel- to that distant farther shore.
To love is to lie
I shall strangle my words and my thoughts
when salt is born from your grief.
For what kind of world can be bought
when it offers no relief?
Tongue crushed between red, wet teeth,
like the hydra that lost it's horrid head;
spawning more bloody lies beneath
the omisions of what cannot be said.
I'll keep my silence; let your ache go.
She is in heaven, amidst the whitest clouds.
I won't take this from you and won't say no.
I'll betray myself before I voice my doubts.
My girlfriend's grandmother passed away and she's having a real hard time with it. She wants to believe she's somewhere out there, enjoying the afterlife and has been asking me for confirmation. I've responded in broad, vague terms; not denying anything but not really confirming her ideas. I dislike it, and it may not be right. But I can't break her heart and flat out tell her I don't thinkher grandmother is anything else than a treasured memory at this point.
Though I was kind of shocked to find out that she seems to think I believe there is something more than this life. In the past, I've told her multiple times I don't believe in God, heaven, hell, karma, reincarnation, ... She seems to have blocked it out... I dunno.
Quote from: stromboli on August 09, 2016, 05:50:46 AM
The Farther Shore
The sun is slowly rising away in the Eastern sky
To the West the dark horizon fades away to slowly die
The shadows of the morning are long upon the land
the wise and ancient mountains in silhouette silence stand
Awestruck by the beauty begun with coming day
and awestruck by the diamond night now lit and gone away
To lose myself in silence in the endless depth of sky
And sleepless lay forever lost in endless flight
I have been a sailor who voyaged on the sea
I saw the lights of distant shores that beckoned, called to me
I see the lights of midnight skies wherever I may roam
and wonder about those sailors who call those stars their home
Unknown distant voyager- on a light ship do you sail?
Is there someone breathless waiting, afraid your quest might fail?
You cross the endless darkness to another shore to see
And in your quest a voyager no different than me
So ever beckoning the stars like distant beacon lights
bonfires on a distant beach to guide their way at night
And someone there awaiting for you to return once more?
So go then, sailor, travel- to that distant farther shore.
Captivating. Great imagery.
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on August 16, 2016, 05:52:07 AM
To love is to lie
I shall strangle my words and my thoughts
when salt is born from your grief.
For what kind of world can be bought
when it offers no relief?
Tongue crushed between red, wet teeth,
like the hydra that lost it's horrid head;
spawning more bloody lies beneath
the omisions of what cannot be said.
I'll keep my silence; let your ache go.
She is in heaven, amidst the whitest clouds.
I won't take this from you and won't say no.
I'll betray myself before I voice my doubts.
My girlfriend's grandmother passed away and she's having a real hard time with it. She wants to believe she's somewhere out there, enjoying the afterlife and has been asking me for confirmation. I've responded in broad, vague terms; not denying anything but not really confirming her ideas. I dislike it, and it may not be right. But I can't break her heart and flat out tell her I don't thinkher grandmother is anything else than a treasured memory at this point.
Though I was kind of shocked to find out that she seems to think I believe there is something more than this life. In the past, I've told her multiple times I don't believe in God, heaven, hell, karma, reincarnation, ... She seems to have blocked it out... I dunno.
Good poem, Mr. O.
I know how you feel. It's a very delicate thing, and you can't really stick to your guns about your beliefs. You'd feel like an ass. Love is more important than ideals sometimes.
I rewrote this one about a week ago. I like the ending better now.
“Children of a Starâ€
Solomon Zorn
Black dominates
The vast
And empty distances
So barren dead and dark
That span
The lonely instances
Of silent glowing stars
Light penetrates
Where something
In the nothingness
Defies the endless night
A massive
Sphere has coalesced
Into a source of light
Sun radiates
From elemental
Furnace
Lying deep within the core
That's shining
On the surface
Through the darkness it abhors
Glow saturates
The Earth
In endless energy
Till molecules emerge
Constructed
With complexity
Conditions all converge
Life proliferates
An intricate
Diversity
That's thriving near and far
Ascends
From cosmic ancestry
As children of a star
I also rewrote the 3rd, 4th and 5th stanzas of this one:
"A Human Sky"Solomon Zorn
Background hue for puffy masses
Painted with a vapor palette
On a canvas made of gasses
High above our verdant planet
We look
Witness heavenly deception
Hiding realms beyond our vision
Color filters our perception
Here below the blue illusion
We wait
Sunset watchers wax emotive
Over fading radiation
Cloudless night in clear perspective
Darkness holds illumination
We see
As the haze is disappearing
Gazing deep into the distance
Eyes enhanced by engineering
Scan the sky with fixed persistence
We learn
Implementing innovations
Meant to move our limits forward
Breaks the bonds of gravitation
Thrusting fragile bodies upward
We reach
Rocket riders feeling fearless
Blasting through the azure ceiling
To an altitude that's weightless
Make the sky a human dwelling
We grasp
I did this one last night. Just a short one.
“Perpetual Paybackâ€
Solomon Zorn
Revenge is mine, but what's it for?
As you kill mine, so I kill yours.
Lost limbs entwine, to settle scores.
As you kill mine, so I kill yours.
On flesh we dine, and beg for more.
As you kill mine, so I kill yours.
We drink the wine, of endless wars.
As you kill mine, so I kill yours.
(Made a few changes this morning, 9/25.)
Did a substantial rewrite on this one:
“Faith Healerâ€
Solomon Zorn
He stands before the crowd
With microphone in hand
He's calling someone down
An old disabled man
He grips the wheelchair
The crowd is in a trance
When he invokes a prayer
The man begins to dance
We've all seen him before
The cripple sells the trick
By dancing on the floor
Like he was never sick
An actor aptly paid
A hypocrite for hire
Some simpletons get played
Their fervor is a fire
Donations are the proof
It's easy to deceive
The members of a group
And get them to believe
A spiritual ruse
Manipulating fools
Believers he will use
The gullible are tools
He's putting on a show
Their money he will take
The rational will know
The faith healer is fake
The Sun has been out most of the day, and I was thinking of my elderly neighbor, who seems to have seasonal affective disorder. This poem came to me.
