Your Favorite Poems from fellow Lit-Netters

[Bar22do]

... and certainly my favourite!




I'm sorry I'm withdrawing this from the Favourite Poems, but I have realized it's so good that the poet (B/V) should send it out for publication.
Bravo again, Bar

[Jack of Hearts]

delete

[Jack of Hearts]

'Beyond the falling comets and persistent stars' by DocHeart

Beyond the falling comets and persistent stars
Lies loneliness. A city sky's seen
Differently from there; stupidly courageous,
Mocking black nights with neon falsehoods.

A blueness, on the other hand, emerges
When one observes such skylines from the ground:
It is the very heaviness with which
Unskilled saxophonists sit on a gentle
Pianist's mouth.

From thirty thousand feet I watch you dance,
Smashing the fragile porcelain of our small romance.
Descending and observing from a shorter distance
Does nothing to alleviate your non-existence.

[kensington]

This one bears repeating. Originally posted by Lokasenna on 3-29-2009



The Youth and the Sea: A Lament


The gentle roar of the careless sea,
The waves that caress the lonesome stones,
The mischievous breeze that blows so free,
And the sun-lit rock that warms my bones.

I lie hard upon its hardness,
My heart thunders in my chest
and stops.

Its touch is more real than any other,
More passionate than a lover,
More caring than a mother,
And closer than a brother.

There is a rock that every wave submerges,
And pulls to the depths of its ancient urges,
Entombed, enwombed, it for a moment merges,
Before being torn out by liquid surges,
with Paradise.

I am not that rock: I can but live upon it,
Entirely severed from my sacred soul,
being locked in this form that can only sit
upon a silent shore, to dream of being whole.

No longer can I make love to the ocean,
Never again shall we in perfect oneness bind,
No more shall I pant beneath its potent motion,
Except in the faded temples of my mind.



I wrote this today, while sitting in the location described - it is, I think, one of the most intensely personal pieces I have ever written, so I'm a little nervous putting it up. Nonetheless, sharing is part of the experience, and constructive criticism is always much appreciated!

[kensington]

Originally posted by Lokasenna on 2-12-2009



I'm at University in Leeds, which is great because inland Yorkshire is much colder than my hometown on the Welsh coast. The other week we had lots of snow (in fact, its just started again!), my absolute favourite weather, and something that, until I went to Uni, I had only experienced twice in my life. I have a great view out over the city, and the other week I was looking out of the window, and the snow was lightly falling from the patchy clouds, and the full moon was hanging over the city. Having just re-read Coleridge's "Frost at Midnight" and feeling rather relaxed, my mind took the opportunity to walk in a great man's shadow. My usual attempts at Romantic poetry are usually awful, but this one is significantly less awful the usual junk.

The Winter's Tale

Celestial secrets, the shining stars,
Adorn the primal night,
A holy host of fallen czars,
that flank the Goddess bright,
Bold Luna, set in childish shade,
To haunt the mind of man was made;
The eye itself at once sublime,
Perception is the sacred art,
Mankind is echoed in thy heart,
Thou true child of elder time!

Evanescent pearl, the clouds serene,
Oe’r this too busy globe,
Fantastic, haunt the orb-lit scene,
The silent light they robe,
Dancing slowly, overhead they fly,
To fill the bastion of the sky,
Or they in raging chaos swirl,
As if in awful anger hurled,
Upon the bastion of the world;
The peace of heaven they warp and whirl.

Snow blanked canvass, the cradle feels,
Alive with deadened blight:
A fullness that in nothing heals,
A wrongness that seems right,
But the dull brain itself shall miss,
Lost in the shallow, deep abyss,
That tender sense of nothingness,
Exuding from the starry pole,
That fills the vistas of the soul,
Our petty self to soothe and bless.

[kensington]

Originally posted by Lokasenna on 2-19-2009


A View from the Mezzanine


I see the pulsating masses of humanity;
The ling’ring echo of some sad fatality,
Those long forgotten children that bleed and have bled,
Their gushing, weeping prayers of the obscene sacred.
Those black walls – so black! – define, confine the mind,
The thudding mantra more than kin and less than kind,
The pointless beat, the mindless noise, the vacuous despair,
The shuffling dead that long to feel the rush of dawning air.

We are empty, we are the ghosts in the smoke,
That flare and sputter from unburning, varnished oak,
And so we move with a transient violence,
A sad majesty of surpassing eloquence,
That is soon defeated by age and infirmity,
A mewling cry in the silence of eternity;
Oh, we are the lost music, notes without a score,
The orchestra dreamed - before we are, we are no more.

Is it a dream? Or the memory of a dream?
The sudden reality of a rushing stream,
The people (the people!) alive with movement,
The beating heart that increment after increment,
Pulls me gradually back into my essential self,
Back to the comfort of mundane, worldly pelf.
And yet what was this vision, this noon day-dream?
A vision of how things are, or how things seem?


I don't usually do this sort of poetry, so its quite an experiment for me - what do you think?

[kensington]

Originally posted by Lokasenna on 2-25-2009


The World is too little with Us

By the failing light of encroaching night,
The mutterers gather in sound,
And the leaden sky in a deadened eye,
Reflects with a power profound.
Through the skeletal trees the whirling breeze,
Blazes a life filled song,
And the turgid dirt of a world long hurt,
Is ignored by the general throng.
The tramping beat of their ignorant feet,
That know not love nor scorn,
Joins the empty speech from the depths of each,
That tremors a note forlorn,
A single word in the mind unheard,
That lies on the skin like moss,
While all about the earth sings out,
and all we talk is dross.


A short little something I penned yesterday in a mood of melancholy. I've wanted to try something with quite a bouncy rhythm for a little while now, and I think it interacts interestingly with the subject matter. As with anything, constructive criticism is much appreciated!

[kensington]

Originally posted by Lokasenna on 3-14-2009


Apotheosis

An endless Sea of Sorrow,
With no hope held in vain,
No future, no tomorrow,
No mercy in the rain.

Archaic Zarathustra!
What cans’t thou decree?
For life has lost its lustre,
None listen now to thee.

Hell’s eternal fires,
Against the Floods of Old,
Sacred, smouldering spires,
Corroded spikes of gold.

Oh, purgéd human-kind,
The Angels all are lame,
The Eyes of God are blind,
Bright Lucifer aflame.

Wanton Devestation!
Evanescent Stain!
Antithesis Creation!
No memories remain...


I read an interesting article the other day about the chances of nuclear war. Suffice it to say, the author thought it was fairly likely to come about. This poem just sort of emerged from out of my paranoia - I wanted to create something that had a very abrupt, hard feel to it, with absolutely no leeway.

[kensington]

Originally posted by Lokasenna on 10-09-2009


A Song of Tomorrow

As I'm sure many of you are aware, I am an Old Norse fanatic. This has extended to me even attempting to emulate the literature - I am currently slowly working on a saga-style work. Like Tolkein before me, I want my heavily Norse inspired world to be filled with poetry and song. This is one example - I have endeavoured to create an old folksong about the end of the world, as might be sung by a people who are morbidly preoccupied with fate and doom. There are three maidens, the Nornir, who govern fate. They are Wæs, whose book contains the entirety of history, Sie, who lights torches to see into the future, and Beo, whose sword divides the present from the past and the future; the song is about them.

Sorry for the long preamble:

When all the world to ash has turned,
When all the endless sky has burned,
When Death his due has sorely earned,
Then will the maidens weep?

If all our farms are turned to dust,
If all our weapons gone to rust,
If all our hope betrays its trust,
Then shall the maidens sleep?

Bright Wæs her book will shut up tight,
Fair Sie her final torch shall light,
Bold Beo's sword will shatter right.
Fly they to darkness deep?


