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This poem by Princemyshkin is heart rending.
For my daughter
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whenever she might happen to see this
If I were to look inside
at the wristwatch in my heart,
if I were to look inside
and say: ‘It’s time for us to love each other,’
I’m afraid she might reply,
“But, Dad,
we haven’t synchronized our watches.”
Simply beautiful! :)Quote:
Originally Posted by Delta40
I will have to add this one in my favourites too!
I came here to post MM's poem and just saw your entry. Thank you very much.
Jerry
just noticed you were quoting Delta. Thanks Delta. If it werent for MM I may never had known x
Have An Accident? by MystyrMystyry
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I remember - don't fully understand
Heart of Glass on the radio
Roaring from the tunnel
Interstate 49 in the fast lane
Which had slowed to a crawl
I recall the noise before impact
Couldn't tell you what it was
Cops everywhere two megaphones apiece
'Move along! Nothing to see here!'
They were wrong - plenty of seahorses
And octopusses drifting across the landscape
Somehow the Pontiac had become airborne
Crashes through the windscreen of the first Big Mack
Which suddenly stops, allowing the Ferrari to
Cruise underneath, losing its lid and scooping
The Beetle up and over the bridge
While the rest of the convoy rear-ends itself
Into a compressed accordian
Bloodied bodyparts strewn for miles
A muffled howling from the Gypsy caravan
Reveals a fortuneteller had swallowed her
Crystal Ball - her flying wig worn by a soaring toucan
The man dressed as a crocodile
Runs around on fire clutching his ears
The blue-eyed buffalo gazing down from the hill
The girl with her head stuck in a bucket
Tapdancing to an imaginary rhythm
One fireman waving his arms while stuck up the ladder
The other spurting water up and over
The astronaut trying to gather his scorpions
Into the hole with a wooden box around it
While being booted in the butt by an irate goat
The submarine stuck upright into the embankment
The rhinocerous in the tree
Silver knights on clydesdales plodding to the joust
The storm breaks just then - a fork of lightning
Ripping through the stray airship which bursts into flame
And spirals downward toward the horizon
As the cooler-than-cool retired detective arrives
'Everybody just keep calm -
'I've seen this sort of thing before...'
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Last edited by MystyrMystyry; 04-10-2011 at 07:29 AM.
I love this. It makes me want to write.
JB
Thanks JB - First time up here I think :)
For this week mine's already established:
Bix
Leon Bismark "Bix" Beiderbecke
(March 10, 1903 – August 6, 1931)
It was said of Bix
That his Cornet spat out notes
Like shooting bullets at a bell
And his solos sounded as sweet
As a girl saying yes.
Bix Beiderbecke was simply the best
He was at the birth of hot music
His light illuminated
The jazz age
His Cornet accompanied
The roaring twenties
He was a romantic legend,
The young man with a Horn
But in keeping with the character
Of the very best of youth
His flame burned very brightly
But equally it burned quickly
And like the most beautiful star
He burned himself out
All too soon
Bix lived for the jazz
But died for the booze
The Drive
by Delta
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She tried to stop
her husband from leaving
so she hung onto the windscreen wiper
and side mirror till he got hungry.
He pulled over at a pizza joint
and after straightening her hair,
they licked breast milk ice cream
off the bonnet of the car.
They watched a man strip naked
in a field across the road.
He covered himself in cow manure
then jerked off into a wad of tissues.
Inside, Gino hollered ‘Mama Mia!’
when he saw the face of Jesus
appear on a 3 cheese pizza.
Everyone oohed and ahhed
then rethought their diet.
Thanks for the nomination. I hate writing poetry (I think its poetry) but I can't stop either.
Sock puppet says: Read poetry and then you will know!
The Rise and Fall of Anne Boleyn
by
Dark Muse
My Lady Icarus
rose like the black-checkered
queen and set your sights
too high,
with the world already
tilting beneath your feet
you sought to reach
what even fate could not bestow.
By night's shadow
you weaved your own
wings upon which you
believed you could fly
endlessly, unrestrained,
but even you, moon faced
beauty, where women could
only hope to reflect
the light of men,
was scorched by passion.
Wanting more than
the scraps that were given,
world-shaker
how your pale fingers reached out
to touch
what should not be touched
and you were burned
by lust and ambition
for not even you
could hold the sun between your hands
or thighs.
For how can he,
golden crowned
with the world before his feet
know any but the love of self,
how he has always
burned through the hearts
and beds of women,
until nothing but ashes were left.
For one brief
glorious moment,
you thought you had conquered
all, and you beheld
the universe,
but it was too all consuming
as a bird on broken wings
you fell into the depths
of darkness forever
cast from his light.
Pillow Talk
By Blank Verse
And turning to me you would say
how sometimes you wished that a morning,
or even a whole day,
would drape itself over the clothesline
like a bedsheet or king-size duvet,
so you'd be able to beat the life out of it
if things hadn't gone your way.
'Pecking Order' by hillwalker
In these boreal days, upon the cusp of solstice,
spare a thought for all the birds who scavenge here for crumbs of solace…..
the humming bird from far Cathay,
her shimmer like a gemstone in the pelt of winter
the turtle dove from Central Park,
her cooing ever poignant, ever soothing to the troubled brow
the feisty kookaburra, chirruping and cursing at the brou-haha,
the tiny warbler dancing in the margin, never heard but never far away
the Cockney sparrow, vibrant, sparking,
never bowing to the posturing of bullfinches or woodpeckers
the firebird, a phoenix seeking bright ascendance,
lily trotter, feet upon the water, Dylanesque as ever
then a puff of dust as roadrunner goes past in snakeskin boots
and here’s the speckled starling, oft neglected,
mimicking the gods yet with the nerve to shhit upon their shoulders
and on a distant perch, the cockatiel,
his measured words as close as birds can get to being divine,
his every squawk as wise as Socrates
while on the strand, the solitary heron, slow to settle,
fixes eyes upon the waves that scrabble for the shore
the patient vulture enters from the shadows, poised to probe
the rotten carcasses of those who perished on the barbs of criticism
havoc cried aloft upon the wing, a hawk a-hover on the lilting wind,
with talons bared yet tipped in velvet
all eclipsed by looming shadow from a mightier wingspan,
hooded eyes attuned to form and syntax,
scattering seeds and peanuts as she hits the table…..
but alas too late to make a difference
as that ruddy kitty-cat emerges from the fireside; all is quiet, all is calm.
I have a quibble with this
"the rotten carcasses of those who perished on the barbs of criticism"
because it's the one place I could see where Hillwalker stepped aside from the avian world to comment - indeed, to judge - the human one. Apart from that what a triumphant parade this is of noticing and honouring these bords.
An untitled poem by PrinceMyshkin
Between the scramble
in your mind and the slop
in mine we could assemble us
a stew of an unusual kind.
Mood Swings, by Delta
Quote:
Originally Posted by Delta40
:blush: and :cheers2: