Sanskrit poet's game

[blp]

Just been reading an essay by Ron Padgett (http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16099) in which he talks about a Sanskrit poet's game in which poets supply each other with last lines rather than first lines. So, if the line provided was 'you are not green stink', the next person might write a poem that read

you are yellow smell
you are not pink fragrance
you are blue odour
you are not green stink

The object is to provide a last line that's as difficult as possible to get to.

So - each player here responds to the previous player's suggested last line with a new poem, then suggests a new last line for the next player.
Let's see if anyone's game. Here's a last line:

I saw then that architecture was not telephony

[dejosc]

I travelled a thousand lands, for years i walked
and saw many buildings and Landscapes
many phonelines i also saw lain across these lands
I saw then that architecure was not telephony.

hmm tis very lame but i felt like having a go, heres my line:

The wastepaper basket soon looked up.

[Satirical]

Careless I mutter on paper those lines
Unsatisfied with growing tension and ink
All and all into the garbage with sighs,
The wastepaper basket soon looked up

Try this one:

The graven flame was indistinguishable to a camel

[blp]

In the desert, where some little flames were nothing special
One very small one held a sacred position at the temple
And truly tiny, burning faintly at the end of a candle,
The graven flame was indistinguishable to a camel

OK, here's another

The worms were becoming cardigans

[Satirical]

James Brudenell did lead a troop
Whose calvary in Crimean lands
Eponymed those writhing soldiers group and,
The worms were becoming cardigan's

I couldn't resist making it possesive so don't even count this.

But if you do try this:

Leading Sanskrit's dialectic Ama-gi

[blp]

Cheat! Oh wait. I see you're carrying your...poetic license. That's fine then.

I must express my suspicion, however, that the word you meant in your line is 'dialect' (a regional variant on a language) rather than dialectic (a form of argument). Am I right?

[Satirical]

Nope, I meant what is there, good luck! ( We are supposed to make it difficult right?)

[blp]

Aargh......

[blp]

This argument can be described
as a Japanese town
one in which the simple geometries
of the old wood houses
open to the outside with
nary a discernible division
but in their fragility
and inherent insubstantiality
that is conceptual
a refusal of simple opposition
they are being opposed
and losing
to the flat impersonality
of history without progress
Glazed grey bricks and
concrete obliterating
rather than communicating
with a dead language.
Dad, you don't play fair.
Your language does kill
Demolishing ambiguity
Demolishing the past
Demolishing language
So that you seem to be
Leading Sanskrit's dialectic Ama-gi

Hey. Thanks, I needed that. OK, here's another:

Distaff plunges kleptocrat drain and they all go home to crystal mothers

[Satirical]

Fate is more spun by memory
Life unhung through policy
Counting leveled premises and hardened carbon in our caves
"Got it tot" in both these aims and still one in the same
What other misery among another
For there is no honor amongst themselves

Clotho sits and weaves this shape though
Forming faith and place uprist
For those who placate sacred brothers
Are consequently--built by her list
Shapely graven by her hands
Working under bloody plans
Overburdened coutless sand
All and all shaped clay to man
From gold to iron bronze and cold
Light to dark and new to old
Sophic destined finger told
To create, create! the darkest mold
Poor and feeble woman, poor and slight of sight
Tired--careful lady, on her cane she sleeps at night
Pouring to that forming cauldron all her spite and pain
Stirring through those anguished fishes silent by the cane
Forcing every ounce of pallor fate into the shape
Of this and that and other men for his tyrranic plate
Leaning on that symboled staff watching metal mesh together
Distaff plunges, kleptocrat drain and they all go home to crystal mothers

Hahahaha that was great! I had to study a bit for that one. Try this out:


If careful and inspired, maybe zenith's would be lyre, would attempt to quell the fire?

[blp]

My head hurts. But I'll be back.

[Satirical]

On the morrow

[blp]

Unmindful and quite tired, over at denise zenith's one day, I let my eyebrows catch on fire
Denise was out at choir at the time, and just as I couldn't always follow the rhyme (or meter)
I couldn't get the water to work (durned tap wasn't turning), but all the while my head was burning
I was reluctant to try the freezer (I'm a legendary, almost dangerous sneezer), but
Inside was an ice sculpture, a lyre pretty as a picture, a frozen monument to culture(etc.)
And as art has always been a balm to breasts and brows bereft of calm, thought, y' know,
If careful and inspired, maybe zenith's would be lyre, would attempt to quell the fire?

Phew. OK, sorry for the delay. Now try:

at this point, shipwrecked, the keystones appealed to Sennett for clemency

[Satirical]

Mack turned slowly to Charlie as they sped through the monolith
This abstraction of cognito became the difference between them
Contracting as they finished past, the rocks were far dismayed
For the pair was off to flee the wrath of the Keystone Kops parray
Farther and farther off as Chaplin knew the way
But Sennet bit his finger nails and ate lemon meringue

Stormblast came and he was laughing along
He chased with flap of Kops, and moved us far and long
With slipping toes and pouring rain
As gest pursued with small bellow
Would tread the glances high and low
To far forward hang off beds
The clash rang fast and the ship went passed
The Kops we thought were dead

And so we came upon a beach, but never could we find
A place to park and so we crashed into that shallow slime
But the Koppers came about that isle and chased us round and round
We stopped and hid among the leaves to shiver under sound
And then animals would come to see and wither Police free
From their trousers, as they stopped belief in God on that far reef
We about, about, and came from out our silent secrecy
at this point, shipwrecked the Keystones appealed to Sennet for Clemency

Sorry for the delay, and shallow attempt but I am a bit intoxicated at the moment.

Try this:

as Apollo held Abaris' throat, Osiris conceded to Agni

[blp]

You lose it a bit in the last strophe with all the forced rhyming, but the beginning is damn bloody brilliant. Please consider struggling on and making a real piece out of this.

More to follow.

[blp]

Pythagoras farted ruminatively, munching a carrot,
wondering, what could be keeping Abaris, this funny
English guy apparently as tripped out by geometry
as by those strange mushrooms they'd eaten in honey.

Abaris seemed to be dosed at that very moment,
not that he could remember taking anything odd.
Perhaps it was the square on the hypoteneuse that did it,
but he was suddenly in a (non denominational) realm of gods:

a lovely kind of walled garden with, in the immediate
environs, Apollo and Agni having a less than heuristic
dispute with Osiris - something about logos, knowledge
- and fire, naturally, with Agni going characteristically ballistic

Pythagoras looked up noting a disturbing change to reality.
As Apollo held Abaris' throat, Osiris conceded to Agni.

It's a sonnet! And also comes out of a bit of study. Sorry for the delay. Now try

the point, Crissy, not punctuation/*!

[Loveless]

wow...you guys are really good....I am completly baffled to what your saying, and at the same time I am awed. I really do love it. Now I have to study all this so I can make sense of it. ^^

[blp]

Thanks, Loveless, glad you love it and thank you for resurrecting a little thread of which I'm very fond. Not sure you'll be able to make sense of all of it, mind.

[Charles Darnay]

When asked to write an essay on the history of Seville,
Little Crissy felt terribly ill.
Not knowing what to do (not knowing where Seville was)
She took out her pencil,
And wrote these following lines:

Always put a period at the end.
Use a comma and you may offend,
the teacher who grades you,
but not so much as if you were to use a semicolon:
A question mark is always good?
But only in the right neighbourhood.
Use an exclamation mark if you please!
But never as a tease!
These are the lessons in Seville,
I hope I pass this course still!

Crissy brought the page to the teacher who read with a grin,
She said to litte Crissy that she was lost,
Into the waste basket the essay was tossed
Then with a smile the teacher looked at Crissy and gave her this explaination:
The Point, Crissy, not punctuation!


Try:

The cat smiled and said "I prefer Plato"

[blp]

At long last, a new respondant. Thanks Charles.

But what happened to Satirical I wonder.

I'll do another when I have a mo'. Unless anyone else wants to try in the meantime.

[cuppajoe_9]

Mind if I cut in?


----
Erwin Schrödinger had a cat

It lived simply and wanted
Nothing more than to be left alone

Instead cruel Erwin
Had him repeatedly locked in a box
With a complex device involving
A cylinder of cyanide gas
And an atom
Of somthing radioactive

Half the time, Schrödinger's Cat
Was gassed
And the other half he was left for hours on end
In a state of being
Dead and alive all at once
(An exhausting state to be in.
Worse than Vermont.)

"What is this supposed to prove?"
Asked the cat (who was named Elmo) often.
"Quiet, you", snapped back cruel Erwin
"This experiment will make the both of
us more famous than Sophocles."

Elmo, seeing Erwin distracted
In his delusions of grandeur
Darted through his legs
Past the hideous device
And out the front door
(Which Shrödinger had left open)

Pausing on the front step, Elmo turned
To look upon Erwin's
State of sputtering speachlesness

The cat smiled and said "I prefer Plato"
----

Try this one:

Funny that a grapefruit could be so amoral

[blp]

Milk and blood in Massai country

Idol worship

Human sacrifice

Jazz

Classical sculpture

Epic poetry

The new ‘predator’ range of four-wheel drive vehicles

Damn, it’s just all so strange, you know?

You eat a salad and you feel the mystery of life
Tiredness makes you hallucinate
Sitting in the park, but
No, that big black smear across the sky is real
Or have a waking dream of logic changing
You’re saying, I don’t respond to music like other people
But how can you know?
A fly drowns itself, seemingly on purpose, in your cardboard coffee cup
To punish you for your arrogance
Stupid fly

Then eat a grapefruit
and it spits in you through your eye

you knew that you’d seen logic change,
but still
Funny that a grapefruit could be so amoral

***

OK next, if there are any takers:

this message, scrawled in the scum left after a bath

[thevintagepiper]

She read it, then with a starting gasp,
She wondered and reread
And ran her hands through her hair.
The note was short
Of not many words
But she wasn't ready to admit to that.
So many thoughts
Made themselves up for the spaces.
She stared at the ceiling and sighed again
Finally
She wiped away the water from the floor
And read yet again
This message, scrawled in the scum left after a bath.


Ok....

But first she stumbled, laughing, to the rail.

[blp]

There's a meter here of some sort. I know nothing about the technicalities of these things, but I know it when I see it and I'm going to try to play along:

******
You never know, with luck a train might pass,
She said, deflecting midges from her eyes
The orange sun was melting in a dusk
That skittered like a swarm of tiny flies

She touched the line like someone reading brail
Then cocked her head and bent it to the rail.

Her face dissolved in darkness in the grass,
And I was sure I felt a rumble in the ground,
Fear made my throat an empty husk,
I lurched at her and saw a funeral mound

I stumbled with a strangulated wail
And reaching for her, felt a rusty rail.

Awareness rose up as a rubber mass
I said, this line is dead, like someone on a phone
She showed her teeth beside me and I smelled her musk
She stood and left me lying there alone.

In a minute she would kiss my ear - she likes it when I fail
But first she stumbled laughing to the rail.

[blp]

There. Better late than never. The next last line is:

The wind whipped down the skree

[Riesa]

does it matter if it's terrible? :lol:


The wisest women sat gnarled and snarling
Left to their own meditative devices
A hint of ivy in the hair
Of green-eyed girls dancing stiff legged to bagpipes
On the coast of the roiling sea

Red haired in kilted caricature
Of any Scottish Postcard
From Aunt Betty in 1950
Scottish drinking man
Bangs his exposed knee
On a wayward wall
erected in clannish history
Climbing quick, slipping on shale
Chased by ghosts of hounds and lairds
As countless MacFarlans were afore he

He runs and skips and laughs a bit
At a stolen kiss from the green-eyed girl
In red haired curls
and the force with with she smote him
He whistles hi-hee and sings b-onnie,
while kissing his knee and
the wind whipped down the skree



next:
carefully falls the skeptic's shadow

[blp]

does it matter if it's terrible? :lol:

No, but like, yours isn't. compliment fisher. ;)

[blp]

A reminder, since we're onto a new page, the game is to take the line suggested by the previous poster and use it as the LAST line of your poem.

[Susan Sonnen]

Admittedly, she seems earnest,
swearing a love that willl ever grow.
Wanting to believe, he turns,
carefully falls the skeptics shadow...

next: even as ambivilance escalates

(I don't think I spelled ambivilance correctly...sorry!)

[blp]

Ambivalence. ;)

[Isagel]

No poem - this is just to say that I love this thread! What a great idea!

[blp]

No poem - this is just to say that I love this thread! What a great idea!

Join in! Join in!

[Isagel]

OK! Your wish is my command.

Did you
take out the trash?
Good, I´ll
do the dishes and
someone needs to
buy bread for tomorrow.
We play house
even as the ambivalence escalates.


Next, courtesy of the poem of the week:

Heigh-ya said Baudelaire

[blp]

I'm glad I pushed for that one. Great stuff.

[Isagel]

Thank you :-)

[blp]

Richard Brautigan was
driving a 42 Pickup
down the Champs Elysée
when he picked up a hitchhiker
called Baudelaire
How far are you going
said Brautigan
I'm off to the Jardin du Diable
said Baudelaire
to check on my buds
Just then Brigitte
Bardot passed on
the promenade
fondling a stote
on her way to appear
on Celebrity Big Brother
Salut said Baudelaire
Can you pass on
a message to
Mon hypocrite
Lecteur, mon semblable
Mon Grand Frère
What's the message
said Brigitte
Heigh-ya said Baudelaire

[blp]

The above is a parody of a Richard Brautigan poem I read and memorised at the age of about 15. From memory, it goes:

Baudelaire was driving
a 42 pickup
across Galilee
when he picked up a hitchhiker
named Jesus
how far are you going
said Jesus
Out of this world
said Baudelaire
Jesus said
take me as far as
the hill of Golgotha
I have an appointment
and I must not be late

[blp]

The next endline for someone to write towards is:

Just a general description of something not there.

[Isagel]

Engraved on stone,
his name,
date of birth,
date of death,
beloved.
Just a general description
of something not there.

(for someone lost last week, far to early. Almost strange, the way your sentence was what I needed to write down. I might need to work abit more on this poem, but there it is)

Edit - I forgot to say that I liked what you did with my nonsense line, now I have to go and look for more poems by Richard Brautigan. Thanks for posting the poem.
Next:
My clock is made of glass

[blp]

(for someone lost last week, far to early. Almost strange, the way your sentence was what I needed to write down. I might need to work abit more on this poem, but there it is)

Gets me in the gut a bit, that. I don't mean this in a superstitious way, but this game does seem to pull out meaning in surprising ways. Glad it was helpful to you.

[Il Penseroso]

The ticking strums like pain
kaliedoscopic in one's mind,
pricking vain illusion
to surface in due time.

Shards fall like fetters
and minutes too shall pass,
the moment's all too fragile
my clock is made of glass.




the turntable spun magnanimous beats.

[white camellia]

Joy of jaded grass
Glittering stones
Secret chambers
Obliterated
By a cold
Touch
Of
Time
Told stories
Of red ch'i p'ao
And exotic phonograph upon
A hundred moons
Kept in the record
Of grave dust
No more-
The old Shanghai singer
Sang the evening primrose
No more-
The turntable spun
Magnanimous beats


Buffalos run wild.

[Liarue]

There are vast scavenged plains;
Sun-bleached bones are polished daily
Where are the steady creatures for their cages?
Where are their sun-sweats and migraines?
Their memories keep me warm at night
I am no sorcerer or mage
I look upon the red stained walls;
Creatures with magic weapons
Are not there;
Buffalos run wild

A cloud of blood within the veins of winds

[Isagel]

At the beach I shade my eyes
the light shines through my fingertips
making bones visible.
I am
translucent,
I am
a cloud of blood within the veins of winds.

(Thank you Il Penseroso for making something beautiful!)

the jester flees the city.

[autolycus]

city divine and shadowed
two towers struck to ashes
fifty balloons star the sky
the grim new year approaches
wolves are lurking at the door
the jester flees the city

=====

liquid granite moans its pain

[Il Penseroso]

The passion of a
pirhoetting softball team,
in the punchlight of a stadium
stratified by people,
the soft soporific
strategy of scales,
the sideways panorama
of stars in gravity,
grasping at his grafting,
percussion of sliding gain
liquid granite moans its pain.




the slashing soliloqey of dancers.

[Pendragon]

Nightclub Gig

Lights splash all across the floor,
Rivers of music flow from instruments flayed.
Lost in the surge of the tide I can see her no more—
Will she remember my bass sound waves?
Into another song with a drum roll of thunder—
The electric lightning striking here and there in the crowd…
Lead singer wailing away about love in the summer—
Everyone yelling “Crank it up, crank it up, crank it up loud!”
Time for a solo, the thrum sounds like hoof beats—
Hold that final note for as long as I can:
Then the drummer spins the sticks and takes up the heartbeat—
The whole band is ready: 1-2-3, yeah, here we go again!
Lost out on that floor, she struck my heart like a cancer—
The slashing soliloquy of dancers…

Pendragon
© 3/9/07

http://www.usd.edu/smm/GiftShop/Postcards4x6/GibsonBass.jpg


When the morning sun is a ruby drop of blood...

[Whifflingpin]

Young wavelets lap softly upon the weedy shore
As hand in hand and heart in heart we watch the cloud
March up the sky, eating the stars; the thunder loud
From distant storms brings close the dark impending war.

You, bravely, face the billows dashing more and more
Upon the rocks, steadfast as ever they do stand:
I tremble as the lightning flashes on the sand.
Can flesh and spirit face what nature holds in store?

Together yes, through darkness or through raging flood,
Whate'er betide the night, no hope shall be forlorn,
No peril e'er can part us, while our hearts hold true
And you cleave fast to me, as I stand firm for you.
So let the night be dark, we'll welcome in the dawn
When the morning sun is a ruby drop of blood.

** ** **

Eyeless they stare at the drooping oriflamme

[Adolescent09]

Whew, you people are great. I'll try my best to keep up with the omnipresent talent here lol...

