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Post by Phalon on Feb 8, 2006 0:15:09 GMT -6
I was just talking with someone about this; I find it interesting the different way people prefer to write. I never write anything long-hand; I much prefer the computer instead and rarely take the time for re-writes.
That is not quite what I meant when I said I should not have been at the keyboard today. The poem was bad; I know it, and it was meant to be. They all are; the Cheez-its poems started as a joke, and scattered here and there across the board, have continued to be so: Bad poetry for the sake of bad poetry. I don't write poetry.
But Cheez-its No. 22, (I just titled it - eye roll), was particulary bad. Not just bad poetry, but bad poetry written in a foul mood; I was letting the day get the better of me. And I hate that.
Good thing though, was when I scrolled down past the thing I'd written to get to kt's, I re-read mine and thought, 'Damn, Phalon - get over it.' And I did. Yay.
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Post by Joxcenia on Feb 8, 2006 0:19:40 GMT -6
Thought the above might could go here...
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Post by gwenyver on Feb 8, 2006 22:07:47 GMT -6
Yo-Yo
A spinning ball of energy Kept firmly attached to a string
Energy and string in perfect tandem Each tools in a game
Cradled in your hand Brief intervals of happiness
Before boredom sends it away Flung carelessly from that place
Spinning endlessly Frustration building
Until suddenly pulled back With an apology and a sigh
Someday the string will break And I will be free
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Post by Phalon on Feb 9, 2006 11:59:47 GMT -6
Such talented poets in here; such moving poems. Let's see how I can break the flow.
More upbeat than the last: no starfish chopping off arms this time.
Cheez-It No. 17, Revised
Snow. It blows, When there is none.
Just as well. It's hell Not to ski
No sticks or wheels, She feels Like a slug.
But slugs are neat. They have no feet To ski on.
They have no arms, But still have charms That are appealing.
No skis or poles; They are squishy Like Goldfishy In fishbowls.
Not like Cheez-Its Which are crunchy.
So here I sit. Not skiing, But crunching, crunching.
And still being annoying.
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Post by Scrappy Amazon on Feb 20, 2006 21:05:12 GMT -6
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Post by Phalon on Feb 22, 2006 0:21:52 GMT -6
Thanks, Scrappy. I just love that poem - the implications of it. And the young girl's reciting it adds to the haunting feel.
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Post by Scrappy Amazon on Feb 22, 2006 8:34:56 GMT -6
Ever at your service Ma'am....
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Post by Scrappy Amazon on Feb 24, 2006 21:34:46 GMT -6
Anyone else an Uncle Willy fan?
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Post by Phalon on Feb 26, 2006 11:37:12 GMT -6
Hhhmmm...not particularly a fan, but not a non-fan either. I like the stories, but honestly don't know much of the poetry in which they are written.
Post some.
I'll wait as I waited for Beowulf. (eye roll)
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Post by Scrappy Amazon on Feb 26, 2006 14:02:37 GMT -6
Oh crap....I forgot about that...I'll get right on another chunk Ma'am....but do I get some more mything P?
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Post by Scrappy Amazon on Feb 27, 2006 0:48:03 GMT -6
Here you go Phalonesque.....One of my favorite from Uncle Willy SONNET 149 Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not, When I against myself with thee partake? Do I not think on thee, when I forgot Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake? Who hateth thee that I do call my friend? On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon? Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend Revenge upon myself with present moan? What merit do I in myself respect, That is so proud thy service to despise, When all my best doth worship thy defect, Commanded by the motion of thine eyes? But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind; Those that can see thou lovest, and I am blind.
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Post by Phalon on Feb 28, 2006 0:06:27 GMT -6
I like that one, Scrappy. Though all the ists, take just a little away for me. Feel like I'm lisping while reading.
A bit of a change of pace, (but continue on with Shakespeare; I'd love to hear more), this one from Maya Angelou. LX just finished a report on her, and I reread the poem I hadn't heard in ages. Still sends chills down my spine.
"The Pulse of the Morning"
A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since departed, Mark the mastodon. The dinosaur, who left dry tokens Of their sojourn here On our planet floor, Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages. But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, Come, you may stand upon my Back and face your distant destiny, But seek no haven in my shadow. I will give you no hiding place down here. You, created only a little lower than The angels, have crouched too long in The bruising darkness, Have lain too long Face down in ignorance. Your mouths spelling words Armed for slaughter. The rock cries out today, you may stand on me, But do not hide your face. Across the wall of the world, A river sings a beautiful song, Come rest here by my side. Each of you a bordered country, Delicate and strangely made proud, Yet thrusting perpetually under siege. Your armed struggles for profit Have left collars of waste upon My shore, currents of debris upon my breast. Yet, today I call you to my riverside, If you will study war no more. Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs The Creator gave to me when I And the tree and stone were one. Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow And when you yet knew you still knew nothing. The river sings and sings on. There is a true yearning to respond to The singing river and the wise rock. So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew, The African and Native American, the Sioux, The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek, The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh, The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher, The privileged, the homeless, the teacher. They hear. They all hear The speaking of the tree. Today, the first and last of every tree Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river. Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river. Each of you, descendant of some passed on Traveller, has been paid for. You, who gave me my first name, You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, Then forced on bloody feet, Left me to the employment of other seekers-- Desperate for gain, starving for gold. You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot... You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare Praying for a dream. Here, root yourselves beside me. I am the tree planted by the river, Which will not be moved. I, the rock, I the river, I the tree I am yours--your passages have been paid. Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need For this bright morning dawning for you. History, despite its wrenching pain, Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage, Need not be lived again. Lift up your eyes upon The day breaking for you. Give birth again To the dream. Women, children, men, Take it into the palms of your hands. Mold it into the shape of your most Private need. Sculpt it into The image of your most public self. Lift up your hearts. Each new hour holds new chances For new beginnings. Do not be wedded forever To fear, yoked eternally To brutishness. The horizon leans forward, Offering you space to place new steps of change. Here, on the pulse of this fine day You may have the courage To look up and out upon me, The rock, the river, the tree, your country. No less to Midas than the mendicant. No less to you now than the mastodon then. Here on the pulse of this new day You may have the grace to look up and out And into your sister's eyes, Into your brother's face, your country And say simply Very simply With hope Good morning.
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Post by Phalon on Mar 3, 2006 23:47:19 GMT -6
Going through boxes in the basement today, I found this tucked in among some things I'd saved from high school. If the Earth were only a few feet in diameter, floating a few feet above a field somewhere, people would come from everywhere to marvel at it. People would walk around it, marveling at its big pools of water, its little pools and the water flowing between the pools. People would marvel at the bumps on it, and the holes in it, and they would marvel at the very thin layer of gas surrounding it and the water suspended in the gas. The people would marvel at all the creatures walking around the surface of the ball, and at the creatures in the water. The people would declare it precious because it was the only one, and they would protect it so that it would not be hurt. The ball would be the greatest wonder known, and people would come to behold it, to be healed, to gain knowledge, to know beauty and to wonder how it could be. People would love it, and defend it with their lives, because they would somehow know that their lives, their own roundness, could be nothing without it. If the Earth were only a few feet in diameter.
Author unknown.
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Post by Siren on Mar 4, 2006 10:08:55 GMT -6
That was definitely worth keeping, Gams. Beautiful! ~Siren
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Post by Scrappy Amazon on Mar 8, 2006 22:00:07 GMT -6
Oh wow...loved that one.....nice Phalon.
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kt
Whooshite Apprentice
Six is my favourite number...
Posts: 129
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Post by kt on Mar 19, 2006 22:21:48 GMT -6
A Letter to Live by KTBardI dreamt of you again today.
Wind blown midnight and summer sky, Burnished gold with deadly grace, Flawed… so flawed, but all the more beautiful for it
Heh…guess there’s still a Bard in here somewhere huh?