How was that? Did it sound authentic? I wished to establish a pattern of repetition, and also lots of opposite imagery therein. Does it work?

[Jack of Hearts]

Lokasenna writes fantastic poetry.






J

[kensington]

Lokasenna writes fantastic poetry.






J


Ah yes, I agree, Jack. :blush5:

[Jack of Hearts]

'In Desolation' by Bar22do

Lone, voiceless bird,
I’m lurching along;
without my wing
I won’t soar. In tatters,
I search.

New moon bears the old
on a paddled sky;
I huddle in a bark shred,
the left wing, swelling,
covers my bill.

Within hail,
a poplar’s scrawny arms
against dun air call, call,
weaken, call again
and then still.

[Jack of Hearts]

'I see no sign' by Jerrybaldy

I just held on to a thought,
that maybe I already died
and the incense and the ash and the father,
bar none, they all blatantly lied.
Bare with me here..
I am quite unsure what I am,
I am unaquainted with my neighbours,
Koram and big Sam, the clam.

I feel that I am no longer here anymore,
I feel I am no longer here.
I feel that I am no longer here anymore,
I feel I am no longer here.
I feel that I am no longer here anymore,
I feel I am no longer here.

[Jack of Hearts]

'Intemperate Frigate on a Placid Sea' by qimissung

Where does it come from,
my passion-
burgeoning, bumbling, burbling,
purple, red, inflamed-
like the Red Queen in a fury
or a fountain
of frothy, frothing water
light as air and filled with color
exploding into universes within the hidden crevices of my brain
then leaking out,
joyously or morosely
like a thin, filthy mattress
slept on by a high-jacked heiress in a forgotten basement;
my pores shimmer with impending excitement,
my lungs heave orgiastically
with the thought of being alive and
alive and alive yes alive

[Jack of Hearts]

'Love may be' by jajdude

Softly now, let's not pretend,
Love's not love until the end of letting go.

Even then, love's not love until the end is gone.

Love may be a tributary: one stream flows into another.
Let the waves wash over me so all my cares may smother.
Like a jagged stone, softened by the sea, let the waves wash over me.





*This reader actually liked this poem enough to lift from it several months back!
Here (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showpost.php?p=1060032&postcount=2)

[Jack of Hearts]

'Playing Out the String' by AuntShecky


At this
point
the sports

metaphor
collapses
hard.

Are we supposed
to swing through
the motions,

look at our
watches, settle
our affairs --

or fight
meaningless
battles

refusing
to surrender
to the inevitable?

All right,
it is
September,

and it’s
the bottom
of the ninth,

but so far
nobody’s
out.

[hillwalker]

?21st Century oPetry – Yoetrp – Tyroep AnEbodi?

a poem by Wolf Larsen

Piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnggg!
Dop!
Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnng!
Bop!
Woooooooooooonnnnggg!
Schloop!
Do-bop- roouuu waaa zoo ba duddle dee yureeeekaaaaaaaaaa!
Really?
Well, za doodle dee wing za flop!!
ka – zoow roouuw ka-pling da da da riiiinnnngggggg!
Fluuupity!
Exactly!
How?

Copyright 2012 by Wolf Larsen

This will either pee him off royally - or make him implode with ecstasy.

H

[Varenne Rodin]

Haha. An unexpected entry to this category, Hillwalker.

[hillwalker]

Haha. An unexpected entry to this category, Hillwalker.

Don't you realise? There's a revolution started... and you read it here first!

:lol:

H

[Varenne Rodin]

A lucky girl am I!

[Delta40]

Your mockery of others Hill knows no bounds

[hillwalker]

Only those who set themselves up to be mocked, as you well know.

H

[PrinceMyshkin]

Your mockery of others Hill knows no bounds

Personally I find mockery to be the last of Hill's intentions. He's one of the most attentive and constructive critics in this forum. As to WolfLarsen, I think it's anybody's guess what he's up to. My guess would be that he sees himself in the tradition of les poètes maudits, but theirs was as much an anti-bourgeois activity as it was a purely literary one. They felt they were the castaways of bourgeois society. But what they wrote nevertheless fit within the broad definition of poetry. I have trouble seeing that in WL's offerings.

[hillwalker]

Personally I find mockery to be the last of Hill's intentions. I have trouble seeing [poetry] in WL's offerings.

You and most of us on here - but he probably deserves his 15 minutes of fame, if only for being such a pain in the proverbial.

H

[Catamite]

how many people does it take
to paint a table?


one to apply
lush paint strokes

another to perform
itty-bitty touch ups

touch up where he said

everywhere I said

nice he said

and so we work
eyes closed

This is my favourite poem on here; it's got so much feeling compressed within a few lines.

[Delta40]

Only those who set themselves up to be mocked, as you well know.

H

This forum is for people to post their favourite poems by other Lit-Netters. Am I suddenly a stickler for respect?

I love reading your posts Hill and don't have a problem at all with your opinion of Wolfs work but not everyone shares your view as you well know.

I don't believe this particular forum should be used when it is so obvious that Wolf's poem along with your comments is not your favourite. As far as I'm concerned, it is not genuine, it is insulting and despite Wolf's writings, he is a fellow member and is entitled to the same respect that other members get.

If you continue to feel the need to mock him, then post your thoughts in his threads.

[Jack of Hearts]

Here's a poster this reader misses seeing on these boards (as if this thread needs another one of these). Here's a time and sense of community this reader misses seeing on these boards. Although it's a mystery why she insisted on calling bortleman 'bartleby.'

'Through The LitNet Glass, or, EveryAdventure in Wonderland' by everyadventure

Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
-Lewis Carroll

Urged by
vague
curiosity
I peer at LitNet
through the glowing screen
Of my MacBook
I lean closer—
too close!—
and fall

A wondrous
tumbling
head over
heels over
head
Words pass me by
I reach for them
metallic
messy
meows
But they are not solid matter
I fall
and
fall
and while away
the time
by penning a poem
in my head

I land with a
THUMP
in the
middle
of a forum
I search for an exit
at last spying
a tiny door
“This is absurd!”
I stamp
one slippered foot
“I am much
much
much
too large.”

A sharp, rude prod
against my backside
I whirl around
to face
Of all things
a Goose

“I beg your pardon!
Did you just poke me
with that horrid, hardened
beak?”

The Goose gazes at me
with one shiny eye
and gives a regal nod
Her beak opens
and out rolls
a vial
that stops at my feet

I pick it up
“Drink Me,”
I read.
The goose nods
encouragement as
I uncork
the bottle and

hesitate

before lifting her criticism to my lips
I drink
swallow
And am promptly
shrunk down to size
I’m relieved to find
I don’t go out altogether,
as a candle.

“Thank you!” I call
over my shoulder
as I scurry
through
the door
and emerge
in a lush garden

“Perhaps I
can find someone
to show me the way.”
I soon come upon
a most curious creature
languishing on a mushroom’s cap
ardently suckling
his hookah

“Hello!” I call.
He looks down
from his fungal throne
and envelops me
in an
exhalation

I try again
“Hello,”
I say,
“Who are you?”

He s t r e t c h e s
to his full height
“I
am
Jerrybaldy!
And w h o o o o
are you?”

Who indeed?
“I know who I was
when I got up this morning
but I think
I must have been
changed
several times since then.”

“You must be Missing,”
he surmises
“Recite!”
as though a poem
will bring me back
to myself

I begin
with Bronte
“My God! O let me call Thee mine!”
Jerrybaldy reddens with rage
“It is wrong
from beginning to end!”

He leans low
and shouts
“There is no God!”
His skin splits
and he is freed
of his casing
wings unfurl
and off he flies
leaving me
still
quite grounded

Curiouser and curiouser.

