Poetry time

[Droopy]

Post one of your original poems. Here's mine. You get bonus points in my book if you know the poem that this one was inspired by.

Sundays Revisited

I always got up early as a boy
and this included Sundays, too,
when I would impatiently wait
for my father to rise and
get us started on our rounds.

Dressed in our Sunday best we’d
drive out to the preacher’s farm
stopping at McDonald’s along the way
for bacon, egg and cheese biscuits
and hash browns and sodas.

Out by a barn stood an old bus
that was most times hard to start,
but eventually it would and
we’d go out through town
picking up people to go to church.

My father knew all their names,
“good morning sister so-and-so,
good morning brother so-and-so,”
and they would exchange smiles
while I sat behind my father.

That’s how I’d like to remember him
from the days of my childhood.
Oh, he’s still around, but
we don’t talk much any more.
Church couldn’t save my parent’s marriage.

Yes, I guess I still care about him,
but it’s hard after what he’s done.
After all these years I’ll never forget
the angry voice that was stilled
by those glorious Sunday mornings.


Inspired by Robert Hayden’s “Those Winter Sundays.”

[BikeWriter]

1. Uh, can we post poems we wrote?

[Droopy]

2. Yeah that's the whole idea

[WindRavenX]

3. "Albatross"

(I edited it from when I posted it earlier in the writer's forum)


Albatross

Those that are older and wiser have told me
that you are not
coming back.
But I do not believe them.
(How can I?)
I know that now
you are gone
Soaring alone on your skies
Looking for yourself.
It is a long and lonely journey, I know.
(Are you terrified of the sky?)
But, even now
I can still smell you on the winds and
hear the echo of
your
scream.

And I so desperately wish to see
your form, against the sky,
like the albatross I saw
when I was young
gliding over a world
without end.
I remember how calm his weary eyes were-
as if knowing where he was
and where he was going.

But here I remain, on the shore
looking out on the steel waves
aching for even a glance of you
over the curve of the horizon.
(how long will I wait
it is not important)
I bay in madness and terror at the moon remembering what
Kierkegaard said:
Faith binds
Faith is
insanity.
(Will you come back tomorrow?)
Now, with each rise and fall of the moon
my gaze returns outward
over all of creation-
Hoping.

[Droopy]

8. That's excellent, WindRavenX

Did you have a particular person in mind when you wrote that or maybe a person you haven't met yet?

[WindRavenX]

10. oh yes

Very very painful to discuss...epic novel cut short: someone I loved with every atom in my body had a mental breakdown. We can no longer see each other.
I still cling to the hope when he gets better we'll be able to see each other again......
I love him so fucking much it hurt to write that poem last week. I was crying and crying.....

[Droopy]

13. Poetry is all about emotion

and it shines in your poem.

[EFerrari]

21. I like the way it sounds like someone, real, talking.

That's so hard to do!

[BikeWriter]

4. Sorry, I'm slowly coming up to speed. What I meant is my poems...

weren't inspired by anything but maybe a few drinks...

[Droopy]

9. Yes post away

that's what most of mine were inspired by.

[HEyHEY]

5. HEy! Good to see you ,been awhile

[Droopy]

12. Good to see you to, HEyHEY

I've been hiding out for a while just posting mainly in one of the groups, but I'm feeling back up to my normal lounge lizard self tonight.

[yewberry]

6. I thought i was going insane.

I knew the poem--thank goodness you referenced the original, or I'd have called you on it.

Geez, I love the Hayden poem.

[Droopy]

15. The Hayden poem is a classic

I love that poem, too.

[WindRavenX]

7. I like how you construct mood

A bit of remorse, isolation, and lonliness as you look on your memories.
I like the imagery too!
Well done! :hi:

[Droopy]

17. Thank you

[BikeWriter]

11. Okay, here's one of mine...

A tale of a life at sea.

T'was fifty years ago or more,
young lad stood on fog-shrouded shore,
and shivered as ghostly sails slid past,
draped limply from tall, phantom masts.
Fearsome crewboat ran ashore,
boney fingers 'round worn, water-logged oars.
T'were Satan, himself, at the helm,
beckoned me to board.
Tis' many a hellish sight I've seen,
from Spanish Main to England green,
Old man now, worn and gray,
I come ashore, ne'er again to stray.

BikeWriter

[WindRavenX]

18. that. is. AWESOME

I LOVE your rhyme scheme and the rhythm- simply superb! :thumbsup:
(were you really in the Navy?)

[BikeWriter]

25. No, I was Air Force. The voyage was strictly allegorical...

of my life's journeys... Here's another that came to me one morning.

Dancing in the Rain

Born deep in the forest,
far from the prying eyes of mortal men,
a small creature flits ceaselessly
‘round the perilous rack and fen.

It searches for a bit of *Magicke*
to keep it’s Age Olde Race intact,
snooping in the Neverlands,
Stealthy Fugitive from Truth and Fact!

A raptor plummets from the sky,
cruel talons spread…..
Shrill Scream of Pain.....
THE ANCIENT TRIBE IS DEAD!

Forest Giants tremble,
they moan this sad refrain,
“We’ll never see their like again,
dancing in the rain...”
1/29/2000

[EFerrari]

43. Mythic. And both formal. I like that.

It's hard but satisfying to take on a form.

[BikeWriter]

49. Thank you, Ma'am. I'm going strictly on instincts here...

The muse never found me until a few years ago. It has inspired a third of a million words in those years.

[EFerrari]

52. First, we have to leave the window open

I know what you mean. I seem to go in fits or cycles. Sharks, rocks, and then some down time. Then, the buzzyness again.

We should get us a forum. What do you think?