Four years Xena. It’s been four years since that…that sunset on Mount Fuji. Four years since my whole world changed forever. Four years since the shattering of my soul.
Three years…Oh… Three years since I lost my hope. The hope of hearing your heartbeat beneath your breast, Of feeling it beating so strongly in time with mine. Three years since I stood across from the God of War and heard him say there was nothing, nothing that could be done and you were gone…gone. Gone
Six months… Gods… Six months since the winds blew away all my tears. Six months since I told you to go…just go and leave me be! Gods be Damned Xena, you don’t know! You can’t know what its like! Waking up everyday feeling safe, warm, happy, loved… Waking up in your arms and forgetting, just for a second… And then remembering and feeling my soul being ripped away from me again.
One more day… One more day until I ride into Amphipolis, One more day until I finally put your ashes to rest with your family
Gods know I don’t want to…I want to scream and howl out my rage to the winds! I want to rend the earth with the bitterness of my grief! I want to tear the sun from the sky and let the world know the darkness I have lived with everyday since you left. I want the fountain of my tears to have enough strength, so as to make you rise from your ashes like a phoenix!
But I have given enough tears.
You have found your redemption Xena, Its time I looked for mine…
I owe you so much… I owe you my life a thousand times over… So I’m going to try to live it.
I love you Xena…Beyond life, beyond death, beyond reason. Take care of my soul till next we meet, Gabrielle.Some may read this and think...Hmmph...Thats not poetry! Well to me its a bit poetry-ish...a little letter-ish and a whole lot angsty fic! Lemme know whatcha think! Kt xxx
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Post by Phalon on Mar 19, 2006 23:09:45 GMT -6
Oooo, yes, kt. Very poetic; very, very nice. And I love the way it's written in the form of a letter. I think that is a lost art - letter writing - and should be practiced more often.
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kt
Whooshite Apprentice
Six is my favourite number...
Posts: 129
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Post by kt on Mar 20, 2006 0:05:30 GMT -6
;D Thank You Kt xx
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Post by Scrappy Amazon on Mar 20, 2006 0:11:20 GMT -6
Oh wow kt...beautiful.....
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Post by Gabbin on Mar 20, 2006 23:06:13 GMT -6
Hi KT. Are the first three lines part of it? I really liked those lines.
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kt
Whooshite Apprentice
Six is my favourite number...
Posts: 129
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Post by kt on Mar 21, 2006 17:24:17 GMT -6
Thankyou everyone! I love you guys! *sobs* And G-Stick...Do ya mean the 'Wind Blown Midnight and summer sky' bit?...Yeah thats part of it...sorta my Gabrielle describing Xena in her dream. I do quite like that bit myself...decided to use it for my siggy ;D Kt xx
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Post by Gabbin on Mar 21, 2006 22:00:14 GMT -6
Yes, KT. That portion alone is enough. Good job.
Right back at ya.
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Post by Scrappy Amazon on Apr 7, 2006 19:38:24 GMT -6
Where the Sidewalk Ends There is a place where the sidewalk ends And before the street begins, And there the grass grows soft and white, And there the sun burns crimson bright, And there the moon-bird rests from his flight To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black And the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And watch where the chalk-white arrows go To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go, For the children, they mark, and the children, they know The place where the sidewalk ends.
Shel Silverstein
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Post by Siren on Apr 10, 2006 18:27:10 GMT -6
On a bus to St. Cloud, Minnesota I thought I saw you there With the snow falling down around you Like a silent prayer And once on a street in New York City With the jazz and the sin in the air And once on a cold L.A. freeway Going nowhere And it's strange, but it's true I was sure it was you Just a face in the crowd On a bus to St. Cloud
In a church in downtown New Orleans I got down on my knees and prayed And I wept in the arms of Jesus For the choice you made We were just gettin' to the good part Just gettin' past the mystery Oh, and it's just like you, it's just like you To disagree And it's strange but it's true You just slipped out of view Like a face in the crowd On a bus to St. Cloud
And you chase me like a shadow And you haunt me like a ghost And I hate you some, and I love you some But I miss you most...