On his long list of objectives
to mow, to scrape, to harrow, to rake,
festered with rudimentary bluff,
why not forget it all
and wisp our muddled selves like quagmire dunes
and free the beast from its constraints,
give the sloth cheetah feet,
and give the lepers eagle feathers,
and reduce Everest's peak
to children's rock climbing,
and take the prospects we seek,
finish them in seconds,
curtail all the pining,

but even as we do it,
even as we have it,
let's just keep a bit of our real selves
even as ambivalence escalates...

(pretty sharp and unconclusive ending, but I tried!)

Next: When the Great meet defeat

[Adolescent09]

(I'm sorry, I didn't go to the last page..)

I don't know what oriflamme means but I'll see what I can come up with:

In boxed in corners, space like a box,
emanates iridescent talk, while the hands tock,
and the longest one passed the twelve on the face,
and the longest one did it again,
four more times until the small stub was half way through,

But the case was urgent,
one couldn't stall 'till time was leant to the heavens
and hell in war,
I knock, knock knock,
iridescent talk and silence bores,
but it couldn't keep me any longer,
my chair was no longer a chain,
my muzzle unclasped,
through the door I came,
froze to the spot with a shout,
i greet painted countenances,
oiled chests, clay trousers,
glazed pupils, at four corners,
red lined, up, down,
eyeless they stare at the drooping oriflamme

Next: When the Great meet defeat

[dmoretta]

Being great only lasts so long,
You always reach the end of the song.
No matter how long you live,
Or how much to the world you give.
No matter how much knowledge you have learned.
Or how much money you have earned.
For all those who have conquered in the past,
Forever this winning streak will not last.
For those who think they will always win,
The final defeat will come from within.
The greatest defeat, inability to see, speak, or walk,
In the end we all lose to the ticking of the clock.
The result of times great deceit,
When the great meet defeat.


New: My search for knowledge will never end.

[Adolescent09]

The key of the well written word,
to open unto creation,
to let me follow its garnered path,
improvise new bolts for new keys,
new ways to obsolete,
water the sage's tree,
let course grow abundantly,
to constantly seek, to accumulate,
to verge man's peak
yet never culmintate...
my search for knowledge will never end.

Next: The eternal path of wonder

[Pendragon]

Spirit Knowledge

Upward the winding paths ascends
Into the cloud-shrouded mountain peaks.
They tell me that one must find one’s answers,
Sitting all alone upon that plateau
Days and nights without food or water
Until my Spirit Guide will come and speak to me.
Alone upon my sacred blanket
While the heavens dance above me
Fighting sleep off by prayers chanted—
And meditation bringing me to trace,
The Cougar comes and speaks with me.
My people shall never truly vanish,
As long as someone remembers their lore and tales,
And seeks for knowledge of things thought impossible—
My thirst for knowledge goes unquenched.
The fount lies out there for all to find it—
Somewhere far, or some where near—
Maybe ever found because it’s hidden in plain sight along
The Eternal Path of Wonder…

Pendragon
© 3/10/07



dismally drowning in eldritch dreams from which there is no escaping...

[Adolescent09]

Broiling Pretentious Potatoes

"..........broth bubbles churn kettle steam,
blowing up potatoes on pots,
dividing skin flake,
presenting, dry, crushed ice,
where yellow sprinkles and mozarella pinch,
inspidness to succulence,
my subtle buds, react and prick
with a red worm whose rapacious toss,
results in well deserved ecstasy
..................."
then stomach's growling cuts the musing
dismally drowning in food-want dreams from which there is no escaping..

©Adolescent09 3/10/07
I'm so unoriginal :)
(Sorry I changed eldritch to Food-want but it seemed more appropriate with the current mood of my poem :P)

Next: To discover there's more there than I thought

[Pendragon]

Personal Archeology

I chip away at life—
I sift through each layer carefully,
Scientific methods only—
Nothing else need apply.
Somewhere there lies buried
The secrets of my existence—
Am I trying to exhume them,
Or just keeping others from finding out?
The walls are crumbling in,
And maybe I don’t want to face up to the truth—
Maybe nobody does—
What would I unearth if I dug a little deeper?
Probably discover there’s more there than I thought…

Pendragon
© 3/11/07

A blasted heath with three witches stirring a pot...

[Adolescent09]

War's Aftermath

the ball in iron catapult,
to lunch at dawn's impending break,
to shatter listless skies and follow,
the stench of defeat's stirring wake,
while the last one stretches in sandy bed,
brushing scarlet knees and gashy ridden head,

He crawls up the bank to discover the left,
remains, of husbands, of wives,
mass bedlam, demise, million lives
down the drain.

On the rocky breast he stands,
glinting forget me not pupils in aerial view across the lands,
where three hunches chew muscle,
seemlessly uninviting chunks,
and shove iota remains in moley ears,
bucket-less well on cut string,
just a blasted heath with three witches stirring a pot.

Adolescent09
© 3/11/07

Next:...as the extinguished shadow smokes the sky...

[Pendragon]

9/11

The day began like all others gone before
They were off to work in twin towers of steel and glass.
Far from their minds was the shadow of war,
The twisted steel and smoking rubble of its aftermath.
When the first plane appeared outside of the windows—
And zeroed in on its target, what went though their heads?
Explosions and fires, lost children, instant new widows—
The crumbling monoliths became graves for the dead.
There is no point in questioning why did this happen?
Nothing on Earth will ever blot out the images of that day.
Heroes were born and heroes gave all that they had gladly—
Maybe we learned everyone is someone else to someone anyway…
Watching it again is too much and it always makes me cry:
As the extinguished shadow smokes the sky...

Pendragon
© 3/12/07

pale horse rider out for blood...

[vin1391]

The Rider

The battle was fought, and all where gone,
The city lay barren, serene and quiet.
In the grounds were they all
Upon the bloody sodden earth.
Blood lay thick upon each one
Some were hurt and others gone;
Never to return and live the life
Which they had fought hard to triumph.
Some came back, but not to live
Just to haunt the place so still;
And to make the foe nomore.
They were eerie and faint to see
Some laughed and others cried,
And some looked on with fury and rage.
But one stood out so light and clearly cut,
Upon a horse, pale and thin,
This pale horse rider out for blood.

vin1391
© 12th March 2007

...upon the sea it floated on.

[Adolescent09]

12/3/07? Wow vin, you wrote that in the future..?

Dreams are nonexistent edges,
flecking the horizons of our minds,
changing momentary attitude,
preserving wrath provoked lines,
which guide us through on DNA strands,
force our limbs like messengers,
promote crudeness and something drastic
when I meant no harm done
no blatant violence, no killing spree,
I can tell the officers that's not like me.
My mind was constrained,
my conscience set free,
loosening the axioms of rationality...

But these people aren't neuorologists.
they don't know how mind treats me,
like a marionette, I'm its puppet,
like a normal being, I'm now a killer,
Like when I wrote this I was standing,
and now body is rotting
...upon the sea its floating on..

Adolescent09/Mark Zikiye
© 3/13/07

It was too large to circumvent...

[Pendragon]

Cougar For Justice

I depend upon speed;
I depend upon knowledge.
A student by choice;
A warrior by blood.
I’d rather not have to fight
If words can settle differences—
For releasing the Dragon within
Makes him hard to chain back down.
I walk with my Spirit Guide,
As did all of my people;
Finding strength in God’s nature
For the battles of the day.
The silent Cougar is wise,
Always treads softly—
Arouse not its anger
For its fury and power are great.
I wasn’t out here
Looking for any trouble,
I could have turned away in a second
And vanished into the crowd.
But the cry of the child
Was something the Cougar could not ignore—
Protect the innocent whatever it takes—
Injustice, with no one doing anything at all:
It was just too large to circumvent…

Pendragon
© 3/13/07


it all depends on the taste of eels boiled in a pot...

[vin1391]

12/3/07? Wow vin, you wrote that in the future..?
Well I usually put month in the middle....everyone does that here...It came as a habit.I forgot that was not how you do it there.I'll edit it.:blush:

Eels

Swit swam the eel,
To escape the net,
Which came like a noose
Upon its head.
Though it swam fast
Quick upon its fins approached net.

It was all sudden
The eel was caught,
It tried its electric trick,
But all was lost.
It was born as an egg,
Next became an elver,
Then an eel;
Now it was a food for the lot.
All that matters is how it tastes.
Thus it all depends on the taste of eels boiled in a pot...

vin1391
© 13th March 2007

In the dusty books it was said.

[Adolescent09]

I was joking vin. Nice poetry.
I don't think I'm too good at this. My poems always start out good but sound ridiculous by the last line lol..

Wheat Field

Blue in horizon light shadows
dappled in sycamore figs,
blackened in mottled yellow,
carpeting the vast corners of sight,

tossing dust in listless circles
contrasting their substance on brown leaves,
glowing as the young day flows strong and bright,
drooping as the dying day gives way to night

spreading his auborn locks,
in sticks of languid yellow,
spreading lips to reveal oister pearls
and reading Anne of Green Gables
where the old word held the key
"to freedom"; in the dusty books it was said

Adolescent09
© 3/13/07

While the fat one keeps getting bigger.

[Il Penseroso]

In a secluded shade
on the Eastern ridge,
a magpie moans in hunger.
The slighted bird in darkened corner
feels the lack of feast
like a festering wound.