I walk on
and come across
a pigeon
all aflutter
“A Preposterous Affair!”
she splutters,
speaking
of eggs
and nests,
of earth
and spring
Then points
with an elegant
feathered wing

“A serpent!” she accuses
“No, no,” I protest
“A poet, not a serpent!”
But it’s useless

“I can see
you’re trying to
invent something!”
she cries
“And as we all know,
a poet never tries!”

I’ve had quite enough
and take my leave

It isn’t long before
I hear a meow
And look up at a
cat
perched on a bough

It looks good natured;
still,
it has VERY
l o n g claws
and a great many
teeth
and I feel it ought
to be treated
with respect

“Hillwalker,”
he purrs
in answer
to my unspoken question

“Hillwalker, please,
would you tell me
which way to go from here?”

“That depends
a good deal
on where you want
to get to.”

“I don’t much care---”

“This,” he purrs,
“Is a case
of the tail
wagging
the dog.”
And with that
he vanishes.

I’m feeling giddy
not nearly as grounded
as I was this morning
but there’s nothing to do
but keep going

At last I see
a table
decked for tea
“Finally, civilized people!”
I sit beside a young man
with a hat
that
perches precariously
upon his head.

He extends a
gloved
gentlemanly
hand.

“How do you do?” I ask politely.

“Lonely with cold sincere thoughts,”
he confesses.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I reply.
“But perhaps we should find
some more palatable
conversation?”

He clasps gloved hands
in delight
“Rumours of gossips!”

“Oh dear,” I say
“That wouldn’t be polite.”

“How about a riddle?” he asks
crumbs of bread and butter
falling from his mouth
“If we are sole judge on are merits
are merits of luxury?”

I ponder and ponder
but find no answer.
“I’m very sorry,
but I still have a
ways to go.”
He waves me
graciously
onward

I spot
two fingerposts
pointing
the same direction
One marked
“To Bartleby’s House,”
the other,
“To Grit’s House”

The path takes a turn
and there I see
two men
each with an arm
round
the other’s neck

“Could you tell me,
please,
which is the best
way for me?”

They grin
And say in unison
“The woods!
The woods!
All good stories
end in the woods!”

“But…
I don’t want to end,
I just want to leave!”

“Take a dog,”
advises Grit
“Or a cat,”
counsels Bartleby.

But I have neither
(where is Hillwalker
when I need him?)
and continue
alone

I finally emerge
in a grassy clearing
rimmed by a row
of tidy rose hedges

Jack of Hearts
is busily painting
white blooms
scarlet

“Who are those for?” I ask,
pointing to the
roses
He turns to me
sincerity seizes all his features
and the shiny coins of his eyes
gleam
“They’re for… uh…
my queen.”

“The queen!” I declare
“There is a queen?”

Jack paints with nervous vigor
“Of course there is a queen!”
As if on cue
I hear the blare
of trumpets
A procession!
Led by a minstrel
(or perhaps a prince?)
tooting his own horn
His notes scatter
in an apparently
aimless
way

And there!
The queen!
Naked, glorious,
resplendent girth!
“Halt!” she bellows,
spying me.
She points a blood-red
fingernail
“She has stolen my poem
and given it to another!
Off with her
head!”

"Wait! Wait!"
I exclaim

"Alright
right
right
I'll wait
wait
wait
but only because
you asked me to."

“Please,” I begin,
“I’d rather play
croquet?”

[Jack of Hearts]

'Serenade' by Hawkman

At night, having drawn my curtains
tight against a streetlight’s sodium glow,
I would lie in bed, and hear birdsong.

How loud it was, persistent as the blades
of orange light which inched through gaps
and painted bars upon the wall.

I used to think it was a nightingale
that etched my dreams, with notes like motes
in Brownian motion, caught by sunbeams.

But it was just a robin, gulled
by artificial day, whose music swam
through shade to penetrate my daze.

False nightingale, with your deceitful trills,
no longer do I hear your calls
while drifting to the arms of sleep.

Like the fox’s bark from starlit fields
and distant woods’ bass-fluted owls,
time muted you as walls could not.

[Jack of Hearts]

'Credo' by firefangled


This is the best I can do:
that day in the blackberries,
at my feet, the fat copperhead stretched out
motionless and shining,
under the green briars,
under the blue sky,
its scales like fallen leaves.

It was when I drew blood in the brambles
and it dropped on the snake
that I noticed him, noticed him
so still, and I thought of You,

hiding in the distant field,
in the grasses and pied Sycamore.
I heard You,
in the frail air,
circling like a hyphen
between heaven and earth.

This is how I believe,
between dim moonlight
and the ferocity of the sun.
You need not wake
to waken me,
but in the thorns,
I think I've felt your touch.

[Jack of Hearts]

'Jasmine Bursting in Air' by firefangled


In a vase on the piano,
flowers from the Spring or Summer,
fragrance blending with the octaves,
the metronome filling the room.
The window pane fails to divide the light,
but leaves its bars along the wall,
where my silhouette bends and plays
until evening comes for me.

Through the morning glass, Jasmine climbs
the trellis like a simple song
that reminds me of Gardenia.
The trees break sun and shade like keys,
to lie against the garden wall.
The Jasmine blossoms, delicate,
like notes written for the right hand,
flourish under fingers unseen.

The Hummingbirds play the pistils,
draw the sweet nectar from the chime,
and with their wings the drone of bass.
Scale presents itself in mystery—
how do we listen to the guns?
From the thunder comes brass lightning,
from that the quiet, where death sounds
in this garden’s lean symphony.

The flowers of the Fall are red.
For now, we listen intently;
Pianissimo blows the wind
across the strings of future songs—
of victory in the mangled streets;
in public halls the heroes praised.
Make your anthem from the Jasmine,
freedom knows how it came to be.

[Jack of Hearts]

how many people does it take
to paint a table?


one to apply
lush paint strokes

another to perform
itty-bitty touch ups

touch up where he said

everywhere I said

nice he said

and so we work
eyes closed

This is my favourite poem on here; it's got so much feeling compressed within a few lines.

This is an amazing poem by Queen Ja- erm, Haunted, from her thread 'A Short Collection of Trashy Poems' (although the thread's title is misleading on many levels).







J

[Jack of Hearts]

'The sun, that peppercorn' by PrinceMyskin



The sun, that peppercorn,
shines as if it were
the naked face of God.

Beneath it, we huddle
in the sanctuaries - Khartoum, Edinburgh, Mumbai
- we have sketched,
we here, others there.

Underneath that, the lesser peppercorns
scatter on their apparently
aimless way...

[Mutatis-Mutandis]

I must write more. One of my poems being posted here would help with my continuing need for validation.

[DieterM]

There are so many excellent poems, some of which have already been reposted here. In order to draw everyone's attention to the fabulous Contest Section, here are two or three (or more) of my favourites out of the Minimalist Poetry Contest.

Let's start with this one :

"Punctuation" by jajdude

He smoked his cigarettes like commas,
or sometimes like semi-colons;
Vague the meaning was.

[DieterM]

"Building" by YesNo

I built a castle in the sand.
The waves pushed it away.
The castles built up in my mind
Won't leave. They tend to stay.

[DieterM]

"#0" by Haunted

I’m just fine thanks
yes I got disconnected
no I don’t know the number
no don’t know the name either
ummm actually...........
...........
I have no one to call.
none.
................did you know
......you can implode
in a void
here I am, alone
in a dark place
dying inside as we speak
...
operator can you please
reconnect me

[Bar22do]

Boo by the sea
by Jerrybaldy


Upon Paignton pier on a winters day,
half hearted, half open,
winkles on special, whelks out of stock,
we walked on frosted planks,
past ice cream signs, lit by a watery sun.
On a beach with no chairs,
no laughter, no buckets, no spades,
we strolled wrapped in scarves,
with dreams of a warm café
and a hug from a hot mug of tea.
Sleeping arcades offered no jackpots
a sign politely ordered, not to feed the gulls,
a poster declared who was coming
to the Playhouse, last May.
An ambulance parked on the prom
awaited a pensioners fall.
A hand rail flaked white paint,
as we followed a bleak shore
with an optimism you found,
amidst the February grey.
That’s the warmth,
that you gifted to me.
Neon in hibernation, no music,
as you held my gloved hand
I dreamt of the
summers we planned ,
whilst etching our names
with a chilled flotsam branch
in the sand.

