Share your poetry!

[ZiggyPastorius]

Basically, I'd love to hear everyone's poetry. All types of poetry are welcome, from Haiku to Epic poems to Avante-Garde if you want. I'll start out:

It’s fantasy, anything beyond what we see here,
A glance and a word is all we’re allowed, dear.
In fantasy, though, anything goes.
From the soft touch of lips to a strip down to pantyhose,
all desire’s allowed in our hearts...
The feelings we share and dream is expressed in our arts.


A vibrant rose pink, flowing free past the shoulders,
A mouldering inhibition, as he grabs hold tight of her.
The unspeakable acts commited out of love,
fueled by the dirty things they thought of.
An endless array of conceivable things,
that they could do without thinking of rings.
Actions like this are all in the moment,
afterwards it will be worth it, won’t it?
The question is asked and usually true.

“Since we last spoke all I’ve thought of is you,”
he spoke with a smile, and after they
sat and talked for a while.
In fantasy, we’ve said, anything goes,
but in reality, we do deal with throes.
It only happened once, but what if again?
He grins and takes up his pen.
“All over,” he writes, her skin smooth to the touch
and of this, emotions become way too much.
Lovely curves and folds he does clutch,
after her succulence, he lusts.
As he dots his name on the picture he’s painted
with nothing more than pen,
he looks ‘cross the way, the other side of the room
to see his subject again.
She’s there with another, but looks anyway,
her smile shining ever so bright,
but in fascination, he closes his eyes,
and she’s standing just to his right.
The brain is a tool, like an eraser of rife,
it creates new and exciting life.
Fake excitement unnecessary.
She’s all that he needs
and though that is scary
it never can hurt to dream...


*Read with fewer pauses and more flowing*
To keep his eyes closed is to be juxtaposed
from her smiles bright gleam, and her masterful prose
from the facet of sex to the facet of lex and the broad range of places
their poetry will go next. *breath*

But he sees it in her, in her eyes either way,
how the love that they share will not go away,
whether active or passive, it really won’t matter,
if they’re not in deep make-out, they will be in chatter.
The latter is a matter of interesting coat
a layer of life that is sharing; a mote.
When the talking is finished, they both go to work,
to convert the discussion could drive one berserk.
Eventually, it’s done, a poem, a story,
a dirty testimonial, in all of its glory.
Upon the parchment’s face,
a steady pace,
a race to make its case,
upon the board’s place.
It states tales of fancy,
fantasy’s fascination,
separated from reality
in every location.

The gist of story, perhaps not so clear,
is it only fantasy he is asking for here?
Not quite so, not completely,
It’s a thought he says sweetly,
that he’d love to be with her,
as he signs his name neatly.

Just to give a small piece of the context. This place takes place in older times, but it's about a man and woman who find a connection through a church board where people share poetry. They are also of similar beliefs/interests (art, et cetera), and they spend a lot of time together, however the man frequently has to leave, and whenever he returns he finds to his dismay that she is with another once again, and for this reason, he is never able to be with her, however, things do happen, but marriage is decidedly out of the question.

I'd love to hear anyone else's poetry they'd like to share

 

[leishan]

Do limericks count?


just kidding...

 

[Melrose]

Oh man.. I wrote tons of poetry through my mid to late teen years..

Mostly prose, lately.. not poetry. I'll see if I can dig one or two up...

 

[ZiggyPastorius]

Oh man.. I wrote tons of poetry through my mid to late teen years..

Mostly prose, lately.. not poetry. I'll see if I can dig one or two up...

Well, hey, I want there to be some stuff in here, so if you have a short story or something you want to share, feel free to post that as well

 

[nickspohn]

I love writing. Took me 10 minutes to write this one which i wrote a few minutes ago.

They say love at first site never works out
Well they never met us because that’s what we’re all about
Everyone envies our amazing connection
They say we are way above perfection
We hold hands wherever we go
Because then everyone will know
There is no splitting us apart
Your world is all together in my heart
I wouldn’t be able to breathe without you in my life
We can carve our names in a tree with a knife
Then everyone will know that my babe and I sat here one day
Expressing our love on a warm spring evening in May
Later on we can sit on a park bench and feed the swans
On this beautiful day there couldn’t be any cons
After all as long as you are here with me that’s all I could ask for
So let’s get up from this bench we have so much to explore
But that story can come after this one comes true
Until then, I’ll be waiting right here for you

 

[SkyBell]

Two I'd like to share. But be warned, it's very much so your typical "teenage angst" poetry.