On the far-reaching horizon
the sun with gentle shrug
nudges clouds to part,
the sickly bird with ascetic's pride
finds her confirmation, and
the fat one keeps getting bigger.




In paint-can overflow she sees art.

[Adolescent09]

Women Opressed

On the blackened mists,
in the shady desert
in the floral twists,
in the milky avenue,
life's picture paints her prolonged misery,

she senses antipathy,
the rage of times generic beings,
pulling subtle pride
moaning for freedom
like fettered breasts in 18th century corsetts.

It invigorates her to do better,
instills a sense of courage,
an underlying provokement of pride
moral elacity which she knew of no existence,
and where once there was light is dark,
in her can of dreams she holds a medley
of colors, the substance she sprays
in paint-can overflow she sees art.

Adolescent 09
© 3/13/07

When the whistler, whistles at dawn's yawning

[vin1391]

I was joking vin. Nice poetry.
I don't think I'm too good at this. My poems always start out good but sound ridiculous by the last line lol..

Its ok...Thankyou...I think I am not good at this too.I never had any experience writing poetry.I just write what I think is good. :)

The Animal Train

Thirty carriages going by,
Over the mountains
Over the plains.
Each was filled full of beasts,
Each as different as can be.
One was filled with flocks of sheep,
One with lions, bears and geese.
The train went on and on and on.
The Artic was its final point.

First came the engine
Humming on above the oceans so blue
Fishes, Dolphins Whales and eels
Did acrobatic tricks to tease
Over and under they went,
And finally into the carriage.
They reached the Artic finally;
When the whistler, whistles at dawn's yawning.

vin1391
© 14th March 2007

Rang the door bell.

[Pendragon]

Twist of Fate

The bluebird sang
Outside my window
Awaking the dawn of
One more day.

The sun shone so brightly,
I felt so happy,
Guitar singing
A brand new song.

Nothing further
From my thoughts now,
Than the signs of trouble
Care or grief.

Draw the notes out—
Play variations,
Yeah, think this song might just
Be a hit someday

Wasn’t prepared for
What was standing there—
The Grim Reaper
Rang the doorbell.

Pendragon
© 3/14/07


slithering snakes slide sideways southward...

[Adolescent09]

Prose Poetry Block

the outspoken cynic find words true meaning,
manipulates it and discovers fine paper,
where the writing resumes until the ink runs dry
and the ideas exhaust until sagacious thoughts are spent,
driving him towards delirium,
where only the others' written words may be his sanction
to revitalize thoughts that when amuk,
re-grasp ideas which swayed adrift,
and form the phrase of same starting letters,
right on the tip of the tongue,
able to say, but not to write,
and if you can't apply the words to paper,
the job is never quite done,
because you have to think of something abstract
to hold the neurologic impediment,
and say five words, same first letters, no meaning,
like slithering snakes sliding sideways southward.

Adolescent09
© 3/14/07

and the earth will crumble with his might...

[Pendragon]

The End of It All…

Man thinks himself Master of all he surveys,
The ultimate pinnacle of the evolutionary path.
Scraps of information gathered down through ages,
Add up to the equation, if you understand the math.
We’ve taken this world like Old Yertle the Turtle,
Building and building until everything goes smash.
Taking this land, once lovely and fertile—
Used up its resources and covered it in trash.
What makes us think that there will never be consequences?
Nothing to answer for; no moment called in to pay?
Have we completely lost all connection with our senses?
Do we think we can just keep on destroying the planet day after day?
No God in the Universe would just let these things pass from sight—
And the earth will crumble with His wrath and His might...

Pendragon
© 3/15/07

I never did like the old guy anyway...

[Il Penseroso]

I saw a long-toothed fiend
sleeping in a corner,
a turtle covered
in a cardboard shell,
he swam in asphalt muck.

I saw a father's grimace
crouch his sleeping face,
he rolled in waves of sweat
and sank in the pool of past.

His eyeless lids held his dream
between their closing pressure,
his vision lost to gloom and me,
and I never did like the old man anyway.


Man, I need to learn how to end a poem.


Next: his pneumatic bride was pricked with thorns.

[Adolescent09]

Gusts opposing Madagascar's coast
sweeping dorment arid marsh,
swirling nature's byzantine top to sea,
and pelting jutts, striking harsh.

The black bears scarlet,
where the hills bore flame,
scalding liquid high,
and preserving death's downward lane.

Adultery's distrust is murder,
The reason Sodom and Gomorra were torn,
He now lays by harlots,
She by suicide attempts,
His pneumatic bride was pricked with thorns.


...the way the voices fall short


Adolescent09
© 3/15/07

[blp]

Some gobsmackingly great stuff happening here from all participants. Great to see this thread so active. It came close to dying completely so many times.

[vin1391]

Her life

She saw herself standing all alone
Near the lakeside
Watching her reflection,
Thinking her thoughts.
Ripples came over
Obstucting her view
Of the crooked figure
She saw in the lake.

Why was it that life was so unfair?
Why was it that she got all the worst?
Why was it that no one came by?
Why was it that she was all alone?
None to protect, none to console.
Her whole world was falling to pieces
All around the life she made.
Trying to destroy , Trying to save.


And yet above her the stars
Blinked at the world below.
All around evegreen trees,
Sang their song so mellow.
Music came , music went ,
None disturbing the orphan heart.
T'was because Over the lake
Music stopped the way the voices fall short.

vin1391
© 16th March 2007

All alone on the windy hills.

[Adolescent09]

The night gives rays to many days,
the light shines bright on future,
the industrious expunges toils prolonging,
the indolent prolongs the toil,
the languid are always complaining,
the champions outperform the languid complainers
the coward reveals a tough hide,
the brazen reveals a soft side,
the former musters non-existent pride,
while the latter shows bold's true colors,
like the desert's putrid stillness
contrasting salty valleys all alone on the windy hills

Adolescent09
© 3/16/07
(Holy hell, this turned out better than I anticipated)


thats why the carpet-colored pig had downsyndrome

[Pendragon]

Untamed Tongue

They never have a day go past
Without a reference to the blindingly obvious.
Word up, mon ami.
Do you think that that blind man is unaware that he cannot see,
Or that because he’s vision-impaired
He must also be deaf as a post?
When you mock and you stumble about
And push things into his pathway,
You probably think you got away with it—
His other senses give him clues you would never catch.
There’s more ways to wound and to kill
Than with a knife or a bullet—
That poison tongue does damage to people
Not so easily repaired.
Ugly words like “Retard”- “Mental Patient”- “Funny Farm”—
Laugh yourself silly,
You don’t notice the burn on the faces—
“They’re not really “people” people”—
It might depend on who’s looking,
And what they are looking to find.
By the way, I’m bi-polar—
Nice to meet you, I’m sure.
………that’s why the carpet-colored pig had down syndrome……..

For my cousin, Melanie, the nicest lady you’d ever want to meet if you aren’t prejudiced

Pendragon
© 3/16/07


Why I woke up with 50 pink flamingos on my lawn...

[vin1391]

Flamingos

500000 flamingos in my country,
Flapping their wings.
50000 flamingos in my state,
Stamping their feet.
5000 flamingos in my district,
Eating their fish.
500 flamingoes in my street,
Flying upside down.
50 Flamingos in my lawn
Making weird noises.
Thats why I woke up with 50 pink flamingos on my lawn.

vin1391
© 19th March 2007

...The mouse clicked on...

[Pendragon]

Contrast

Writing my poems
In the dark of the night
Alone in my study
By the monitor light
Brings visions of writers
Hunched over a Royal
Pounding the keys
Burning midnight oil.
Those keys went click,
Actually stamped the page,
Click, click, click, ding!
Slap the return cage.
I’ve got it easy
Compared to those long gone—
I can cut and paste and
The mouse clicks on…

Pendragon
© 3/20/2007 10:03 AM

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Smilies/mouse.gif

[vin1391]

You are not judged

The Earth is a world, Fullf of life
Full of Humans, beasts and birds.
Plants, and trees, flowers and shurbs.
Lakes and rivers, Oceans and seas

Of earth the humans have taken over,
To save, to serve or to rule, to detroy.
Not all are the same normal human
Some are quiet and some are bold,
Some are dreary and some are cold.

The future of the earth is with them.
To save or to destroy is in their hands
It all depends on the minds.
Some may kill or some may save.
The life saving thought is very rare
Some people got it and some people don't:
You don't judge me and you I for sure won't!

vin1391
© 23rd March 2007

Its all science to me.

[Bluemauvey]

Testubes, Bunsen's
Social dissections
The class dis-misses
In many directions
On blazers, the sulphurs
Brass buttons that smoulder
The frog nervy children
All rush to be older
One boy to another
two rocks in the flow
Says, with eyes scarred by goggles
"So what do we know?"
The reply he recieves
In the rush and the throng
Under bellowing Tannoys
That shriek "move along"
Is a whispered admission
His friend turns and he
Shrugs, bewildered, saying
"Its all science to me."

