Post something that you've written...

1. 68

   elisabeth reidposted 15 years ago

   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.

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   1. 61

      mohitmisraposted 15 years agoin reply to this

      A poem from Ponder Awhile
      
      
      TRUTH
      
      
      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.
      
      Poet Mohit.k.Misra

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   2. 58

      guidebabaposted 15 years agoin reply to this

      When going to the bathroom,
      here’s one important issue:
      Do not sit on the toilet seat
      if there’s no toilet tissue.
      
      

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      1. 58

         FANAposted 15 years agoin reply to this

         well said

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   3. 0

      Poppa Bluesposted 15 years agoin reply to this

      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!

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2. 68

   elisabeth reidposted 15 years ago

   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:
   
   Love, Mother.

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3. 58

   Mark Knowlesposted 15 years ago

   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

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   1. 61

      AC Gaughenposted 15 years agoin reply to this

      Amazing first line here, Mark!

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4. 60

   jdescheneposted 15 years ago

   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.

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5. 66

   stormyweatherposted 15 years ago

   This is a very short story that I wrote in the style of Douglas Adams (or I tried to at least)
   
   First Love
   
   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

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6. 58

   Mark Knowlesposted 15 years ago

   Like it. Douglas Adams is a tough act to follow though He's one of my favorite writers - or was.

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7. 66

   stormyweatherposted 15 years ago

   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.

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8. 56

   Tibbyposted 15 years ago

   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
   Promoting sexuality
   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

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   1. 0

      daflaposted 15 years agoin reply to this

      Wow...I love that.  Too sad, and too true of many people.

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      1. 74

         thranaxposted 15 years agoin reply to this

         Agreed =\
         
         ~thranax~

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9. 68

   elisabeth reidposted 15 years ago

   Very timely...very scary and, I fear, all too true in many cases.

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10. 68

    elisabeth reidposted 15 years ago

    I am impressed beyond words by y'all's talent.  I hope y'all're subbing regularly.

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11. 0

    SueLeaMarketingposted 15 years ago

    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
    Copyright 1997

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12. 67

    SparklingJewelposted 15 years ago

    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...
    
    Michael's Passage
    
    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.
    Ascending together,
    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
    before splash-down
    came so easily,
    pockets turned upside-down,
    coins spilling,
    shimmering silver and gold,
    twinkling before sinking
    into the murk.
    
    
    
    with all my love

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13. 56

    Tibbyposted 15 years ago

    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

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14. 60

    Betty Jo Pettyposted 15 years ago

    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

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    1. 89

       Paragliderposted 15 years agoin reply to this

       Very true, Betty Jo
       
       Here's a sonnet I wrote a while back:
       
       Phoenix
       
       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.

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       1. 76

          Kenny Wordsmithposted 15 years agoin reply to this

          A pack of amazing oxymorons, phoenix - snow    frozen - melted
          Thank you for the poetic paragliding.

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15. 89

    Paragliderposted 15 years ago

    Thanks Kenny -
    
    How about posting some of your artwork to the thread? So far it's all been text.

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    1. 68

       elisabeth reidposted 15 years agoin reply to this

       Hear, hear!
       
       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.

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       1. 76

          Kenny Wordsmithposted 15 years agoin reply to this

          Thank you, Paraglider and Elisabeth. Here's something I wrote and drew.
          

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          1. 68

             elisabeth reidposted 15 years agoin reply to this

             I got an error message.
             
             And I was so excited to see, too.
             
             

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16. 84

    jimmythejockposted 15 years ago

    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.

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17. 76

    Kenny Wordsmithposted 15 years ago

    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!

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18. 68

    elisabeth reidposted 15 years ago

    Oh, I enjoyed that.
    
    Thank you for posting it.
    
    

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19. 89

    Paragliderposted 15 years ago

    Good one, Kenny. Fine in-stink-tive writing

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20. 76

    Kenny Wordsmithposted 15 years ago

    Thanks, brother and sister in art!
    Paraglider, I wish I had used that 'in-stink-tive' somewhere in the comic!

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21. 0

    SirDentposted 15 years ago

    My poems are already posted on Hubpages. Should I move one of them here?

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22. 0

    SirDentposted 15 years ago

    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.

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    1. 58

       Taryn Elizabethposted 15 years agoin reply to this

       cool. ^^

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23. 0

    SirDentposted 15 years ago

    I apologize. I did post that already in my hubs. I just overlooked it.

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24. 79

    barrancaposted 15 years ago

    Most of what I put up is either my poetry or memoir, a form I've been finding is entertaining to write.   
    
    http://hubpages.com/profile/barranca

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25. 61

    AC Gaughenposted 15 years ago

    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. 
        “Gabby?”
        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?”
        I nodded.
        “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
    http://www.bookhabit.com/book_details.php?book_id=205

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26. 81

    Bard of Elyposted 15 years ago

    Two poems of mine
    
    The Same
    
    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

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27. 80

    JArvinVposted 15 years ago

    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
    Last time
    
    Now and then, I fall and hit the floor
    Realizing that I'll never see you running through my door... again.

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    1. 61

       AC Gaughenposted 15 years agoin reply to this

       NEVER apologize for being new to writing--it just means you're fresh talent, and as I recently heard it described, "pre-published".  So don't apologize for it--own it, and rock it.  ;-)

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28. 81

    Earl S. Wynnposted 15 years ago

    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.”

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29. 59

    grumpyjacksaposted 15 years ago

    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....
    
    Chorus :
    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......

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    JYOTI KOTHARIposted 15 years ago

    Her eye brow,
         Or an arrow,
         To one's heart!
    
         Her smile,
         In a style,
         Or an art!
    
       Thanks,
        jyoti kothari

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31. 65

    Ben Evansposted 15 years ago

    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
    old tree.
    I am ready and shall
    find the flower that is inside me.

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32. 65

    Ben Evansposted 15 years ago

    One more.
    
    Untitled:
    
    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.

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33. 59

    whobutmeeposted 15 years ago

    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........

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34. 59

    ulnothposted 15 years ago

    This a poem i wrote recently.
    SLAMMING DOOR.
    
    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>>>

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35. 58

    Taryn Elizabethposted 15 years ago

    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!
    
    
    The Incarnate
    
    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
    Scry
    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
    Wing-less.

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36. 60

    Blackbirdposted 15 years ago

    The Wind’s Opera
    
    A dry leaf scrapes a deserted cement sidewalk
        dancing
                skipping
            along the pale grey. 
        A laugh
    
    quiet like a ghost
        echos down the resting
    
    block of white picket fences.
            The sky is dark
        melting into a field of flowers
           
                orange
    like the fruit
        and yellow
    
    like one paints the sun,
    
            yellow
        instead of
            iridescent.
    
    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.
    Fall once,
            mommy catches her.
        Fall twice,
            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
        sidewalk.
            A bird flys alone,
        in the wake
    of a tidal wave
        with no water to fall upon her
            only ghosts.
        A bird flys with a thousand in company,
    but all alone.
    
    A sad bird lays on the wet dirt.
        Still.
    White wing,
            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:
    http://hubpages.com/hub/Rose-Petals.

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37. 59

    LYCEJ08posted 15 years ago

    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..

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38. 61

    mohitmisraposted 15 years ago

    STRANGE
    
    
    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

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39. 89

    Paragliderposted 15 years ago

    Empty Roads
    
    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.

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40. 0

    sandra rinckposted 15 years ago

    My bestfriend by Sandra Rinck
    
    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7SecmTKbhCI

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41. 63

    Mishaposted 15 years ago

    Oh, that one I like. I come there periodically
    
    Still, you could make better recording, this one does not do you justice.

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42. 38

    Aramis Ammonraposted 15 years ago

    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.

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43. 0

    sandra rinckposted 15 years ago

    well this one isn't new anymore but...
    
    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JEMcjZuJT0M
    
    It's called Face.

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44. 0

    Poppa Bluesposted 15 years ago

    Dreams!
    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

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    1. 0

       Anitha1978posted 15 years agoin reply to this

       Thats so beautiful Poppa Blues Warms the heart just reading it.Thanks for sharing

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       1. 0

          Poppa Bluesposted 15 years agoin reply to this

          Well thank you pretty lady for the lovely compliment!

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45. 76

    apowellwestposted 15 years ago

    I  Wonder
    
    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

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46. 0

    Poppa Bluesposted 15 years ago

    Rain
    
    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!

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47. 56

    Shalini Kagalposted 15 years ago

    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

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       Paragliderposted 15 years agoin reply to this

       Shalini -
       Very nice to see an accomplished sonneteer here. Well done

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48. 56

    Shalini Kagalposted 15 years ago

    Thank you, Paraglider!

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49. 61

    JYOTI KOTHARIposted 15 years ago

    Now 'online' is a theme of poetry. Thumbs up.

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       thranaxposted 15 years agoin reply to this

       Online has been a theme of poetry since the internet was created =o
       
       ~thranax~

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50. 56

    Shalini Kagalposted 15 years ago

    So it has, Thranax
    Tibby - that was great stuff - thanks!

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