The Invisible Sky
Solomon Zorn
The unseen Sun still shines as bright,
Though days of gray may dim it's light,
Above the clouds, it's hid from sight,
In the invisible sky.
The unseen Sun still shines as bright,
When Earth's own shadow casts the night,
Beneath our feet it climbs it's height,
In the invisible sky.
The unseen Sun still shines as bright,
To know it, gives my heart delight,
And lifts my Sol, to lofty height,
In the invisible sky.
All of the above a very nice.
Choosing fire or choosing ice.
Or an albatross or a snowy woods.
But I prefer Seuss.
Small wonder
A one-trick pony
Performing in our circus
Drew crowds in tonight.
Contemplating Cannibal
Hidden amongst green,
Atheist Mantis catches wind.
Yet never she prays.
As an atheist
I observed the posts this year.
Most like doves in Wind.
Quote from: Cavebear on February 17, 2017, 07:48:41 AM
All of the above a very nice.
Choosing fire or choosing ice.
Or an albatross or a snowy woods.
But I prefer Seuss.
I think I have posted this one before. It's my Seuss:
“Fingersâ€
Solomon Zorn
Fingers chopped off,
In the shredder,
Little girl
Asks her father,
“Will the Lord,
With his great power,
Make them grow back
In an hour?â€
“Will he hear me
When I pray,
Make them grow back
In a day?â€
“Tell me father,
Be sincere,
Will they grow back
In a year?â€
Father doesn't
Dare reply,
With some
Condescending lie.
As his daughter
Bows to pray,
Father has
No words to say.
God should give
An explanation,
For this
Senseless amputation.
God should tell her
His intention,
When withholding
Intervention.
Leaving fingers
To be severed,
Tell her why
They're gone forever.
Father swallows
Past a lump
Seeing tragic
Little stump
Hand and nub
Are posed in prayer
To a God
That isn't there
Quote from: Solomon Zorn on March 13, 2017, 03:17:02 AM
I think I have posted this one before. It's my Seuss:
“Fingersâ€
Solomon Zorn
Fingers chopped off,
In the shredder,
Little girl
Asks her father,
“Will the Lord,
With his great power,
Make them grow back
In an hour?â€
“Will he hear me
When I pray,
Make them grow back
In a day?â€
“Tell me father,
Be sincere,
Will they grow back
In a year?â€
Father doesn't
Dare reply,
With some
Condescending lie.
As his daughter
Bows to pray,
Father has
No words to say.
God should give
An explanation,
For this
Senseless amputation.
God should tell her
His intention,
When withholding
Intervention.
Leaving fingers
To be severed,
Tell her why
They're gone forever.
Father swallows
Past a lump
Seeing tragic
Little stump
Hand and nub
Are posed in prayer
To a God
That isn't there
No reply is possible. I stand in awe and sadness. Tipping a hat would be insufficient and weak. I bow.
Quote from: Cavebear on March 14, 2017, 07:42:25 AM
No reply is possible. I stand in awe and sadness. Tipping a hat would be insufficient and weak. I bow.
Thanks, Brother. The first two people that I read it to, in person, got visibly choked-up, at the end.
Quote from: Cavebear on February 17, 2017, 07:48:41 AM
All of the above a very nice.
Choosing fire or choosing ice.
Or an albatross or a snowy woods.
But I prefer Seuss.
"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," is my favorite Robert Frost poem.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/42891
My all-time favorite poem, though is this one: "Richard Cory," by Edwin Arlington Robinson.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/44982
Here's one I did for the "Dark Parts Micro-Poetry" contest, on AllPoetry. It seemed like a dark treatment of the subject:
"Pleasure Center"
Solomon Zorn
A tiny little dose,
My paradise is close,
When smoking my cocaine.
I kiss the bliss I missed,
An alabaster mist,
That's stroking-off my brain.
But soon the soul atones,
And moans away the jones,
Until the next refrain.
Okay, nobody liked that last one...
Here's a new one, I whipped up for a thread on another forum:
Behold, how everything God made demonstrates his love:
Like warm summer breezes,
Genetic diseases,
Or encephalitis
From insects that bite us
Like kittens, and babies,
Pneumonia, and rabies,
And victims that howl,
With extruded bowel.
Like big yellow flowers,
And pain-ridden hours,
For third world genius,
Who bleeds from his anus.
Let's hope we go to Heaven, so we can praise His Name forever.
Good mattering stuff.
Quote from: Solomon Zorn on March 28, 2017, 03:30:34 PM
Okay, nobody liked that last one...
Here's a new one, I whipped up for a thread on another forum:
Behold, how everything God made demonstrates his love:
Like warm summer breezes,
Genetic diseases,
Or encephalitis
From insects that bite us
Like kittens, and babies,
Pneumonia, and rabies,
And victims that howl,
With extruded bowel.
Like big yellow flowers,
And pain-ridden hours,
For third world genius,
Who bleeds from his anus.
Let's hope we go to Heaven, so we can praise His Name forever.
^this^
Rod McKuen move over! :)
Thanks, guys! I'm glad you enjoyed reading them.
Deer standing in the street,
Frozen in headlights as we meet.
Hating the world that kill us crying,
Laying bleeding, broken, dying.
Struck by random bullets on the street,
Afraid of everyone we meet.
Syria's dead, the children dying,
None claim the cause someone is lying.
Sarin here, and bullets flying,
Starvation rules and Kings not flying.
Assad rules a broken land,
He does not find a mighty land.
But there will surely come a time,
When his life is not worth a dime.
In the survivors of this fight,
Who working hard do see the light.
Of the struggle there to get the right,
To sleep in peace in the warm dark night.
Who is the deer?
In nostalgia, immortality.
I just passed a sign, that says, "Cliff Ahead."
I remember a Dilbert cartoon where he is driving through a roadwork area and sees a sign saying "End Roadwork".
And he thinks "There are protestors everywhere". I love it when things are interpreted in more than one way. Poems too.
"Like pottery broken...
...forever lost to the sands of time."
Quote from: Shiranu on July 18, 2017, 05:04:13 AM
"Like pottery broken...
...forever lost to the sands of time."
Potteries get found beneath the sands sometimes...
I'm afraid.
In memoriam
Omar Khayyan talked of how a hair divides what is false and true.
And in the wake of your despair, brother, I see that this you knew.
What realities did you travel? Between which worlds were you torn?
Which roads of dirt and gravel, in night’s illusions, left us to mourn?
Questions and concern too late, and by far too little for you now.
And ‘haps you couldn’t elaborate. If desired, would you know how?
But Solomon, to cut your hair’s length, like Samson of legends old,
To strip away, in his fashion, your strength, and to turn yourself cold...
But I know I cannot judge, oh Judge-King, only hope you rest deep and long,
as you so desired and left us here to sing, our own version of Solomon’s song.
Far from perfect. But... I don't know.
He will be missed.
Here and There
(a poem by me that I wrote earlier tonight)
When I was there
I wanted to be here
And then, I thought about it
What was there that wasn't here?
My mind was here
My heart was there
If only the two could meet in the middle
I'd be happy if for but a day
Here is really no better than there
But, you can tell yourself almost anything
If you are escaping from here
To get to there
I like it here
It is real and precise
What I left back there, was not real
But it was nice
My heart can't stay there
It has to come here
And I'll watch over it
It doesn't need to be watched by him any longer
Whether I'm there or here
I've always been the watcher
Keeping me there
And waiting for me to come here
I like it here
I'm no longer there
I've come a long way
With a price to bear
But such is life
An endless journey
Filled with not enough here
And way too much... there
​
Guess I'm in a writing mood this week. ^_^
Darkness and Light
(by me)
What is darkness, what is light
Can either one
Solve my plight?
I’ve played in the light
Running from the dark
Only to come back to
Reality, so stark
But, one soon learns
a very harsh truth
That reality offers risk
But, it also can soothe
Darkness and light
Can’t live alone
They need one another
For a soul to grow
But, darkness isn’t what we
Have been taught to believe
It’s not frightening nor ghoulish
It’s meant to relieve
The light can be blinding
If we get too close
It’s thought to be godly
But, who would really know?
Darkness and light
Two friends on a stroll
What we do with both
Will determine their toll
What you make of your life
Is all that there is
There is no cosmic genius
There is no Great Quiz
Face your demons
They are probably your creation
Shine the light on them
There’ll be no condemnation
Like a wild ride
Life twists and turns
Ride the darkness
And, don’t let the light burn
Behold who you are
Embrace your deepest self
Don’t worry too much
You will rest soon enough
Darkness and light
I’ve come to know both
I won’t run from either
For they are betrothed
So listen to my words
They can save you much pain
Don’t run from darkness
Celebrate its reign​
I translated my favorite Folk-song from Dutch. I tried to stay true to the original meaning as well as the rhyme schematic and form.
At the shore of the Scheldt (Trans: Aan de oever van de Schelde.)
At the shore of the Scheldt, hidden in the reef
Was a young frog on ma's lap, struck with grief.
"See yonder." Spoke his mother. "Gaze at the stork over there.
't is the murderer of your father, ate him in a fight quite unfair."
"God damn it..." Said the little one.
"Has that bastard done this disgrace?
When I'm tall and strong, I shall hit him
right in his stupid face!"
Many years have since passed.
And the young one is no more.
But that old stork, his face
is still pretty sore.
Quote from: Cavebear on August 09, 2017, 05:21:16 AM
Nice, a bit forced. Keep trying.
Yours is laconic and free form. It could be verse ;-)
The Undertow
Your tranquil waters offer no more solace,
as I can’t help but ponder and wonder
at this river of blood beneath the callus
of where your heart was ripped asunder.
I can’t fathom the leagues it must stretch
and clad in darkness the fathoms below.
Here I stand on the silver shore’s edge;
captivated by the pull of your undertow.
You and I were carved from selfsame flesh
so I feel your muscles and know your bones.
My body calls out to yours begging to thresh,
for I’m sure you can swim coated in stones;
that kicking and thrashing I know you can.
Struggle, I no longer wish to see you tranquil.
Swim, you wonderful bastard, you fine man.
Don’t you dare let those waters stay still.
My brother, a calm and quiet man, is getting a divorce. Told me last night. I feel powerless to do anything worthwhile. I'm going to try and be there for him as much as I can. But I don't know where to start.
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on November 20, 2017, 06:01:42 AM
The Undertow
Your tranquil waters offer no more solace,
as I can’t help but ponder and wonder
at this river of blood beneath the callus
of where your heart was ripped asunder.
I can’t fathom the leagues it must stretch
and clad in darkness the fathoms below.
Here I stand on the silver shore’s edge;
captivated by the pull of your undertow.
You and I were carved from selfsame flesh
so I feel your muscles and know your bones.
My body calls out to yours begging to thresh
for I’m sure you can swim coated in stones.
That kicking and thrashing I know you can.
Struggle, I no longer wish to see you tranquil.
Swim, you wonderful bastard, you fine man.