L W Daly
© 23rd March 2007

Mapping this emotional geography

[Pendragon]

Mapping Inner Worlds

Through the labyrinth of the cortical gyri
That twisted maze of grey pulsing tubular walls,
Dodging the firing of the photoreceptors
Serotonin, Dopamine, Norepinephrine—
The Frankenstein lightning that fires the mind.
Over here they control the sea of love,
Here are the peaks of laughter—
The slough of deepest sorrow,
The seething cauldron of our anger;
The volcano of steaming hate.
If the lurking Minotaur does not find us,
If we do not reach the Mountains of Madness,
Wash away in the flash floods of disaster,
Perhaps we may finally compile this duty—
Mapping this emotional geography

Pendragon
© 3/23/07

I never drink—wine...

[vin1391]

Sorry double post.

[vin1391]

The Reason

Dark and smelly, Deep and musty
The wine cellars are seen.
Full of ancient, old wine
Plucked from grapewines
Crushed and smushed..
Too long to make a good wine.

When it's drunk, it makes one blank
And shaky the inexoerienced...
Too little makes one want
Too much makes one faint.
Tis better not to go there..
Tis better not to drink.

I will be sober, I won't faint.
I will not hurt you, nor hit you.
I won't be blurry nor fall down.
All these will happen, If I am not drunk.
That is the reason I never drink—wine...nor let others.

vin1391
© 29th March 2007

On the eveing shores

[Pendragon]

Sailing the Sea of Dreams

Went of for a sail on the ocean of dreams,
Morpheus’ private realm and domain.
Nothing you see there is quite what it seems,
What looks like pleasure could turn out to be pain.
The white ship will sail you to places unknown,
The whimsies of Chance and the Fates.
To realms where your nightmares grow from seeds you have sown
To Kadeth in the Unknown Wastes.
You may sail on this white ship cross the river Lethe,
Pass Chiron on the barge on the river Styx.
The one has the water to make you forget, you see—
Cross the other lies the Netherworld’s motley mix.
But I hope to sail on by to a place fabled in lore:
And in Paradise rest on the evening shores

Pendragon
© 3/31/07

that's just how the wind blows...

[vin1391]

The Rain

Smell of wet earth wafting through
All the musty rooms so cool.
Water sogging all the way through
The Roofs of houses made so crude.

Water coming down the walls
Drizzling, Drizzling over again;
Drops and drops of H2O
Dribbling through the pane again.

Lightning flashing across the skies,
Making thunder all the while.
Distant smoke curling up the sky,
From the trees caught afire.

Windows, doors banging shut,
Loud noises from afar.
Loud and soft, Loud and soft.
Banging noises on and on.

Moaning and groaning as it speeds,
Across the skies and land and seas,
Making certain noises past;
That's just how the wind blows fast.

vin1391
© 1st April 2007

In the computer screen.

[Pendragon]

Substitute for Hell

You marvel at the resolution,
You love how the graphics move.
You don’t like to wait for a single second—
You type that keyboard or click that mouse,
And baby, some better get in grove.
Like your high-speed connection,
The only way to surf cyberspace—
If there is a blink and you’re cut offline—
You would curse the entire human race.
I hear you talking about the amount of RAM,
The speed of your CPU—
And that special high-end graphics card,
Only the best for you…
But in case you haven’t noticed,
Lately life has been more than average mean,
People killing other people,
Wars over things we once that we understood
But now question what they mean—
You have to live in this rotten world
And not in some fantasy—
You cannot spend your entire life
In the computer screen…

Pendragon
© 4/3/07


I've tried so hard to banish the memories of Texas...

[Pendragon]

Cowboy Lament

When you’ve seen men die in seconds,
When you’ve lived by the law of the gun;
When you’ve rode all day in the hot humid air—
Trying to keep the cattle on trail to the slaughter pens.
When you can’t sleep sound at night listening for Redskins,
When a creak in the hall sends your hand for a knife;
When you find yourself high on a hangman’s scaffold—
Waiting for that last drop and snap when you’re hung.
When you wonder if you’re still a fast draw,
When you’ve learned to sit with your back to the wall,
When you’ve won and lost fortunes at poker,
It leaves a bad taste in your mouth…
I really wish I could hang up this old six-gun,
Lay off the whiskey and lay down the cards one last time—
But the breeze blows in off of the prairie—
I've tried so hard to banish the memories of Texas...

Pendragon
© 4/6/07

She put the "boot" in Boot Hill...

[vin1391]

This is my longest one till date.. :)

On The Boot Hill

On and on she went on,
Towards the distant hill.
Winding up and up the path,
Away from the wizard.

The sun shone down.
With a smile and a sigh,
Looking on and on,
Upon the quiet lass with her little dog.

Walking alone, by the brick road
Along with her trusting dog.
Dorothy was her name
And Toto her dog's.

She had gotten lost here
In this magic place.
Amidst a tornado, from her sweet home,
In Kansas to this land.

She killed the Wicked Witch of the east.
With her house using the twister.
The Witch of the West wanted revenge
Against Dorothy for killing her sister.

The Witch of the North, Good Glinda
Advised her to wear the slippers she found.
And never to take them off.
Maybe it was for protection, maybe for plain fun.

She was told to go to the Emerald city.
To see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of oz,
To get his help and go back home,
Back to Kansas.

So she followed the yellow brick road,
To the Emarald city.
On the way she met some friends
Who helped her till the End.

The Scarecrow with no brain,
The Tin-man with no heart,
The Lion who was a coward
Were her good friends.

They had gone to the city
To see the Wizard of Oz.
He was no help, To all of them
So they left downheart.

As fate went on, she went on.
With the help of her friends,
She killed they Wicked Witch of West.
Sister to the one in the east.

Her friends found out,
That they indeed had all things
They wanted above all.
A brain, A heart and Courage.

Now she wanted to go,
Towards her dearest home.
Tired was she of this land,
Though it offered her a lot more.

So now she walked with her dog,
According to the Good witch,
Towards the hill which is now near,
To take herself back home.

The hill was reached and they stood there,
At the very top of it.
Looking all around, memorizing all,
To her dear hearts content.

The air around glittered as she appeared
Glinda the Good Witch of the North;
She told Dorothy to tap her heels together,
And say the magic words.

And so she tapped and said the words,
"There is no place like home" on and on.
And back she was in Kansas, amidst her Family
In the blink of an eye.

Though all made fun of her story,
She and Toto knew it was true.
To go back there so soon was
Not upto Fate.

So to make the Ruby slippers safe,
They went to Boot hill.
There she took of the ruby boots
And she put the "boot" in Boot Hill...

vin1391
© 11th April 2007

Where the sun shines bright.

[Pendragon]

Truth Is Hell, Sometimes

If I told you that everything was coming up roses,
And that Depression caught a plane for Timbuktu—
Would you need to keep an eye on how long my nose is,
To know that I was lying through my teeth to you?
Haunted days and haunted nights without sleeping,
Spend too much time doing nothing but staring at the wall.
Sometimes I wonder what there is about me that’s worth keeping,
Or if I should just drive off into the sunset after all.
I learned long ago that drink doesn’t kill the memories,
And I’m on too dang much medication as it already is.
It’s the long lonely days I guess that are really my enemies.
And how much longer I can hold on is anybody’s guess.
Well, if you’ve a mind too, breathe a prayer for this old boy tonight:
I’ve lived in darkness far too long—somewhere the sun shines bright…

Pendragon
© 4/11/07


at the far end of the trail...

[blp]

Cowboys believe in
endings
like anybody
else

and ends too
pursuant upon
one's dusty strivings
or as something
to pursue

Hell you
do a job
you get
it done
it's over
so it ends

no use

thinking about
time comes
for all of us
when we won't start another

at the far end of the trail...

[blp]

next:

Glad anyway you found some sort of hobby to keep your mind off things

[Pendragon]

Tailor To The Stars

Spinning spider silk into Saville Row suits,
Turning moonbeams on the wheel
Into shimmering canary-colored cloth.
I take hold on the night and I make of it a dress,
Dark but sparkling with diamonds that once were stars.
Flame becomes fabric that flickers with each movement,
As the model comes walking down the galactic runway.
You have never seen a blue like the opera cloak
I drew out from the vastness of the ocean;
Or the soft summer suit that I created from an Autumn sky.
You find this verdant robe enticing? Chlorophyll is the answer,
Drawn from the plants and painstakingly stitched.
I think I like this simple tie-dye tee shirt best of all,
Borrowed the colors from the rainbow over Angel Falls,
Goes perfectly with this simple white suit,
Soft and downy like the clouds...

Pendragon
© 8/6/07

[symphony]

and the next last line is?

[ampoule]

Tailor To The Stars

Spinning spider silk into Saville Row suits,
Turning moonbeams on the wheel
Into shimmering canary-colored cloth.
I take hold on the night and I make of it a dress,
Dark but sparkling with diamonds that once were stars.
Flame becomes fabric that flickers with each movement,
As the model comes walking down the galactic runway.
You have never seen a blue like the opera cloak
I drew out from the vastness of the ocean;
Or the soft summer suit that I created from an Autumn sky.
You find this verdant robe enticing? Chlorophyll is the answer,
Drawn from the plants and painstakingly stitched.
I think I like this simple tie-dye tee shirt best of all,
Borrowed the colors from the rainbow over Angel Falls,
Goes perfectly with this simple white suit,
Soft and downy like the clouds...