Dew drops form in the grass
Dripping down the blades
A clear shimmering mass

On a hot summer morning

Stars shine
Then fall.

Boats sail
Then sink.

Plants grow
Then die.

We life
We laugh
We learn
We love
We lose

The air is filled
With lost prayers
and forgotten dreams
Of those who gave in
and surrendered
to the beast.

Flowers bloom in the Spring warmth

Skies fail
When the people give in
Who let themselves fall victim
Who let their uniqueness die
Who let others through
People who make us
the vulnerable.

Leaves blow gently in the Autumn breeze.

Don't be one of them
Find yourself, your voice
Speak out and create
Make art
Make opinions
Make anything.

Snow falls on a cold Winter's night

Show the world you're not just another drone
Another brick in the wall
Another fish in the pond

You have a choice
Make it.
Because we all end up at the same place

It's the stops you make along the path there that matter.

I can remember
You were so beautiful
What happened to those times?
I fear we'll never know

I found another
Chance at this strange life
So many things to know
So many things I don't.

I have forgotten
What it feels to feel that way
You only showed me how
You didn't want to stay.

I don't have faith now
In anyone but me
You held a spot there too
But you've forgotten me.

Only now do I know
Love is not for real
When you showed me that
This was the way, I feel.

I can remember
Times of brighter lives
One of them was mine
Find it now impaled with knives.

I have forgotten
You didn't trust me
What was it that I said
To have you run and flee?

You don't remember
How much I cared for you
How much I sacrificed
To see your smile anew.

You don't appreciate
My efforts to reveal
Who I really am
What I have now concealed.

So now I don't care
Do what you want with me
Toss me to the side
Because now I see

No one is trusting
Nor can they be trusted
So why did I do just that?
With my life, I have lost it,

Now I can see that
I was wrong to be
That kind of person
But it's too late for me.

I don't even care now
I don't do anything
So now you can sit back

And watch me bleed.

 

[dsnort]

Oh man.. I wrote tons of poetry through my mid to late teen years..

Mostly prose, lately.. not poetry. I'll see if I can dig one or two up...

Me too, was infamous for sending it to girls I was interested in. Found one of them lately, amazing how sappy I was.

 

[mscriv]

Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
You asked for Poetry
So this is for You!

Short and Sweet.

 

[touchher]

Had to write this one for school:

Ode to the Clouds
No, no, look not to the tumid clouds overhead,
for they embrace despondency of our demesne,
vacuous of individuality and intelligence once bled,
gelid in pristine, invariable disdain;
emptiness full of falsity instead.

Greet thy wretched doppelgänger of Zeus,
for it is he who hath power over glee.
Implore him to absorb thy inclement actuality he shall seduce
and from this Stygian bed will form a fanciful marquee,
ergo, from each heart gaiety will diffuse.

 

[ZiggyPastorius]

Wow! Almost five months since I opened the thread

Thanks for the contributions, guys, I enjoyed reading them. As a note, anyone submitting the poetry should clarify why they are submitting (i.e. simply to share, to be critiqued, to be analysed, et cetera). We wouldn't want anyone criticising someone else's work when it's a really personal thing they don't to be torn apart.

Anyways, keep them coming, guys.

No, no, look not to the tumid clouds overhead,
for they embrace despondency of our demesne,
vacuous of individuality and intelligence once bled,
gelid in pristine, invariable disdain;
emptiness full of falsity instead.

Greet thy wretched doppelgänger of Zeus,
for it is he who hath power over glee.
Implore him to absorb thy inclement actuality he shall seduce
and from this Stygian bed will form a fanciful marquee,
ergo, from each heart gaiety will diffuse.

Wow! I really enjoyed reading that. I had to even look up the word demesne

Edit: Here's a random poem I figure I might as well share. Wrote this on my iPhone, in the car (yes, yes, I know...). Inspiration can come anywhere

Pleasant in thine splendid shelterèd size
While sorrowed wake doth yield to night's embrace.
Forlorn 'morrow's morn, nought but pain shall it bring;
Dredged in the real as the early bells ring.
Slowly cascade through the hours crawling on,
Yet somehow, none of this seeming too odd.
Narrow thy window, unexpect the sublime,
There's no need for conscience when all you have is time,
And rolling through hours, oh how thou drag!
Your mouth screaming boredom and your eyes showing sag,
And sag thou reveal in the final exertion, into dream...
To slip from reality, to shelter the life you thought you had.

 

[Full of Win]

I got this little ditty from Alpha Company barracks at US Airborne School...

