poem, short story, song...visual art. Whatever. Something (short would probably work better for this purpose, though). I'm in 'hurry up and wait' mode -- can't really hub...can't write...can't get involved in much of anything right now because as soon as I do, you know what's gonna happen...
So show me your shorts. Give me a minute and I'll show you one of mine.
A poem from Ponder Awhile
Bramha, Allah, Jevovah, Vishnu, Ahuramazda, Shiva...
What’s in a name?
A way to identify the same,
Geography, language is mainly to blame.
Your glory is such,
Man asks for too much.
Meditation or one pointed concentration is the key,
But who says there is no fee?
Day to dawn makes no sense,
What does? We call nonsense.
Who am I and why am I here?
Has just become my greatest fear.
Is justice to be done with the strength in my hands?
Or by sweet words maybe written in the sand?
When will you set me free?
So that I can be with thee.
How am I to live in bliss?
When I stop myself from giving all a kiss.
Why do I write I do not know?
It is only ink on paper to show.
When going to the bathroom,
here’s one important issue:
Do not sit on the toilet seat
if there’s no toilet tissue.
Meet Me By The Sea
Busy streets, and the ferry horn.
A table for two, a chance reborn.
Warm summer night, a harbor view.
I’ll order some drinks while I wait for you.
Clouds may threaten, but here we are safe.
Live music plays, as we enjoy our escape.
Singing along to songs that we know.
Toasting to love that is sure to grow.
Clams on the half shell, an amorous treat.
One more thing would make this complete.
Whisper in my ear what I want you to say.
Take you back home where I’ll have my way.
Tonight I’ll wait here in my favorite place.
I’ll listen to music, recall our embrace.
I’ll order two drinks, and something to eat.
Look at the sea and, hope again that we meet!
Okay...it's been a minute. This one doesn't have a title yet:
Mud pulled at her feet with every step. It crept between her toes, smooth and cool and soothing and pulled her deeper and deeper into the marsh where no one would bother her. Where no one could look at her. Where no one knew she existed, at least for a little while.
The cattails soughed in the breeze, every once in a while releasing little puffs of cotton that caught the current and floated weightlessly until they sank back into the marsh to start all over again. The bugs skimmed the surface of the standing water. She squinted her eyes against the glare.
It was time to go back. Back to the empty house; back to the space that should be filled with life and laughter but wasn't any more. She sighed and pulled the slip of damp, crumpled paper out of her pocket, the ink was smeared until she couldn't make out much of anything except the signature:
This is a good idea. I think about 80% of us are frustrated "real" writers
10:30 p.m. New York City, New York, United Nations Department 13.
Killing yourself is the easy part, thought Arne Christiansen. Staying dead is not so easy.He felt like a criminal, slinking through the night, keeping to the shadows. He’d done nothing wrong, but nobody in their right mind drew attention to themselves after dark. Especially if you worked for the UN, doubly so if you happened to be in his line of work. A large group of angry protesters turned the corner of the street he was on, and he ducked down an alley, hiding behind an abandoned air-car. He was not alone. Several others, apparently in the same situation, huddled together out of range of the streetlights. Keep Reading
This is a short poem of mine that I wrote a while ago. It's called "The Virgin and the Archer." I hope you enjoy it.
When a virgin feels the sting
Of an arrow in her wing,
Her ability to fly is all but gone.
And the archer whose great bow
That arrow sharp did throw
Stays cold and hard as stone he's standing on.
She will plead with him to stay
And take her pain away
And free her from the name that she has made,
But he'll smile and tell her, "No,"
Then he'll turn around and go,
And leave poor virgin lonely and betrayed.
This is a very short story that I wrote in the style of Douglas Adams (or I tried to at least)
First love struck at the age of 17. Like a tiny gilded, guided love missile it thundered towards Charlotte, first entering her chest cavity and penetrating her aorta, before ripping through her back muscles, and rocketing out between her shoulder blades. Its primary mission had been to lay shimmering chains of devotion molecules on its way, finishing off by tying them into a rather large ostentatious bow around her heart.
