Poets' Corner (Serious Poems)
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07-02-2013, 08:13 PM (This post was last modified: 07-02-2013 08:37 PM by GirlyMan.)
RE: Poets' Corner
(06-02-2013 01:04 PM)Zat Wrote:  Thank you, GirlyMan.

A discussion with Luminon about 'hope' and 'winning' inspired the following poem.

The path

Death is a distant horizon
when you embark on your quest,
when you want to test your strength,
conquer some peaks...
...the blue ocean, the lava-spewing crater
speak to you with promise of adventure,
you want to venture to the depth of secret caves,
swim with the sharks,
ride an elephant in the jungle,
or, maybe,
read your nobel-prized poem at a recitation
or, at least, discover the laws of gravitation.

You see pain, suffering, injustice among men,
you want to show them how to fix the world,
organize their lives, reduce the waste,
stop the destruction --
never realizing: in your innocent hope
you are not even a distraction
to the powers that be --
you are just an insignificant,
slightly annoying bee in their bonnet...
...but you don't see it yet.

Then you get older,
'wiser' you like to say,
not wanting to admit: you are tired
to the bone of more and more of the same.
You suspect the species is not quite sane
and you should quit before you are fired
before you bore them beyond endurance
you should bury your head deep in the sand
before you reach your death
at the ultimate end.

I really like the more free form style of the first two stanzas followed by the more traditional style of the third. It's very avant-garde. You should do poetry slams. Or at least taped readings which will go viral on youtube.

I'm very very happy you are back old man if only as the forum's presiding poet. ... Warms me cockles ... Big Grin

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08-02-2013, 05:51 PM (This post was last modified: 08-02-2013 06:05 PM by Zat.)
RE: Poets' Corner
Thank you, GirlyMan, I just recently started experimenting with this style -- leaving the rhymes to the last stanza, to emphasize the point of the poem. In the olden days I used "hidden rhymes" scattered all over the poem, and I still do to some extant.

Poetry is a lot of fun, with unlimited opportunities for creativity.

Sometimes it is completely un-premeditated, as it was in the following one. I don't even remember writing it.

Mother

Even in death,
her hair smelled freshly-washed sweet
when I kissed it, for the last time.
The crumpled-up-little-face
of that bottomless night
relaxed into peaceful, innocent sleep,
and I almost made a mental note
to have coffee ready when she woke up.

Yes, I know, she won't wake up any more
to a day of unpretentious joy:
animals, plants,
clean, tidy, pretty things in her world
and in other people's minds,
in other people's hearts.

She owned the sunset
painting her window wild and subtle,
showed it off with pride,
sharing with us so many times.
She was delicate,
I teased her with the “pea and the princess”
and she accepted my tribute,
sipping cold coffee from slim china cup.

She was a peace maker,
smoother of ruffled feathers,
generous, forgiving, quick to love,
troubled by anger, resentment,
anyone’s pain of any kind.
In others she accepted weakness,
forgave mistakes,
encouraged with soft words,
sunburst-radiant smile.

She was my Mother in every true sense but one,
and the two of them would have liked each other:
two imps, butterfly spirits,
little kobolds dancing, singing, laughing
through hardships and happier times,
making good natured fun of everything,
never able to resist a punch-line.

Before she died I asked how one could bottle all this,
how one could preserve love, humour, sweetness
beyond the grave,
and I sadly realized:
these are things you can take with you,
leaving vast, empty holes behind
in aching hearts,
in longing minds.

I wish I could hug her one more time,
peck a small kiss on her white hair under my chin,
tell her how much magic, humour,
all embracing goodness she had brought into my life
when she asked, shyly, on the day I married her daughter:
“Have I gained a son?”
and tell her how deeply, gratefully
one can love a second chance.
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09-02-2013, 05:02 PM
RE: Poets' Corner
(08-02-2013 05:51 PM)Zat Wrote:  Thank you, GirlyMan, I just recently started experimenting with this style -- leaving the rhymes to the last stanza, to emphasize the point of the poem. In the olden days I used "hidden rhymes" scattered all over the poem, and I still do to some extant.

Poetry is a lot of fun, with unlimited opportunities for creativity.

Sometimes it is completely un-premeditated, as it was in the following one. I don't even remember writing it.

Mother

Even in death,
her hair smelled freshly-washed sweet
when I kissed it, for the last time.
The crumpled-up-little-face
of that bottomless night
relaxed into peaceful, innocent sleep,
and I almost made a mental note
to have coffee ready when she woke up.

Yes, I know, she won't wake up any more
to a day of unpretentious joy:
animals, plants,
clean, tidy, pretty things in her world
and in other people's minds,
in other people's hearts.

She owned the sunset
painting her window wild and subtle,
showed it off with pride,
sharing with us so many times.
She was delicate,
I teased her with the “pea and the princess”
and she accepted my tribute,
sipping cold coffee from slim china cup.

She was a peace maker,
smoother of ruffled feathers,
generous, forgiving, quick to love,
troubled by anger, resentment,
anyone’s pain of any kind.
In others she accepted weakness,
forgave mistakes,
encouraged with soft words,
sunburst-radiant smile.