Pendragon
© 8/6/07

Lovely, lovely poem Pen, but where did you get your last line from? Huh, huh? ;) :)

[ampoule]

and the next last line is?

Ooops, sorry symphony. I didn't see this page. Still needing a last line though. This is quite a challenge.

[blp]

next:

Glad anyway you found some sort of hobby to keep your mind off things

This was supposed to be the next last line. Honestly, keep up.

[ampoule]

This was supposed to be the next last line. Honestly, keep up.

Okay, I'll give it a try.

The Hobby

Every time he walked into the room he caught her, staring into space,
And he looked for the apparition that held her,
Held her like he longed to do,
But seeing him from the corner of her eye, she closed the invisible curtain,
Quickly dropping her eyes to her book or her drawing or her game of solitaire.

In the kitchen she would stare deep into cupboard doors as if practicing her xray vision,
And he would touch her shoulders and ask what smelled so good,
Hoping she would turn and melt into his embrace,
But she would turn to the stove and melt butter instead,
Quickly adding the chopped onions that had put tears in her eyes.

He longed to be her pastime, to be the page she turned, the pencil she held or the card she flipped,
And he tried to be a worthy partner in games or life, whichever came first,
Loving her more than he could ever describe,
But knowing the truth he feared, he smiled and shrugged, saying
Quickly, "Glad anyway you found some sort of hobby to keep your mind off things".


new last line: A time like no other.

[Haven]

Hey ampoule looks like we did this at the same time. I was going to edit, but as you gave no 'next line', I'm just going to let it stand. :)

Your letter arrived
in yesterday's mail
you say you are better
in hospital now
that makes me feel happy
I know you need help
and the way that you felt
was too terrible to endure
You say that the treatment
some drugs and therapy
are important to helping you
regain a degree of sensibility
but what made me happiest
is the fact that you now
are now playing Sanskrit
the poets own game!
This is excellent news
that you now have a hobby
to keep your mind off of things.



last line: pretend you did not hear me say such a thing

[ampoule]

No problem Haven, we'll go with yours.

[Pendragon]

Lovely, lovely poem Pen, but where did you get your last line from? Huh, huh? ;) :)
Forgot whre I was...this thread has been missing for a while, sorry, BLP! I don't think I could have worked that last line into that poem anyway, but then I wouldn't have started down that road if I had remembered that I had to end on that line... Total mind freeze! http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Loser.gif

[blp]

No problem, Pen. And yes, it was a tough last line.

[Haven]

Hellllooooo!!! Yoo-hoo fellow gamesters...

last line: pretend you did not hear me say such a thing

[Pendragon]

Conversation Interrupting My Lunch

“What? Oh my God! You have got to be kidding me!”
“No! Really? Isn’t he just to die for?”
“Well Mary said that Jill told her that Irene mentioned in passing…”
“Oh my God! You didn’t! You actually told her that?”
“Well, it’s like, I’m standing there minding my own business as usual…”
“Yeah! The nerve of the old cow! I told her where to go in a heartbeat, girlfriend!”
“Oh my God! With Tommy Grant? Isn’t he just babe-a-licious?”
“Tammy? Whoa, girlfriend, there’s a ho and a half, now, for sure.”
“Get real. She is? At the party on Friday night?”
“Pretend you did not hear me say such a thing…”

Pendragon
© 8/7/07


Next line: nobody was faster...

[Riesa]

A flash reversed blackness:
figures harshly silhouetted,
a child kneeling, a man swinging a hammer.

Take one step to laugh,
another to weep,
every separate murmur leans heavily, beyond drunkenness,
encircling grime embedded cities,
little gutter rivers reflecting street-lamps,
disappearing down drains,
carrying even the light of Orion.

She was adept
at gathering glittering moments
to press in pages with a sigh.
His words fell like stars
through the vacuum of her universe.

She knew him thoroughly by then,
In demands and withdrawal,
the theory of light’s disappearance in space,
it was apparent to her that
he was traveling faster than she, faster than light
for the solid invulnerability of a black hole.
with wide eyes, and a muted cheer,
she had to admit that
nobody was faster.


next line:

and I will whisper a secret...the end of robots is near. :p

[Il Penseroso]

Very lovely.



In Kentucky a wheelbarrow
still stands with the expression
of obtuse discordance,
the metal twists and rusted bolts
bent under strain from wearied hands
grappling with an uncontrolled
inclination to topple without
theft of balance
is still a meaning without focus
and uncentered in this world.

The break of furtive atoms
is no more a mystery than
the way his fingers slide and tumble
in dust like the rolling tongue
of water spread from crackling
valves into mounds of dirt.

In this charged air of an afternoon
his human eye glistens with more spark
than 10,000 atom thrusts at crime,
and I will whisper a secret...
the end of robots is near.



an ink-stain became origami of thought.

[ampoule]

Pocket Protector

Welling up inside me, a deep and mournful sigh,
I covered my face and shook my head, why?

He hung his head, shuffling his feet
like some little school boy home from work.

Tight-lipped, tapping my foot, I held out my hand,
Hand it over, and he said, I'm sorry, I forgot.

Running to the laundry I doused the indigo stain
with everything that would lift it white.

Turning the pocket inside out I remembered cranes
folded with love and how an ink stain became origami of thought.


new last line: and the world will begin to shine

[PrinceMyshkin]

I wanted to ask her, Will thou be mine?
But something held me back. Was it the time?
So I waited and silently adored her.
Happy to do that and nothing more.

Fantasies flew faster through my mind
than sheafs of wheat troubled by the wind.
I waited and was happy, still,
I would be happier if I knew her will.

Perhaps one day she'll offer,
without my asking her,
I will be thine!
and the world will begin to shine.

Next last line: Seven pears stood gleaming beside a single apple.

[Pendragon]

Food Fight

It was a wild night, the fruit got into a fight,
Battled all across the kitchen table.
Don’t really know what started it, but the bananas split,
And the citrus fruits formed a cabal.
What happened next, is anybody’s guess.
But the strawberrys all got creamed.
The grapes were so hard pressed, it was a pulpy mess,
Fermented into wine, or so it seemed.
The oranges and grapefruits knew, it seems a thing or two,
About how to peel a banana by rolling.
Then they set their sights, on the pineapples all right,
And took them out by bowling.
But just when it seemed for sure, citrus would win this war,
The pears and apples formed an new cabal;
Through the exploding juice, citrus waved a flag of truce—
And seven pears stood gleaming beside a single apple…

Pendragon
© 9/3/07


Next last verse: But who was behind the black lace veil?

[Riesa]

pen, that's cute. :D



Very lovely.



In Kentucky a wheelbarrow
still stands with the expression
of obtuse discordance,
the metal twists and rusted bolts
bent under strain from wearied hands
grappling with an uncontrolled
inclination to topple without
theft of balance
is still a meaning without focus
and uncentered in this world.

The break of furtive atoms
is no more a mystery than
the way his fingers slide and tumble
in dust like the rolling tongue
of water spread from crackling
valves into mounds of dirt.

In this charged air of an afternoon
his human eye glistens with more spark
than 10,000 atom thrusts at crime,
and I will whisper a secret...
the end of robots is near.



an ink-stain became origami of thought.


wow. you managed to give my silly line some dignity. this is awesome. :thumbs_up

[blp]

A flash reversed blackness:
figures harshly silhouetted,
a child kneeling, a man swinging a hammer.

Take one step to laugh,
another to weep,
every separate murmur leans heavily, beyond drunkenness,
encircling grime embedded cities,
little gutter rivers reflecting street-lamps,
disappearing down drains,
carrying even the light of Orion.

She was adept
at gathering glittering moments
to press in pages with a sigh.
His words fell like stars
through the vacuum of her universe.

She knew him thoroughly by then,
In demands and withdrawal,
the theory of light’s disappearance in space,
it was apparent to her that
he was traveling faster than she, faster than light
for the solid invulnerability of a black hole.
with wide eyes, and a muted cheer,
she had to admit that
nobody was faster.


next line:

and I will whisper a secret...the end of robots is near. :p

This totally rocks and

[blp]

Very lovely.



In Kentucky a wheelbarrow
still stands with the expression
of obtuse discordance,
the metal twists and rusted bolts
bent under strain from wearied hands
grappling with an uncontrolled
inclination to topple without
theft of balance
is still a meaning without focus
and uncentered in this world.

The break of furtive atoms
is no more a mystery than
the way his fingers slide and tumble
in dust like the rolling tongue
of water spread from crackling
valves into mounds of dirt.

In this charged air of an afternoon
his human eye glistens with more spark
than 10,000 atom thrusts at crime,
and I will whisper a secret...
the end of robots is near.



an ink-stain became origami of thought.

so does this

[Pendragon]

The Stallings Case

Old Jacob Stallings and his much younger wife,
Lived in a mansion just outside of Louisville.
There were those that swore they were “trouble and strife,”
And one or the t’other would finally get killed.
Gunshots were heard from the mansion one Saturday Night,
And Jacob was dead and Mrs. Stallings was shot.
The Sheriff investigated with all of his instinct and might—
But there were no guns in the house was as far as he got.
Mrs. Stallings recovered from her wounds to her left side,
(They put off Jacob’s funeral until she was able to attend.)
And she came all veiled in deep black to drop a rose like a bride,
As they lowered Jacob Stallings to his final end.
But, being of suspicious nature, and seeing her move her left arm so well:
Makes me wonder: I don’t think she could. But who was behind the black lace veil?