[Droopy]

54. Judging by the response to this thread

I say we got a good foundation for a poetry forum. There's some quality stuff here and I think a lot of people would be interested. What do you say? Why don't you write a mission statement and start a thread? Let's see what we can do.

[EFerrari]

57. After the last few weeks, I think Skinner will go for it

if it keeps us out of trouble.

I've already got one request in the works for May 2, the "Mission Not Accomplished Day" action. So, I'd feel greedy to ask for something on top of that.

But, if you or someone will post the thread, sure, I'll help write it.

It's been sooooooooooooooooo long since I got to talk/read other poets who are still breathing.

[Droopy]

60. Ok, I'll give it a go tomorrow

Right now I've had a few beers, so I'm not feeling too sharp. I will come up with a mission statement and let it fly tomorrow. I expect you to pop in with your approval or edit of my statement. Cool?

[EFerrari]

64. Sure. I'll run eyes over or whatever it takes. Thanks! n/t

[BikeWriter]

68. I'm not prolific at poetry, but...

some of you are astounding! You deserve a group. :)

[EFerrari]

69. Please don't second person us, BikeWriter.

"I'm going out to the pasture spring
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
And watch the water clear I may
You come, too."

Frost
(with probably a few :eyes: transpositions.)

[BikeWriter]

81. Thank you. That is beautiful, and very thoughtful.

[EFerrari]

84. No, selfish as possible.

Come, too. Let's carve out a place. Maybe we won't have 70+ posts every night. But, when we do go in, there will be trained eyes and ears and hearts there.

And that doesn't grow on trees, thank goodness, because that would be just too creepy.

lol

[BikeWriter]

97. Poetry was always something I admired, but...

it was something the artistic folks did. The Faerie poem was inspired by a dark dream I had while writing a sword and sorcerer fiction genre book. The pirate's tale was written intentionally for a forum, but I'm not confident I could produce another.

[EFerrari]

110. I feel exactly the same way. I'm not confident I can produce another

verse. Until I do. Maybe that's part of the landscape?

Don't know. But I do know that it's rare for people to write two pieces such as the ones you posted and not write any more.

Up to you. Pressure is anti-poetry, I think.

I can never think of it as anything but clarifying and tinkering. Like laying tile straight or like sanding a tabletop properly. I don't know from "artistic" -- the word sort of weighs on us, doesn't it?

Craft is different.

[BikeWriter]

126. Wouldn't it be magical to be as talented with the graphic arts...

as Boris Vallejo and Luis Royo? That wish is far beyond me, so my next best wish is to paint with words. :)

[Heidi]

58. BikeWriter, I love it . . .

Do you know the work of Steve Mason, who is known as the poet laureate to the veterans of Vietnam? He has a poem called "DEROS: My Soul," and it's my favorite poem of all times. Here's the beginning of it (if you want to read the rest, send me a PM . . . I don't want to violate Mr. Mason's copyright by posting the whole poem.)

DEROS: My Soul (excerpt)

At times when I am calm
I remember
that even if you waited for it
nothing came as suddenly
as gunfire
and nothing (not even the Lieutenant)
seemed as stupid
as the silence which followed

At such times I know also
that each of us
who fought in Vietnam
was spirtually captured by it,
and that each remains
a prisoner
of his own war-

<snip>

Maybe someday God will mint a medal so beautiful
no words are printed on it
and all of our sisters
who were there with us
would get one
and everyone, everywhere who saw it
would know just what it was
and would find a "thoughtful place"
to go sit down in for a week

And then maybe God would let us have
a picnic (bigger than the moon)
and all the boys and girls
of daddies whose lives they saved
could hold hands
to make a daisy chain for the sun.

And when it was all done
the big people
would make God a prayer-promise
never, never to do anything like Nam
again
And when the cheers died down
the sun would bow his head
ever so slightly
so the children might wish their necklace
`round his head
and when it was in place,
all of a sudden-
faster, even then gunfire,
everybody's lost soul would
just come floating down like a
bright balloon
on a string

and mine would wink at yours
and pretend not to see me
and when everyone got his,
All the children would sing
Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday!!
over and over again.....

Article about Steve Mason: http://www.dailytidings.com/2005/0316/031605n1.shtml

[BikeWriter]

75. Thank you, I hadn't heard of him. Hell, I'm crying...

His work is very moving. This part is oh, so very true!

"At such times I know also
that each of us
who fought in Vietnam
was spirtually captured by it,
and that each remains
a prisoner
of his own war-"

[Heidi]

78. That poem was shared with me . . .

by a friend of mine who was in the Marines in Vietnam. My dad was there, too, but he never discussed the war with us kids. After reading Steve Mason's work, I understand why my dad didn't want to talk about it.

[BikeWriter]

85. Some of us never have, never will. I was unable to...

communicate about the war until a few years ago. I'll look up more of his work and share links to it on my Vets forum. Thank you again. :)

[Heidi]

93. No, thank YOU, and my dad and Mr. Mason and all the other vets. (eom)

[BikeWriter]

101. This has been a most enjoyable topic...

Perhaps a poetry forum will evolve from it. :)

[EFerrari]

119. I can't help but think, I've heard your voice before.

Well, affinity has its idiosyncrasies. Thanks for being on the thread. I really needed it today.

B.

[BikeWriter]

129. It has been my pleasure. :-)

[EFerrari]

131. Heidi, is your Mr. Mason any relation to Bobbie Ann Mason

who wrote "In CountrY"?

http://www.enotes.com/country

[Heidi]

133. No idea.

Mr. Mason's poem, "Date of Estimated Return from Overseas (DEROS): My Soul" was shared with me by a friend. I'd never heard of Mason's work before and have become a fan. I read recently that Mr. Mason is now dying of Agent Orange-related lung cancer. Very sad what we do to our fellow man, isn't it?

