I am a lurking flower in silver moonlight
I am an eolian harp in the highlands
I am a nightingale dancing in a garden
I am the shock of cold water in the shower
I am your lover's first kiss
I am the rush in your stomach on the high dive
I am deep sleep
I am the warm fur on a sunbathing cat
I am.
Gender is a stupid thing
What does is accomplish?
Segregation?
Inequality?
Maybe I am biased liking any sex
Even with orientation
Shouldn't we judge on the spot?
Hicks.
Were I half the beautiful soul
outward as in
could I be loved?
Love does not find
affinity in kindred spirits
such is the poet's plight
that those so open to love,
to true love and devotion
-that which nymphs envy
and Blodeuwedd sings of-
are so ill-recieved by those
who true love would give
Such beautiful people
are those who save
their critics the time
t'would take to destroy
their foundations
by eating themselves alive
aye, noble, yet love
is sparse for the pre-rotted
monument to human frailty
Have I drunk sedative?
My chest beats ragged
as my lungs strain to rise
pressing on my stomach
with intense stress
such is the herald
of impending stillness
some ethereal claw
grasps my breath
bids it to grow stale
whispers in my ear
"never"
Vision wavers
and I fall into dream
the world falls from me
I am left with the word
sink into heady mist
a corpse lay on my chest
unresponsive
she is the shell of memory
fancies of nonexistant days
and dreams of laughing
There is a celibate shaman
blindfolded, kneeling
on a stone in the river
he knows not the hour
but that which shall not come
the wind sings sonnets to him
sweetly chilled veins of air
his soft lips crack
in the november frost
slightly parted, waiting
for the kiss of solitude
The hallowed act of loving
with all of one's heart
is herculean, he leaves
the mortal world and hangs
on a silver thread
so easily cut
A poet's love, with
no other channel, is
reserved for poetry
a coy lover ever ready
to disappoint, heartbreak
the devotee with dark
days of a hanged muse
a stormy mirror of the heart
it contorts the poet's love
into savage unknowable
relics of a dead soul
What are these poems
but gaudy and pretentious
trinkets from a mind
too in love with its
own sorrow?
at least they coe
as easily as leaves
to a tree, if not
as sacred
These days
the sun sets too quickly
his pink afterglow
like fireworks
a memory
that may not have ever existed
There was a lot more that I wanted to say about the moment that inspired this, but everything else I tried to add afterward felt tacked-on and artificial. This was a complete thought itself and it needed no ornament.
I didn't have time to read all your poetry, but I've found that by reading commenting and giving a we push people will return the favor. I just started more or less troling the internets for potential role play options, and I recall that when i was young I had a thing for it, and now that I'm older I still got it. lol I haven't yet posted any of my art/poetry/paint/drawings/clay/watercolor/photoshop/and more I might even open up a debate thread with some of my old papers from high school, I'm only a year and change out but still, I got passions yes I do, I got passion how bout you, and I'm currently running on no sleep so I apologize if this is a bit crazed. So I digress. I enjoy the first two peoms in your thread, I have to say I have a thing for rhymes as you'll see once I get all my stuff up. I'd thank you to never mind the lack of art due to my current internet problem, I've got dial up, and well it doesn't agree with my sometimes impatient ways, and large images to be uploaded, so in mayhaps and hour I'll hopefully have uploaded all, or a small drop more accurately of my many works. I hope to finish reading all your poems and once mine are up I'd love to play tag the poet with you. simple put we read, and comment, because I want people to smile, and in return I'd like nothing more then to know that my works are likewise appreciated, keep up the writing, and I'll do the same, if in many a form. (I'm new back on the seen of forums, and since you are a moderator, I ask would it be exceptable to post a link to my art? It's under The Fox, Unleashed. will add link if given the go ahead until then toodle pip) I do really like fleeting it's remenisent of my old poetry, now a days I care about the planet, and haven't got a poem really to express it, part of a song, but that's it' Soon to come it will be as a bove so below, let the world begin to flow.... Not bad for no sleep an a thought lol.