[AuntShecky]

Excellent choice! ^^^^

[Jack of Hearts]

JB is good to read.





J

[AuntShecky]

Originally posted by Delta40



I stood half dressed under
the waning crescent,
exposed to flashes of his
brilliant light.
I can fix your problem
So I let his deft hands do their work,
bewildered at my powerlessness.
Yet in my heart I knew
our midnight encounter
would bear no receipt.
I trembled.
Nobody would find a record
that we ever knew each other.
My guilty conscience spoke
This is off the books isn't it?
He pocketed the cash smiling.
You already blew one fuse tonight honey'.
Who understands men, I thought,
as he prepared to leave me.
Why blow another?

[Delta40]

It's always an honour to find my work posted here!

[Delta40]

A Favourite of mine:


No-one knows from whence they came
Only that they wish they'd go
Conquest of Earth appears their aim
Clogging up cities as they grow

And huge! They are large as rhinos
If large is the word to employ
Pink elephants! declare local winos
But whichever they bring no joy

A hobo found the first one in a creek
Near a sewer behind the bio-lab
It was studied for longer than a week
They finally paid him not to blab

Don't tell the papers or the tv news
It will cause panic and a riot
This thing can't be contained in zoos
Not even if we put it on a diet

As big as it is (which is the first prob)
It doesn't posess a definite form
For it to escape would be an easy job
Squeeze through bars and reform

Before long the gasbag had multiplied
Popped in millions of little bubbles
Huge sum only a physicist might divide
(Probably cause sleeping troubles)

They expand so fast around the centre
And up above and down below
Can't see the mouth for food to enter
So how do these buggers grow?

Do they absorb nutrients - how much
In order to grow this gigantic?
Polluted air and stinky sweat - such
That when they pop we're frantic!

You'd think the trade'd be a good thing
These moppers up of airborn junk
Except the final act won't make you sing
Huge explosion, stench and gunk

Scientists have worked hard all month
On these nuisances to eradicate
Research shows they're made of someth-
Which fresh air makes evaporate!

It was a simple discovery - a window
Left ajar, high up in old Blue Ridge
A laboratory where tests require snow
Or atmosphere resembling a fridge

And that was it for the Bubbleblobs
Now the last was shipped away
Never more crowds of wobbly mobs
Nor stinky pongs, nor dismay

[rompfyizhuji]

I like this sentence "The night is a room,
Stepping into the door of the dusk
You were changed into a shadow from an entity".

[MorpheusSandman]

A poem after my own heart:

Stressed by Hawkman:

Great spondee with your heavy feet,
a trochee cried dismayed,
Don’t step on me and squash me flat,
you’d really spoil my day.

A passing iamb heard the shout
and rushed to her defence,
then brandishing a metre stick
declared in present tense,

Avast, desist, break-off I say,
stand back a pace, right now
refuse and dactyls I will loose,
with anapests, I vow.

The spondee was outnumbered
and he knew when he was beat,
so slowly turned upon his heel
then lumbered in retreat.

The trochee and the iamb
then observed how they were matched;
a perfect mating couple,
so their mutual itch they scratched.

[aliengirl]

Apples by Delta definitely belongs here -



Apples
I picked up the fallen apple
and placed it in my pinny
to munch on later
under the family tree.

When I felt Dad's whiskers
rub against my face,
I softened so
and peeled away some
of its skin.

When Mum was raving mad
she withdrew all her love
and I bit off chunks
till I gnawed through
to the core.

When I grew up,
I passed the old seeds
to my daughter
who said don't worry,
she had a half eaten apple
of her own.

[Hawkman]

This, most certainly, deserves to be here...


(I love you)

I sat on the deck
and watched him
push the yellow hand mower
back and forth,
clickety click click,
while the autumn breeze
filled the sleeves
of his shirts
hanging from the washing line
to their true size.
Fresh.
His hands yanked at weeds,
desperate to get at the root.
I lined all the used beer caps
in a row, murmuring,
Clickety click click
and lost myself
in struggling vines,
changing hues
and termite infested wood.
Stale.
Then there was no more noise,
no more wind,
no more weeds.
Wrapped in a blanket,
we shared a full moon,
an empty washing line
and enough pain
to set a blazing fire
that would thaw the frost
of any autumn night.
Clickety click click.

[Jack of Hearts]

'Four fine people with songs in their chests' by Silas Thorne

There's four fine people with songs in their chests:

The first man, on the stairs,
open-throats a Spanish hymn,
pacing it back and forth to the roof
but wishing it further.

The second man stumbles,
blues chords tangling in a white beard.
With his arms down low,
he's looking for the key to the storeroom.

The third fine person has long legs
and a purple dress,
and she hums past a song
as I let out my breath.

[Silas Thorne]

Oh wow, cool, thanks Jack of Hearts!

Here's one of my favorites among the poems I've read recently. By hallaig. :

The Secret of Fire


You come to meet me
through the rain.
I am talking animatedly,
but thinking all the time
it is like being beside a flame,
and when you are gone,
passed through the weather
to burn miles from here,
I sit in this damp place
with its light green as lichen
like some primitive man
with only water
and the memory of fire,
wondering whether out there
metaphors still roam the earth
to describe
how much I love you.

[Delta40]

wet sand by Jerrybaldy

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I am digging for the wet sand
To build a castle
In pain with the grains beneath my nails
Ice cream stains on my vest
Unbroken heart held
In my pigeon chest
The sea is calling me
Jerry
I run toes stubbing rocks
Frightening fish
The bed falls away
And there’s mum
There’s dad
Waving
Hello mum
Hello dad
You are like them both
But further away
I can see the cliffs
I can see the sky
More and more blue
Between me and you
Soon a dolphin will take me back
I will hold on to its fin
That castle will not build itself
You look like you belong there
Together waving at me
I have drifted past the piers end
You should be proud
I am my own man
Your shouts are drowned
By seagulls cries
I dive to the depths
In Scooby doo trunks
Where sunlight cannot reach
To find wet sand to build a castle
Grasped in my small hand
I rise like a hopeful bubble
And burst into open ocean air
Seagulls lend me wings
To cumulinimbus
Here in the sky
My trunks dripping water
Back to the seas
I suck on an icecream
And wave goodbye.

[miyako73]

The Fifth Circle

By Hawkman

My inner sword is hard and sharp,
folded steel
tempered in fire,
under duress.

When I engage in battle
all my energy
is concentrated in the cut,
I do not slash.

I can cut you with my hand,
by thinking—
I can cut you
with a wooden stick

Hear me, my enemy,
my love,
victory is achieved
without drawing the sword.

I am the river
and the waterwheel.

[Jack of Hearts]

The Death of Etan Patz by PrinceMyshkin





A spider drops
from a web
slung across the corner
of a basement room,
and scurries away.