Pendragon
© 1/12/08

Next last line: But did you have to drop the whiskey, Sam?

[wbuchana]

They looked in stony silence at the hunched
and sorry prisoner, locked in the bench;
the lights were low; a storm was coming near,
and all that was perceived was rain
that drained the outside world of color, and light
that fought, it seemed, in vain to reach
the grave and solemn atmosphere within.

He vehemently protested, "I'd be strung
and quartered like those Sodomites of old
before I'd ever be caught drinking booze;
I read my Bible, know what it enjoins
What it forbids, and may this sacred State
Be ever anchored in its precepts -- this I pray."

The judges, moved by these fine words of his,
seemed likely to give way to clemency
but of a sudden, thunder boomed and shook,
dissolving all their latent leniency.
For the vigorous vibration had shaken loose
the contraband, the sin, -- the alcohol
which, falling from the prisoner's jacket, clamored
Loudly 'gainst the hardwood, and then rolled
throughout the darkened courtroom, heretofore
in silence -- now in scandalized commotion.
Angry judges dealt swift justice on him.
The bailiffs bore him off to his demise.

A bungled crime is still a crime. He knew
our ways, our righteous customs through
and through: His shame's uncovered, black and bare--
is death as compensation a surprise?
I'm sorry that he's dead, I really am,
but did you have to drop the whiskey, Sam?


new last line: "He totalled all my trikes; he had it coming."

[ampoule]

Davey and Phil

Davey, you're such a sweet boy,
What made you do such a thing?
Phil is a bully, a goy,
Who thinks he's the neighborhood king.

But Davey, your words, how cruel,
Where did they come from
Those five, like rocks, just adding fuel?
Who cares, he's just a bum.

They've been rolling around
On the tip of my tongue,
It's time he was downed,
I'm glad that they stung.

But what did he do to deserve such a humbling
He totalled all my trikes; he had it coming.

ampoule, May ThirtyFirst, TwoThousandEight

:sick: :lol: :D :sick: :lol: :D :sick: :lol: :D

new last line: She reached so high she felt low.

[Pendragon]

Road to Ruin

She just could not be satisfied
Living as a farmer’s wife.
There was so much out there that she was denied
She wanted more out of life.
So she drowned in dreams and fantasy,
Reaching for the stars every day.
She looked for the heavens, but she couldn’t see
How her beauty was slipping away.
Parties and dances, out with the crowd,
The drink and the drugs took their toll.
Soon she found herself out on street in her gown,
Selling what she had left, her body and soul…
She sought after pleasure, a higher plateau:
She reached so high she felt low…

Pendragon
© May 31, 2008


New last line: If not for the Ghost on the stairs...

[blp]

We said we'd be prepared to raise the duty
if various protectionist policies could be mitigated
by a proportional, concomitant rise in import levies
there was a short break
Various delegates betook themselves without delight
of curling, drying white bread sandwiches from a metal platter along the left wall
and coffee. No parliament, conference or notional
Estates General
will now make change beyond these increments
a type of change once fought for
with more urgency
the right to be this methodical
that cannot now answer the question
what does this ominous figure want?
nor ask it
whether to move backwards or forwards
whether it is getting what it wants
and we would be better off
if not for the Ghost on the stairs.


New last line: But of course these smiles mean very little.

[HiddenGem]

Look back through the foyer of
Your existence.
Each relic and keepsake, memento and trophy
Proclaims your triumph, attests
Your accomplishment
But do the photographs on the wall portray
Your anguish, rejection, depression and heartache?
The wooden bust of Aristotle took months to whittle
But of course these smiles mean very little.




Yet the 12 on the clock was pointing to Mecca.

[Il Penseroso]

Vacation starts in the head.
Jumbled images of children playing circles
in the street, riding bikes across
streets baked black, sticky
in disgust, tar sandwiched
in the seams of badly planned
choreography.

The sun still shines on our sandals.
Decaying, a plant tendrils itself
skyward, racing the day's length
to perform a nightcap with stars.

The limosine played songs
whose words are still forgotten,
yet the 12 on the clock
was pointing to Mecca.



next:
purple against her dark blues

[Riesa]

On earth damp and darkened,
I kneel in lowered summer,
impeding horn-worm climb
up solid, thickened stem.
Evening Aubergine’s
rakish-capped with crowns
of lime leaned yellow.

Leaves,
a coarse-wrought lattice shade
in waxy gloss impossible,
freckle-hearted babies,
swinging shy and tender.

Indigo and Cornflower
coil round the angel sky,
the berry gleams,
blackened deep
and humble purple
against her dark blues.



next:
helpless as the river's thrum

[blp]

lurksome shaft
championing it for a forever
it goes there, petitioning
seeming to deal
or be approachable
fine, that it was, unfindable
matcheable only
if you could see it
and speak it simultaneously
(impossible
especially
in those
eye-whitening throes
epileptic tumults
quick blossoming
of roses
in your speaking mouth
sputtering, nonsensical,
not senseless,
only,
in your shuddering unraveling,
helpless as the river's thrum

***

next:

the grey statue, watching

[Pendragon]

For Rodin

The grey statue watching
The years as they pass
Tourists like ants on a hill
Leaning forward
With his chin on his hand
The Thinker eternally thinks
Does he dream up new plans
Think of tomorrow
Wonder why his friends come and go?
Does he dream about
The quarry where he was first born
Before he was carved into frozen stare?
The people pass him by
They gaze on his face
It never occurs to anyone what he thinks
Busy people pausing
For pictures and contemplation
The grey statue watching them all…

Pendragon
© 1/27/2009

Next: the road goes ever, ever on

[firefangled]

A sad fable unfolds.

Fear has left its song in the air,
the snakes coil artfully,
rising from patio tables,
and bird cages
keep us safe from birds.

The whirlpool is strongest here,
cut from the sky,
pieces of starless, moonless night,
hang out at the car wash
and the schoolyards.

Florida was a perfume
in my youth.

There was a calculus of roads
that lead here from true north,
an expectation
written into the simple lines
of mountain lanes
that raised and terrified
the unbaptized.

And the dismal diary,
the rust crumbled from memory,
the trees leaned into the wind’s wake,
how the moss weighted the live oaks
across the vanishing, so we failed to see
the road goes ever, ever on.

***
Next: the proof of rain is defiant

[blp]

There is so much
I would say if I could
contradict myself
sufficiently to show you
how much of
coming and going out
and not speaking
or meeting your eyes
in those days was
the product
not of some
storm that threatened
all the foundations of
your various impromptu
graves, but only
what was necessary

to make the grass grow.
'You're so defiant',
you would say,
as if I would never even allow you to get the washing in. Yes, but
of course, I know now
with a meteorologist's
perspective,
having nowhere else
to go,
but down
and
nothing else
to do,
but show itself,
the proof of rain is
defiant.


Next:
picked up a bottle of beaujolais from the Costcutter.

[firefangled]

Oh yeh, that's a good one, blp.

A difficult line I thought, but you made it almost look easy. I loved the running out to get the wash in line.

[blp]

Thanks, firefangled. Well it was a good line. Padgett did say in his description that the point was to provide a line that was really difficult to write to. In a weird sort of almost paradoxical and slightly unnerving way, that can sometimes seem to make it easier.

[TheFifthElement]

Late nite shopping

Drive-thru,
hunting down the Regent Road
shatter-lighted
night trap. Skip past Maccy-D’s,
KFC’s, and Harry Ramsden’s
fishing out the ship canal:

not my channel.
At 2am it’s something else
I’m seeking, the reeking bones
of humanity; strafing the streets
with my blacked out windows,
music base-low;
lads kicking hobos,
flashing the steel-like
caps of their boots like kicking a football
on the blister-green pitch
at Old Trafford. Ah, bliss.

But not this, not my twist,
or at least not on this night
as the moon winks a light on
the gas regulators and slum
flats of Hulme; the Asda sign lending
a weary green hue to the weed-peddling
fly-boys dealing their treats.
Just another night on the Manchester streets.

Now I’m getting off beam
these guys ain’t my scene, it’s the ladies
I’m needing; tight ones
that breed through the night in the ginnels,
and round the bus station
splitting their seams for the sake
of the nation and sharp guys like me,
cruising-out hungry and chancing
to win a fine strip of skin
with her knicker-lights on,
parole on her tongue,
and legs that go on until Christmas is gone.

I’m rounding the tip
of a shade-stricken park
when a gaggle of girls shimmer
out of the dark so I sliver the window,
pick one and we go out
for a quick ride; she fits me a treat,
we climb to the rise
of the slippery peak and taste
the gold sun-shower,
oxygen-stalling, I slip her right over the edge
and we’re falling back down
to reality, grey-glow banality,
scraping our arses through ****-hole insanity.