For Kimberly Rivera
There's something wrong with the world we live in
when standing up for what's right means you have to take haven
from governments who want to push their wars on free thinking
profit margins go up but the morality is sinking
they mark our day of peace jailing those who won't kill
resister, stay strong until the bigots get their fill
keeping up their unnatural oppression will be tough
the seeds of thought are growing, their chains won't be enough
This is about the decent deportation and arrest of Kimberly Rivera, a war resister. I personally know a war resister in Vancouver. He writes poems all the time about his struggle and he has really inspired me.
The world is full of people, and I wish to believe that people do care. It's hard to see that, because when people have really great intentions unless they actually stop and compare what they are, to what they wanted to be. It's so easy to get carried away with, well power, and money, and your individual life's, and it's easy to be harsh with these people because we can see the bad things that are happening, and it appears that they aren't changing. Sometimes you just need to ask them what drives them, and see if they really want to help others. Humans are as I see it a two sided coin. Each and everyone of us has the capacity for both Great good, and horrid evil. In some cases, it's just a coin toss, to see what happens. When people care, well it's easy to forget that the world isn't just yours....To that end Best of luck, to any and all War resisters. It is as I see it, a pointless waste of life's, wars, not resisting, but I can't change that, not on my own that is.
I quite enjoyed your poems, there good, and in many ways are powerful. You care about what you write, and that's both dangerous, and good. Keep up the writing, I'll be reading.
I'm a mute
on the things that really matter
your voice rings
so you're shouting even when you've stopped
my throat trembles
and I cannot form the verbal key
to escape
His chest pulsated
frigid wind wrapped around his skin
warm to his eyes
blue shining orbs of ice
I was frozen
in their rough embrace
time was hypothermic
His chest pulsated
his soul was burning
breathing hot steam
fingers twitching
the memory of a thousand people
was a brand on his spirit
and in the way he moved
I could not help but notice
the contempt of the world
melting away
Don't really remember what this was about. I suspect that male sexuality was involved. Eheheheh.
Although my poetry sucks, it's more fun than typical prose.
No Fun Allowed
Fun, prose, there should be no distinction
poesy is the deciphering of the waters of life
as they flow past rock, tree, hill,
at every obstacle it splashes
and moves on
in celebration
Celebrate, have fun, be free
revel in your life and in your poetical discourse;
old men in suits: the proper 'academia'
would leech the life from art
literary vampires
sustaining intellectual dictatorship
I read that line and I instantly had something to write about
Culturalheathen is the dysphoria I feel
when I barely tread water
trying to understand the social environment
that I was supposedly born in
it is clear to me, in my own way
I am truly a heathen in my home
settled land as it is (nobody admits it)
It is so alien to me, the greed
everyone cares about money, not the land
who could give a damn about TV drama
when the horizon is grey
and the air is warm with toxin
green in your pocket more precious
than the green on the trees, the ground
the land sustains, not the superstore
How do you even reproduce
when everything is based on hate
cutthroat exploitation for your own
and lawful suppression or a bullet
for those not of your own
I can only hope there are others
my lost kinsmen, my fellow nation
of those who respect the land
who respect the other, and the Other
who fight for the real issues
and celebrate with the real friends
i look in the mirror sometimes
i play out a conversation
and my mouth turns into a branch
i breathe wind and the leaves flutter
fortunately i understand tree
but iI have to translate it
into a strained form of english
which i then write
and it turns into poetry
i understand tree
and i speak tree
but i can't write tree
if i did i wouldnt have poems
i would have pictures
of trees and wind and grass
and everything i say
would be so much clearer
I learned early on that the world
is not black and white -early
as some never learn at all-
but there is grey, deep,
dark grey, too much of it
it lingers everywhere that
hosts metal and footprints
There is no warmth in grey
there are pockets of warm
bright grey, and green,
and though the balance
is seemingly impossible
a little colour can outweigh
all the mostly-bad
I want to step out
night air chilling skin
wet wood slats freeze my bare feet
the house was so ordered
and the world is roiling
winds obey no master
tossing my hair, possessed
I open my eyes
and my vision closes
carried by zephyrs skyward
gliding past trees, dark giants
leaping over frost fields
skimming the near-still waters
rising to unconquered domains
the goddamn lamp strains my eyes
all the ****ing electricity in the dark
lighting the houses and dimming the stars
It was a good night, but it had the potential to be greater
Row row row your boat gently down the stream
of air twixt buildings of dead wood and stone
neath the howling planes above angry cars
through the morbid singing of chained children
below it all a giant is groaning
waiting to shed his shell of roads and filth
held by an uneasy meditation
of unknowing unwilling half-humans
I was waiting in a parking lot just outside a hospital waiting to see yet another specialist. I didn't feel like I would get any answers (turned out to be mostly true) but that wasn't really what this poem was about. I just sat there and felt the landscape around me. Also it was written on a cell phone.