[EFerrari]

135. Yes, it is. And that is taken up in the novel Bobbie Mason wrote.

It may just be a coincidence. But, in any case, a healing read. fwiw.

[BikeWriter]

37. I appreciate your kind comments very much...

I believe I'm more fond of the Faerie poem. :)

[Droopy]

19. That's wonderful, BikeWriter

Great imagery. It could be a sailor's song sung by those fellows on the barges and the freighters and the military ships. Masterfully constructed.

[BikeWriter]

29. Thank you very much. I appreciate that. :-)

[Prisoner_Number_Six]

14. Here's the first poem I ever had published

many long years ago.
-------

THE LAKE



The still, blue waters of my mind

reflect the thoughts that I might see--

A ripple stirring in the lake; the circles

moving out and past, to fade away and die....

But currents tug this way, and that;

the tangents are profound!

My thoughts just wander

'round the lake

and shimmer silently....

[EFerrari]

20. We must have been thirsty when we three wrote these water poems. lol

[Droopy]

22. Very nice

I do believe that is called an extended metaphor. I wrote one of those one time and it was very challenging. It didn't turn out nearly as nice as yours.

[BikeWriter]

41. It's cool that you have a graphic visualized to fit your mood. Very good.

[EFerrari]

16. Here's one. You tell me the influence. Damned if I know:

Friends

But it's more than a job, said the Shark Charmer.
The Ocean shook its heads, then catching her at the
edge of a frown, nodded instead. She sat on the sand
perusing the horizon. But where, murmured the Ocean
is the porpoise? Don't get smart, she replied. Say
what you mean. The Ocean rolled over and smiled to
itself. So she pitched a well-aimed handful of sand.
What is this --Gaslight? She pressed her toes through
the foam, pressed through the mud until the bubbles winked
out. Someone is always Charmer, so stop fooling around.
She walked out waist deep. Nodded to the gulls and
dove. Defensive? suggested the Ocean, drawing itself
up straighter, shaking off the noonlight. In my position
wouldn't you be? she said through the spray, swimming
further out. Never take positions said the Ocean
somersaulting all around her. The Shark Charmer
blew water out of her nose, laughed, floating face up.
Friends, she thought. It was just past noon and she
wasn't in any hurry to go down.

[WindRavenX]

24. very Shakespearean

"What is the porpoise?"
:rofl:

Very playful narrative voice! :thumbsup:

[Droopy]

27. Well I can't say that I know any influence

but it is a very well written poem. It looks like professional quality to me. Have you ever had anything published?

[EFerrari]

30. A few, this one. But it's funny because my 8 yr old was

obsessed by sharks, shark books, shark trading cards, shark bath toys, the whole deal. So, before I knew it, I wrote a whole cycle around SHARKS. :)

There was no drama. Just an overplus of sharks, everywhere. :)

[Heidi]

23. Today's News

Today's News

". . . and they call themselves journalists,"
(Well, yes, in fact we do. I lean in, closer closer.)
a woman wearing yellow Capri pants tells her companion
as they leaf through today's McPaper at a cozy cafe
on Duval, drinking Cuban coffee and cultivating the skin cancer
that we journalists never once warned them about in
12-point Times New Roman every freakin day for twenty years.
(But I digress)

Perhaps the time has passed for taking
this shit personally
for feeling wounded and somehow nekkidly revealed
every time I hear it.
Rheotoric spun into revelation that becomes more rheotoric
(and it's all tiredtiredtired after the first time)
and we spit it out there for the Universe to absorb
(space schmeg, sky pollution)
I could get worried about this, too,
and maybe I will one day
but not today.

Today the topic is: Self-Pollution
(you cannot cure it by renting the videotape
or taking the Shambhala warrior course
or finding a new relationship
or having a baby
(like this fuckedup world needs another anti-resistor
searching for Truth in USA Today)
or changing jobs
or going to church (it's not the place, it's the space).

How little I know is written in my journal
(fattest little book on earth)
but I do know this:
Me-me-me-me-me-me-me-me is not the mantra
(nobody changed the locks while you were away
you're still just purple turnipbutter spooge
squirted on the big BluePlateSpecial Universe
food-styling-Lifestyling whim of a flaming sequined god
with a good sense of humor and a little pizzaz)
It's still H-ohmmmmmmmmmmmmme.

Then one day you wake up and it has morphed
(not changed, I'm told; no, not by the papers, of course.
Essential locks change us. We don't change them)
into H-ohmmmmmmmmmmmmmygod, I've become my mother/father
and it feels like time to have a baby
(Do not believe this! It is a trick!)
and further dilute the gene pool
(more spooge, anybody?).

So few majickal kids born these days
and when existence does eeeeeeeeeek them out
we turn them into GapKids-McKids-Barney-Beanie-Montessori babies
who'll read newspapers
(translation: notice big splashy cyan-Magenta-yellow-Black
advertisements)
buy PRODUCTS, play golf, drink Cuban coffee
and vacation in paradise.
You'll see them at every complaint and think.
Is this what you wanted to read this morning?

[EFerrari]

28. "Essential locks change us. We don't change them."

:)

[Droopy]

31. Goddamn we got some real writers here

I take it you are not a fan of the newspapers. Excellent poem. Has it ever been published? I've read poems in poetry texts that I do not think are as good as yours.

[EFerrari]

32. Someone was suggesting a poetry forum about a month ago.

I'd really like that, itchy lately.

[Heidi]

33. Not a fan of mainstream media.

I was a journalist from ages 16-36 and am now in recovery. (Nope, never published.)

I just call 'em like I see 'em. Thank you for your kind words.

