I recon, but what has it to do with the fairy castle picture???
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I recon, but what has it to do with the fairy castle picture???
fairy castle picture??????
I think you might have posted on the wrong thread spally!!! Or maybe you haven’t read it…
Or maybe its a poem about an "X"...Quote:
Originally Posted by Juarez Fialho
WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU GUYS TALKING ABOUT???Quote:
Originally Posted by Jarndyce
this thread is a poetry contest, read the rules on the start.
The poems should be about the picture chosen by blondheart and the first picture chosen was THE FAIRY CASTLE.
Am I going crazy or are you?
Well, I'm not going to make any judgements on your sanity, but there was initially some confusion, as the image didn't work for everyone. As such, some people saw a red "X". I was merely trying to make a joke, using spally's comment about how the poem was about her "ex" boyfriend, and equating that to the red "X" image error.Quote:
Originally Posted by Juarez Fialho
Jarndyce, I understand your joke now, I did laugh now. ALOT… I thought I was going crazy, spally is nuts! (just joking buddy) LOL
Anyway, blond… VOTE THE THING, misunderstandings are happening because you are delaying the end of the round… LOL
OK, I guess I should make a decision
They're all really good, I like the last one coz it's so true, but of course it has nothing to do with the picture lol so I'm not counting it
Anyway, I've decided on the poem by Xamonas
::
It looks like a gate, but it ain't
It's just paint.
And the sunlight, so bright, is just white;
And the grass and the trees, is just green;
Not a tree trunk, instead, it's just red;
And the building itself is a hue,
Grey or blue?
And the curling wrought iron
And the dapples of shade
And the half-seen facade
And the balled balustrade
Are just splashes
And dabs
And swirls
And specks
And touches
And swathes
And flicks
And flecks
Of pigment and water, applied with a brush
With painstaking care, or perhaps in a rush,
By an artist unknown but with well-tempered sight
For colour,
Perspective,
For texture,
And Light.
It all looks so real but it lacks a dimension;
A beautiful scene, but merely pretension.
::
I just like the rhythm and the story behind it
especially the last lines
anyway, that means xamonas gets to post the next pic - have fun!!
Wow - I won something!!
Thanks a lot Blonde. I was quite proud of that poem, but the competition was stiff, so I never really expected to win.
Enough false modesty. :D Here's the next piccy...
http://www.redrockballoonrally.com/g...%20stripes.JPG
Good luck to everyone. I will judge by the end of the June, or when there are 10 entries - whichever comes first.
interesting pic...i'll post a poem later have to think about it
yea congrats i rlly liked ur poem
The grey eyed critic, meets self served therapy
Huge balloons of cluttered thought
Take off from my littered mind
They’re big, but efficient; not
They seek to travel a sky unkind
Take off from littered mind.
So many here, I cannot think
They seek to travel a sky unkind.
The sardonic sky, the unquenchable drink.
So many her, I cannot think,
When will they begin to fly?
The sardonic sky, the unquenchable drink,
What will become of my balloons in the sky?
When will they begin to fly?
But with their judging eyes
What will become of my balloons in the sky?
They will deflate, the ideas will die!
But with their judging eyes
They will not kill my determination
They will deflate, the ideas will die
But still as out there, my ideas can go to nations
They will not kill my determination
Though the balloons are big, but efficient; not!
But my ideas will have travelled to other nations
As huge balloons of cluttered thought
Eyes as wide as the sky before him
Emotions filled up to the brim
His feet no longer touch the ground
He's flying high around and around.
Up here he's free from the demon inside
Up here is the only place he can hide
The cancer inside is eating him away
But here in the sky they stay at bay.
No thoughts are wasted on the speeding clock
No endless hauntings of the tick.....tock.
He imagines his arms turn into golden wings
And in his imagination the angels sing.
A little boy of three or four
Up in the sky we watched him soar
His soul so calm, his mind content
Free of pain and the torment.
Not longed after the joyous sight
His little body could no longer fight
No longer will he enjoy this joyous event
And so for him i write this lament
They came at dawn
Like a new age
In happy hues
We laughed at them
Revelled in reds
Billowed in blues
We did not care
That all the world
Was turning black
Our world was bright
Though in free-fall
No turning back
(PS: Congrats to Xamonas!)
I want a recount :lol:
Tonight I'll raise a drink to XC...
Corner Woman
Hearts lift and swell,
dip and sink,
the ballast and baskets
of so many balloons,
a cold Sonoma morning,
cocooned by color,
the hush and hot fuel
moments and time,
and her, all in grey,
small, almost forgotten,
turned to the corner.
Dragon’s breath
balloons, birds below
Basket and strings tangling
with the clouds, in between wind’s
grin and gale’s challenge, let us
float in search of Jack’s Beanstalk
And the frazzled, lonely giant.
I will most happily leave
The earth
Just to be
Alone for a
moment with
you and the sky,
To find we can fly.
He wore a vest to match the bright balloons
Dressed in their party colours
Ready for their day out
Of being lighter than air.
He stood beside his old white truck watching
More and more vivid colour
Expanding into shapes
Full and round, filled with warm air.
He saw them rise one by one and become
Objects of brilliant colour
Against the white cloud sky,
Freed from their ropes into the air.
But first they sat beside him on the ground.
Like circus tents of colour
Blocking all other sights
Except patchwork spheres of air.
Still if he closed his eyes he would remember
Sterile halls drained of colour,
The IV rope in her hand,
Her final strained breath of warm air.
But open eyed, wearing the vest his wife made
To match the party colours
Of all the bright balloons,
He at last allowed bright sights
To make his heart lighter than air.
wow! I think we’ll have 10 pretty soon this time. That’s super!
XC, your poem was far the best. I thought it was perfect from the first time I read it. Lucky you cannot participate on this round!
I’ll post my poem soon as well, no time for thinking right now.
P.S. the picture is a little awkward, but I think we can manage it…
Thanks, JuarezQuote:
Originally Posted by Juarez Fialho
No need to rush too much - it looks like people have got the hang of this post. I will revise the rules (:D) - I won't pick a winner until next week at this time, however many we get. That's to give a chance to those that don't visit the forum every day and those that like to revise their poetry before posting (my entry took me a few days effort - not everyone can write something in a few minutes.)
Fly Away
Sometimes I wish I could just fly away
In a burst of colour
A spot of rainbow in the clouds
Above the world
Above the stars
Get away from you
For the love I dream will never be true
I just want to fly away
Maybe tomorrow
Maybe today
But for now I think I'll stay
And keep loving you
Even if you don't feel that way too
One day you'll love me
In the stars we'll be
bump...........
Hey this is a wonderful idea for a thread. And I have to participate.
OK, a little preface here before my poem. I thought the balloon scene was kind of funny and absurd, so what better poem but a sequence of Limericks. Now Xam, as you will see in the poem, I'm not always politically correct. I can also sink to some low depths. ;)
edit: I have decided to change the poem a little bit. Perhaps I got carried away and was as crude as Jack (in the poem). So, I offer my apologies if you read the poem and were offended. I agree it crossed a line. Poetry need not be crude in any way; suggestion is more powerful than pornography. I guess, Xam, I am PC.Quote:
Ballooning Limericks
I
The day for ballooning was here
And Jack brought Jill for a beer
But lines got all tangled
And balloons were all mangled
And Jill thought Jack was a queer.
II
Jack talked Jill into the hoop
He thought he finally got the scoop
Up went the balloon
Jack smelling like a saloon
Jack thinking Jill was a dupe.
III
When high up in the air
Jack made his intentions clear
He swore and was crude
And was exceptionally rude
Decided it was time to be bare.
IV
When Jill blew her gasket
She said that was no mascot
And closing her fist
And swinging her wrist
Pushed Jack right out of the basket.
V
The police got a thrill
When they questioned poor Jill
Of the body they found
With no trousers around
How Jack was found on the hill.
fly away my sanity,
taking all my worries with.
be now with out time,
passing into the clouds.
with my thoughts all jumbled,
and not a sane thought to think.
fly away my sanity,
if so to only keep me sane.
Oh dear. Now he will never fit his hat again. I doubt his head will even manage the space betweeen the door-jambs. :lol: :lol:Quote:
Originally Posted by blondeatheart
Xamonas old friend, congratulations. I must confess that it is actually quite good (for you!) Nice to see that you have learned how to rhyme at last.
by the way Xamonas, congrats on winning. i did quite enjoy readingyor poem. compared to what i have been posting it was a master piece :lol:. congradulations agian.
Are you serious, Mr. Balloon?
If I were as costumeless as you,
You would entertain me
In your secret cloud-castle?
You are born with colorized skin,
But I am only yellow--
Isn't it true, Mr. Balloon?
Inflated West laughed at meagre East,
Crowded North laughed at sparse South,
Frigidity scorched Torridity,
Apotheosis of reason suppressed instincts?
But I was once primitive--
You are chagrined, Mr. Balloon?
People parade their intelligence and bravery
When you lament your ancestors,
The victims of martial explosion,
The scapegoat of iniquitous desire?
But I shall be humble--
My color of topaz will be revealed
To you, Mr. Balloon.
I've got my work cut out to judge this lot - there are some excellent entries - thanks to all that have entered. I will announce a winner tomorrow sometime - I've got to read them all again first.
bump....................
And the winner is......
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Although I was torn between this and another (which I won't mention - they were all very good). In the end it was the clever shape and the 'strings tangling with the clouds' that clinched it.Quote:
Originally Posted by Riesa
Well done Riesa and thank you all for making my job so difficult.
XC
congradulations Riesa!!
OH! I never thought I'd win, there really were some excellent submissions, maybe we should have a runner up? thank you so much, xc. I'm really pleased!
I have to run, but I'll come back a little later and post a new picture. :D
Congratulations, dear Riesa! This poem is my favorite of all those from you. I just realized its balloon shape, very pleasing!
thanks, white camellia and spally.
these little rascals have been on my mind lately, I can't wait to see what comes out of this. :D
http://www.greglasley.net/Images/ScorpionF1.jpg
Congratulations Riesa. I agree you had the best poem.
Question on you photo: Is that a crab or spider or scorpion or some other animal?
it's a scorpion!
Congrats Riesa! Fascinating pic. I'll have to give it some thought.
we turn in dwindling inclusion
to define where we are at,
trapped in narrower seclusion
by tightening legal caveat -
for the threat of execution
dwarfs the execution of threat
from the height see how the land lies,
each hazard hid within its bower;
clad in white men with clubs realise
importance of four holes an hour -
for the power of joint exercise
masks the joint exercise of power
we - scorpion race that raises fire
(venom of stars in sting of faith;
the tighter turn in heat of ire,
the closer stilling of our breath) -
know: the death of all desire
follows all desire of death
bump.........................
Tails of Scorpions
Feeling green and tired and sick of rain,
an ancient Berber sits sullen
in the park's wet grass, face lined deep
with sand dune wrinkles, remembering
the tastes of his homeland: Salt. Sweet
water. Fires built from dung,
lost twigs, brittle bones of the dead.
Mother frying bread in a thick iron pan
taken from an Englishman called
Smith of all things, traded
for a blanket spun of camel hair thread
and the tails of scorpions.
Forty years eating brown falafel
and too-dry gyro, tahini from a can.
His mother never knew can, only
the cunning desert and the herd.
Meager fire. She is dead. His hands ache
after forty years in warehouses,
having escaped the tidal sands
for cardboard dust and heavy lifting.
His American wife left him--
after bearing three olive-skinned girls--
alone in this sprawling city,
only a speck to his great desert,
where his mother died and left him
to feed himself, to flee the wars,
to trade his strength for passage
on the Argentinian freighter
that carried him to the west,
beneath looming landscape buildings,
to this park never still, or quiet
or soft with golden sunsets,
but always green and wet with rain.
bump................