There was a bleak-looking daycare on the other side of the parking lot, and one of the workers kept on singing "Row, row, row your boat" without continuing to the rest of the song. It was discomforting...
a life where the self comes second
isn't much of an individual
where is the individual in one who lives through others
how does one value human life
if they do not value their own
is that not hypocritical
is an introvert who lives through others
not a twisted existence
what a strange thing
and you can not un ring the bell
and go back to not caring
and living a comfortable
actual life
Painter
Artist
Poet
Bard
Anarchist
Lover
Activist
Student
Elder
These terms are all gender-neutral
This is a great justice
is like Burroughs
when junk is leaving the body
my cells are thirsty
for adrenaline (morphine?)
The constant nattering and prying
washes against the breakwater
my skull
concussion thinders
and my brain swoons
and swells
Sickly veins
scratching
scratch my wrists
they can never find my veins
too bad hospitals aren't as depressing
I am an eolian harp in the highlands
I am a nightingale dancing in a garden
I am the shock of cold water in the shower
I am your lover's first kiss
I am the rush in your stomach on the high dive
I am deep sleep
I am the warm fur on a sunbathing cat
I am.
nor security
nor stability
nor structure
nor shelter
Life is for living
life is for learning
life is for loving
life is for laughter
Play: music, sex, games, poetry
Skull comes from sky
keep your mind open
be the raven, cyclical observer
Dance like a fallen leaf
on the autumn breezes
over cleansing streams
and campfires
and sleeping deer
and sweet gardens
and vine-choked ruins
Commune:
brothers and sisters by day
divinity by night
speak in song
write in poesy
Drink nordic brews
smoke prophetic herbs
meditate
procreate
let go
stress is just made up
Debate to learn
then give them a hug
laugh with the beggars
then think on it
undermine the government
then pay your taxes
What does is accomplish?
Segregation?
Inequality?
Maybe I am biased liking any sex
Even with orientation
Shouldn't we judge on the spot?
Hicks.
I want to learn in a grove
not an institution
I want to learn from a druid
not from a prisoner
What does one do
when the world spins
in a manic spiral
people yelling
people pulling
people pushing
undermined what I
try to do
damn it
time to start
over
again
have 'art' in it?
outward as in
could I be loved?
Love does not find
affinity in kindred spirits
such is the poet's plight
that those so open to love,
to true love and devotion
-that which nymphs envy
and Blodeuwedd sings of-
are so ill-recieved by those
who true love would give
Such beautiful people
are those who save
their critics the time
t'would take to destroy
their foundations
by eating themselves alive
aye, noble, yet love
is sparse for the pre-rotted
monument to human frailty
Have I drunk sedative?