[EFerrari]

35. Geeze, Heidi, hope you have an outlet. Very fine piece of work. n/t

[Heidi]

39. I'm a painter.

That's my outlet now. I think more coherently with a paintbrush than a pen. ;)

[EFerrari]

40. Hmmm. I'm a painter as well. Sometimes I need a brush,

sometimes a word. Strange.

I like painting because it's a break from formal thinking. But, I write that way too. Get a draft, then read or look to see what is happening.

[Heidi]

42. Well, come on over to the DU Artist's Group!

(Nice to meet you!)

[EFerrari]

44. I will.

It's good to meet you, too. Thank you.

[Spider Jerusalem]

26. Here's one of mine...

Written during a very bad rainstorm a few years ago.

"Storm"

The wind sings through the trees
With an almost human pitch
And the rain on the roof
Sounds like the deranged hammering
Of a thousand meth-crazed carpenters.
Dim, dead gray light glints dully
On the surface of puddled water
And the snapping of dead branches
Reminds me of breaking bones.
Nature is a harsh, unforgiving bitch
And I don’t want to risk her wrath…
I think I won’t be going out today
After all.

[EFerrari]

34. Under/over statement, just like a storm. Very cool.

Assonance & consonance. Takes me back. Thanks. :)

[Heidi]

36. Thank you. I love the power of nature. (eom)

[Droopy]

38. Very nice, SpiderJerusalem

I especially like the meth-crazed carpenter simile.

[Spider Jerusalem]

48. Thank you.

:)

[EFerrari]

45. Thanks, Droopy. I needed that! n/t

[Droopy]

47. You are most welcome

We've got some great artists here at DU as seen on this thread and you are one of them. :)

[EFerrari]

53. Not at all, -- are you old enough to remember that

John Sebastian song, "Darling be home soon."

The refrain is, "the great relief of having you, to talk to."

:)

[Droopy]

55. Well I might be old enough

But I don't know a guy named John Sebastian. I'm 32 and I mainly listen to rock and metal so I might be impaired musically speaking.

[EFerrari]

59. No, you're too young, I'm ten years older and I WAS TOO YOUNG

Darling Be Home Soon
Lovin' Spoonful
- words and music by John Sebastian


Come
And talk of all the things we did today
Here
And laugh about our funny little ways
While we have a few minutes to breathe
Then I know that it's time you must leave

But darling be home soon
I couldn't bear to wait an extra minute if you dawdled
My darling be home soon
It's not just these few hours but I've been waiting since I toddled
For the great relief of having you to talk to

And now
A quarter of my life is almost past
I think I've come to see myself at last
And I see that the time spent confused
Was the time that I spent without you
And I feel myself in bloom

So darling be home soon
I couldn't bear to wait an extra minute if you dawdled
My darling be home soon
It's not just these few hours but I've been waiting since I toddled
For the great relief of having you to talk to

------ instrumental break ------

Darling be home soon
I couldn't bear to wait an extra minute if you dawdled
My darling be home soon
It's not just these few hours but I've been waiting since I toddled
For the great relief of having you to talk to

Go
And beat your crazy head against the sky
Try
And see beyond the houses and your eyes
It's ok to shoot the moon

So darling
My darling be home soon
I couldn't bear to wait an extra minute if you dawdled
My darling be home soon
It's not just these few hours but I've been waiting since I toddled
For the great relief of having you to talk to

[RagingInMiami]

46. One of mine, what is called a villanelle

The media circus is in town, everybody gather round
The caravan is rolling in, Look at that, it’s CNN.
Grab your signs, tell your friends, stand in front of the camera lens.
Your 15 minutes of fame is due, Here they come to interview you
Microphones thrusting, manners disgusting, are these people really that trusting?
The media circus is in town, everybody gather round
Broadcasting live, antennas high, they’re not going to let this story die
Spinning, grinning, talking heads, Hyping, lying Homeland feds.
Grab your signs, call your friends, stand in front of the camera lens.
Voice your opposition, to the politician, maybe you can make Inside Edition
Breaking news on Fox News; the Christian Right is always right.
The media circus is in town, everybody gather round
We’ve been down this road before, whatever happened to the war?
Jacko, Schiavo, Peterson on death row. Isn’t that Geraldo?
Grab your signs, call your friends, stand in front of the camera lens.
Pull the curtain, see for certain, what is happening with Haliburton.
Can’t you see, a new testimony, there was no, WMDs.
The media circus is in town, everybody gather round
Grab your signs, call your friends, stand in front of the camera lens.

[Droopy]

50. Well done, RaginginMiami

Villanelles are tough to write. Well tough to write well. You did an excellent job and I like the subject matter. Do you write a lot?

[RagingInMiami]

56. I'm a freelance journalist who is trying to sell a screenplay

I'm also in a creative writing class at the university here, which is why I started writing poems. I never written poetry before until this class.

Here is another poem you might like.


A Texas clod, a baron failed, who swears he’s god,
A smirking chimp, a shallow son, who won on fraud,
An uncrowned prince, a boorish chief, who wears no clothes,
Driving a herd of obtuse sheep, leading a land of myopic droves.
Bumbling his phrases while fumbling our country
And tumbling a country in which there was no Saudi,
The great buffoon expands his wrath,
His self-described freedom march.
With petrol cash fueling his drive,
And daddy’s friends splitting the pie,
The idiot shrub shines his boots
With our sacred Bill of Rights.
Rights are shunned and wrongs ignored
By the corporate media whores,
Which tell us all we need to know
About the latest star divorce.
This so-called liberal media press
Has never made an honest splash
About the flag-draped body bags.
About the flag-draped body bags.