[Silas Thorne]

'Unswallowed' by JerryBaldy

Its all too beautiful
To mean nothing
Erectile tissue
Pre come
The angels that flap their wings
As your labia
Blossom
The spermatazoa
Unswallowed
That will make little Charlie
And make us whole
Its all too beautiful
Pass me tissues
I love yous
Only the gods up above
Could have gave us so much love
Turn me on
Tell me how you masturbated
Your fingers
Were the holy ghost
Come walk with me in daffodils
Lets screw amidst the yellow
There is more to life
The poet writing you words
The artist painting your pastels
The office creep
Massaging your ego
They all want to do you
It’s a great sunset
I could sell tickets
Gods are dead
It’s a lonely rock
Ruled by
some f uckers c ock.

[Jerrybaldy]

Thank you Silas. You never can tell what will end up here :)

[PoeticPassions]

The Death of Etan Patz by PrinceMyshkin





A spider drops
from a web
slung across the corner
of a basement room,
and scurries away.


This indeed is beautiful, and so sad. I've been following the whole Etan Patz case as of late.. reading everything on it.. for some reason I am so torn over this boy and the crime that occurred so many years ago, and also intrigued by the case...

Thanks for sharing, Jack. And thanks for writing, Prince.

[PrinceMyshkin]

This indeed is beautiful, and so sad. I've been following the whole Etan Patz case as of late.. reading everything on it.. for some reason I am so torn over this boy and the crime that occurred so many years ago, and also intrigued by the case...

Thanks for sharing, Jack. And thanks for writing, Prince.

Thank you, PoeticPassions. One of the scariest things about that episode is that we all share something of Pedro Hernandez' make-up and
we each of us have been or might yet be an Etan Patz.

P.S. I noticed in your profile that one of your favourite books is Tender is the Night, as it is one of mine, but I very seldom see mention of it. When I picked up William Styron's Lie Down in Darkness years ago, I was struck by a metric similarity in the title with title of the Fitzgerakd novel though I can't remember any parallels in the novel itself - although I thought it fine.

[Jack of Hearts]

'To L' by DocHeart

I promise you there is a future;
Not evident behind my smoke, perhaps,
But every bit as real as fragrant skin
Which patiently awaits undressing.

Inside its veins flows a magic fluid
Which can light up your cities
If you drink it; And if you bathe in it,
The itching of a hundred yesterdays dies.

It's all in white now; look, it has wings.
A far cry from the devil you imagined.
Why don't we take it to bed with us
I can kiss it. You can drink it.

[PoeticPassions]

Thank you, PoeticPassions. One of the scariest things about that episode is that we all share something of Pedro Hernandez' make-up and
we each of us have been or might yet be an Etan Patz.

P.S. I noticed in your profile that one of your favourite books is Tender is the Night, as it is one of mine, but I very seldom see mention of it. When I picked up William Styron's Lie Down in Darkness years ago, I was struck by a metric similarity in the title with title of the Fitzgerakd novel though I can't remember any parallels in the novel itself - although I thought it fine.


Yes, it is true what you say about Etan and about Pedro.... I guess it is difficult for us as human beings to accept a crime without a clear motive... The absurdity in it, or the senselessness...

And yes, I have not yet encountered someone who notes Tender as one of their favorite novels. I have read several Fitzgerald works and tend to think that Tender is the best (I've read it twice... but the two readings presented quite a different experience). What is it about the novel that you love?
I haven't read Lie Down in Darkness, but you are right about the metric similarity of the title... I wonder if the author was aware of it.

[Jack of Hearts]

'of emptiness and light' by firefangled

how glorious
to be made
of small things,
the light passes
through us,
even in the shade
we shine, we glow
silently to eyes,
so made of waves,
like fields of grass,
the finest soil,
and those in which
the oceans rise.

[Jack of Hearts]

'The Moon and the Tree' by DocHeart

"I'm tired," sighed the moon,
Pale and waning,
And leant to the right
To rest its back
On dark branches
That reached up
To receive it.

"Rest here," cooed the tree,
"I've doused my leaves
In the rare moisture
Of eyes that see your golden skin
And cry."

[Jack of Hearts]

'City of Mind' by firefangled

Some day there will be a city,
the moonlight will bring
while we are sleeping.

There children are parents,
strong and wise, and you
will watch them make worlds.

Their energy will be yours
from many years, flowing back,
a reflection you may refuse,

but you’ll feel it is your own
sweet youth, which never left,
but was borrowed for awhile.

In this city, I will be with you,
a husband, and we will walk,
along a path or beach or street

with great beauty. Clouds will
shade our eyes, as a pure rain
falls on flowers no one picks,

because they are everywhere,
and everyone simply is in love.

[Adolescent09]

Man firefangled is god... I mean good*** :D :D :D

[Jack of Hearts]

His work is nothing short of fantastic.







J

[Bar22do]

What a poem! Fire! I fell in love with it!!!!


'City of Mind' by firefangled

Some day there will be a city,
the moonlight will bring
while we are sleeping.

There children are parents,
strong and wise, and you
will watch them make worlds.

Their energy will be yours
from many years, flowing back,
a reflection you may refuse,

but you’ll feel it is your own
sweet youth, which never left,
but was borrowed for awhile.

In this city, I will be with you,
a husband, and we will walk,
along a path or beach or street

with great beauty. Clouds will
shade our eyes, as a pure rain
falls on flowers no one picks,

because they are everywhere,
and everyone simply is in love.

[Bar22do]

Congratulations, Doc, it's wonderful!

'The Moon and the Tree' by DocHeart

"I'm tired," sighed the moon,
Pale and waning,
And leant to the right
To rest its back
On dark branches
That reached up
To receive it.

"Rest here," cooed the tree,
"I've doused my leaves
In the rare moisture
Of eyes that see your golden skin
And cry."

[Bar22do]

This poem is breathtaking! excellent!

It is by DieterM:

Morning in 127 BPM

… with boom boom boom,
progressive instants hammer out
of little plastic balls
in ears smelling of citrus,
synthetic cadences beating the day,
percussing streets and houses
while my feet move on and on,
the morning freshness bearing
promises of smould’ring hours to come,
and cars, unheard, slow down, accelerate,
and on I walk and on and on,
reality framed into one hundred
and twenty seven fragments every minute,
while sentences and pictures
swirl around the think tank,
bumping into one another,
Spain is burning, how to barbecue a pizza,
and those 8,000 from Peugeot
soon to be unemployed,
and have I put my keys into the bag?,
and boom boom boom, I march,
light, shadow, light,
a city portion flickers by
in boom boom boom three steps,
I cross two handsome men,
unsmiling, yet their pectorals
under taut shirts put me
in a state of pure euphoria,
a couple, hand in hand, walks by,
leaving a wafting trail of
CK eternities playing with Givenchy,
and boom boom boom,
the road is long but
distance insubstantial
while the music blares…

[Delta40]

(One of our best loved poets)

You stood arched, seeking balance,
by green supermarket bins,
veined hands caught, as if, in quicksand.

I thought of a tree, heavily bent,
needles scattered over rock,
roots at the mercy of uncommitted soil;

of an eyeless street lamp forcing its leg
into the concrete, and around it -
meanders of dried pee and scattered glass;

of August's second full moon in a blue halo:
its shades, I mused, like your features:
worn out, fading.

I wished a mighty draft would come and -
in a whirl - seam shut the sight.

[Bar22do]

Dear Delta, thank you! It is so kind of you.

[Jerrybaldy]

Sorry to double park you in the favourites aisle. This one of yours has that indiscernible quality (its just as well or we would all be nailing it), that we all strive to capture. Hence, I cannot say what you captured or how you captured it, but with certainty, you captured this reader. I can say that it has harvest imagery, a longing and yearning, loss, a nostalgia and maybe most imortantly it manages the voodoo of having a sum greater than its eight line parts.

Here is how its done:




After The Crop

Don't go: late summer's soughs
linger in the hoary olive groves
in Kidron Valley,
silvery leaves blacken fast
as the moon takes over.
Do you hear? Now the gate
to the oil press house creaks open.