Don’t you dare let those waters turn still.
My brother, a calm and quiet man, is getting a divorce. Told me last night. I feel powerless to do anything worthwhile. I'm going to try and be there for him as much as I can. But I don't know where to start.
You are still engaged, setting up a house as prenup? Never been married before?
Yeah, the quiet ones ... the dangerous ones (I hope not).
Quote from: Baruch on November 20, 2017, 06:44:48 AM
You are still engaged, setting up a house as prenup? Never been married before?
Yeah, the quiet ones ... the dangerous ones (I hope not).
Not engaged, but yes, we're renovating a house. Almost ready to move in. Two more months, I think, tops. Never married.
I don't think my brother is dangerous in any way... I just know he's suffering, though he doesn't want or know how to talk about it.
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on November 20, 2017, 06:58:26 AM
Not engaged, but yes, we're renovating a house. Almost ready to move in. Two more months, I think, tops. Never married.
I don't think my brother is dangerous in any way... I just know he's suffering, though he doesn't want or know how to talk about it.
This is why women are necessary. They can do the talking for both sides of the couple ;-)
Feed
Bare bone torn from the hands that beseech;
their skin ripped by the bloody mouth of the leech.
They are but pounds of flesh, red and raw meat,
a feast offered to the obese beast to feed it’s greed.
It’s flesh is weak and temptation runs within;
pumping through its veins like the original sin
whispering in its ears its self-centred narration
so it might save itself from its own salvation.
Continue to dine on the body of fellow man:
a meagre carcass provides like no god can.
For out there lie no heavens, except in the lies
of how humanity is born, lives and never dies.
Yet when the last one sits on a throne o’ bones,
hungering for more than everything that it owns;
shall it finally learn it can never grow whole?
For feasts of flesh and blood empty the soul.
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on March 23, 2018, 12:25:59 PM
Feed
Bare bone torn from the hands that beseech;
their skin ripped by the bloody mouth of the leech.
They are but pounds of flesh, red and raw meat,
a feast offered to the obese beast to feed it’s greed.
It’s flesh is weak and temptation runs within;
pumping through its veins like the original sin
whispering in its ears its self-centred narration
so it might save itself from its own salvation.
Continue to dine on the body of fellow man:
a meagre carcass provides like no god can.
For out there lie no heavens, except in the lies
of how humanity is born, lives and never dies.
Yet when the last one sits on a throne o’ bones,
hungering for more than everything that it owns;
shall it finally learn it can never grow whole?
For feasts of flesh and blood empty the soul.
I'm impressed! I initially thought "but never dies" wasn't quite right, but realized it referred to "humanity" not individuals and our end as an intelligent adaptable species is not certain.
Very nice, and thank you.
We are Goliath
I know it's a tale told to boys by their mothers
yet find myself lost in the legend of Druon Antigoon
who paid the selfsame toll he exacted onto others
when the brave hero Brabo faced him all alone.
A clash worthy of the biblical David and Goliath
over the waters of the Scheldt; calm but treacherous,
where karma unleashed it's unrivaled and ironic wrath
when the roman held his prize overhead, victorious.
Like Atlas it was a world that he carried and showed;
there he held the hand that had taken so many of it's kin
and had thrown them in the cold river to be swallowed
all for greed, 't was the giant's determinately deadly sin.
A lie that showed Belgians to be the bravest of any Gaul
and that large foes can be overcome without exception
as long as one fights hard and carries a pure, noble soul.
At the saga's core; any dwarf can conquer the leviathan
and the wicked shall never escape their just deserts.
When I was but a small child this story brought me awe.
But as an adult pondering it over; it only disconcerts.
For our history lies before me like a never-ending jigsaw
leading up to a well-deserved yet worrisome threat
when we cast aside Brabo's intention in favor of evil.
I sit at home, waiting for karma to come collect a debt
for all the helpless hands that we took in Leopoldville.
O Wounded Bird by Deidre
O wounded bird, why did you take your eyes off the sky?
You were flying along, minding your own business, and one day...another bird saw you.
He flew alongside you, in a comical rhythm. He didn't disrupt your flight, he led you to the morning worms.
You skimmed the dewy leaves together, at dawn. His incessant chirping never bothered you, and eventually, a friendship blossomed.
You'd swoop down and then in a flash, soar high above the leafy trees, looking at the world, below. Together, you made the other birds jealous, and they'd fly in a pattern, to be just like you.
He wanted to be with you always, wounded bird. You thought he was the finest gentleman in the area, always fending off the ravenous vultures.
And then one day, bam! You hit a tree while you had your eyes on him. It came out of nowhere. The sharp, jaggedy bark clipped your left wing, and you spiraled to the ground. You tried to call out for your friend, but he never came.
He was there just a minute ago.
Writhing in the dirt, you found your way to your feet, and hobbled along, with one broken wing dangling...lifeless. That tree, where did it come from? How did you not see it? You were blindsided by its strength, its beauty, its stoic nature.
Trees are quite stoic, aren't they?
If you hadn't had your eyes on your love, you would have seen it. He didn't help you that day. Such is a bird's life, I reckon. You fly, and sometimes, you rise above all the smoke and chatter. Other days, you don't, because your eyes were pressed on another bird who you thought cared for you like no other.
O wounded bird, why did you take your eyes off the sky?
(Not quite a poem ^^ , but more of a literary piece) ^_^
I would consider it a poem... very Shahnameh (Persian "Book of Kings", or prose of Iranian history and myth) vibes.
Regret living with passion for what you love, for either way what you love will hurt you in the end.
Let your heart bathe in the sun before it withers and die, for all our hearts wither and die when it is their time.
This passion of life will be heartache, and the fear of life will be heartache double still.