[Droopy]

63. Damn, man. You are the next Rage Against the Machine!

What are you doing here?! Go out and find someone who can play guitar and you will be set for life.

[RagingInMiami]

65. Now you made me post one more poem that is totally inspired by RATM

This is called the Seminole Wars, (that part of Florida history they never taught us in school).



Swamp land, Indian land, runaway slave land
In came the white man, Osceola’s last stand
Major Dade massacred. Andrew Jackson’s master plan;
Oklahoma, Oklahoma, that’s our goal, cleanse the flower state of every Seminole.
But the tribe was stubborn, a defiant breed,
Fighting next to black men, who’d set themselves free.
And the white man was driven by a ravenous greed,
Forcing tribe south to the mouth of Miami.
Miami, Miami, named by Tequestas, big water, open water, blue water, bloody water.
Miami, Miami, Fort Dallas to some, for 21 years, the battle raged on.
Fighting for land that was rich and fertile, a steamy wetland that was proving brutal.
One war, two wars, three wars later, the land was rendered without surrender
The tribe disappeared into the marsh while the white man limped his victory march.
The pyrrhic victory wasn’t pretty, that’s the history of this city.
As the Indian gritty, with no pity, never signed a peace treaty.
The only tribe that can make that claim.
The only tribe that was never tamed.

[Droopy]

66. Excellent

You write well for somebody who has been doing it for a while, let alone a rookie. I'm going to try to start a poetry group tomorrow. Will you sign off?

[RagingInMiami]

67. I'll join the poetry group

I'm going to read my poems at this inner-city poetry slam in Miami where I went a few weeks ago to take photos. Everybody is black there (I'm a white Colombian-American). They beat on African drums while people recite their poetry. It's really amazing. There's a lot of talent there.

[EFerrari]

71. Andale! By that time, we'll have the forum and you can tell us

all about it.

[RagingInMiami]

74. I'll have pictures and everything

Cause I'm working on a story about it that I hope to sell

[EFerrari]

79. It's a deal then.

:thumbsup:

[EFerrari]

51. wow! lol!

"Jack, Schiavo, Peterson on death row. Isn't that Geraldo?"

[BikeWriter]

61. I love that! Your words are both inspired and inspirational. :-)

[RagingInMiami]

62. Thanks man

[dxstone]

70. Wow... some great stuff here...

Here's one of mine:

Another Pound of Flesh

As the subway sounds surround you
Flow around you and you step inside
The doors close like a hungry mouth
You're headed south–-enjoy the ride
Outside the windows flash
Rock, earth and ash–-it blurs together
You listen to the thunder
And you wonder `bout the weather
And the reckless engineer
Grins ear to ear and pulls the wire...
The whistle blows
And the coal-man throws
Another pound of flesh on the fire

The rail's rather bumpy
Seats are lumpy, torn and pitted
You cannot make a sound or move around
It's not permitted
And no one cries or stirs
The passengers are mostly snoring
You stare at strangers' faces
Or the spaces in the flooring
And the reckless engineer
Grins ear to ear and pulls the wire...
The whistle blows
And the coal-man throws
Another pound of flesh on the fire

The engine chews through earth descending
On its journey never-ending
The hungry worm turns in the earth
In its deadly bite rebirth
Circular its constant trail
Feeding on its bleeding tail
The whistle shrieks–-come join the chorus
Ride the maddened Ouroborus
Race and chase–-don't look around
To see behind you, gaining ground
The shadowed stalker, all-devouring
Overheating, overpowering
Growing, looming
All-consuming
Here comes your station:
Annihilation

As the subway sounds surround you
Flow around you and you step inside
The doors close like a hungry mouth
You're headed south–-enjoy the ride
Outside the windows flash
Rock, earth and ash–-it blurs together
You listen to the thunder
And you wonder `bout the weather
And the reckless engineer
Grins ear to ear and pulls the wire...
The whistle blows
And the coal-man throws
Another pound of flesh on the fire

D X Stone

[Heidi]

72. Thanks, DXStone . . .

I feel that way every time I use public transportation.

[EFerrari]

76. So scary and tightly crafted. If I have a nightmare tonight,

I'm gonna PM you in the morning.

[Droopy]

80. That's excellent, dxstone

Is it a metaphor about life or going to hell? You are right about there being many great poets here. And to think that so many of them are unpublished. I wonder how many poets have yet to be discovered?

[dxstone]

100. Thanx, y'all!

I guess it's a metaphor for life as a circular process of returning to that cosmic source that recycles all; everything eats and is eaten and all that...
I tend to write to extremes, horror or humor, or mix 'em both together and make humorous horror, or horrible humor, or just mud sometimes...
And yeah, there are so many really talented and visionary writers out there whose work never sees serious publication outside the net... but at least we've got that; if there is a future for any of us, it will hold for posterity so much great stuff that couldn't make it past the tone-deaf golem-guard editors and academicians of late-20th-century American poetry...
We should do these threads more often, I think...

[EFerrari]

117. Agree. Droopy is a genius. n/t

[Vektor]

73. John Kerry sex haiku -

Inspired by the man who gives me a slow burn in all the right places.

liberal beefcake
why have you forsaken me
bring me the tube steak

[EFerrari]

77. I like that. Now, give us a contrasting one on Tom Delay. n/t

[Vektor]

83. Can do.

Inspired by an evil lech that makes me vomit into my own mouth just a little bit.


corrupt right wing shill
with a "birth control haircut"
uterus cries NO

[EFerrari]

86. Bravo. lol n/t

[Vektor]

88. I am glad you enjoyed!

I'm not sure if the OP wanted serious poetry, but I am a freakin' clown. I rarely do "serious."