People who write on ****house walls roll their **** into little round balls
People who read their words of wit eats those very balls of ****

Now that is some poetry! Its better then anything else I've read in this thread.

 

[mscriv]

Ode to the El Camino

El Camino you are so versatile
Cruising with you makes me smile

Your front looks like a car
Your back looks like a truck

The front is where I drive
In the back I like to $@&*

El Camino, Oh El El Camino

 

[BlackSnow]

I'm not really sure if it counts as poetry...
I wrote it years ago.

Tsuki no Usagi, my name, my title, my role.
But to be alone?
I watch
but can but never be apart of.
To see fun, to see love,
How do I know if what I am feeling is real?
Or the illusions of someone who longed for,
Closeness.

My life has been spent from afar,
from people but now,
I have felt the warmth of love.
even if fake.

And I do not wish to return home.
But I must,
even now I feel it,
Calling,
Pulling me back to the abyss.
I claw, I bite,
I kick, I scream,
I cry.
But it is all futile.

Tsuki no Usagi, my name, my title, my role, my curse.
I watch,
but I do not take part.
I feel,
But do not know if it’s fake or real.
I am a reflection,
But I am real.

 

[DrStrange]

To do Is to Be
To be is to Do
Do be Do be Do

 

[lapine403]

Wow, ZiggyPastorius.

I happened upon this website on a mission to uninstall Opera, and several links later ended up having to register, just to tell you that you make beautiful poetry

I've only ever written haiku, since being forced to write poetry in English class, but here are some.

the autumn is here
snow on top of curled up leaves
crunching under foot

dust motes dance and swirl
in the sunbeam way up high
magic fairy dust

snow falls undisturbed
insulating layers grow
white noise blankets all

 

[ndstrenge]

Afterthought

All of Chapter 10 from Rifled Walls of Faith; a journal of confession

Afterthought

Floating above the valley, steps at my feet.
Atop Machu Picchu, atop century’s seat.
Timeless is life, waters here still flowing.
Forget time today to discover you’re glowing.
The purpose of your life could be as simple
as a mere moment in time and as trivial
as something that any one person
could have performed. Tiny is your season.
God is a Platform of Energy Housing Thought.
The antithesis is believing anything is not.

This is your history beginning to remember.
The Mayan once called it the End of December.
We inherit memories once held by the living.
Released to the collective at soul’s forgiving.
Some call it instinct, some might call it fate.
Your language will vary, as will the date.
It’s not of destruction of earth or of hell.
It’s about rebirth, minds escaping the cell.
Before you get here, you have to decide
if you’ll be a part of it, or simply aside.

Can’t think anymore, have too much to say.
Inheriting the lore is finishing my day.
It flows, I listen, a beacon of thought.
Not mine, not yours, just memories sought.
Not owned, not declared, all upon all.
Don’t use your gun, don’t exit this call.
Writing is closure, gates housing the flood.
These thoughts now ringing are not of my blood.
I didn’t create them, I’m not the artist.
Tugging my hem and pounding their fist.

Many authors throughout time write their truth.
Forgetting that doing so forces them aloof.
The Bible is our original text of foundation.
Everything else comes from its salvation.
This is an intertextual, ancient, mimetic approach
to understand why before I ride in that coach.
In books are what people decide to record
while they are on earth seeking the Lord.
Think of Sherlock Holmes as one of my egos
To help prove life is not a world of mythos.

“I was the shadow of the waxwing slain.”
is a thought from Nabokov’s brain.
We desire knowledge of the “Crystal Land.” (Pale Fire, 12)
So he called it Zembla to give it a brand.
Named after what some call God’s Right Hand.
In the end, under which title will you stand?
It’s a big cycle, flowing energy, circulating,
waiting for your drop to come percolating.
The rules are there for you, in-text bound,
waiting for the bell of judgement to sound.

Freud coined the approach Psycho Analysis
as a way to discover our life’s status.
Compare his ID to the Human Instinct.
Compare his Ego to Human’s Emotional Precinct.
Compare his Super Ego to our ability to Reason.
Compare our Spirit to him stopping at that season.
Humans don’t understand it, we can’t explain
what it is to be in or on God’s plane.
But that doesn't stop us from reading
and writing our beliefs as if pleading.

We are taught that seeing is believing.
Not being taught that seeing is deceiving.
“And where light is darkness.” (Job 10:22) truth be known;
that discovering truth is where faith is sewn.
This web of sense is ignorance being content.
“All knowledge is particular” was Blake’s present.
To tell me how to define my origin,
Arnold said poetry should substitute my religion.
Of course Wallace, poetry is the supreme fiction.
And I will use it to be judge of my jurisdiction.