In autumn I'll anoint you king.

[Bar22do]

Gosh, thanks Jerry! (I wish this capacity of capturing could happen to me more often! ah)

[wsww]

ah.... i love all the 3 of them in beauty the are washed to be shone .....

[Bar22do]

Melancholia

Darkness tiptoes down the cobbled lane,
slithers over stones and weeping cobwebs,
shakes ghostly hands before her windows,
slides through the keyhole of her front door
and settles like a mourning nightgown
on her skinny shoulders, on her sagging skin.
With weary, bloodshot eyes, she gazes over
the sombre realm outside where streetlamps
bite with acid blandness into cotton fogs
and chew on undressed trees. She chews, as well,
on memories piled up around her rocking chair
like dusty books she’s read a thousand times.
The frozen mirror in her back, gone blind with age,
reflects the languid candlelight that shines
and flickers through the solidly black room.
Her trembling fingers, damp and cold and rheumy,
try to untangle her grey and plaited hair,
but finally give up. She feels too far away
for sighs and sobs, feels beyond life.
The butcher’s knife bearing her name
falls to the floor. She reaches up
and paints her withering face with liquid makeup
and clotting lipstick. Her last date
is waiting in the fogs…

[aliengirl]

Well, I'm a fan of Deltasquen poetry. This is one of my favorites. I won't say one of her best because the lady seldom writes anything below that level. With many thanks to dear Delta. :)

Early Map Maker

An old man sat on the shore
and wondered,
What is this world
I journey through?
Rats can tread in water
for three days and nights
fish die from seasickness
and hurricanes last for ten moons.
He etched the constant
full horizon of his thoughts
onto a rocky cave wall
without the art of written word.
Long after he was swept away,
all that was left
of his map of the world
was an oblique perspective
of the village in which he had lived.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I'm a longstanding member of the Delta40 fan club, and this only enhances my appreciation of her wrk.

[aliengirl]

I'm a longstanding member of the Delta40 fan club, and this only enhances my appreciation of her work.

Welcome to the club. :cheers2:

[Emil Miller]

If poets paint with words, then Cacian's are the equivalent of Jackson Pollock's.
It's difficlt to choose one from those I've enjoyed but here's one that takes some beating.
I'm particularly fond of the last verse.

dust to dust



the wrath
the anger
the body builder
they all tease
fate
harbour a taste
in case
a face
comes daring praise

the wrath
the thunder
the heaving blunder
they all clutch
a burning rage
they brood
rude
whenever shrude
gets on their mood

the wrath
the tard
the blast of pasts,
whatever caged
the bitter feist
let ill all churn
turn into gurn
and it won't burn

[cacian]

Emil I am really flattered I thank you so much. Sorry I did not see this until now.:)

[Emil Miller]

Emil I am really flattered I thank you so much. Sorry I did not see this until now.:)

I'm truly humbled.

[AuntShecky]

A Well is Just a Hole by firefangled

Walking in the rain some say
it is safe to cry,
but this is not true for me,
just as drinking whiskey
does not make it easy
to give up smoking.

I suppose if my hamburger
groaned between my teeth,
I would stop to see
what was happening,
look for eyes and a mouth
and finding none, continue
tearing at the processed shoulder
and chew, until it was mush,

not the time to go vegetarian
with the lettuce and tomato
there cheering you on.

And here is the recruiter,
with his gamer attitude,
showing how you can use your skills
from Halo to avert a clash
of satellites or guide Drones
out to find the flowers,
the desert wedding planned for months
near great-great-grandmother’s well,
near the compound closed on weekends.

[firefangled]

I seldom come here, but I see I should participate more, for I have many favorite poets here and I should recognize them. It is so encouraging to see poems I have written here. Thank you, Auntie. Thanks to Jack and Bar all who have posted a poem of mine here and I didn't see it.

[miyako73]

I wonder why no one puts this one in here. So I'll do it. I think it deserves to be in here.


Nostalgia for Post-modern Recession on the News


Tuesday
certainly closes with the sadness
only found in laminate floors,
in unfinished townhouses
in unfinished neighborhoods,
in this city’s recently vast yet
unfinished suburbs.

and love hangs from another cherry tree
in Fred and Laura's backyard,
hangs from the neck until another
murder suicide is complete,
as the half-finished house is
repossessed
and two children resort
to convex mirrors
and semi-legal drugs
and inauthenticity
to sort things out

clocks fail, spin backwards,
and drenched in diazepam,
we –the generation of lost perspectives-
cross out rather
unpoetic lines
that mean little more than the
bones and shadows of tomorrow’s
headlines at this
point.

disembodied shoes march by,
-my feverish memories of a sidewalk-
suggestive of
a forest without trees,
a charity without a cause,
a **** without an orgasm,
even if her skin is reminiscent
of a bottle filled
with several credit card receipts,
even if she's somewhat claustrophobic
(forget fluoxetine)
after I paint her in a dark shade
of taupe
and leave her to fellate the second-hand hours
exquisitely.

what are we?
misplaced heroes; humiliation;
the executioners of what’s
still cliché?

not life, not death,
but you and I and
so many failed histories
sprawled across a fake granite counter top,
****ing the sorrow out of the first half
of the hour seven,
Wednesday morning.

[islandclimber]

Miyako, I must say, I am honoured to find my piece here. Thank you.

I have not visited this part of the site before; it's certainly humbling to peruse the fantastic poetry that has been placed here.

[islandclimber]

A couple of my own favourites from when I was on this site long ago.





Deliverance In Blue
-For Carol (17 Miles of rain)

I say,
blue drips from your wet skin
like John Coltrane’s
last
late
night set...

you frown like I must be one too
many empty glasses.

When it showers I wonder
why grass is not blue or teal, like green
held some power, or made a deal
in another life
to be the king and queen
of color,
or demanded equal time…

with what, you say?

with the seven seas,
everyone thinks are blue...
and you walk away,
that frown again

come back...

the black
sea,
what about that?

now you’re playing...
people think
it’s blue
too.

and waterfalls?...

white?

like your eyes, I say,
now we’re getting
somewhere...
stand
back
from the falls,

now what?

mist, you say, must
we do this… and why?

just for fun,
what color is the mist?

Clear as a tear...
it’s all a trick,
water and light play…

(as if that explained
anything)

see the sky,
blue
sky,
all water or what?

a tidal wave crosses your face,
white eyes skyward,
you walk away,

catch me later in a word breeze...

in a Key West dive

seduce
me

to a room,

Coltrane’s
raining on the slick
night air where

the blue-neon-last-round-call,
in flats
and sharps
catches us
making blue
notes at a
window’s

moonlit silver
grass
whispers

[islandclimber]

And this piece by PrinceMyshkin, it is a shame to no longer see his frequently sublime contributions to this section of the site...






The day they invented my mind
the committee almost came to blows.
Clouds like overblown cannon-balls
boomed against the skies.
Pieces of weather fell everywhere.

Some of the committee proposed,
as a compromise,
to issue me one of those new,
one-size-fits-all, chromium-wired
minds with floating interstices.

The weather continued to rage.
I waited.

Sometimes I feel
I’m waiting still.


Jerry Newman (C) July 12/ 09

[islandclimber]

This poem, the use of language, is just beautiful.


A rainless window. And I,
indifferent, parsed the night,
absently twined the wind at ease
between my fingers tracing
the city silhouettes. Contoured
a new night in this newfound
canvas.


Wings
of dormant birds are beating low.
The mind is slow.
The speed of this hand
perpetual in its want to wipe off
the sacrilege of far-off neon-lights--
surly outlanders of the night.


With the wind the voice
of a waif whose night it is
comes in a slow, broken song.
I know the child, I know
the passerby who cut him off.
I know the city’s skyline divides
the night,
this night I don’t know, can’t remember.