Quote from: Deidre32 on June 17, 2018, 09:04:01 PM
(Not quite a poem ^^ , but more of a literary piece) ^_^
Yeah, but it was still pretty good!
(poem by me)
A man to my left
A woman to my right
Who shall stay with me
On this starry night?
If it would be him
He will bring flowers and wine
Dazzle me with his strength
A date so sublime
But, suppose she shows up
A few minutes too late?
Hoping that I'll notice her
I'll just make her wait
She'll be wearing torn jeans
Looking me up and down
Her eyes all sparkly and blue
We may head into town
He promises me one thing
She does the same
Who to believe?
This isn't a game
I don't think I can choose
They are both so amazing
It may come down to a kiss
That will tell me everything
A man to my left
A woman to my right
Who shall stay with me
On this starry night?
*I thought of some titles, but think it's best unnamed. This poem was slightly inspired by a friend of mine who is bi, and I sometimes wonder...does it ever get confusing, or does she just follow her heart, wherever it may lead?
A poem for my grandmother (by me)
I had a dream last night
It startled me awake
For a moment, she returned
But, it was all fake
My heart did a flip
Nana called out my name
It seemed so real
Not another mind game
Why did she leave me?
Where did she go?
She went to a better place
Or, so I’ve been told
I miss her laugh
And her kind ways
She was like a bright light
Such beautiful, strong rays
My dad misses her, too
His mother whom he loved
He is angry, and sad
Feels a bit drugged
It didn’t just happen
A few years have passed
But, when someone dies
You learn nothing lasts
So, the days that we have
Are numbered at best
Spend them wisely
Because you could be next
Life makes a raw deal
Pull up a chair, listen up!
Love one another
And never let up
For without love
There is no life at all
Just a mere existence
Weak and small
But, love changes everything
It may hurt, it may cost
The sacrifice is worth it
Even if it’s lost
Nana, I love you
You weren’t here long enough
But, know that you are missed
And, it’s been quite tough
No one will ever be like you
You once said the same
To me, over coffee
After a trivia game
You had a way with words
Made everyone feel at ease
Your presence and beauty
Felt like a gentle breeze
If there is a heaven
I will see you again
I won’t have to dream
It will be real, with no end.
The Trip (poem by me)
Once upon a time
there was a naive girl
she followed her heart
she traveled the world
She went to Paris and Madrid
sampling food and wine
chatting up strangers
believing all their lines
The men were quite kind
spewing what she wanted to hear
they were charming and smart
but unfortunately, quite cavalier
Every airplane trip
gave her a rush
who would she meet this time?
who would be her next crush?
Yet, her trips grew dull
as ten years piled on
she woke up one day
realizing, what she had done
She relentlessly kept looking
for that one special thing
where could it be?
what was she missing?
All along her journeys
she hoped it was him
one man after the next
but, the chances grew slim
One day, as she packed
for yet another long trip
she fidgeted and frowned
biting her lip
She was tired of traveling
it got her quite down
so many cities and towns
she was never around
Her mother and father
were becoming older and distant
she lost track of time
in what seemed to be, an instant
Traveling the world
lost her so much
where did her friends go?
they stopped keeping in touch
Her peace and happiness
was always right here
not in a faraway land
but, up close and clear
She made an atonement
to those she had ignored
spending time in the present
she had so much in store
No more boats and planes
her mind was made up
if she were to find love
she would have to offer up
Her time and kindness
and cease chasing the wrong things
she was grateful to be home
where she finally stopped yearning
How can this be?
she thought, with a smile
my entire life
I've been lost in the miles
Once upon a time
there was a naive girl
she followed her heart
and the path led to her.
Tornado
The wind keeps tearing at the home we built.
Wood, would it splinter? Stone, should it crumble?
And where such poison needed to be spilled;
lead could be torn from beneath our scumble.
Why do we have to fight to stay grounded
and not drift off in a rage without form?
Though I know the roars will keep me hounded
I fell in love with the eye of the storm.
I am a man with no roof overhead;
looking at clear blue skies above, through truss.
I am calm, at peace, and the air is dead.
Trapped between walls invisible to us.
I like that! I had to look up "scumble" though...
Also, I'm curious - do tornados have an "eye of the storm"?
I have a book called
Ballads of a Cheechako (https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Ballads_of_a_Cheechako), from 1909, that has some good stuff in it. Here's one that I like a lot:
https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Ballad_of_the_Northern_Lights
I especially like the first bit:
QuoteOne of the Down and Out â€" that’s me. Stare at me well, ay, stare!
Stare and shrink â€" say! you wouldn’t think that I was a millionaire.
Look at my face, it’s crimped and gouged â€" one of them death-mask things;
Don’t seem the sort of man, do I, as might be the pal of kings?
Slouching along in smelly rags, a bleary-eyed, no-good bum;
A knight of the hollow needle, pard, spewed from the sodden slum.
Look me all over from head to foot; how much would you think I was worth?
A dollar? a dime? a nickel? Why, I’m the wealthiest man on earth.
Quote from: Unbeliever on September 08, 2018, 07:28:23 PM
I like that! I had to look up "scumble" though...
Also, I'm curious - do tornados have an "eye of the storm"?
As I understand it; yes, technically. But I could be mistaken.
If I am, I guess I might have to change it to hurricane. Though tornado sounded better to me :D
Quote from: Unbeliever on September 08, 2018, 07:28:23 PM
I like that! I had to look up "scumble" though...
Also, I'm curious - do tornados have an "eye of the storm"?
Technically tornadoes aren't like hurricanes. Hurricanes can have a calm eye, and they spawn tornadoes and water spouts. There is no calm in the middle of a tornado. The final scene in Twister, showed an eye, but that is meteorological license.