On a bus to St. Cloud, Minnesota I thought I saw you there With the snow falling down around you Like a silent prayer
"On A Bus To St. Cloud" - sung by Trisha Yearwood, written by Gretchen Peters
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Post by Phalon on Apr 12, 2006 13:25:02 GMT -6
Oooo, Siren; I like that though I've never heard it sung. A little poem that reminds me of this time of year around here... If there comes a little thaw, Still the air is chill and raw, Here and there a patch of snow, Dirtier than the ground below, Dribbles down a marshy flood; Ankle-deep you stick in mud In the meadows while you sing, "This is Spring"
- Christopher Pearce Cranch
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Post by Siren on Apr 14, 2006 21:36:48 GMT -6
Very sweet, Gams. Thanks!
Here's another from songwriter Gretchen Peters. And if you think the lyrics are poignant, you should hear them sung!
When you are old and tired and gray And wear you overcoat on sunny days When your brave tales have all been told I'll ask for them when you are old
When you are old and full of sleep And death no longer makes you weep When your body aches with cold I'll warm your heart when you are old
And you'll still be the same to me A comfort and a mystery And I will be old too you see I'll need someone to comfort me
When you are old and pale and gaunt And a gentle hand is all you want I will give you mine to hold And I'll be here when you are old Yes I will give you mine to hold And I'll be here when you are old
"When You Are Old", recorded by Martina McBride
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Post by Scrappy Amazon on Apr 29, 2006 16:57:44 GMT -6
LOVED that one Siren Thanks!
The Bridge I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church-tower.
I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea.
And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon.
Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away;
As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The seaweed floated wide.
And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me That filled my eyes with tears.
How often, oh, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, oh, how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me.
Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands Of care-encumbered men, Each bearing his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow!
And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes;
The moon and its broken reflection And its shadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Post by Siren on Apr 29, 2006 20:17:50 GMT -6
Oh my, Scrap. What a beautiful, moving poem! We read a lot of Longfellow in college. I can't believe I've never read that before. Wonderful!
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Post by Phalon on Apr 30, 2006 21:55:33 GMT -6
I've never read that one before either. Very beautiful; one I think I'll print and keep.
Here's something I saw in a magazine today, and though not poetry; it was an ad for fishing; I find it actually quite poetic. I like the memories it invokes.
Take me fishing. Because I'm your first mate.
Take me fishing. We'll have a fish face contest, the boys versus the girls.
Take me fishing. And show me why they call it the great outdoors.
Take me fishing. Because I won't be your little girl forever.
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Post by Siren on May 2, 2006 21:48:56 GMT -6
Very nice, Gams. I try to never decline when my nieces invite me to walk to the barn with them, or shoot some hoops. They won't always want me along. That passage you quoted is a reminder to sieze the moment.
Staying on my kick of quoting song lyrics, here's one from songwriter Phil Vassar, made a hit by Tim McGraw:
"My Next Thirty Years"
I think I’ll take a moment, celebrate my age The ending of an era and the turning of a page Now it’s time to focus in on where I go from here Lord have mercy on my next thirty years
Hey my next thirty years I’m gonna have some fun Try to forget about all the crazy things I’ve done Maybe now I’ve conquered all my adolescent fears And I’ll do it better in my next thirty years
My next thirty years I’m gonna settle all the scores Cry a little less, laugh a little more Find a world of happiness without the hate and fear Figure out just what I’m doing here In my next thirty years
Oh my next thirty years, I’m gonna watch my weight Eat a few more salads and not stay up so late Drink a little lemonade and not so many beers Maybe I’ll remember my next thirty years
My next thirty years will be the best years of my life Raise a little family and hang out with my wife Spend precious moments with the ones that I hold dear Make up for lost time here, in my next thirty years In my next thirty years
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