It must rain tonight.
For me to write it must.
Wash this window off its obscenities,
off the cities and off their lights
of filths, and flashes, and flames.


Where is the love in this?
Where are the Persian poets
of love? One can only wake up
in muslin mornings and feel Hafez gaze
at a similar silken air,
twining the same wind
in knowing fingers.
And mornings become
of memories of tombstones…

you, who is cast away
from man and sanctioned company
you, who here must assay
Love: this be your sanctuary.


And it must rain this dawn.
For me to live it must.
The city must hang
in the camera obscura,
the moon a mere fresco
in a moonspurned room.


- Symphony

[qimissung]

I wonder why no one puts this one in here. So I'll do it. I think it deserves to be in here.


Nostalgia for Post-modern Recession on the News


Tuesday
certainly closes with the sadness
only found in laminate floors,
in unfinished townhouses
in unfinished neighborhoods,
in this city’s recently vast yet
unfinished suburbs.

and love hangs from another cherry tree
in Fred and Laura's backyard,
hangs from the neck until another
murder suicide is complete,
as the half-finished house is
repossessed
and two children resort
to convex mirrors
and semi-legal drugs
and inauthenticity
to sort things out

clocks fail, spin backwards,
and drenched in diazepam,
we –the generation of lost perspectives-
cross out rather
unpoetic lines
that mean little more than the
bones and shadows of tomorrow’s
headlines at this
point.

disembodied shoes march by,
-my feverish memories of a sidewalk-
suggestive of
a forest without trees,
a charity without a cause,
a **** without an orgasm,
even if her skin is reminiscent
of a bottle filled
with several credit card receipts,
even if she's somewhat claustrophobic
(forget fluoxetine)
after I paint her in a dark shade
of taupe
and leave her to fellate the second-hand hours
exquisitely.

what are we?
misplaced heroes; humiliation;
the executioners of what’s
still cliché?

not life, not death,
but you and I and
so many failed histories
sprawled across a fake granite counter top,
****ing the sorrow out of the first half
of the hour seven,
Wednesday morning.

Now this is poetry.

[firefangled]

From Personal Poetry by Delta.

Dirty Laundry


Washboard lies
wakeful nights
all that scrubbing
like a fat irish woman
whose thick arms have
crushed child after child
against her breast.
Would that her pudgy hands
plunge into such soapy untruths,
the bubbles resting on her brow
under a morning sun and
a long lost song
till she finally wrings out
the mighty cups
where they swing so free
to drip dry on the family tree
and future stains kneel
beneath them
their mouths wide open.

[Delta40]

Thanks so much FF but I'm fighting to keep the cup for this poem...

[Jerrybaldy]

This used to be regularly used as people felt the need to put an exceptional piece of work here. It's lack of use since January is a sad indicator of the demise of this forum.

[Jack of Hearts]

Wax and wane? Come and go? The forum certainly misses hillwalker anchoring it down.





J

[AuntShecky]

This used to be regularly used as people felt the need to put an exceptional piece of work here. It's lack of use since January is a sad indicator of the demise of this forum.

That must be some mote in your eye that you can't see the gems beaming right back atcha, such as this one. (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?75726-One-of-Those-Days)

It's definitely yours fooly's "favorite poem from a LitNutter."

[Bar22do]

dying with brio...

8938

[Delta40]

I definitely second Bar but I'm glowing inside Auntie!

[AuntShecky]

Sometimes, there is nothing more to say:


The pier.

Pink sugar spun to floss
sending a warm sweet scent
curling between amusement machines
of cherries and bells
and tunes that play
in the smokey chattering heat
of the pier at night.

Beneath, rusted columns
sink to black water.

Fat spits from a burger on a hot plate,
outside, by the wide mouthed clown
collecting wooden balls
for winners of a fluffy
personified carrot.

A boy looks over the rail
wondering how deep.

A man in a cap blows smoke
from both nostrils
through a moustache that once was dark
and had led Mary to call him Valentino.
He pushes his glasses back up his nose
and aims his smoke at the moon.

The boy sees the moon dance
from wave to wave.

Gypsy Lea is waiting behind a red velvet curtain.
A woman with a polystyrene cup of tea,
cooling beneath a washing line
of coloured bulbs,
wonders whether to dare go in.

"Legs eleven"
the bingo caller shouts in static.
Old moustache man whistles
into a westerly wind.

The woman with the polystyrene cup
blows steam toward a couple holding hands,
who are wishing romantically upon the moon
that dances from dark wave to dark wave
for the boy leaning on the rail.

The couple orbit each other
In a mock waltz.

They will return in twenty years
to where they met.
Moustache man will be dead,
Mary still remembers her Valentino.
The clown still laughing
it's belly full of wooden balls.
Gypsy Lea foretold her own end.
The lady who never went in,
walks on the prom,
with alzheimer's and
a tall grey stranger.


Pink candy, sweet, still fills the air.

The boy is a man
and as the tune of three bells
fills the pier
and the painted bulbs
sway in a westerly wind,
he stares
transfixed still,
by the cold black lure of the sea.

[Jack of Hearts]

Untitled by qimissung

I was imprisoned
By the knave
His wild heart
Wrapped in tapestry and furs
Enslaved me
Though I wore a poker face
He always knew, he always knew
What I was thinking
My heart on my sleeve
His for the plucking
Grief, lusterless and white
Lies on my brow
And small children
Will not walk in my shadow
Oh jack, but still your face
Your face upon my eyelids in the dark

[Jack of Hearts]

Untitled by qimissung

I was imprisoned
By the knave
His wild heart
Wrapped in tapestry and furs
Enslaved me
Though I wore a poker face
He always knew, he always knew
What I was thinking
My heart on my sleeve
His for the plucking
Grief, lusterless and white
Lies on my brow
And small children
Will not walk in my shadow
Oh jack, but still your face
Your face upon my eyelids in the dark

[Delta40]

My balls are tucked in tight
To this season's Calvin kleins'.
In this self conscious scrotum world
This is dressed up to the nines.
They hang outside the body
For a temperature just right.
Sometimes seen in the daytime,
Always out at night.
If some bastard
Gives them a kick
They make their owners
Physically sick.
Their wrinkly skin
Will make you laugh
Like an octogenarian
Too long in the bath.
They move on their own
And often not together
They may just be a sex toy
As they are clearly made of leather.
I think they may be alien
They seem to be extra terrestrials.
You could be kissing ET
When licking, etcetera, testicles.
They have more blue veins
Than auntie Vera' s calves.
They are in this thing together
They don't do things by halves.
"I find them super s s sexy",
You tell me with your stutter.
I think you may well stamp on them
If you found them in a gutter.
They are there to just make babies,
To describe their role succinctly.
And that is why your offspring,
Debut all pink and wrinkly.

[Jack of Hearts]

'ode to jack of hearts' by Jerrybaldy

Jack, oh Jack
I love you like a long lost friend
With a mole I never noticed before.
It talks to me in tongues
Then licks your lips.
Jack oh Jack
Forever come back.
You feel you are no longer here anymore.

[Delta40]

By Jerrybaldy

We masturbate
Then come and feel remorse
We drink and eat
A four course
Meal
And feel
Full.
And empty too
We laugh out loud
When lauging out loud
Is the last thing we want to do.
We pretend to fit
When we don't
Think we will try
When we won't
Connect by sex
Put this bit into that
Like a pussy
Pussy cat
Masturbate me
Make it real
With no remorse
Social intercourse
Call me big boy
You know it makes me feel good
And I should
Call you something back
But I'm having a panic attack.
Have you come yet?
I had a bet
With myself
That you would have
By half past ten
Yet I'm touching you there
Once again.
There's a sunset sun outside
Something special
That we haven't seen
There is a wet patch
That will take all night to dry
There is a remorse that will pass
As I swallow and say goodbye.