Give me Sublime as referred to by Longinus.
Is death the only way to discover what’s in us?
On knees I ask; “Dear Jesus, do something.”
What in the world is the meaning of this wing?
We read numerous authors again and again,
which teaches
solitude is tHe PLay-FiElD oF SATAN.
We seek truth; that is our temptation.
Is seeking truth really a tribulation?
You tell us we can’t know, not to eat
of the tree of knowledge. That’s our defeat?

Biblical tradition sees seize the day.
Follow the path of righteousness this way-
Follow the Ten Commandments, having faith the goal,
truth in God, but refrain from the symbol.
The symbol represents the failure of motive.
God isn’t actually that creative.
He is not an entity of simple enclosure,
it is an energy onto which we find posture.
The Law of Attraction is a Secret math
that will help you discover your faith’s path.

“Religion is the opiate of the masses.”
All man needs it, I’ve attended Marx’s classes.
What is the truth about survival after death?
I’ve thought it conspiracy, others taking my breath.
“My breath is corrupt, my days are extinct.” (Job 17:1)
What book do I believe in? Where is truth distinct?
Of all the books, I seek meaning in words.
Are we all people simply moving in herds?
Was Jung onto something with the human mind?
A collective unconscious housing ALL MANKIND?

That is just his language, his way of explaining
that we are all of God, the Christian’s way of saving.
“And no man knoweth the Son, but the Father.” (St. Matthew 11:27)
As both the Son and the Father are One. Don’t bother
with trying to separate them, you can’t. Find
that you are one with them. We are all one mind. (Tool)
Because he is all of us, you cannot find him singularly.
Doing that places a symbol unto him regularly.
“Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image.” (Exodus 20:4)
You will not discover truth if you try to manage.

“What ye know, the same do I know also.” (Job 13:2)
As I am not inferior to you. Now I know.
The truth is in me if I just believe my faith.
There is nothing I can learn that you can sayeth.
But that won’t stop the writing, too many
questions that need studying. Flip a penny,
because though I can’t, I wish I knew
the things that link both me and you.
Authors conflict in the conclusive destination.
Yet most believe in a divine intervention.

Consider life commentary to discover peace.
Suddenly, it’s an unfinished masterpiece.
“He restoreth my soul, and I will dwell
in the house of the lord forever.” (Psalm 23) Well,
with those words, I am already home.
as with these: “Thy kingdom come...
in earth, as it is in heaven.” (St. Matthew 6:10) As both are
the same in existence. It is a circular
realm of life. You’re a drop in the barrel.
The purpose of your life is simple, not peril.

I am human and need to find reason.
Forgetting, “To everything there is a season.” (Ecclesiastes 3:1)
I call upon all; “Help me, Will! Pale Fire.” (Pale Fire 962)
Stop this light bouncing off my walls of desire.
It is this trivia that seems so odd
because with answers, “No Free Man needs a God!” (Pale Fire 101)
Nabokov was “one foot-print upon a mountain.” (Pale Fire 149)
He viewed this catharsis youth through a fountain.
Hence the paradox, “two methods of composing.” (Pale Fire 841)
He said he prayed in two churches... were they opposing?

“For unto us a child is born.” (Isaiah 9:6) The One
that will free us from our sins. He’s begun
as God, as man, as you, as I.
The judgment will come from the eye.
We are born again, again, and again
as we are the symbol of time to begin.
Eternity’s symbol simply means we’re round.
To be straight requires a flame and a pound.
Can’t change. You are a drop in the barrel. “Eat,
drink and be merry.” (Ecclesiastes 8:15) Repeat. Repeat.

“I AM THAT I AM” (Exodus 3:14) read the words of God.
But who is to know if Moses were but a fraud?
Coleridge made me wonder if the I am is only imagination.
That transcendental signifier may be a mental publication!
Now, I’ve lied to myself on my own terms.
So I then became poet, one who never affirms.
Sydney taught me how I killed myself, and when.
So I make myself immortal with my own pen.
These words now written are but a mere reflection
of the truth that I create through my own deception.

The beginning is coming, the media even prepares
us for the fall of mankind. Stars looking like flares
signify the fall of Laodicia- church numbered seven.
We see it everywhere, “The stars of Heaven
fell unto the earth.” (Revelation 6:13) In books it happens as well.
But it’s not the destruction of earth, or of hell.
Now’s the time, and it’s grand to be around
for the end of being lost on unstable ground.
Yes, I can think of better days to be alive.
Call them the Golden Days. But first- Iron will dive.