Once free of her body, the love missile streaked rapidly skywards where seconds later, it juddered silently to a mid-air stop some 200 metres above her head. Then, as if after a change of mind, in order to make absolutely sure of its assignment, the arrow turned deliberately to point downwards, and gathering speed, came dive bombing down, kamikaze style into her psyche. It entered through the top of Charlotte’s head, where it remained lodged for the next 35 years.
Read the rest of this story
Like it. Douglas Adams is a tough act to follow though He's one of my favorite writers - or was.
Too right Mark. I copied you idea of the link through to the original post - hope you didn't mind. He is one of my favourites too. So sad when he died. Too young.
Thanks, I hope this gets me my 15 minutes of fame!
MSN Facebook Drama Queen
Websites are your only friends
Chatlines help you make amends
While strangers see your perfect smile
from profile images you compile
Every second of every hour
your inbox is your only power
when empty online off you go
in search of others to devour
Avoiding what is face to face
You make your friends in cyberspace
Through virtual reality
Messenger texting narcissist, you run like child
when things aren't best
your online friends are just a lie
They don't care if you live or die
At any cost
At any means
MSN facebook drama queen
Perfect love when you control
a person using digital
most passive and most perfect rape
to make you whole, to make you great
emoticons, a smiley face
xo means in that special place
silence means that you're too lame
to meet and (talk) away the pain
Your facebook love is just a myth
Which brags about the one you're with
As status soon to be updated...
“Relationship is complicated”
At any cost
At any means
MSN facebook drama queen
Very timely...very scary and, I fear, all too true in many cases.
I am impressed beyond words by y'all's talent. I hope y'all're subbing regularly.
It is snowing outside right now, ...yeah I know, it's supposed to be March...anyway, I will dig up a poem I wrote about snow about 11 years ago. Here it is:
The Silent Orchestra
Have you ever listened to the sound of snow?
You must listen with your eyes to feel the music flow.
Watch the gentle rhythm, relax your eyes and feel
Each and every snowflake, play a note that’s real.
The band plays on inside you
As your eyes watch the dance
And when the music’s over, their bow you see at glance.
This silent music is a gift
From the God that’s only true.
The special part about this gift,
Is the music’s inside of you.
Written by Suzanne Denise Leavitt
This is dedicated to the two biggest loves of my life that are no longer in this plane of existence. Michael was my lover and his death this poem is about, and Karen my best friend, helped me put it into words and a poem form. Several years later she killed herself. This is the first time it has been "published"..so with great honor to the memory of my loves...
Along the way
sunlight danced down
through the trees,
leaves fluttering in the breeze,
shimmering green and gold
in the arch of triumph
over the road--
treasure to behold.
To the right side
a man appeared
in blue Oxford cloth
before a house above
a curving wooden stair.
we went within.
Before the stone hearth
with palms extended parallel
we exchanged the forgotten psalms.
Then to the left
sunlight danced atop
the lurking darkness
of the pond
came so easily,
pockets turned upside-down,
shimmering silver and gold,
twinkling before sinking
into the murk.
with all my love
This should get me on a few dates...
My Favorite Pain
I supply you every bullet
You shoot into my heart
I sharpen every knife you use
Every cutter, every dart
My perfect cut companion
You re-infect my pain
Addiction brings me back for more
Forgiveness once again
I don’t blame you for your treatment
In the way you make me feel
In the darkened state you leave me in
Alone and left to heal
You’re the mother that I hated
The dad that went away
The teacher who had sex with me
The friend who wouldn’t stay
Painful petty pattern here
My narcissistic past
And in leaving you I guarantee
This time will be the last
I’m conversing with my mother
My dad is now my friend
The teacher that professed his love
Is long now in the grave
I forgive and will forget you
You’ve taught me now to know
Life is too short to revel in
The painful status quo
This is a short poem I wrote on Helium.com I hope ya'll like it.
Love, A Poem
Love is a word to explain,
A feeling near sheer pain.
Love is the feeling of life,
When it's not full of strife.
To feel real love,
Chase it, for it flies like a dove.
Love takes wings, and away it goes,
Chase it, embrace it, and it grows and glows.
Love is looking into your first babes eyes,
Looking back to see your love, before he cries.
Love is here for everyone, you must look to see.
Love is in your heart, please, believe me. bjp
Very true, Betty Jo
Here's a sonnet I wrote a while back:
A love remembered is a love too long
forgotten. Pictures fade but do not age
as lovers do, though tenderness belong
to every reawakening on the stage
of memory. But now I know you as
a poem I crammed away, in innocence
of meaning, empty word chains in a class
of carefree boys. The lines are gone. The sense,
no longer bound to rote, is free to fly,
to grow, return again, and to surprise
my equanimity with sudden joy.
And slow regret, for then I realise
our youth, our love, are photographs of snow -
frozen forever, melted long ago.
Thanks Kenny -
How about posting some of your artwork to the thread? So far it's all been text.
Admittedly, I'm a text-whore but I love good images (after all, they do say a picture's worth a thousand words) and I'd love to see someone post something.
Post something that you have written,
if you visit my profile then click on my hubs you will find plenty of things that I have written and they are readilly available, free of charge lol, have fun.....jimmy
P.S instead of posting things you have written here, why dont you put them into a hubpage and maybe you will make some money from your affiliates from it.
LOL. I have gone and righted it. Hope Hubpages does not mind me linking an image to an unpublished hub. Or when I do publish it, would you kind souls deem it spam? Horrors!
Thanks, brother and sister in art!
Paraglider, I wish I had used that 'in-stink-tive' somewhere in the comic!
My poems are already posted on Hubpages. Should I move one of them here?
I did happen to find a short story that I hadn't posted yet. I am not a professional writer and this is one of the first stories I tried to write.
Terror on the Ocean
On the deck of my boat, looking up toward heaven, I watch the stars twinkle in the night. The sky is so clear, it seems like there's a blanket of stars. I can’t ever recall an evening when it had been so clear and the stars shining so brightly. Despite all the beauty, I have an uneasy feeling down in my bowels. The ocean is eerily calm and unmoving, with not even a ripple of a wave.
When the cold ocean breeze hits my face, I realize it's getting close to winter. Judy and I have been on our boat for nearly six months, and now it's time to head home. I return to our cabin below deck, and my waiting bed.
Suddenly I'm awake, aware that something is wrong. Quickly I slip into my sandals and return to the deck. What I see causes fear to grip my heart, and I am unable to move for a few minutes. An antique pirate ship is coming upon us quickly, and the resulting waves toss our small boat back and forth. Turning to the control center, I start the engine and move our boat out of the way as Judy joins me. We look at the vessel with wonder, then at one another with confusion.
Judy asks, "Do you have any idea how that ship got here?"
"I haven't the faintest clue," I reply.
The ship comes to a stop not far from our boat, as if dead. We watch the ship for over an hour, seeing no sign of life.
I ask, "Do you think we should go check it out?"
She gives me one of those "you idiot" looks.
"Why should we check it out?" she asked. "There could be many dangers on that old ship."
We watch a little longer looking for signs of life on the old ship.
Judy then turns and says, "OK. My curiosity has gotten the best of me. Let's go check it out."
With building excitement, I turn on my running lights, and pull along side of the ship, watching carefully for signs of life. All I see is the side of the ship, dark and dreary. There is a rope ladder hanging over the side, so I pull our boat over next to the ship. As a precaution I gather up my flare gun and some flashlights change to and'climb the rope ladder to the main deck of the ship. After looking around and seeing nothing dangerous, I signal Judy to climb on up.
Inching our way toward the bow and paying close attention to everything, we still find no life aboard the ship. Exploring every inch of the top deck and finding nothing out of the ordinary, we decide to head below deck and see what we can find.
Looking through all the cabins below deck, we find nothing really important. It looks as if a large crew had been aboard this ship at one time, due to the number of cabins below deck. We come upon one cabin that is much bigger than all the others. Thinking this must be the captain’s quarters, we search the room. Finding nothing of importance, we turn to leave. Just then, Judy's flashlight reflects off of something shiny behind a door. Slowly, walking to the door we open it What we saw made my heart flutter and it took my breath away. I hugged Judy harder than I ever hugged her before and we laughed harder than ever. The chest full of gold that lay open in the closet reflected the light. She noticed it because it was open and a flashlight reflected off of the gold coins it contains.
Gleefully, we drag the chest up the steps to the top deck. Going back to the rope ladder, I descend first while Judy stays on deck. She tosses the gold down to me, one piece at a time and I put them in some bags we have on our boat. Suddenly, I hear Judy scream! Looking up, I see some kind of creature pulling her back from the side of the ship and more coming down to get me.
Reaching for my flare gun, I realize it isn't where I strapped it to my side. Looking around trying to find something to fight them off with and finding nothing, I hurry below deck and grab my crow bar. Picking it up, I turn around to fight the creatures, but it's too late. Something hard and bony pushes into my side and the sound I hear is one that I'll never forget. It's the loudest shrill I've ever heard in my life. "TURN OVER AND STOP SNORING!!!!" Judy yells at me.
I apologize. I did post that already in my hubs. I just overlooked it.
Most of what I put up is either my poetry or memoir, a form I've been finding is entertaining to write.
I felt a sharp pain stab deep into my stomach. I wasn’t home. I was in a mountain valley, a land of ice with high craggy peaks all around me, snow falling everywhere; there was a torch burning somewhere and a man looming before me. He was holding a sword in his hand, wet with blood. I screamed--I tried to grab my wounded stomach, I tried to twist away, but I couldn’t move.
Gabryela, my father’s voice whispered. Gabryela.
“Papa?” I wailed. The man raised his arm and I trembled as I realized he had my father’s sword.
Gabryela, the sword!
The sword crashed down. I think I screamed, but I couldn’t tell what was real.
My body separated from itself and flew above, and I looked down below me. It wasn’t me the man had stabbed. It was my father, and his eyes lay vacant and unseeing. I couldn’t breathe. It felt like I was vomiting, like my whole chest was heaving, caving, hollowing out. I felt the burn of flames all around me. I could see fire, hear it, taste it in my mouth. I screamed and screamed until my throat burned, trying to fight the heat.
My vision changed again, and I was staring into a pair of bright blue eyes, surrounded by a young face that I recognized but couldn’t place. “Let it come, Gabryela,” he said to me. “I’m with you. Let it come.” His eyes were cold to my fire, calming the terrible grip of the flames. I held my breath, confused but trying to obey him, and before I could exhale my body wrenched with sudden agony, and the exhale became a scream.
I jerked up with a hard gasp. My red hair flew around my face and for a second I thought it was still fire and a scream slipped from my mouth.
My father opened the door, worry plan on his face, and I tried to take a deep breath. My heart was beating hard and I was shaking a little. He was right in front of me. He was still alive. So why was I still afraid?
“Are you alright?”
“You yelled,” he said.
I nodded, trying to suck in a deep breath. “Is it dawn yet?” I asked, looking toward the windows.
“Almost. Did you have another dream, Gabby?”
I shook my head, feeling my cheeks blush. I was never a very good liar. “No. I just woke up and my hair was all around my head.”
His mouth twitch a little in a smile. “Oh. Good. Well you might as well get up. We can go practice.”
I nodded, and he closed the door. I wished suddenly that he hadn’t believed my lie. I wished he made me tell him everything.
I pressed my hand to my heart, trying to calm the harsh beat. With a sigh I pushed my legs off the side off the bed; this wasn’t the first time I had such vivid dreams. My father was always very interested in them—I think he believed me to be some sort of visionary. They came very sporadically, and when they did, they were violent.
My hand went to my side, and I wasn’t surprised to feel swollen ridges of bruises where, in the dream, I had been cut. ........
This is the first page of the first chapter of my novel. If you like it, the rest is on Book Habit at
Two poems of mine
At the bar they were selling the same range of drinks,
The beermats had the same information printed both sides,
My pint tasted the same as the last one,
The abandoned newspapers had the same headline stories,
The people in the bar all looked the same,
Their designer fashions were all the same,
The TV and video screen showed the same football match
At the same time,
In each team all the players wore the same colors,
All the people who were in town had come to attend the same event,
Some girls entered the bar sporting the same hair-dos
And even their make-up was the same.
I didn't feel the same.
I felt different,
So I wrote this and left.
Soldiers with Wood and String
I was thinking about Kurt Cobain
And his chances were pretty slim,
And I was thinking of John Lennon
Because I owe a lot to him;
Just soldiers with guns of wood and string
Shot down with lack of understanding.
I was thinking of Jimi Hendrix
And other stars passed on,
Who gave their music
Immortalized in song.
I was wondering about our future
In a world turned upside down,
Where love's a word corrupted
To the sound of a weeping clown
And gunfire's from the soldiers
With guns of wood and string.
By Bard of Ely
I don't have a full story like everyone else, and i'm new to writing, but here's some of the lyrics from a song that i'm 'trying' to write.
I'll see you again, soon we'll be together
Who knows where or when, maybe when we're older
I pray, I'll see you just as I remembered
Now and then, I fall and hit the floor
Realizing that I'll never see you running through my door... again.
WOW there's alot of great stuff in here! I have to say I am impressed at everyone who contributed to this thread, and I got a kick out of Tibby's poem. I love writing and reading!
Well, let's see, I've written alot! The stuff in my hubs, the writing on the other side of the link in my profile and the two (almost three) books I've written aside, I'm trying to think of something I've written that I'm proud of to put up for people to look at, haha.
Here we go. I wrote this not too long ago, and I'm pretty proud of it.
It Could Be Worse
by Earl S. Wynn
She stands beside me,
A pillar of dappled light in the rain
Wet and faded denim, the sharp edge of a cracked smile
Showing like smooth ivory between the lines of lips
I’ve kissed before, reach to kiss again
Soft lips, lips that carry a thousand rainy days in their familiar lines,
But she turns her cheek on the kiss,
Turns her cheek and it lands off center,
Glancing off the slick lines of rain damp skin.
In the pause, she tells me she’s sorry
In the rainfall, her hand reaches for mine
And I take it knowingly, knowing the words, the sounds, long before they even come,
“I can’t.” She’ll breathe, “You’re not right for me,” or “There’s someone else.”
I’ve felt this coming, seen it’s ominous castles carved from cumulous
compounding like corrupted cotton at the sharp divide of the horizon.
It’s not the first time. She’s not the first woman
To say those words to me.
Her depthless eyes open, rise like twin spheres of black marble
Framed in clear white, glinting under the sharp-cut fronds of a pixie cut
As wild and dark as midnight, as the heart that thunders in her chest
With all the power and passion of a thousand ebon valkyries, the idling throb of her black Ducati.
“I’m sorry.” She repeats. There’s sadness there, a tired remorse.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner.”
I wait, and the rain gives us sacred pause.
When the words finally come, they’re soft, smooth as leather.
Delivered with a precision that’s as German
As it is Heartbreaking– She says:
“The truth is–”
“I forgot to bring the wine.”
This is a song written 21 years ago , that I could never find the right name for . Played out of E minor , to a mellow , laid back 16-beat .......
The mountain streams are crying
Crystal tears are quietly flowing
Running down the ruins of time...
And tears of dew are cried upon
The dying leaves around
Sorrow even worse than mine....
So look at all the beauty and you'll see the pain
All the signs of hope are showing up in vain
Angel tears from heaven coming down as rain
Yes , look at life and tell me what's to gain.......
A flower in the desert
As a promise of the future
Standing like a silent cry....
Dreaming of tomorrow
And the better things to come
But just before the nightfall , it will die......
Her eye brow,
Or an arrow,
To one's heart!
In a style,
Or an art!
I See A Flower
I see a flower
growing under a tree.
Sense was living inside
creating a unique sympathy.
I paint the flower as I see it
and the flower gives color.
Beauty is found in rendition
and set in silence.
I dare not pick the flower.
Death will cause it no care
and causes it to be the same
as any flower laying in wrap.
Definition shall not revoke
the will of one so silent.
Come to me and cause
parity in my spirit.
Take care of the flower
I am ready and shall
find the flower that is inside me.
Darkness sets shadows and creates silhouettes
as the orangish hued sun stops burning.
Beauty is created in a land so inhospitable
where a man’s soul can be lost in the sand.