[EFerrari]

89. Exactly. And that's why we needed you, Vektor : )

On edit: But should you ever feel compelled to severity, lol, we'll love you anyway.

[Vektor]

92. Don't make me bust out the Ann Murray!

You put me HIIIIGGGHHHHHH....
Upon a pedestAAAALLLLLL...
So high that I could almost see eternitEEEEEEEEEEEEE.....
YOU NEEDED MEEEEEEEEEEEE!!

Seriously, I am a little misty-eyed now.
:-) Thanks!

[EFerrari]

95. Oh, that hurt. LOL! Please, not the hairspray! n/t

[Vektor]

99. It's bad -

Good ol' Delay and his tres' chic, shellacked bowl-cut do NOT put me in the mood.

[EFerrari]

103. Vektor, try common verse.

That's four beats to a line, in riming couplets. I think you'd be deadly and have to go register yourself as a lethal weapon.

Who has a pattern?

Here's one:

There was a lady sweet and kind
Was never face so please my mind
I did but see her passing by,
And yet I love her till I die.

(It's the pattern for every love song ever written, and about 450 years old. Now, twist it up :) )

[Vektor]

106. Dude. I fear you have awakened a sleeping giant. Watch me work.

That Kerry beefcake so divine
Does sear my loins and warp my mind
His Monica I'd gladly be
Fellate the great J.F. Kerry

Heeeey! This is EASY PEASY!
AND FUN!
:evilgrin:

[EFerrari]

113. That's Dude, Ma'am t o you. lol. I KNEW IT! You're dangerous.

[Vektor]

116. Ya know - I caught that! :-)

I realized you were a female, but I always call people "dude" in a very tongue-in-cheek, facetious manner - I am a Masshole residing in CA, I need to twist up the lingo here a bit.

I did not mean to imply you were in possession of man-parts. :-)

[EFerrari]

118. Just teasing, don't mind me at all.

You're good and you're dangerous.

So, fess up, how long have you been writing poetry?

[Vektor]

122. I never formally "started"

I have always just had a knack for the written word. I could read at the age of two, and always enjoyed writing comical stories, poems, and limericks - I started doing a great deal of that at about five or six. Much to my parent's chagrin, I have always had a penchant for rather ribald humor, and have always been a little weird. At about the age of three, I made up my own language to communicate with my Mom in secret so my four siblings and my Dad wouldn't know what we were saying. It drove the rest of the family nuts. Another useless talent of mine is I can make up funny songs off the cuff, like "Whose Line Is It Anyway" - and I torment my husband daily by crafting songs about our pets and wailing them to him in my AWFUL singing voice while he is trying to work.

He LOVES that shit.

When I was about seventeen, I wrote a song about my cat which featured the rather absurd line, "Mr. Stripes, he's lean and mean, he's a mouse catchin', furball hackin' lovin' machine..."

Last Christmas, I visited my Mom and while she was going through some old stuff, she found the damn song, and read it out loud to my husband and all our guests. We were all literally laughing so hard we had tears streaming down our faces and were livid with asphyxia.

Mr. Stripes was hiding under the coffee table glowering at me and plotting my demise.

But where Mother Nature giveth, she also taketh away - I SUCK at math. Seriously - I can barely stumble through basic algebra. It cripples me.

So, I stick to what I'm good at. Lewd poetry. :-)

[EFerrari]

127. Right on, Vector, me too!

The lewdness was sort of religioned out of me, but for the life of me, I can't figure out how a plane turns left. I had to take and pass and get an A in Trig in order to get into Berkeley. That was one long damn semester.

(You know what I mean, don't you? If you're flying that high, where IS left?!)

So, in the new group that hopefully Skinner will give us, we will ardently need your lewdness, Your Lewdness. To keep us honest.

I learned how to read and write by about 3 -- but in Spanish. Apparently, that didn't count! They put me in remedial reading classes for a year or two until they figured out, I was bilingual. They meant well, they were quiet people . . .

Nice to meetcha,

Beth

/typing from hell

[Vektor]

130. Nice to meet ya too!

When did you attend Berkeley? And what is this new group you speak of?

[EFerrari]

132. Droopy and I are going to ask Skinner for a poetry group.

& I was at Berkeley from 85 to 92, junior transfer and then, grad.

[Vektor]

134. I am not sure if my brand

of poetry would be welcome! :-) I might have to clean it up a bit. What did you study at UCB?

[EFerrari]

136. O geeze, what am I now? The content police?

:)

We need you, Vektor, because most of us take everything too damn seriously. So, your Lewdness, in my humble opinion, your presence would be a great comfort, not to mention, a huge reality check.

What did I study? LOL! Guess. :silly:

[Vektor]

137. Umm....

Political Science?

And if my lewd presence is really required, I shall be there with bells on.

And little else.

Bwaaa-ahahahahaha.

[EFerrari]

138. I think it will be a requirement. And hope the bells aren't cold.

Okay, I'm going to stumble after some coffee now.

Somebody shouda warned me about the Lounge.

:)

[Vektor]

139. Mmmm coffee....

I should sleep now. Nice talking with you, and we'll chat soon!
Thanks for encouraging my creativity!

[EFerrari]

155. I studied women's poetry, then Shakespeare.

because everything he writes has the whole world in it. Politics, in other words :)

[dxstone]

91. Vektor, you are hilarious!

LOL!

[Vektor]

98. Tee-hee!

Thanks! It's late, and I got into some chocolate covered coffee beans, and a cache of Kerry pics. Then, I saw a request for poetic offerings. Calamity ensued.

loins aflame again
caffeine, chocolate, and kerry
pelvic implosion

[orleans]

82. Balls!

balls, balls balls
all I see are balls.

(i actually got this poem published in a little poetry mag. years ago. i wrote it while watching people play a game of pool--billiards)

[EFerrari]

87. Brevity, the soul of wit

"You fit into me like
a hook and eye
a fish hook
an open eye."

Margaret Atwood

[EFerrari]

90. I can't believe what this thread did! And a confession,

this is the first WHOLE NIGHT I've spent in the Lounge.

:rofl:

[Droopy]

94. I can't believe it either

But the lounge is like that, sfexpat200. You just never know what to expect. This is the biggest thread I've ever started. The lounge is a wonderful place.

[EFerrari]

96. So I'm finding.

:)

[dxstone]

102. Here's a goofy one, just for good measure

Potato Bugs
(Mr. Potatohead’s Lament)

Potato bugs
Run up and down my rugs
Fill up the bowls and mugs
They’re little thugs
Potato bugs
They fill the stairs and halls
Rolled up in little balls
Can’t even see the walls

Potato bugs
Always annoying me
Hugging and cloying me
They really seem to be enjoying me
Potato bugs
They’re friggin’ everywhere!
And I just wouldn’t care
Except they’re in my ears and nose and hair

Potato bugs
They live inside my head
That’s what the doctor said
I wish that I was dead
Potato bugs

[Droopy]

104. It sounds like a song

a little bass and drums and potato bugs!

[dxstone]

108. Actually...

A LOT of my poems are song lyrics with tunes, including this one (though I can't produce it to my satisfaction at this point)... I'm a singer/songwriter too; as far as how I work lyrically, sometimes the chicken comes first, other times the egg...
This one would only be a lil' ol' novelty song anyway, but the music fits it like a glove...
I wonder what tune you're hearing? It would be really weird if it was the same one...

[Droopy]

111. Well I can't tell what I'm hearing

Only that the poem has a rhythm to it that lends itself well to music. I'm not too musically inclined, though.

[EFerrari]

105. Oh, no.

(Do we call a time out now?) This is Shel Silverstein Country. :)

Hafta tell you this. Once, my partner was in a psych ward, not feeling too good. But, they brought in a roommate for him. And that poor guy, he thought he saw worms coming out of Doug's head.

When the nurse told Doug, he said, "Tell him, I'll keep my hat on."

And I thought, what a great solution!

/typing

[dxstone]

112. I LOVE Shel!

Zappa too...
That's a great story, btw... your friend is a wise man...

[EFerrari]

114. Yes, he is. n/t

[neebob]

107. From one of the lighter days of my deep, dark, depressed period

also known as the death-sponge episode:

Artistic Differences

His is a black and white world;
hers, all colors
and various shades of gray.
He darkens her colors
with bold, unapologetic strokes
and signs his name
in white, with an arrogant flourish
while she considers colorful ways
to increase the value of
his artwork.

[dxstone]

109. Beautiful! n/t

[EFerrari]

115. I love the poem as a poem: love "death sponge" more :)

[neebob]

121. Yeah, well, I can joke about it now

Death-sponge episodes are so much more amusing in retrospect. :)

[EFerrari]

123. Oh, without a doubt they are.

Thanks for posting that.

[neebob]

125. You're welcome, and thanks for the compliment. nt

[EFerrari]

128. I'm not being a good reader because I'm so surprised at this

response. Will have to read the whole thread again in the morning. It's nice, isn't it, to find next of kin?

:toast:

[neebob]

146. Oh, so you haven't discovered the secret club?

There's a vast secret club of women who share the death-sponge experience, or some variation of it. Women who know what it is to wake up and be disappointed to find that a certain male person is still breathing.

You might be surprised to find several members among your friends and co-workers, if you were to talk openly to them. I did, and I was shocked - shocked, I tell ya - to find half a dozen club members in my own small circle, on top of hundreds I've encountered on various internet sites including DU.

I even had two collectors from two different credit card companies give me deals - in the same month - because the same thing had happened to them. They asked why I'd been late with payments, as collectors always do, and I just said I was nearly ruined by a psychopath. One said, "Oh, I'm divorcing one of those." The other one told me she had lost her house to a swindler who had married her - in a church and everything. She was clearly very embarrassed.

Back atcha with the toast.

:toast:

[EFerrari]

120. Droopy, this thread is at the top of the page.

Who knew there were so many poets here? :shrug:

Well done!

[EFerrari]

124. This is a sestina. I posted it on another thread some weeks ago.

I'm not really happy with it but it was a good stretch. Makes me want to do more.

* * *

Black triangle in light


While the others sleep, the black cat
Sits on the sill in a rectangle of light,
The only one in the dark kitchen, still
As an unwatched sculpture. This morning,
A quiet waiting wedge, the cat eyes
Some gulls ferry between sky and sand.

Perhaps knowing how near the sand
Dunes are, across the highway only, the cat
Presses the glass, paws her reflection, eyes
Never leaving the gulls just beyond the light
Warming her screened perch. Slowly, it’s morning
In that window. She sits, watching, still.

And she might stay all day, watching still.
The smell of the sea, the ping of blown sand
Tease her to the glass, testing her each morning.
Ancient patience meets disregard in the cat
Who measures the gulls’ flight in the cold light,
Noting the ravens’ clatter too, with great green eyes.

So much unsaid by those wide eyes.
Yet something about her suggests, “Be still,
Or, come closer, I will jump into the light
You play in. You’re playing, I know. The sand
Smells like a beach a grain at a time.” The cat
Stretches gently, jumps, finished for this morning.

I’d thought to paint her, there, some morning.
How to give the motion of her stillness to other eyes?
Or, show color condensing around this small monochrome cat?
An early sketch shows promise but still
It’s only promise, not salt, flight or sand.
Here: A small black triangle on a pale plane of light.

She draws us there, summoning beach light
Slowly into the room. Brightest at mid morning,
But not bright now. The bunch grasses wave, trapping sand
Blown across the highway, and the surfers’ eyes
Narrow against the wind, the ones still
Too young for shades, as they pass by window and cat.

As if you could out walk the light world of her eyes,
Or the day’s flight from morning, sweeping over the sand.
Or, forgive the still capture of this small black cat.

EF

[dxstone]

140. I like that one a lot!

And I like the subject matter too; I've got a little black cat name o' Babydoll, she just turned one (it's her birthday this whole month)...
It reminds me of her.
You paint a really vivid picture with a terrific sense of mood and conceptual depth... very warm and restful...

[EFerrari]

141. dxstone, you hafta get the stamina award : )

I always wanted to try a sestina. When I finally did, it was like loads of weight falling off of my back. Not that I'm happy with it, but the form sort of weirdly freed me up.

My little black wedge is going to want wet food soon. Thanks for reading. Beth

[cloudythescribbler]

142. some of my poetry

EPITAPH

Here lies a rose that never blossomed.
It was weatherbeaten by gossip,
Crawled on by too many expectant ants
And killed by the insecticide that
(we were told)
Would save it.
*******************


THE ANTICHRIST

That we should all die
So that He could live
And then forgive Him:
The Crowning Insult

**********************

ODE TO MURIEL

Madame, your singing --
It dirties the windows,
Peels the paint from the walls
And puts stains in the carpet.

It sounds like the Angel of Death
Dragging someone's raw soul
Over the rusty gates
Of Hell

[TyeDye75]

143. *Covent Garden*

Covent garden toilet blocks are too small
Coke addicts snorting in the next stall
I closed my eyes took a trip and I saw it all
A peircing echo screaming down an endless hall

How does it feel to be so low and still falling
Frozen still
Witness to my vicious mauling
How does it feel to be so low and still falling
Im confronting death and I hear her calling

I speak to a God Im not sure is there
I need to explain but to whom I dont care

How does it feel to be so low and still falling
Im confronting death and I hear her calling.

[bridgit]

144. boom boom /halt!

Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom
Room Room Room Room Room
Womb Womb Womb Womb Womb
Soon Soon Soon Soon Soon
Tomb Tomb Tomb Tomb Tomb
Zoom Zoom Zoom Zoom Zoom Zoom

YEAH YEAH
Lovey Dove

So you talk that baby talk.
Do you walk that baby walk? (This line deliver with both spout & little teapot handle, kissy lips = make it cute)

YEAH YEAH
YEAH YEAH

Rune moon luna,
Luna soon bloon pop.
Rune moon luna,
Luna soon bloon pop.

Bloon Bloon Bloon Bloon Bloon
Bloon Bloon Bloon Bloon Bloon
Bloon Bloon Bloon Bloon Bloon

Pop!

...halt...

Halt!

It’s not my fault

Not all the way anyway
Not in those days
Not in those ways

We done those times
Gone, gone
When we done those crimes
Gone…gone, gone

So hard
So un-forgiven
We did those crimes
When we done those times
When

All I ever want
Is to see you soar
Upon your feathered wing
As

The song angel song
The song angel sing
The song angel song
The song angel sing, sing
The song angel song
The song angel…sing…sing, sing
Sing.............the song angel sing
The song angel song

[Heidi]

145. Kicking this up so other DU writers can join in!

So, who else would be in favor of a DU Poetry Group?

[oneighty]

147. The Lover

The Lover
Like spring air
Smelling of new life
Lilacs and roses
Filters through the cracks
Under doors
Beneath windows
And quietly settles
Beside you
As you sleep
The Lover kisses
The tears from
Your eyes
Draws forth
From your sweet
Mouth the fears
Of yesterday.
He leaves
As he came.
Silent.

A poem for Midget

From 'Voyages of the Vicky Mary'

Copyright 2004

180

[BikeWriter]

148. I thought of you last night when the thread started, Pard.

I knew you'd be in the thread this morning. :)

[oneighty]

149. Hey man

You write some good stuff.

180

[BikeWriter]

153. Thanks, Bro. So do you. :-)

[EFerrari]

151. That's lovely. Thanks. n/t

[KaliTracy]

150. Thank you everyone...

I just finished reading some really great poetry during my lunch hour... bravo! :applause:

This thread has definitely gotten my muse stirred up -- only I gotta hold her back now while I do the work thing....

But just wanted to say I would love a forum for sharing/reading poetry.... (and if this thread is still active tonight I'll post something instead of just lurking).





:)

edit:clarity

[EFerrari]

152. Great! n/t

[Fovea]

154. Critique...

Don't read if you don't like critical review.

First it is a great start at a poem. Really, I mean this.

You have a core understanding on what you want to achieve. And for most of it, you manage control of your editor, and just write the moment. Then you become philosophical, and lose the strength you had forged in a wave of editorial statements about your family.

If you can show the divorce coming in the narrative, great. If not, then promote it to a seperate poem.


Lastly, I think you can maintain the rambling colloquial tone *and* use a bit of economy. Read again for phrases. Consider how, for example this could be tightened.

'I would impatiently wait
for my father to rise and
get us started on our rounds.'

The first stanza and last, in particular, are too conversational, IMO, and the poem is not about a conversation. I will admit that I like very tight poetry, however.

I know it is not the same emotion, but T. Roethke had a poem that is a great example of how one small moment illuminates the life around it.


http://www.poetryconnection.net/poets/Theodore_Roethke/2434

It is called 'My Papa's Waltz.'

So in conclusion, this poem deserves additional work, IMO. Keep writing!

[EFerrari]

156. kick