I’ve considered, briefly, life a gradual decay.
How long would I actually have to pay?
“Let the day parish wherein I was born.” (Job 3:3)
Finish it, stab me with the Ram’s horn.
The “Morning Star” (Revelation 22:16) is the song we sing to clean off sin,
while humming as we pack people into their last coffin.
Is the dust after death the final destination?
Or, do we have even farther to go in our progression?
Our noting the hour of death can easily be said
as the signifier of where we were when human became dead.

Once upon a time, I created my own truth
by constructing my imagination all through youth.
Then I read more: “All are of the dust, and all turn
to dust again.” (Ecclesiastes 3:20) Now I am here looking to learn.
The Ego vs. the Super Ego battle the outcome of repressed.
This way, through writing, I can be self-possessed.
Waiting as I follow the cycle, growing stronger.
Soon “There should be time no longer.” (Revelation 10:6)
That is when I discover the truth, according
to King James’ version from which I currently sing.

Reading more pages, “The time is at hand.” (Revelation 1:3)
I can see the hourglass emptying its sand.
I want truth before it leaves to identify my WYE (Pale Fire, 250)
Windows (of life’s opportunities) Yesterday Eclipsed passing by.
“We actively reset Lit to create our identity.”
As I read Holland, I watched Blake create Pity.
Because “Life imitates art”, my Wilde decided
I would live the life I myself provided.
To create my own fate of beasts
I’ve torn apart Poe, and made my own feasts.

“For, behold, I create new heavens and new earth.” (Isaiah 65:17)
This is the circle. I can’t wait for the rebirth.
This is why I find the end of the world exciting,
to prove what I know to be true, but lack sighting.
“The wolf and the lamb shall feed together.” (Isaiah 65:25)
A metaphor of peace to complete the tether.
“I will make an everlasting covenant with you.” (Isaiah 55:3)
Live a circle, have faith, believe in the true.
This is the theme of many a religion:
Your life is you creating your fiction.

Summarize Biblical Tradition as Carpe Diem.
Take your time, hurry up, party with them.
Follow these simple rules; believe Christ
to be your savior, and refrain from the heist
of the world trying to get away with sin.
Freedom will then be rewarded from within.
He is in you, in all of us, waiting to amend.
You are the Alpha and the Omega, there’s no end.
This is the theme throughout King James’ version.
As well as the others riding the excursion.

Was it all just a misprint of life everlasting?
Should teleology exist, or should minds be fasting?
“The bush burned with fire and the bush was not consumed.” (Exodus 3:2)
Not believing in hallucinations creates us doomed.
There are often lies at the end of the rope.
Would Khubla Khan had existed without the dope?
Foucault makes me question perceived reality,
he said LSD use rid him from obscurity.
So with so many perceptions in the ring,
Wilde teaches us to create ourselves King.

It is the Independent’s Personal Hour of strife
to learn “If is the middle word in life.” (Apocalypse Now)
at Coppola’s “Institute of Preparation for the Hereafter.” (Pale Fire 502)
All the while, “A watchman, Father Time” (Pale Fire 475) sits in laughter
as the human tries to note its time of transformation
to believe they are actually part of the conglomeration.
It is quite frightening that in the end I would learn
I may be nothing more after death than ashes in an urn.
“And many of them that sleep in the dust of the earth
shall awake, some to everlasting life.” (Daniel 12:2) Rebirth.

The end of the world is not a physical end.
End of language. Beginning memories mend.
It’s the end of closed minds sheltering your way.
You’ll see the importance, the reality of this day.
Humans wake up, an increased understanding,
discovering their own language to millennia's preaching.
That’s where we got lost, searching translation.
It’s not the words from back then, verbatim cessation.
Your thoughts, you didn’t create. You only hear them.
Timeless souls, energy, transmitting through your stem.

I’ve invented personalities to challenge my mind,
to no longer exist as our society defined.
I am Freudian and Jungian and well acquainted
with what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, tainted.
I’ll tell you what Nietzsche said truth is,
A mobile army of metaphors, truth not really his.
I present words Wallace Stevens spoke quite brilliantly:
“The Exquisite Truth is to know that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willingly.”
Shadows of Alpha and Omega hunted by the wraith.
My fiction is written, Rifled Walls of Faith.


Sincerely Yours,
Mr. Ian Stark
Thief of Ideas,
Capsule in The Ark.