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Post by Brian on Dec 13, 2003 18:21:03 GMT -5
A couple of folks asked about things I'd written other than scripts - I am a bit reluctant but, what the hell !
SNOW
No wind has moved No frost has set No sun beams No trees have leaves longer All is still.
Light bleeds Over the grey Over the dead branches of a million trees Over the sleep of dead lovers Dead loves Over a world of still snow.
Snow, cold comfort, the equator of our world, the paint of patient nature.
Well, it didn't feel depressing when I wrote it. It was a great day.
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Post by Goblin on Dec 13, 2003 22:53:32 GMT -5
Don't be reluctant!
I liked it. Not at all depressing.
I've just started writing poetry again (for the first time in years) but I'm not as brave as you, so it'll probably stay safely tucked away in a drawer...
except for the odd rude limerick, hehe
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Bebop
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Her Divine Cuteness.....
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Post by Bebop on Dec 13, 2003 23:01:07 GMT -5
I agree, more please!!!
*Bebop pulls up a beanbag chair and plops down*
;DBebop
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Post by Brian on Dec 14, 2003 4:30:13 GMT -5
Maybe this is pushing my luck with your patience but ....
One more howling
left on the streets
one more shark lost his grip.
One more night
with the moon
and the secret
of pushing
and legends and sleep.
and to REALLY push my luck (it's a bit longer).....
In the dream, dream, dream dead of night, I took my ring to the sea. The ring held the bones of my father, My father was held by the sea. I pushed my ring as warm as I could In the cold, the burning old sea. The ring round my father was washed by the sea, The cold, the burning old sea. He didn't move, he didn't arise From my ring in the bones of the sea. In the cold, cold burning old sea, The bones and the blackened old sea.
No music spun round in his strange father's voice That spoke to the cold burning sea, No song of the ring and no word of his choice To ride on the burning old sea. No word in the bay, and no word on the day When he chose to be tied to the sea. He threw up his bones and stood all alone On the mouth of the hungry old sea, And he sang his first song of all his life long Of the cold, the burning old sea. Of the cold, cold burning old sea, The bones and the blackened old sea.
There is nothing but ice with a hand and black voice In the cold, the burning old sea. And every dream night my father must fight With my ring and his bones in the sea. And he's chained, chained, chained and he's free In the loud, the singing old sea, In the dream, dream, dream dead of night When I walk on his voice in the sea. And I take my ring, and it burns with a light From the cold, the burning old sea. From the cold, clod cold burning old sea The bones and the blackened old sea
Told ya !!
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Bebop
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Post by Bebop on Dec 14, 2003 4:40:25 GMT -5
I love that one!
You most definetely ROCK!!
You should post these more often!
;DBebop
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Post by Goblin on Dec 16, 2003 3:45:21 GMT -5
The one about the sea cries out to be read aloud, or sung...
... now I've got it stuck in my head!
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Rhiannon
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Post by Rhiannon on Dec 16, 2003 14:28:54 GMT -5
The one about the sea cries out to be read aloud, or sung... ... now I've got it stuck in my head! ;)Yeah, that one is stuck in my head too..
.. it really fits my mood for this holiday season
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Karen
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Happier, more spiritual than ever
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Post by Karen on Dec 17, 2003 3:13:23 GMT -5
Wow, Brian, Those are really touching; it really makes you think. They're also really great & can't wait for more of them.
Your #1 Fan, Karen
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Post by Brian on Dec 17, 2003 15:11:02 GMT -5
THE LAST
The old bed is wrinkled. The new shirt on the floor is torn. Song pauses. Morning light is creaking like a tired door across the sky. Birds run singing for shelter.
Leaves tremble, as if to die in the swift intake of morning. It leaks under clouded hills. It wavers on flower tops. It hovers like a hawk. It is drawn on by the darkness. It follows like a shadow, like a hungry infant. It is stretching in dog muscles. The sea tries for one last push against the shore.
Dawn sighs, doubts candle flame and lantern wick, dims electric light.
The lungs empty.
The old day is done. Songs stop for an instant. And a new breath begins and stands and walks and has weight in candle and star and wind and song and dream and becomes an old child, never sleeping, ever watchful. Buttons on an old shirt. Blankets on a new bed. _______________________________ For late nights, and all that... It has a bit more of an interesting shape when the text is centered, but that would take more skill than I have.
Brian
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jkd112
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Post by jkd112 on Dec 17, 2003 17:04:27 GMT -5
Very nice, Brian! I was never able to write real poetry/lyrics. I could only write dirty songs... ;D ...and bad haiku about beer...
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Bebop
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Her Divine Cuteness.....
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Post by Bebop on Dec 17, 2003 18:59:33 GMT -5
You have more skill than you give yourself credit, besides what is poetry....the speak of the soul, perhaps........dreams....the sight of the soul, maybe...... Ok now I am just waxing philosophical........ *Bebop holds out her hand to be smacked*
;DBebop
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Post by Brian on Dec 17, 2003 22:53:54 GMT -5
Apologies... I was a bit careless when I typed the last thing, but I've just made the corrections. (2nd & 3rd lines were inverted, and the second last line ended with 'bed', rather than 'shirt'.) brian
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Post by Brian on Dec 18, 2003 3:52:30 GMT -5
Don't laugh at this one - it's still being worked on, OK ?? It's about a very real place, a community from which its inhabitants were forcibly removed during the 60's in order to save the government money. There are many such places in Newfoundland - the program damaged thousands of lives, and was very much like the placing of native peoples on reservations, or reserves. People had loved there for four hundred years.
SOP'S ISLAND
The road from the island boats. It's nothing but mud and stone, And trees that freeze in June rain. A long river raging at the mouth. Sea and snow on cold points of land. Land as hard and steep and covered with that slick grass slipping under stranger's landed and shiny, sea-wet boots. The dead yawn in the graveyards.
Their old island, It's nothing now but mud and stone, and eyes of gods. Gods in the eyes of frozen trees and hidden rock. Those that know these gods do not need to see... Those that do not see do not need to know.
On their abandoned island there are two graveyards... the living still tend to one, the dead never come to the other. They are nothing now but mud and stone. Even their church fell down around them. Their church coaxing them into this life reminds us, in mud and stone, that Leatrice Ricks, aged seventeen, wife of Simon Ricks died. Her church did not have patience for her life. The currency of the old, fallen church is still mud and stone.
Mud and stone and water from a high place. Their island - the gull that tries to find it, the snow and sea that tries to hide it. The voices, the visitors boots on the slippery grass singing off the hidden rock, worn words of life and death. All in the blink of a day, All in stone. All turned to stone. All mud and stone
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Post by Twilight on Dec 18, 2003 15:40:06 GMT -5
Not bad Brian, I had no idea you were a poet! Thanks for sharing those, I very much enjoyed.
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