[Jerrybaldy]

Blimey. I haven't been in this thread in a long time. Thought it had died. Then find three of my own postings on here. Belated and present thanks Delta and Jack. You have made my day :)

[Delta40]

Pleasure. We Litnetters need to make use of this thread more often!

[free]

A Little Bit of Humor by Biggus


21st CENTURY NURSERY RHYMES # 360

There they go round the mulberry bush,
Showing there bush,
Showing there bush,
There they go round the mulberry bush,
On a cold and frosty morning.

IF YOUR BLIND DATE IS DESCRIBED TO YOU # 6

If your blind date is described to you
As “a free spirit” you may fancy a frolic
But it will be far worse than it sounds
They’re either a drug addict or an alcoholic

LIFE’S VEXATIONS # 7

I hate it when buying sunglasses
When I find a pair I want to try
And that stupid little plastic thing
Dangles right in front of my eye

I’M SITTING IN MY STUDY READING

I’m sitting in my study reading
Wearing my dressing gown
It’s a book about anti-gravity
It's impossible to put down

I DON’T LIKE LACE-UP SHOES

I don’t like lace-up shoes
And slip-ons aren’t so hot
That just leaves Velcro
So I figured why knot?

ARE YOU WEARING A DENIM SHIRT?

Are you wearing a denim shirt?
Well if I may be so bold
Whether it’s in fashion or not
You manage to make it look old

I'VE SWALLOWED SOME

I've swallowed some of my
Scrabble tiles accidentally
I’m afraid when nature takes
It course it could spell tragedy

I CAN HEAR REALLY ANNOYING MUSIC

I can hear really annoying music
And it’s getting to be a real pain
It’s emanating from inside my printer
I think the paper's jammin' again

I CAN’T QUITE REMEMBER HOW

I can’t quite remember how
To throw a boomerang now
But then eventually
It came back to me

A CHICKPEA AND A LENTIL

A chickpea and a lentil, what is
The difference between that brace?
It’s simple really because no one
Ever paid to have a lentil on their face

[tailor STATELY]

by IceM:

Out in the San Joaquin

From the hilltops, those swaths of yellow and green--
the fields of dry grass where the rabbits scurry,
the squares of vines and the pistachio groves where children
in the stillness of the night will steal the season’s first fruit--
stir in the wind, undulating to and fro in the midday sun.
There too rest the beds of those once-proud streams--
that network of veins winding across the brown chest of the earth--
that now are vestiges of ancient waters
whose currents have long been still.

Here, Thoreau would thrive.
On his morning afternoon late evening walks
among the vineyards the hills the barren plots of dust
where orange trees once stood
(they laid like the wreckage of ships found in shallow seas
when the farmers uprooted them),
he too would see hear feel Nature in its full splendor:
see the crawfish emerge from the reservoir
(a single ripple is left in its wake).
and sun itself on the banks;
see the hawk plunge between the vines
(something nervously scurries amid the weeds)
and emerge with nothing;
see in the farthest reaches of the hills
a wildflower blooming in the stillness.

[NikolaiI]

That's heavenly, IceM; and Tailor; so grateful to you for posting.

[Bar22do]

by miyako


It's all about the light
coming from the window,
splits of bamboo,
left ajar at noon
for the air,
the chatters of peacocks,
the rain,
the noises of monsoon.

Am I Urmila
or Sita of Ramayana
in my dream
woven by the goddess
of sleep?

Your words bring me
to your lips
concealed by the hairs
on your face
as white as the light,
stingy of your tongue
that inaudibly speaks
in Bengali.

Is it Valmiki
or Tulsidas behind you
whispering in Sanskrit
that I'm a devadasi
bathed in lilac water?

The curls of our tongues
understand
the words of our lips
speaking of quiet
as my fingers move
the hairs
to see you say
the light is in Gitanjali.

[Delta40]

Hungry-eyed old men
sift through calisthenicking limbs,
ogling the young: boys, girls—
it doesn't matter.
Every body in unison, disjointedly,
strains its joints, lifts arms and legs
against the planet's gravity.
Futile, futile.
The bods relax; the guts and butts
touch down, drop anchor, and reunite with
Mudder Earth.
The transient moisture of such labors
collects and drips,
gets ragwiped off,
to be laundered later, redissolved,
injected into sewer lines.
Outside, the crew resumes
their norm—both young and old
will eat their fill
of burgers and field greens and jamjam pie.
They'll ingest and micturate
their liquid essentials—
beers and teas and ionized glugs—
until the cycle begins anew...
evaporation and condensation
over and over in sealed alembics
of fleeting fitness and fissuring beauty;
the latter: ever-forever elusive.
Pump and heave, pedal and push,
bring those atoms that were consumed
back to the surface and sweat them all out
again, again.

[noface0711]

I'm a longstanding member of the Delta40 fan club, and this only enhances my appreciation of her work.

[Jack of Hearts]

What is that? A copy of Prince's reply from a few pages back?

[Jerrybaldy]

What's happened to this place ?
Here a return after 5 years with two poems probably better than anything that was written in her abscence is. SarahDrago.

[Jerrybaldy]

notes on my father’s suicide

I.

You crack like an overripe
Egg, embryonic yolk, anemic
yellow.

You have left nothing but your
absence, the sterilized bone.

II.

god is the shape of a circle,
thick with lack.

III.

You are the abstraction of the body,
I am the symbol

sealed shut and unsoiled.

---

untitled

The room is antiseptic white
Unmarked and uninterrupted, it
Eats the clean skin, the clean
Unf uckable flesh, it eats the -

Who are you? You do not see
The room with your bulging eye of
Red. You are not loyal to the
Room as I, do not carry its
Thick placenta.

You cannot enter the room. You
Cannot debase the room with your
Body. You do not feed the room the
Unsplit skin, the slip of the white pill
Fat with gleam.

The room is antiseptic white -
And I, chaste and unaffected,
Sleep beside only sharp blades.

[tailor STATELY]

Jerrybaldy:




Sticklebacks.


I used to fish for sticklebacks
In cold wet socks
In a stream that could be jumped
From muddy bank
To muddy bank,
If you believed.
I climbed trees,
Pubescent,
With a cigarette
To watch the sun die
On concrete
Monstrosities.
Scratched bloody love hearts
On freckled skin
With rusty nails,
Opened advent calendars,
Defrosted fingers
On two bar fires.
I sat on shed roofs
Watching fireworks,
Chewing Wrigley's,
Looking at the same old moon.
Thinking maybe, maybe
Someday soon.

Last edited by Jerrybaldy; 07/09/2017 at 04:15 PM.

[kiz_paws]

I was accustomed to, back in 2010, the perfection of the poems in the thread, Snapshots, created by PrinceMyshkin (Jerry). Sadly, no more snapshots...
So I will have to say that my favorite poet at this time would be BIGGUS, who is insightful, witty, and a true poet. Great contributions, Biggus! :)

[Biggus]

Thanks Kiz thats high praise indeed

[tailor STATELY]

By Twota:

http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?105660-Inside-a-match-box-of-yellow-and-books

Inside a matchbox of yellow and books
Surrounded by literary silence
They delicately mumbled familiar
Catechisms of titles and names
Recited Scriptures of dedications
Carefully leafed volumes to famed first lines:
“It was a pleasure to burn”, and they knew...
They knew the pleasure to burn and dwindle
Dwindle from sentence to word to letter
To an ink drop with an inkling to be,
An idea kindling among dry leaves.
Breathing the fragrances of ancient trees
They cautiously caressed the rough spines
Their fingers delicate and dangerous
Like matchsticks excited by the friction.

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor