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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.
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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/Post...GibsonBass.jpg
When the morning sun is a ruby drop of blood...
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
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
(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
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.
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
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...
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
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...
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...
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...
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.
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...
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...
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:Quote:
12/3/07? Wow vin, you wrote that in the future..?
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.
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.
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.
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
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. :)Quote:
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..
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.
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...
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...
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...
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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...
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...
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/l1...lies/mouse.gif
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.
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
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...
Sorry double post.