Poetry, not essays!
More seriously though; That's pretty impressive. I like the whole trippy train of thought thing you've got going on.
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Poetry, not essays!
More seriously though; That's pretty impressive. I like the whole trippy train of thought thing you've got going on.
Here's one I've been working on for a while, and I know it's a little dark, but for some reason that's where my mind drifts lately.
The Forest of My Dreams
by Cassandra Packard
In the forest of my dreams
I see something, but it's nothing to be seen
Trees as tall as the sky
Doesn't make it right
The ground soft and wet
We're not quite there yet
The forest of my dreams doesn't exist
It disappears in a cloud of mist
Out of sight, out of mind
Leave everything behind
The trees sway in the wind
My life I must defend
Why can't it make sense?
My mind is clouded and dense
In the end it doesn't really matter
The world is a field, and I am the batter
But I struck out too soon
My life as mysterious as the moon
In the forest of my dreams
Nothing is as quite as it seems
In this life, we pick the path to take
We can only hope it wasn't a mistake
Are we all the same?
Sometimes it appears we're all in the wrong lane
In the forest of my dreams none of this world remains
I can forget about all my pain
I hear the birds of the forest sing their sweet song
I realized I should have known it all along
This world is messed up, corrupt and out of control
But I guess It doesn't matter when we come together as a whole
Wow, that's excellent! How long did you work on that?PlaceOfDis said:
Poetry, not essays!
More seriously though; That's pretty impressive. I like the whole trippy train of thought thing you've got going on.
thank you, i like the idea of stream of conciousness and it just 'coming out' the way it does. works for me. and thats not a long poem for me. i have one thats 20 pages long. and incomplete
in total? about 15 minutes. there are things i've thought about changing and the revised one i spend about an hour on but i'm not happy with it right now.
your poems are good cassie. keep it up. don't be afraid to try new things and don't force rhymes or rhythms if they're just not there.
your poems are good cassie. keep it up. don't be afraid to try new things and don't force rhymes or rhythms if they're just not there.
I agree, and I think your more recent one is certainly very good (as was the other).
Poetry's definitely not all about rhyme. I tried out a load of different types of poetry back when I was still writing.
If you've never heard of Villanelle, I recommend that you check it out as a style.
That's one that I wrote when I was into Villanelle, but instead of following the normal conventions of the style, I changed it around a bit.
by Jim Morrison. This is a poem in his own words, never mind he arranged it as a epic rock song for The Doors album.
This is the end, Beautiful friend
This is the end, My only friend, the end
Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
Ill never look into your eyes...again
Can you picture what will be, So limitless and free
Desperately in need...of some...strangers hand
In a...desperate land
Lost in a Roman...wilderness of pain
And all the children are insane, All the children are insane
Waiting for the summer rain, yeah
Theres danger on the edge of town
Ride the Kings highway, baby
Weird scenes inside the gold mine
Ride the highway west, baby
Ride the snake, ride the snake
To the lake, the ancient lake, baby
The snake is long, seven miles
Ride the snake...hes old, and his skin is cold
The west is the best, The west is the best
Get here, and well do the rest
The blue bus is callin us, The blue bus is callin us
Driver, where you taken us
The killer awoke before dawn, he put his boots on
He took a face from the ancient gallery
And he walked on down the hall
He went into the room where his sister lived, and...then he
Paid a visit to his brother, and then he
He walked on down the hall, and
And he came to a door...and he looked inside
Father, yes son, I want to kill you
Mother...I want to...**** you
Cmon baby, take a chance with us X3
And meet me at the back of the blue bus
Doin a blue rock, On a blue bus
Doin a blue rock, Cmon, yeah
Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill
This is the end, Beautiful friend
This is the end, My only friend, the end
It hurts to set you free
But youll never follow me
The end of laughter and soft lies
The end of nights we tried to die
This is the end
This is the end, Beautiful friend
This is the end, My only friend, the end
Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
Ill never look into your eyes...again
Can you picture what will be, So limitless and free
Desperately in need...of some...strangers hand
In a...desperate land
Lost in a Roman...wilderness of pain
And all the children are insane, All the children are insane
Waiting for the summer rain, yeah
Theres danger on the edge of town
Ride the Kings highway, baby
Weird scenes inside the gold mine
Ride the highway west, baby
Ride the snake, ride the snake
To the lake, the ancient lake, baby
The snake is long, seven miles
Ride the snake...hes old, and his skin is cold
The west is the best, The west is the best
Get here, and well do the rest
The blue bus is callin us, The blue bus is callin us
Driver, where you taken us
The killer awoke before dawn, he put his boots on
He took a face from the ancient gallery
And he walked on down the hall
He went into the room where his sister lived, and...then he
Paid a visit to his brother, and then he
He walked on down the hall, and
And he came to a door...and he looked inside
Father, yes son, I want to kill you
Mother...I want to...**** you
Cmon baby, take a chance with us X3
And meet me at the back of the blue bus
Doin a blue rock, On a blue bus
Doin a blue rock, Cmon, yeah
Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill
This is the end, Beautiful friend
This is the end, My only friend, the end
It hurts to set you free
But youll never follow me
The end of laughter and soft lies
The end of nights we tried to die
This is the end
Dana Gioia's "California Hills in August" is a beautiful poem, so evocative that you think you're there when you read it. I think it was originally published in The New Yorker, don't know if it's in any of his collections.