It’s okay, I’m dreaming
the truth is I’m leading an ordinary life,
two kids and a wife and a job
straightening walls in the kitchens
and halls of the latter-day worker: the grifters
and shirkers on council estates;
but on this night my mates were all round
for a chin-wag, a couple of beers,
the football on telly: I’ve known them
for years. Then the missus appears, glasses in hands
and would you believe it she goes
and demands that I source her a top-up,
at this time – you credit?
I wasn’t too happy and you bet
that I said it, but here I am driving in the dregs
of the night: a freeze in the air and the moon
straggly bright, and I’m shamed to admit
that in her hands I’m butter, as I picked up
a bottle of Beaujolais from the Costcutter.



next line: the cat's puked on the worktop again.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Re Late Nite Shopping, #124... I hadn't looked into this thread before but am fascinated now by some of what I read, and this, this latest, is nothing


but


raw


unmitigated


effing





genius!

[blp]

Yes, great work, 5th. A bit of an epic really. I really had no idea what kind of poem was going to come from that line, but yours is exactly right.

[firefangled]

Absolutely excellent, Fifth! What quintessence in elevating such a common urban act with story. It was a good and difficult line blp left and you nailed it with a sledge.

And then to leave yet another gem with the kitties.

[Hobbes]

Well, an epic and oddesy. But I want to try to

The basses held the air with sonorous chest howl of
An alpha
I heard most of it from a place of rain and gloom
Coming into a leave that was both tantalizing and
a denial to the life I always had.

A misty realism of noises all parallel in some
move or shape to the
Drumming of the bass,
the humming of the speaks, the strumming of the wires that were a sweet worship of the man who lived on them.

Virginia was close, seeing the world
while holding onto my arm as to not be pulled in.
The singer, the singer was a tempest that the steam or the blue cigar smoke couldn’t close on.
All this we listened to, but what I was hearing was that rain, softly pouring to keep me awake to the reality.

But I had the club, the club had its musicians, and those musicians would always be had by… that music.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I walked on the stage and heard the rain pour,
It was how I always keep my music.
My eyes were fallin to the floor, knowing that this life wasn’t mine any more.
The light was turned to high and the heat was death to me, but not the cold world outside.
I looked to the others to keep up with me, this was special and they knew it. They couldn’t see it, but it was me crying from the deepest part that nobody would ever reach.
I sat along the other dulled figures in the back as I picked up a bottle of Beaujolais from the Costcutter.

[blp]

Sorry, Hobbes. Nice poem, but the point of this thread is to write a poem with the last line the previous writer provides after their poem.

EDIT

Oh, wait, I see what you've done. OK, fair enough.

To keep things clear: Next poet, go back to TheFifthElement's post to get the next line.

EDIT2

And having read your poem properly, I can say, I really love it. Great long lines. Hope we'll see more from you.

[Hobbes]

I'll make sure to do it right this time

I sat in my car,
The ignition sounded too strained,
Like I was vicariosly feeling it
I slammed on my wheel.

This wasn't the car,
a rustic buick I treasured since forever.
This was life. Car dying out
in the middle of the rain
In the middle of a long and winding road.

I got the car started.. eventually
I turned on the tuner radio,
keeping it to a quiet mellow jazz.
I saw it was a nice night out so I turn down my windows.

I look up
A CAR> I TURN TO THE RIGHT> TO THE RIGHT > STOP> STOP>
I hold on.

I wake and Im not sure but I think, Im dead.
I don't know what to feel. Hate? No. Sad, thats all that i felt.

Then, I finally feel relief from it all.

A voice God?, whoever. It doesn't matter:
It says that I can will get all that was special to me and what I want.
But in heaven, they cast off all that is worldly.
What did I want? I didn't want anything, really.
but I can't want nothing.
I'm sure my whole life I didn't want NOTHING.
But here is the question before me. What was life on Earth, if not my wife and success.

I can't get in because I want something, probably something I don't know.
But I try to want what?

-----------------------------------
Next-
During a zoological visit to a prison inmate's wife.

[blp]

I'll make sure to do it right this time


*laughing* You didn't, but it's easy to see how the misunderstanding occurred. 'But I try to want what?' is my signature (taken from a poem of white camellia's). 5th's line was:

the cat's puked on the worktop again.

Still, I like you're suggestion for a last line. I might have a go with it myself, then just post 5th's again to restore the natural order of the game.

[Riesa]

Some modern artists place circles where once there were squares,
some put them on paper, some fly them in air,
some think it’s most clever to paint them dark red,
or throw them at walls, and see where they've bled;

but today…
this unfashionable artist pushes the cat out of it’s nap,
revisions the past from an old square of French print
brought from some tropical place in nineteen o’ six:

High mirrors, wood-grain, green bamboo slats,
monstrous ferns in glazed china pots;
mustachioed men inventing dangers to face
sip pomegranate-juice in white linen suits,
they drowse in wicker on cool terra floors, wooing the juleps
with droplets of mint, stealing the cream from the house-kitten’s dish;

one charmed in particular with emerald eyes crossed,
a bronzed little slinklet seemed held in night’s bloom,
and apart from her sepia tone she was undeniably nude.

From costly silk pockets slip gold tinted lies,
they lasso her need with damp palmed desire,
From her seat where she drowns sweet defiance in rye,
She hears hazy words, “Sing,” they insist, “Chantez, Cherie!”

Her humming comes through like a flightless duck’s moan,
After strangling countless chansons she staggers then sighs
like the bellies of rusted ships through waves at low tide,
like the broken fins of dolphins swept in with the fish,
like bones chewed by charter rats slicked with fish grease
bothered and bloodied by angry-toothed cats;
oh, fatuous foreigners flaccid as brie,
you are as alien as the feeling of glee is to me,
for I am as mad as a river in spring,
you have taken all of my land, but you still must claim me?

Her themes, her sighs, her dreams
like this artist’s pens, are out of ink,
and through gross misaim and her own due neglect,
the artist has stopped musing and whistles in wrath;
the cat’s gone and puked on the worktop again, oh, that damn cat,
the cat has puked on the worktop again.


next line:

During a zoological visit to a prison inmate's wife.

[balehead]

Nice poem Riesa, maybe I'll have a go at that last line ... but not right now, i'm in a very unpoetical mood!

[balehead]

My life hangs on exceedingly unreliable strings,
Fluttering in the breeze and wobbling crazily.

I recall the path by which I arrived at such a perilous place.
My life was set in stone. An unchangeable and monotonous
Series of actions which held no real meaning or purpose.
I found myself behind a desk, day after day,
Staring down a microscope upon minuscule and insignificant specks.

It was an ominous day that all this changed.
I stepped outside my neat white house, to enter my pristine white car.
Skeletal leaves swept about my feet, calling to desperate thoughts
Of my entrapment in an empty life.
Something snapped inside of me, and, my mind in turmoil,
I turned from thoughts of sanctioned actions,
And let my mind run wild.
This madness did last but one second, ere I found myself again.
My life restricted once more to a pattern of
The blind following of authorization and law.

As my hands followed their predestined course,
Writing endless and meaningless figures on glaring white sheets of paper,
A subtle change to my daily routine was noted
(By I alone).
Upon my desk lay a previously unnoticed envelope of the cleanest white.
Within it lay a sheet of paper which did require such a
Different mindset to that which I treated my usual work,
That I found myself once more wallowing in the pit of madness,
And despair.

My mind still struggling with impossible thoughts,
I followed the direct instruction on the note,
Soon finding myself standing on the outside of black house of death –
As it is known to its’ inmates –
A prison.
The sergeant within told me with no hidden amount of glee,
That the man I needed to question,
For explicit reasons pertaining to my job,
Was not receiving visitors at such an early time of day,
As he was laid up in the sickroom,
After a brawl with several guards.
I was directed to visit his wife – a women of great discretion –
Who would be able to produce copies of her husbands’
Scientific papers which could, indeed, prove useful to my research.

I entered the aforesaid house,
My mind playing tricks on me and running in circles,
Fearful of being forever trapped within the mortal
Stringencies which held its genius,
The ethics of a submissive society.
Such chaos within me did not lend well to my outer self,
And I fidgeted, desperately hoping to escape
The house which I had previously sought to be within.

The woman sat me down in the living room,
Instructing me to remain thus until she returned,
With the necessary papers.
I could not bend my will to behave so feeble a lady,
And once her footsteps had faded into non-existence,
I burst from the chair in which I sat, And headed for the kitchen.

Within such a room I knew not what I expected to find,
But my eyes first alighted on flue then on stove.
On fridge, then on knife.

Her blood pooled around me on the floor,
In pulsing waves of shining red.
The last feeble kicks of her legs,
As she lay in her death throes,
Upset a chair, and knocked it over.
I watched her without malice or spite.
An overwhelming sense of satisfaction enveloped me,
And I forsook myself at last, during a time of great inner struggle -
During A Zoological Visit to a Prison Inmate’s Wife

The next line is ...
And he said, "Do you live in the Middle Ages?"
----
Hope that's ok..

[vin1391]

Wow... Its been a long time since I was here. But once I came I couldn't go without reading this topic and there sure is a lot of poems added here. I'll pop by and try my hand at this again.

Its great to see you all kept up the work..