quixote
Security Guard Class 4
Posts: 51
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Post by quixote on Apr 18, 2008 13:02:32 GMT -5
Goblin: Your poetry rocks!
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quixote
Security Guard Class 4
Posts: 51
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Post by quixote on May 7, 2008 16:53:43 GMT -5
At Goblin's request, here are some of my poems: Hell: Hell is whats left over Once ones heaven has been built Its the place that one must cover For the blood that has been spilt Its the land behind the image Its the crack between the words Its the love that one must question A glimpse of self as the absurd Untitled: As I stare at the page it changes but little Lines scratched across the vacant field There are words but they are hollow There are thoughts but they are echoes As I write at the page I change but little Mind scratched across the vacant field There are dreams but they are solid Creatures born of their reflections Define fantasy with fierce copulations What? Do not understand... To place rules on love Is to wrestle with gods Idle chat of the weather. Untitled thoughts on Death: Some of us, as we die What we do is live the lie We hide the darkness that we feel Assuring all The pain's not real We drink or smoke And fall to dust Our rot to spread Our minds to rust And once we're gone A service small With tears and hope Blank stares for all Untitled again: We are trapped in the dance Of the measuring of things Time stretched across rulers Rationed love Our reflexes scarred By shards of thought Life and Death Only words Draping our shadows In decorative bones We pattern pose Trading blood Sipping at our reflections In hopes of becoming one All poems copyright by me. No reproductions by anyone without express written consent by me.
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Post by Goblin on May 8, 2008 17:46:50 GMT -5
Thanks for sharing, quixote
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quixote
Security Guard Class 4
Posts: 51
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Post by quixote on May 9, 2008 11:03:27 GMT -5
I wrote them a few years ago during a particularly sad time.
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Post by Goblin on May 10, 2008 19:27:23 GMT -5
I think a lot of people start writing that way - sorrow, or joy...
Someone once described poetry as "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings" - Wordsworth, I think...
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Post by Goblin on Aug 4, 2008 15:16:38 GMT -5
BLIND
He's back at work, they say - the man whose baby daughter died after just one day
and the tapping of his cane gives them time to run and hide - his colleagues, all those afraid to see, to know what such grief looks like in a blind man's eyes.
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Post by Goblin on Aug 28, 2008 2:06:11 GMT -5
Wolf longs for something softer not scratchy polyester but fur won't fit the office, strange cage, where territory's marked with staplers, paperclips
Wolf sits at the keyboard claws scrabbling, making nonsense phrases 'optimising synergies' - nobody notices
Wolf wriggles on the chair not designed with wolves in mind no space for furry tail twitching, restless underneath the desk
Wolf laps at a latte, blood warm - beneath those jaws biscuits snap, like bones of tiny birds - city pigeons, easy meat
Wolf in the washroom lets the taps run, waits for a burst of pine-scent freshness remembers a forest, a waterfall
Wolf wants to rest with head on paws watches the meeting of the bored, follows the herd at a distance, thinks meat... mate... mate... meat...
Wolf pads homewards past markets, car parks, fumes of hot dogs, onions, piss and petrol, pulls off the sheepskin pulls on the night
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varrtan
Security Guard Class 1
Posts: 243
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Post by varrtan on Feb 23, 2009 1:00:48 GMT -5
Don't take my pomes for pomegranetes for granted. -----------------------------------------------------------------
Have you heard the word of the lured Have you whored the ward of the lowered Having youth warring then torn from them barren Happy ewes purple wool up layen in Heavily purslane needling in cones Hackles see chompers muddled whistled a tune
Eight pleasant peasant panty pantries Pricks pickled pluck Narwhal
Moon mute, cute tutor tuteled True, due to 17 months ago I escaped
Hasten your purge of the page of the wage Haven yoke polled the bone of the worn Hate sown bowed loan owed none Take 6 tasted tits Traced fits face sits Satiated she say it slide I imposture posterior Albacore
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varrtan
Security Guard Class 1
Posts: 243
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Post by varrtan on Feb 23, 2009 1:21:21 GMT -5
New word order --------------------
I am sentenced to obey word order in paragraphs starkly defined. Authoritarian force compels my expression.
Allowed the one vocabulary, I am made to mean their meanings, imprisoned in solitude.
Insanity defined for me, let this word stand for that memory. No one can tell.
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varrtan
Security Guard Class 1
Posts: 243
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Post by varrtan on Feb 26, 2009 0:53:39 GMT -5
I'm tempted to call this "Whining is losing". To be read with American vowels:
Winning is losing -----------------
If I could act like someone else, you'd love me like the rest. Since I'm disagreeable, you seem to hate me best.
I can't pretend that you're my friend and chat about the weather. I'm less alone all by myself and so I'd see you never.
But, what I think, is not the point. Your voice is what I miss. Together in our solitudes, our dances synchronous.
You don't see companionship in it's naked form. I can't play the masquerade as would be the norm.
Achievement is a cancer replacing your expression. I can not participate in what is your aggression.
Your pack of humans kills for fun and I can't be a part. The voice that is the loudest is what tells you what is art.
There's no originality. Authority's a lie. Winning is for losers, so I say goodbye.
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Post by maddox2base on Mar 14, 2009 11:06:42 GMT -5
Roses are red Violets are blue
I'd fuck me and I'd fuck me hard
Sorry...what can I say? I'm American.
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Post by Goblin on Dec 29, 2009 20:42:51 GMT -5
So dainty, The vixen's tracks in snow So clumsy, mine beside them A child in borrowed boots
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Andrew
Security Guard Class 4
Posts: 40
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Post by Andrew on Jan 27, 2010 1:01:05 GMT -5
2 limericks of religious figures:
There was an old guy called Moses Whose life the bible discloses He saw no promised land Because he was banned But quietly just decomposes
There was a fellow called Jesus Who could heal all kinds of diseases He was so divine He could conjure up wine But failed to serve it with cheeses
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Post by Goblin on Jan 27, 2010 18:12:11 GMT -5
These reminded me of a limerick I heard recently:
There was a young nun named Vera Who would never let anyone near her, Till a crafty old monk Snuck into her bunk - And now she's a mother superior!
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Post by Goblin on Jun 26, 2010 15:50:02 GMT -5
The sea is speaking As it did before I am listening Close by the shore Telling me secrets Telling me tales Breathing beneath me The sea exhales Foam as white As baby's breath Dark and light Life and death The oldest voice I've ever heard Speaking volumes Without a word It whispers on Incessantly And nothing I say Will silence the sea It speaks of things Unseen by sun Of islands with Nowhere to run Of drowning dreams Beyond recall Murders and monsters The sea sees all Murmurs and rumours Shallow and deep The sea is speaking And I can't sleep
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