Here is the main thread for sharing and discussing your own poetry!
Alright then, guess I'll get the ball rolling^^
you know how to do it:
put it to your ear
and listen to the waves crashing silently
or the winter wind blowing behind heavy curtains.
Just think of the first time you discovered this,
think of that day,
Or the first time you put your head between two mirrors
and infinitude danced before your eyes
How well did you sleep that night?
Sleepless nights, full of memories and revelations,
which have nothing to do with anxiety,
boys and girls, you had them all.
You grew up.
How many such nights did you have lately?
and do you really think
you have had all the possible sea-shells?...
I am the star that shines in the morning,
I am knowledge, I am mourning.
I am that which Kings and Popes despise.
My words, pure truths, what your leaders call lies.
I am your loins, on fire they yearn.
I am your lust, like a flame I burn.
I am your God, if free you be.
Yet I am not worshiped, unless you become me.
I adore thee in thy joy; I adore thee in thy pain.
I, I adore thee, my beloved flames.
Aum Ha
Nice one Acbhb, did you post at 06/06:06 on purpose? If yes how stressed out were you :p
I saw a flute made of glass.
The sun broke around it and painted it
the different colors of the day:
The man who made it said it was a special flute
There was none like it in the world
It produced its own sounds
and a music was composed to it
which didn't sound right on any other instrument.
The man who made and played it didn't look haunted.
I remember Paganini making a bonfire of his many violin concertos,
(These were manuscripts. No one ever saw them but the composer.)
watching the flames pick up so many notes
and throw them, ash and cinder, up the nineteenth-century silent night.
He might have hummed some of the burning tunes.
That music will never appear on CD.
When the glass flute is gone, I thought,
only its imprint will be left.
The man finished playing and we clapped our hands.
If I had asked him, perhaps he would have said:
I live here and now. You heard me tonight.
That's enough.
The sun broke on the ashes of the bonfire,
and on paganini, looking feverishly on,
Painting him the different colors of the night.
I don't know what you're talking about...
Hfu the magick worm beast,
dug blissfully the ground
It ate it's way through funeral chests,
to find what would be found
Hfu the magick worm beast ate the
bodies it had found, and grew quite
fat and large you see, at least three worm beasts round
Hfu the magick worm beast is a god to be revered
Upon the mighty world of rot, it's minion have appeared
The children of decay in coffins free to play
A happy god is Hfu, this and every day
Hfu the magick worm beast sees all yet has no eyes
It slithers through man's dreams on white belly lies
Hfu waits for us in silence, it's food is when things die
For Hfu the magick worm beast, death is "Ham on Rye"
Hfu the magick worm beast is such a joyous god
To keep it so, don't burn your foe,
but place them in the sod
Hfu O mighty worm beast, you are man's destiny
For when I'm fat and ripe for pluck,
you shall devour me
The End
As I mentioned in the INTRODUCTIONS I haven't been much of a writer since settling down, but here's some of my old favourites.
Look at the yearbook,
All wrinkled so,
After 20 years,
You want to know.
Some people are short,
And some are tall,
But you will always,
Remember them all.
It was fun remembering,
After years and years,
Back away it goes,
I felt the tears.
Aww that's sad Richard...
short and lanky and lonely
she wears poppy eyes
like spotlights
on a doe
and she tip-toes
quietly
dressed like raggedy
ann.. she smiles small
alone
blown
by fits and swings
as the crowd closes in
wrapping the solid sweet
knit cap around her visage...
she doesn't move
like they do doesn't grove
to the craziness
but rather brazens this
and the music
with her small
still stature.
I can be cheerful.. and your poem's pretty sad too!
April, sunshine, grass leaves
Buds, blossoms, butter flies, bees
Playgrounds, children, squirrels, short sleeves
Sneezes, sniffles, allergies.
PREPARE!
When the sun is blackened,
the army will come again.
Fueled by the hate of man;
and driven by the hunger of the beast,
They will not be stopped.
Cannot be stopped.
For it is too late when Sol turns dark.
The Lord of Night's rule has begun,
and a thousand years shall he reign.
The hordes shall feed on man,
and he shall be the slave,
no one left to save.
Seeds of hate sown long ago,
The price must be paid;
paid for all our foolish wars,
and the raping of our lands.
Soon He will rule us all.
Too late to cry out for mercy;
He shall show none
for thats his way.
Death will be for the lucky,
the rest will suffer eternal damnation.
Damnation for their sins.
yo gandalf... well anyways, here's some of my poetry as promised
Don't run,
but don't walk
don't flinch
but don't stare
Hatred is a new family value
because this generation forgot to care
send your children to the street
with no food to eat and no love to hunger for
Hatred is served on silver and deep fried.
So don't respect it
and don't let it
sweep into the hearts of your children,
because before too long this epidemic
will switch right and wrong.
Keep posting.
A Wiccan walked up to me
and said "Your aura shines
a menacing red You should
curb your anger befriend your foes
Worship Fairies and Goddesses,
not Devils and Trolls"
I replied with a grin,
as I wiped his blood from my chin
"Then bless me and love me,
by your law, amen"
The End
wrote this on the bus a few days ago
Look into my eyes
and find that I am still the same
no matter what skins I wear.
if my head is shaved
or my armpits aren't
don't I speak with my heart
and listen with my soul