My chest beats ragged
as my lungs strain to rise
pressing on my stomach
with intense stress
such is the herald
of impending stillness
some ethereal claw
grasps my breath
bids it to grow stale
whispers in my ear
"never"
Vision wavers
and I fall into dream
the world falls from me
I am left with the word
sink into heady mist
a corpse lay on my chest
unresponsive
she is the shell of memory
fancies of nonexistant days
and dreams of laughing
There is a celibate shaman
blindfolded, kneeling
on a stone in the river
he knows not the hour
but that which shall not come
the wind sings sonnets to him
sweetly chilled veins of air
his soft lips crack
in the november frost
slightly parted, waiting
for the kiss of solitude
The hallowed act of loving
with all of one's heart
is herculean, he leaves
the mortal world and hangs
on a silver thread
so easily cut
A poet's love, with
no other channel, is
reserved for poetry
a coy lover ever ready
to disappoint, heartbreak
the devotee with dark
days of a hanged muse
a stormy mirror of the heart
it contorts the poet's love
into savage unknowable
relics of a dead soul
What are these poems
but gaudy and pretentious
trinkets from a mind
too in love with its
own sorrow?
at least they coe
as easily as leaves
to a tree, if not
as sacred
There was a lot more that I wanted to say about the moment that inspired this, but everything else I tried to add afterward felt tacked-on and artificial. This was a complete thought itself and it needed no ornament.
My art, which i'll add slowly as I can, and such. http://forums.mtgsalvation.com/showthread.php?t=448905
There's something wrong with the world we live in
when standing up for what's right means you have to take haven
from governments who want to push their wars on free thinking
profit margins go up but the morality is sinking
they mark our day of peace jailing those who won't kill
resister, stay strong until the bigots get their fill
keeping up their unnatural oppression will be tough
the seeds of thought are growing, their chains won't be enough
This is about the decent deportation and arrest of Kimberly Rivera, a war resister. I personally know a war resister in Vancouver. He writes poems all the time about his struggle and he has really inspired me.
I quite enjoyed your poems, there good, and in many ways are powerful. You care about what you write, and that's both dangerous, and good. Keep up the writing, I'll be reading.
My art, which i'll add slowly as I can, and such. http://forums.mtgsalvation.com/showthread.php?t=448905
I don't like fighting
Don't really remember what this was about. I suspect that male sexuality was involved. Eheheheh.
I read that line and I instantly had something to write about
when I barely tread water
trying to understand the social environment
that I was supposedly born in
it is clear to me, in my own way
I am truly a heathen in my home
settled land as it is (nobody admits it)
It is so alien to me, the greed
everyone cares about money, not the land
who could give a damn about TV drama
when the horizon is grey
and the air is warm with toxin
green in your pocket more precious
than the green on the trees, the ground
the land sustains, not the superstore
How do you even reproduce
when everything is based on hate
cutthroat exploitation for your own
and lawful suppression or a bullet
for those not of your own
I can only hope there are others
my lost kinsmen, my fellow nation
of those who respect the land
who respect the other, and the Other
who fight for the real issues
and celebrate with the real friends
i play out a conversation
and my mouth turns into a branch
i breathe wind and the leaves flutter
fortunately i understand tree
but iI have to translate it
into a strained form of english
which i then write
and it turns into poetry
i understand tree
and i speak tree
but i can't write tree
if i did i wouldnt have poems
i would have pictures
of trees and wind and grass
and everything i say
would be so much clearer
is not black and white -early
as some never learn at all-
but there is grey, deep,
dark grey, too much of it
it lingers everywhere that
hosts metal and footprints
There is no warmth in grey
there are pockets of warm
bright grey, and green,
and though the balance
is seemingly impossible
a little colour can outweigh
all the mostly-bad
It was a good night, but it had the potential to be greater
I was waiting in a parking lot just outside a hospital waiting to see yet another specialist. I didn't feel like I would get any answers (turned out to be mostly true) but that wasn't really what this poem was about. I just sat there and felt the landscape around me. Also it was written on a cell phone.
There was a bleak-looking daycare on the other side of the parking lot, and one of the workers kept on singing "Row, row, row your boat" without continuing to the rest of the song. It was discomforting...
I was reading the latest Geez, on feminism.
The speaker is a Dunmer, in 3E426.
I probably enjoy line breaks too much, but it serves a function here.