Ground into the soles of my boots
is the ambition of the day.
The land chaffs my spirit
yet brands me with humility.
I take the last sip of coffee.
It is bitter yet the drop carries
with it something special from the fire.
Heat extinguishes as the coals create ashes.
I bite my lips and pull the
dry skin off with my teeth.
I spit away the flesh
spoiled by the elements so harsh.
I wish for tomorrow
as the wind howls a tune so remorseful
for an audience of the stars
and that which rides the night sky.
I was once in the city so far away
from the land and steel in my stead.
Carried on my broad shoulders was the
sickness of others and it made me puke.
Many come here to die but
I come here to live.
The pain to my skin is only slight
as the land provides me a will.
…….A will of no one else’s blindness..
My family shall live well I must say.
We will ply the desert with our
desires and our wishes and dreams enduring.
My eyes grow heavy and my sight goes dark.
I shall cast my sins where everyone can see
and call myself the man who I am.
The shadow I create shall scorch the ground…..
…….with my name and not that of anyone who passes through.
We The Show
How it happen, I don't know, but this wasn't in the plans
Can't get enough of the small things, like textin' and holdin' hands
Got more feelings for this girl than the beach got grains of sand
Didn't think it would get like this, but i'm the situations biggest fan
It's a few spectators, you know groupies debatin' in the stands
But they all upset cause they not relatin' with they man
They should get like me, but they not like me
Think we won't last, well that's unlikely
I don't know what it is, but it's somethin' that just strike me
Keep watchin', but there'll never be no strike three
Done with all the swingin', so y'all should stop the lil' wait
Done with runnin' bases, I done hit homeplate
They say she won't stay, they sayin' no way
I know this ain't my way, but this one here to stay
So all you hatin' lil girls could just fly away........
This a poem i wrote recently.
Laid in bed the night before,
heard harsh words and a slamming door.
Told myself i would not cry,
knew inside that i'd get by.
The hardest thing was....Read more>>>
Here is a copy of the only officially published poem I've written so far. It first appreared in the online literary journal "The Exquisite Corpse" this past spring. Comments appreciated!
There’s a Ghost in my head, although
I don’t know his name. He tells me
Things I don’t really want to know,
Like how to tap-dance,
And how to
With Human Minds
Like the parasitic tapeworm.
He takes away the lonely bottle
And peels this old caterpillar
Into a Firefly, but
He doesn’t believe me when I say
That I think better when
The Wind’s Opera
A dry leaf scrapes a deserted cement sidewalk
along the pale grey.
quiet like a ghost
echos down the resting
block of white picket fences.
The sky is dark
melting into a field of flowers
like the fruit
like one paints the sun,
A bird cries
in the midnight tree.
Her head is pointed down, only watching her
baby bird, beautiful and white,
attempt to fly for its first time.
mommy catches her.
mommy cries for her.
Not quite morning,
the moon still fighting to stay
bright and adored
leaves grace the moon light
leaving the impression of a ghost
instead of a living tree.
Moonlight ignores rough dry
carcasses of leaves,
only ideas instead of images.
A dry leaf drags down a long grey plank of a
A bird flys alone,
in the wake
of a tidal wave
with no water to fall upon her
A bird flys with a thousand in company,
but all alone.
A sad bird lays on the wet dirt.
layed out against a black earth
only whispering of failures.
A second wing,
is clutched to his body
like a secret.
One eye opens.
Another poem I wrote is Rose Petals on a Bare Wall:
The Agony of Dying
It was a rainy evening
I was in my room weeping
Tears flooded in my pillow
and so my room is filled with sorrow
I just can't accept the reality
That we will never ever be
Do I have to suffer the pain?
That keeps me crying in The rain?
I realize that I have no purpose in life
And so I got my self a very sharp knife
I stared for a moment at the Blade
But memories of him still wouldn't fade
I pushed the blade unto my wrist
The great pain I couldn't resist
I threw the knife away and stepped back
Later my vision went black
When I woke up it was so quiet strange and odd
Like a paradise and home of a GOD
I saw angels playing and smiling
I was shocked and ask my self "Am I dreaming?"
Then an angel told me that I am in a place free from earthly sufferings and lies
When I heard this tears flooded in my eyes
I just can't believe that I've exchange my big happy family
For someone stupid, worthless, and silly
I thought of the foolish things that I've done
But It's useless my chance of living is gone
It's because of that sharp knife
That wined me up and took my LIFE....
well i just made this poem when i was in high school its part of our homework..well i come up with this theme because of my friend who committed a suicide because of love..
These lights, these stars so far away,
All I know is we call it the Milky Way.
Everything around is so strange,
The human is certainly deranged.
Success is peace of mind,
I try so hard to unwind.
We care constantly fighting like cats and dogs,
Reality is covered by some strange fog.
How long is this supposed to go on?
Before I go back to where I came from.
In this world we are all referring,
To sparks of happiness and flames of suffering.
The wise are so totally detached,
Pain is for those who are attached.
From Ponder Awhile
These are the empty roads with barren fields
on either side. The fence is well maintained
but forms no barrier. To cross it yields
no bounty. No-one goes where nothing's gained.
Here was a vineyard, planted with Grenache.
Deep-rooted vines, they were the last to die.
A painter caught them, green against the ash
but lived to see them wither, by and by.
Where no trees shade the ancient burial mound
the winds that gleaned the topsoil from the stones
whistle their idiot tunes, round and around,
as if to call to dance the nameless bones.
The days of grief, of mourning, all are done:
how shall a sigh be heard, where none draws breath?
The last war on mortality is won,
for we are done with life, and done with death.
We sojourned long as creatures of the soil,
endured eternal rounds of death and birth,
to end as gods, rewarded for our toil.
Look! We have built the Moon upon the Earth.
My bestfriend by Sandra Rinck
Oh, that one I like. I come there periodically
Still, you could make better recording, this one does not do you justice.
The poem Agony of Dying posted by LYCEJO8 above is a nice high schoolish piece. It could not, however, induce a literary catharsis, due to its narrative and descriptive style. it is practically a stream of consciousness or a soliloquy of an event in poetry form and it leaves the readers nothing but the mediocrity of the facts. People die, what's new. But the poem, however, could be improved. You could breathe life to it, reanimate it, by making the knife a symbol of that which killed her because the knife here is a mere object, a mere tool which is devoid of literary meaning. She died, alright. but what's the significance of her dying by the knife. She could have shot herself. The point, really, is not her death, but her death by the knife.
well this one isn't new anymore but...
It's called Face.
Her lips were softer than the petals of a rose
Her skin smoother than Egyptian silk
And with her kiss came a curl in my toes
A warm red glow in skin white as milk
Lips caressed like wind around tall erect peaks
The Earth moved below me in a gentle quake
Blood like a river flowed to my cheeks
If this was a dream I wished never to wake
I wonder what would be found if I just up an disappeared
No time to tidy things up or put then in order
Clothes to be washed
Bills to be paid
Groceries to buy and put up
Games to be played and figured out
Mail waiting to be gotten and read
I wonder what someone would find interesting about my home
What would they want out of my house
Would they know what I considered treasures
What would be deemed valuable enough to keep
I wonder what would be thought and said about me by the things I left behind
What would be learned about me thru my belongings
I wonder what would be found if I just up and disappeared
Kisses fall like rain against the skin
Stirring something deep within
Bodies warm and soaking wet
Stoke the flames without regret
Tears of joy flow down your face
Another day we re in the race!
In Nothing, Everything
Is white a colour? No, they will reply
And yet within itself how does it hold
The many shades and hues that catch the eye
From all to naught and naught to all unfolds
You earn, you own, you put aside and yet
Is anything enough to say you’ve got
It all? When’s each and every need all met?
The only time there’s all is when there’s naught
The mind must needs be filled that is our quest
A never-ending useless garbage bin
If only we could empty it out and rest
And find that in nothing is everything
And then sans deed, sans thought, sans sound, sans fear
’Tis when one hears the music of the spheres
So it has, Thranax
Tibby - that was great stuff - thanks!
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NT Bible is errant; written by errant scribes; not by Jesus.Jesus did not belong to the physical lineage of King David as written by errant Matthew and errant Luke.
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