Metaphorically, eye of the storm, isn't a good thing, if you are in a sailing ship. If you survived the hurricane to get to the eye, then you are only half way out ;-(
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on September 08, 2018, 07:50:31 PM
As I understand it; yes, technically. But I could be mistaken.
If I am, I guess I might have to change it to hurricane. Though tornado sounded better to me :D
Tornados have an "eye" like hurricanes, but very small.
Quote from: Cavebear on September 12, 2018, 04:42:22 AM
Tornados have an "eye" like hurricanes, but very small.
Measure one yourself, and I will believe you ;-)
The church
Come breathe holy air on this graveyard of dreams,
forlorn sanctuary now hidden amongst clouds of mist,
where better people than us prayed for mere gleams
Of a world after Lucifer’s and the King of Kings’ tryst.
When not even winds dare whisper the hyms they sang
the bricks and mortar of this vestige crumble in silence.
I can naught but dream of reaching another with a bang
by ringing the scarred steeple’s bronze bells in defiance.
Is there life left in this fallen flesh and these buried bones?
Is someone marching blindly through these banks, hoping still?
I suppose to know; I must brave and climb these rotten stones.
And yet I’m cold and tired and wet, and I don’t know if I will.
We are the product of the past, free will or not. The past lives on, thru us.
Not serious poetry, but I've seen worse. And it is my thoughts right now...
I wanna new car,
Without scratches and dents,
One that looks like it should,
That only cost a few pence.
I wanna new car.
Electric would be good.
That could haul a small trailer
And a small boat too.
I wanna a new car,
13 years is quite long
Its starting to die,
And it won't be long.
I wanna new car,
Black was never right.
You can't see that car,
In the dead of night.
I wanna new car,
Another SUV.
The height gets me up
Over headlights, you see.
I wanna a new car,
For the pride, ya'll.
But it has to fit the garage
At my beck and call.
And the door's kinna small.
I wanna new car,
Without tech-stuff, ya know.
I don't call when driving,
And I know where I am.
I wanna new car,
One that keeps me alive,
And keeps me protected
In front or behind.
I wanna new car,
Hydrogen's good
But there ain't that stuff
In the neighborhood.
I wanna new car,
But maybe keep what I've got.
Get it detailed and painted,
Let mechanics fix it up.
I wanna a new car,
I could buy one you see.
But this one could last,
Another 10 years and three.
Mold
Have you ever had corruption mocking you?
There’s a patch of it growing inside my bath,
cloaked as midnight begat from tainted tissue
infecting and growing with cancerous wrath.
Others dare declare they cannot see it.
Which above all else is most unfair.
For no matter how much washing I did
I still feel it spreading everywhere.
I scrub and scrub and scrub hours on end
and use my tears to dilute the soap.
I plunge open wounds into lemon scent
and use the pain to help me cope.
It still infests my marmer, consuming all.
The cleaning product bites into my skin
There’s red smeared across the wall.
And without flesh; fingers seem so thin.
The spores now root deep in my blood.
With closed eyes they can’t be unseen.
Underneath my skin I can feel them bud
making me tear muscles to keep clean.
And if it weren’t for my frustration,
I doubt I could still call myself sane.
Only rage withstood the assimilation
ever pumping through every vein.
Perfect Storm
The ocean clashes in rhythm against bedrock of stone
in a game of push and pull underneath the full moon.
The smell of salt water penetrates the winds which moan
into the sails of our vessel set to sink all too soon.
Onward into the darkest depths beneath the dancing tides
where we might lose ourselves to drown in fluid bliss!
Together with you, it matters not whereto the storm rides
so long as we come where waters explode into the abyss.
Hold onto the mast now the heavens above rip asunder
and our ship suffers the wrath of Thor’s heavy blow.
I’ll keep you in my arms when warm waves drag us under;
extinguishing the blazing flames roaring in our bow.
And should we wake tomorrow on white, raw sand;
alive and aglow with the sun rising beyond world’s edge
we shall build another raft to leave that lonely island
en voyage to the perfect storm to sink said fiery ketch.
A long hard look
Beyond the stalls whereto he ran, the faded mirror told his fate;
he sees only a nine dollar man stuck on his fourteen dollar date.
Entranced by the man reflected, he is unable to leave this place.
For gone is the charm once respected and the grin plastered on that face.
Lines carved into the registrar dealing in truth found late at night.
The jukebox mocks from afar, knowing it's spite can't be denied.
And he feels the needle scratch, for the record playing is his own:
with past mistakes made to match with a song of sinister undertone.
A chanted path that lead him here; face to face with his barren husk
filled with grease and stale beer and drenched in this diner's musk.
There is no real history to be seen, no single rise to have lead to a fall.
It's all been dreary and in between; mirrored mediocrity, the worst of all.
Ain't no rest-room for the wicked, no refuge in numbers on wood,
when you judge yourself convicted of not turning out how you should.
I miss him.
Could use some input on this one!
Making it for a friend who's putting together an indie game centered in WWII.
Entrenched
The soil soaks with the blood of brothers
though the iron is not bound to the ground:
It is flung forth from us to the others
in a monstrous nightmare we try to mount
and ride towards the glow of the rising sun.
Arm the cannons and rip the skies asunder,
the struggle for a horse has only just begun:
Kill the man you were and let it thunder.
Worry only how to live with yourself
after you make sure that you'll live.
Forget the One and his band of twelve
and the forgiveness that He might give.
Nothing is sacred in love nor in war.
Arm the cannons and rip your soul asunder,
the high horse of dawn grazes too far.
Kill the man you'd be and let it thunder.
Someone told me to check a syllable counter.
This one is more in tune with that: ten each.
Which is better?
entrenched
Here the soil soaks with the blood of brothers
though the iron is not bound to the ground:
It is flung forth from us to the others
in a monstrous nightmare we try to mount
and ride to the light of the rising sun.
Arm the cannons; rip the skies asunder,
the struggle for a steed has just begun:
Kill the man you were and let it thunder.
Worry only how to live with yourself
after you are certain that you will live.
Forget now the One and his band of twelve
and so the forgiveness that He might give.
Nothing is sacred in love nor in war.
Arm the cannons; rip your soul asunder,
the high horse of dawn grazes far too far.
Kill the man you'd be and let it thunder.
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on November 19, 2018, 06:22:26 AM
Could use some input on this one!
Making it for a friend who's putting together an indie game centered in WWII.
Entrenched
The soil soaks with the blood of brothers
though the iron is not bound to the ground:
It is flung forth from us to the others
in a monstrous nightmare we try to mount
and ride towards the glow of the rising sun.
Arm the cannons and rip the skies asunder,
the struggle for a horse has only just begun:
Kill the man you were and let it thunder.
Worry only how to live with yourself
after you make sure that you'll live.
Forget the One and his band of twelve
and the forgiveness that He might give.
Nothing is sacred in love nor in war.
Arm the cannons and rip your soul asunder,
the high horse of dawn grazes too far.
Kill the man you'd be and let it thunder.
Someone told me to check a syllable counter.
This one is more in tune with that: ten each.
Which is better?
entrenched
Here the soil soaks with the blood of brothers
though the iron is not bound to the ground:
It is flung forth from us to the others
in a monstrous nightmare we try to mount
and ride to the light of the rising sun.
Arm the cannons; rip the skies asunder,
the struggle for a steed has just begun:
Kill the man you were and let it thunder.
Worry only how to live with yourself
after you are certain that you will live.
Forget now the One and his band of twelve
and so the forgiveness that He might give.
Nothing is sacred in love nor in war.
Arm the cannons; rip your soul asunder,
the high horse of dawn grazes far too far.
Kill the man you'd be and let it thunder.
You got feedback?
@Cavebear
Low Fantasy
You and I oft danced in a dreamt up dystopia.
Underneath ageless winds born from dragons’ wings.
We collected most precious memorabilia
Made from old news, cardboard and other trivial things.
Mirrored the world as it was, as princess and prince.
With the stage itself dismantling our binding quest.
Rival rogues, timid thieves, assaulted assassins:
Summarized in a King’s cold court’s fool’s jest.
And though I would awaken the giants from the earth,
To shake the foundations of reason and belief,
I am but a dwarf looking up to you with mirth:
A wraith captivated by your bodice and by grief.
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on November 24, 2018, 07:31:23 PM
You got feedback? @Cavebear
I'm sure I had something to say there, but forgot to do it. My apologies...
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on March 11, 2019, 07:50:29 AM
Low Fantasy
You and I oft danced in a dreamt up dystopia.
Underneath ageless winds born from dragons’ wings.
We collected most precious memorabilia
Made from old news, cardboard and other trivial things.
Mirrored the world as it was, as princess and prince.
With the stage itself dismantling our binding quest.
Rival rogues, timid thieves, assaulted assassins:
Summarized in a King’s cold court’s fool’s jest.
And though I would awaken the giants from the earth,
To shake the foundations of reason and belief,
I am but a dwarf looking up to you with mirth:
A wraith captivated by your bodice and by grief.
You had me until "bodice". Then it was just about sex... You might want to change that word because it is otherwise aspirational.
Quote from: Cavebear on March 29, 2019, 02:24:12 AM
You had me until "bodice". Then it was just about sex... You might want to change that word because it is otherwise aspirational.
Thanks, going to keep bodice in this instance though.
It's supposed to be about longing, including (but not limited to) lust, for something/-one tempting but beyond reach.
Bodice seemed to work for that. As it fit the syllable-counter, (i think), and is something that both hides and accentuates beauty: an agent for appeal, if you will.
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on March 29, 2019, 10:43:34 AM
Thanks, going to keep bodice in this instance though.
It's supposed to be about longing, including (but not limited to) lust, for something/-one tempting but beyond reach.
Bodice seemed to work for that. As it fit the syllable-counter, (i think), and is something that both hides and accentuates beauty: an agent for appeal, if you will.
Ah, the "bodice" as a symbol of desire beyond and yet also slightly out of reach. Got it.
Bilateral Breathing
These waters we treaded were cold but calm,
without waves nor currently a current;
no single argument and never qualm.
I believed to be swimming ‘till we weren’t.
Now come hither; look at this wet-haired fool
whom, whilst performing the butterfly proud,
caused the perfect storm in his local pool
when the wings of moths summoned a great cloud.
The thunderous typhoon reigned supreme,
rained verdict; liquid in liquid did pour,
leaving two drifters at sea and no team
to never swim monotome laps no more.
This sinking feeling it is familiar.
Yet I know I shall not sink all too deep,
for the depth which I hold is naught on par
to the pool of tears I’m left to weep.
She left me naked, but my swim-shorts:
Unable to leave the pool due to shame.
So I will remember the suit she sports
and continue my strokes, if all the same.
The winds within
The winds in the north rise up again, fearing the reaper of the morrow.
‘Tween bouts of fury, now and then, their wails witness with solemn sorrow.
The grains of blood now dare to wither, as his scythe now divides day into night.
It pains that food once fair goes bitter, rots in light of what hides just beyond sight:
The soul of a man long impaled by regret who longs wholly for a chance at redemption,
Whose whole life began amidst bloodshed and songs showily advancing the ademption.
Such primal tenure lies within oneself; incorporated and baked into one’s meagre meat:
Taken from nature in which we delve. So we created what makes us us, us evil, indeed.
Sometimes you just gotta force yourself to write something, even if it isn't quite great and not what you wanted.
There is no other way to stop a writers block.
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on August 21, 2019, 02:45:57 PM
The winds within
The winds in the north rise up again, fearing the reaper of the morrow.
‘Tween bouts of fury, now and then, their wails witness with solemn sorrow.
The grains of blood now dare to wither, as his scythe now divides day into night.
It pains that food once fair goes bitter, rots in light of what hides just beyond sight:
The soul of a man long impaled by regret who longs wholly for a chance at redemption,
Whose whole life began amidst bloodshed and songs showily advancing the ademption.
Such primal tenure lies within oneself; incorporated and baked into one’s meagre meat:
Taken from nature in which we delve. So we created what makes us us, us evil, indeed.
Sometimes you just gotta force yourself to write something, even if it isn't quite great and not what you wanted.
There is no other way to stop a writers block.
That 4th line was awful...
The next to last line felt forced. Maybe something "mead"?
Quote from: Cavebear on August 24, 2019, 04:57:25 AM
That 4th line was awful...
The next to last line felt forced. Maybe something "mead"?
Not sure it is even worth salvaging. I just needed to write anything. I haven't finished anything in so long.
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on August 24, 2019, 05:56:37 AM
Not sure it is even worth salvaging. I just needed to write anything. I haven't finished anything in so long.
Well, that is a very different category. You expressed yourself well, and I liked it very much in general. I felt emotions in your poem and that is that main intent I think.
Amidst blue forests
Retarded monkey swings fast,
Yet falls on red bum.
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on September 08, 2019, 10:28:27 AM
Amidst blue forests
Retarded monkey swings fast,
Yet falls on red bum.
Was that for Burach?
Quote from: Mike Cl on September 08, 2019, 10:36:46 AM
Was that for Burach?
I am single, you are married. It wouldn't be right for us to get married. But I appreciate the Obsession ...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pEzoMPaUlF4
Quote from: Baruch on September 08, 2019, 01:18:07 PM
I am single, you are married. It wouldn't be right for us to get married. But I appreciate the Obsession ...
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pEzoMPaUlF4
You'd be welcome--red bum and all.
Quote from: Mike Cl on September 08, 2019, 04:10:48 PM
A little--but that's all good. :))
Some monkeys are more equal than others - Atheist Farm
"At Runnymede, at Runnymede,
Your rights were won at Runnymede!
No freeman shall be fined or bound,
Or dispossessed of freehold ground,
Except by lawful judgment found
And passed upon him by his peers.
Forget not, after all these years,
The Charter Signed at Runnymede."
And still when Mob or Monarch lays
Too rude a hand on English ways,
The whisper wakes, the shudder plays,
Across the reeds at Runnymede.
And Thames, that knows the moods of kings,
And crowds and priests and suchlike things,
Rolls deep and dreadful as he brings
Their warning down from Runnymede!
Rudyard Kipling
The wanderer and the farmer
Across solid stone and dirt, he wanders on
chasing the fading light of a setting sun.
A vagabond lone with mirth, troubles long gone
on his endless road that had never begun.
"A wanderer, a dreamer!", I spake onto him.
"So lost in his mind, he sees not where his feet lead."
Into the dark of worlds where beasts roam with grins grim;
with such poison my mind hastened my heart's beat.
"Come hither drifter and rest those soles most sore.
My house is small but safer than the world about.
Your ignorant smile my soul can bare no more."
With these words of worry I cursed and begged out loud.
He left me by walls of stone I dare not leave.
A sanctuary which I erected on my own.
At nights by the fire I still wonder in grief
whether he had more wisdom than he had shown.
Beyond my door the grounds are frozen and wolves howl.
He might be dead from lack of blood or lack of feed.
But nevertheless I am trapped and I do scowl.
For that smile which haunts me still, of fear was freed.
Live life to the fullest.
Always.
On a Picture
briefly blancmange
transcendentalism -
a Rothko
On Sunrise
orange crush
blancmange
how I feel
effervescence
suppressed
On We Go
It is like Galileo said,
It still moves.
Gregory needs English Lit lessons ;-)
Veterans Anonymous
Cold coffee and a look of recognition;
the spoils for inflicting our own submission.
A few words spoken and heard, eyes of kindness,
one-eye's refuge amidst the blindness.
For we have seen more than one man ever should.
And have carried more than one man ever could
We few who outlived the lies went forgotten.
Left to our own devices; brains grown rotten.
Rotten with the haunting stank of blank corpses
all for the well-heard lies from unseen forces
who gave the chance, above all other things,
for maggots to eat our sins and earn their wings.
A man who kills, kills as well the killing boy
Then and now we are destroyed as we destroy.
So forget not to give one his earned token,
when the shattered are left to fix the broken.
Been reading a lot of Al Andalusian poetry lately, tried to give it a go.
---
Adonai,
before you I am a slug – struggling against dried soil.
Though I pray for rains to soften my journey, the skies are barren.
Here my body compresses, flowing through jagged Terra-turned-to-stone.
I feel it scrape upon me – tiny, bladed traps made of dried soil.
It is through your grace I feel the moisture of the root. I follow it's path, in fleeting touches – left in the dark, as I search for that drop of Nature's relief and find her flowing strands.
This plant which sustains me, is sustained by you - You are the light upon which it feeds.
Though I cannot see you – for I was not fit for eyes - your love reaches me through others.
Thunder, reverbing loud;
Silver grass, flowing gently.
The calm after death.
Grain, shimmering gold,
From snowy fields in the breeze.
A res'olute shadow.
Up above the streets and houses rainbow climbing high
Everyone can see it smiling over the sky
Paint the whole world with a rainbow
Take a look under the curtain,
and what sight you will see -
all of the mad politicians
are drinking all the same green tea.
I've had my dreams
They all melted away
Like ice cream