She was my Mother in every true sense but one,
and the two of them would have liked each other:
two imps, butterfly spirits,
little kobolds dancing, singing, laughing
through hardships and happier times,
making good natured fun of everything,
never able to resist a punch-line.

Before she died I asked how one could bottle all this,
how one could preserve love, humour, sweetness
beyond the grave,
and I sadly realized:
these are things you can take with you,
leaving vast, empty holes behind
in aching hearts,
in longing minds.

I wish I could hug her one more time,
peck a small kiss on her white hair under my chin,
tell her how much magic, humour,
all embracing goodness she had brought into my life
when she asked, shyly, on the day I married her daughter:
“Have I gained a son?”
and tell her how deeply, gratefully
one can love a second chance.
I've read that one before, Alfie.You published it once and then replaced it with another, Predation maybe. ... It's very good. Thumbsup

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14-02-2013, 07:40 PM (This post was last modified: 17-02-2013 01:49 PM by Zat.)
RE: Poets' Corner
Perspective

When you are torn
between your desire
to communicate
and the fear of being
misunderstood,
you have to accept the fact
that no two people will see the rest
of the world
the way you do.

For some to see what's so clear in your mind,
you have to put away your pride
and wait for the understanding
of a few who already grasped
the essence of our shared, precious life.

Those quiet moments
when you touch soul to soul,
mind to mind,
sharing a sparkling truth
we all want to have --
makes it worth hoping for,
waiting for,
putting up for,
with the rest.
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17-02-2013, 07:19 AM (This post was last modified: 19-02-2013 07:04 PM by Zat.)
RE: Poets' Corner
......
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17-02-2013, 01:27 PM
RE: Poets' Corner
Needful Things


Rainforest’s being cut down?
I don’t wanna know.
I have a very busy life on the go -
need my burger, my gun and my wheels,
And my supersize mug full of jo.

Another school’s decimated?
The bleeding-heart on the news, he
Won’t in a thousand years disabuse me
of meat-eating, driving, caffeine
and my gorgeous, faithful, beloved Uzi

Tell me peons are starving?
Hell – let ‘em eat cake!
The things from me you will never take
are my gun, my coffee, my muscle-car
and my fat-streaked, undercooked steak.

Say the climate is changing?
Temperature’s up one degree!
Why should that even bother me?
Long as I have coffee, meat, a gun
And my four-wheel-drive SUV.

It's not the mean god I have trouble with - it's the people who worship a mean god.
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17-02-2013, 06:52 PM (This post was last modified: 19-02-2013 07:03 PM by Zat.)
RE: Poets' Corner
...
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17-02-2013, 09:34 PM
RE: Poets' Corner
Lets Hope The Cycle Breaks
-by-
Wig Didely

Waiting waiting
ever waiting
doctors debating
patience wavering

Symptoms changing
boredom overtaking
turning aggravating
nervousness gaining

Chatter abating
chests deflating
family relating
nervousness remaining

Information intaking
understanding faking
instruction undertaking
recovery making

[Image: 3d366d5c-72a0-4228-b835-f404c2970188_zps...1381867723]
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18-02-2013, 08:33 AM
RE: Poets' Corner
No atheists in foxholes

Heavenly Father,
for what we are about to receive

0821 Chest-wound, pneumothorax; stabilized, transferred 0850.
0845 Adv. amoebic dysentery IV saline, glucose; released 1100.
0910 Shattered pelvis; multiple perforations of large intestine; TOD 0947
1012 3rd. deg burns 70% dors. surf. lavage, dressed, transferred 1147
1050 DOA GSW Rt temp, close range; poss. self-inflicted
1128 STD, culture pending, released with meds, cautioned.
1133 chronic pain; asking fr. Demarol; dismissed.
1200 sgn out for lunch

make us truly thankful.
Amen.

It's not the mean god I have trouble with - it's the people who worship a mean god.
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19-02-2013, 09:22 PM (This post was last modified: 19-02-2013 09:26 PM by GirlyMan.)
RE: Poets' Corner
(18-02-2013 08:33 AM)Peterkin Wrote:  No atheists in foxholes

Heavenly Father,
for what we are about to receive

0821 Chest-wound, pneumothorax; stabilized, transferred 0850.
0845 Adv. amoebic dysentery IV saline, glucose; released 1100.
0910 Shattered pelvis; multiple perforations of large intestine; TOD 0947
1012 3rd. deg burns 70% dors. surf. lavage, dressed, transferred 1147
1050 DOA GSW Rt temp, close range; poss. self-inflicted
1128 STD, culture pending, released with meds, cautioned.
1133 chronic pain; asking fr. Demarol; dismissed.
1200 sgn out for lunch

make us truly thankful.
Amen.

That's just fucking brilliant Peterkin. If I was any damn good at poetry, I'd take your idea and run with it accompanying the time codes with the fucking medical diagnostic codes. ... But I'm not, so one of you other fuckers can run with it.

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