Post your Poems and Get Reviews!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Pendragon

The Significance of Five Years

Full moon rises over the bayou,
Mist hangs in the Spanish moss in the trees.
Saw someone moving in the Cemetery at Cyprus Grove
The hour is Midnight garden of good and evil.
She wails away somewhere in the swamps
Voodoo Queen, dead undying Marie Laveau …
Gonna be some trouble come morning…

My cloak always hides me in the darkness of the night,
Seems some old boy acquired a hand of glory.
I could tell him that in theses graves Tis best to leave the dead alone.
But he has the spells and the wax and now the hand.
He moves away towards his target, a mansion near the entrance to the Grove,
Laveau screams in the dark somewhere behind him…

Now he’s made his move inside the house and the Hand of Glory flames.
As long as those fingers glow blue none in the house but he can move!
What does he want from them? Their daughter. How pleasant! Lovers.
They are outside now. He draws a water pistol filled with milk and removes the flames.
In a second or two he has recovered the limp hand of the hanged man,
Now something follows as he carries his girl away in the fog

Said I not these graves in Cyprus Grove are best left undisturbed?
It is Laveau again, but this time chanting, as if dancing in a spell.
The Young Man lays his burden down to rest for a moment,
And taking the hand out seeks to throw it as far a he can.
The wind sighs down through the Cyprus tress stirring the beards of moss.

A hand takes the young man by the throat.
Eyes like flames inside of cannon barrels fixate themselves on his face.
“I’ have back my hand, me. You take from Rene, eh? Rene take from you.
“My han’ have five fingers, yes? You use no p’misson. I tink I take 5 years of your life.”
The Horrible eyes turned and spotted me among the stones,
“You tink Renee be fair, Reaper?” I silently raised my scythe in a sign of justice.

Now you know why the haunted graveyards of New Orleans are so popular.
The have a lookout to see things go on, but go on fair.
The couple were married and are doing quite well.
He worries about the little tattoo mark on his chest now and then
And he still hear Marie Laveau cry in the misty nights.
He shouldn’t worry that much. That mark just sped up his date with me.
By exactly 5 years…

Pendragon
© 12/21/07

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Hi Pendragon

Sorry it took so long to respond. I didn’t realize anyone posted on this thread. This is a fun story. I like how the same hand that allows him not to be disturbed by the dead is the hand which takes five years from his life. I think the hand represents many things in this poem, both literally and metaphorically. It is the hand of the hanged man, the hand of justice, the hand of glory which permits him access in the cemetery, the hand that wakes the dead, the hand in marriage and the five fingers of the hand that sped up his meeting with the speaker.

I wrote this one last year. It is not one of my best works. I was trying new things out with it. I promise, I have written better works! This one kind of stinks. I do want to improve it, however. Any feedback would be welcome.

scars
flashbacks
of a bittersweet past
emblems
little mistakes
one has made

imprints
reminders of defacement,
past regrets.
beautiful
faded with time
becoming whole

taunted
by voices and illusions
horrors and delusions
each one
leading to more
scars

Quote:

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Originally Posted by summermemory

I wrote this one last year. It is not one of my best works. I was trying new things out with it. I promise, I have written better works! This one kind of stinks. I do want to improve it, however. Any feedback would be welcome.

scars
flashbacks
of a bittersweet past
emblems
little mistakes
one has made

imprints
reminders of defacement,
past regrets.
beautiful
faded with time
becoming whole

taunted
by voices and illusions
horrors and delusions
each one
leading to more
scars

---

Hi!

Thanks for posting. Aren’t we all trying to learn and improve? When I look at this poem I can’t determine what is “bittersweet” about this past of yours. I understand that the physical scars are emblems of the “little mistakes” which have inscribed themselves on your skin, a reminder of the “bad” part of past experiences, but I am not given an experience (as reader) to connect with. Also, I can not find the “sweet” part of your experience. How are scars beautiful? I think this is where an illustration would be helpful as well. Is the beautiful part of this “bittersweet past” the fact that the scar is no longer raw, fleshy, it is not as painful? That somehow over time the physical pain faded, so that you can look at the scars and not feel this type of pain? I’m not fond of the line breaks either. It makes the whole experience feel incoherent to me. You may be trying to literally create flashbacks of the past, but, to me, the line breaks create nothing more than glimpses of words without images. Keep the idea, but extend the lines. It is interesting to note the contrast between the type of scar that starts off your poem and the type of scar which ends your poem: literal to psychological. I think this idea would be wonderful to explore further.

Hello! This is my first structured/somewhat scansioned poem, but I think my meter is a bit off. I'd love your critique.



I heard a melody, note by note,
A tune on which I now will dote.
It swelled before it dipped down low,
And following, I heard it go.

To plumb the leagues of an ocean deep,
Seeing visions that make me weep.
For were it not for that lightsome sound,
To earth and things known I would yet be bound.

So to you, to this music sublime,
Bowing I offer my humble rhyme.
In the distant memory of things not yet seen,
I found the girl I might have been.

There was a young man from Venus
Who was famous for his greeness
He had a venutian cat
Who sat on a mat
Neither were noted for leanness

p.s. yer all bolloxes

Quote:

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Originally Posted by andave_ya

Hello! This is my first structured/somewhat scansioned poem, but I think my meter is a bit off. I'd love your critique.



I heard a melody, note by note,
A tune on which I now will dote.
It swelled before it dipped down low,
And following, I heard it go.

To plumb the leagues of an ocean deep,
Seeing visions that make me weep.
For were it not for that lightsome sound,
To earth and things known I would yet be bound.

So to you, to this music sublime,
Bowing I offer my humble rhyme.
In the distant memory of things not yet seen,
I found the girl I might have been.

---

Hi andave


I don’t know exactly the type of meter and accent pattern you are using, because in places you have stressed words one after the other, and in other places you have patterns of irregular unstressed and stressed syllables. But I think you know that. So then this is a poem about the appreciation of sound itself, the ability for one to control it instead of being controlled by it (at least I hope this is what you mean). I also like how the end-rhyme pattern moved from perfect rhymes to the half-rhyme at the end of your poem. It’s a playful poem. I like it.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by davyp

There was a young man from Venus
Who was famous for his greeness
He had a venutian cat
Who sat on a mat
Neither were noted for leanness

---

Hey davyp

I’m sorry but I don’t like this. Sounds like rhyming for the sake of rhyming, thought-of substituting what was thought-up. Right now, I do not understand what you have here. If I said my socks are like a box of foxes, what am I saying? I don’t know. I’m merely connecting different things because I want them to connect…there is no underlying creation beyond this fact.

I haven't had a post on here for the longest time. Does anyone want me to look at their poem? Post it here - you'll definitely get a reply.

T'was just about then, that the Princess walked in.
Her fine garments were ragged and bloody.
Her perception was one,
of ghastly atrocities done;
there was plenty of Scarlet to study.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Captain Pike

T'was just about then, that the Princess walked in.
Her fine garments were ragged and bloody.
Her perception was one,
of ghastly atrocities done;
there was plenty of Scarlet to study.

---

Hi Capt'n!

I must say you left a few things to the imagination. Is this on purpose? For example, the when or what time is “then”? What exactly were the “ghastly atrocities”? These mysteries go so well with the scene. You leave me wondering if the scene that unfolded actually led to murder. And the “twas” throws this scene back to the time even before Shakespeare. I think what you might be doing is, as the scene unfolds, leave hints for the reader to pick up on to try and resolve the scene. I also think that is why you have the rhyme pattern: to connect different ideas into one uninterrupted scene. That’s actually a neat idea to work with.

But this poem is way too short for me to be sure of anything. I would definitely expand on the plot of the poem to reinforce these ideas.

The cast of nations performs its` illusions,
A show that is spiced with riddled confusions.
Presenting its` latest act - the creation of a much debated confederation.
Could well be the preparation for a super-state formation.
To a new beginning - to brotherly ties,
Raise your glasses, " Mud in your eyes ".

Plans are proposed in halls of power,
Signatures, treaties ignored every hour
Symbolic handshakes- ` Europe shall rise !`
To nations united in half truths and lies,
Let us drink,
A toast ! - " Mud in your eyes "

The phoenix is re-born from the fire,
Transformed to an eagle soaring higher and higher,
To unlock the future we must turn to the past,
When a prophet spoke,
"Rome shall not last,
your lots have been cast."

To The New World Order, " The Beast " soon to rise,
To control our alls` fates until Yeshua arrives,
I say dear chaps,
"Fill the cup"
"Bottoms up"
"Mud in your eyes.

If I walked with you
Amidst the blaze of beautiful flowers,
I would ask them to bow to you
For you are my Queen.

If I could affect the light of the moon that`s full, at will,
I would command it to change its` color
To the one that is your favorite,
for you are my Queen.

If this my poor attempt at painting words for you,
Can bring home to your understanding
Only some of the deep feelings, that I hold for you,
I would have achieved something.

And if I could speak my words with a voice that does not break up
For all the emotions that swell up inside of me,
I would try whilst you listen, to convey to your mind
All the things, that I always wanted to say to you,
But that can not be easily expressed in common speech -
Such as my deep devotion, that I would be prepared
To take all the pain and unhappiness that ever may come your way,
Gladly upon myself, to suffer in your stead,
So you may be happy,
For you are my Queen.

If all the music that has ever been written, could be put together
As one composition of immortal sound,
I would get the greatest masters to work on it
And present it from me to you
As a confession of my everlasting love,
For you are my Queen.

If it were at all possible for me
To form the stars of a nightly summers` sky
Into an orchestra, I would do so -
Then tell them to play just for you, whilst I myself would conduct
This concerto of a million harmonies and magnificent beauty,
For you are a very precious gift -
My strength , my friend, my life,
you are my world, my beloved wife,
You are my Queen.

"We belong to the clan of Neanderthal-man,
Clear proof of evolution.
God is dead, creation a myth", so the ` Know it all ` said -
And " Let science be your solution. "
But now it has come out that after all,
He wasn't our original father at all,
That today`s knowledge has shown,
From the DNA in his bones,
We must be related to totally different species.
Perhaps to prehistoric garden-gnomes,
Or the long extinct tribe of highland-trolls,
Therefore, I am convinced that the blighters can see,
Our advancement is continually.
So, naturally from garden gnomes, from highland-trolls,
From our present stage of existence,
We have already started our next gradual change,
Into the next specie -
Of cabbage-patch dolls.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Sigvard

The cast of nations performs its` illusions,
A show that is spiced with riddled confusions.
Presenting its` latest act - the creation of a much debated confederation.
Could well be the preparation for a super-state formation.
To a new beginning - to brotherly ties,
Raise your glasses, " Mud in your eyes ".

Plans are proposed in halls of power,
Signatures, treaties ignored every hour
Symbolic handshakes- ` Europe shall rise !`
To nations united in half truths and lies,
Let us drink,
A toast ! - " Mud in your eyes "

The phoenix is re-born from the fire,
Transformed to an eagle soaring higher and higher,
To unlock the future we must turn to the past,
When a prophet spoke,
"Rome shall not last,
your lots have been cast."

To The New World Order, " The Beast " soon to rise,
To control our alls` fates until Yeshua arrives,
I say dear chaps,
"Fill the cup"
"Bottoms up"
"Mud in your eyes.

---

Hi Sigvard,

How are you? Good I hope.

This is a scene acted out on a world stage, in consideration of other nations. The way each nation behaves is phony, and the storyline is phony. You have a concrete idea about the way people behave in front of the public is not how they really behave in private. I wish I would have gotten more of a dialogue between actual characters, so as to play with the illusion and what’s real. Also I had hoped for a more detailed scene played out, but all I got were generalized characterizations, which are not fine; you run the risk of your work being considered superficial in its idea. If being phony in this context is all show, then shouldn’t what is revealed, what is truthful, be more insightful?

Friends, Romans and countrymen - lend me your ears.
Hallo everyone I think it is about time that I introduced myself to you.
As I am a newcomer to these shores, I do not know if this is actually the
right way. However let us see what happens. I hope to get some communications in return.
My name is Sigvard von Brevern. I am of German nationality, but have for
some 40 years lived in the United Kingdom, my abode is "sunny " Brighton.
Since a young age already I have been interested in writing some form of
poetry, mostly the rhyming type. Well, as you probably gathered, I am quite
an old " biddy " I am of the tender age of 70.
Besides of writing poetry, I also like the composing of music in various styles,
some of which has been performed to live audiences at different venues,
such as stately homes, ships, hotels/restaurants, music bars etc.etc.
I hope to hear from some of you, especially some comments and constructive
criticism to my poetic contributions.
For now, Roger and out, arrivederci, ta-ta and so forth.

Spring brought warmer days,
Melted the ice on the lake,
Found the willows still asleep
And kissed them awake.
Countless hours and more
Have I searched our haunts of yesterday,
Where were you when the song-birds flew back
From their far-off hideaway?

Summer came with those
warm nights in soft shades of blue,
Gave a new lease of life
To my memories of you.
I recalled how we hand in hand chased the wind
Like children play,
Where were you when the wild geese returned
From a cold and distant bay?

Autumn changed summers` brightness
To new color-schemes,
Leaves fell, drowned in the lake,
Sadness lived in my dreams.
Once more winter winds
Drifted the snow across a moody sea,
Where were you when a cruel, frosty morning
Froze every hope in me?
where were you when I thought of you,
longed for you,
wanted you with me?

Spring brought warmer days,
Melted the ice on the lake,
Found the willows still asleep,
Then kissed them awake.
Countless hours and more
Have I searched our " haunts of yesterday ",
Where were you when the song-birds flew back
From their far-off hideaway?

Summer came with those
Warm nights in soft shades of blue,
Gave a new lease of life
To my memories of you.
I recalled how we hand in hand chased the wind
Just like children play,
Where were you when the wild geese returned
From a cold and distant bay?

Autumn changed summers` brightness
To new color schemes,
Leaves fell, drowned in the lake,
Sadness lived in my dreams,
Once more winter-winds
Drifted the snow across a moody sea,
Where were you when a cruel, frosty morning
Froze every hope in me?

Yes, where were you when I thought of you,
longed for you,
wanted you with me?

This is the poem I have wrote..
I walked into that hollow room,
I looked and looked to find you.

There you were, sitting and stairing at me like you were guilty. Why not smile at me?

I wanted to run into your arms, but can't because I felt like I would get trapped.

Just keep waiting, and you will have me all to yourself forever and always.

I mean that because here you were. I saw you the first time after all of this. There you were.

There you were sitting and stairing at me.

Another poem I have written: Why
All the days have passed by and thinking of you. Why not think about me?

You have the key to my heart, why not use the key?

You play our song, Why not dance to our song?

I dream of you, why not dream of me too?

Why,
Why,
Why?

Spring brought warmer days,
Melted the ice on the lake,
Found the willows still asleep
Then kissed them awake.
Countless hours and more
Have I searched our " haunts of yesterday ",
Where were you when the song-birds flew back
From their far-off hideaway?

Summer came with those
warm nights in soft shades of blue,
Gave a new lease of life
To my memories of you.
I recalled how we hand in hand chased the wind
Just like children play,
Where were you when the wild geese returned
From a cold and distant bay?

Autumn changed summers` brightness
To new color-schemes,
Leaves fell, drowned in the lake,
Sadness lived in my dreams,
Once more winter-winds
Drifted the snow across a moody sea,
Where were you when a cruel, frosty morning
Froze every hope in me?
Yes, where were you when I thought of you,
longed for you,
wanted you with me.

I like your poem Sigvard.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Sigvard

If I walked with you
Amidst the blaze of beautiful flowers,
I would ask them to bow to you
For you are my Queen.

If I could affect the light of the moon that`s full, at will,
I would command it to change its` color
To the one that is your favorite,
for you are my Queen.

If this my poor attempt at painting words for you,
Can bring home to your understanding
Only some of the deep feelings, that I hold for you,
I would have achieved something.

And if I could speak my words with a voice that does not break up
For all the emotions that swell up inside of me,
I would try whilst you listen, to convey to your mind
All the things, that I always wanted to say to you,
But that can not be easily expressed in common speech -
Such as my deep devotion, that I would be prepared
To take all the pain and unhappiness that ever may come your way,
Gladly upon myself, to suffer in your stead,
So you may be happy,
For you are my Queen.

If all the music that has ever been written, could be put together
As one composition of immortal sound,
I would get the greatest masters to work on it
And present it from me to you
As a confession of my everlasting love,
For you are my Queen.

If it were at all possible for me
To form the stars of a nightly summers` sky
Into an orchestra, I would do so -
Then tell them to play just for you, whilst I myself would conduct
This concerto of a million harmonies and magnificent beauty,
For you are a very precious gift -
My strength , my friend, my life,
you are my world, my beloved wife,
You are my Queen.

---

Hi Sigvard,

I really do love the ideas presented in your poems (at least the ideas from two of the poem I’ve read). I do wish you would expand on the depictions presented in each stanza, though; or at least make them more vivid. These feelings that you are expressing to your queen seem impersonal as they stand. I understand that the way the poem starts off possibly is supposed to be impersonal, because you lack the words to express your feelings to her. But I think a more power depiction of an impersonal relationship can be created through colors, gestures, etc. I’m in want of that extra layer for clarity. The last stanza is wonderful because you take a step forward in trying to express yourself to her, by being the conductor of the musical piece and not merely telling them to play a musical piece for you. Although in this last stanza, as in the other stanzas, there are no differences other than what you mean.

Present your thesis, speak up, be bold,
Explain the power from its source of Old,
That you express in kilowatts and volts.
Whence came this energy unseen,
Governed though by definite laws,
so its action can bee seen?
Oh, postulant - hear the mystic voice,
Tease inside that brittle shell,
Just as there is no one who can tell,
Did the sheaf come first,
Or did the grain of corn?
There is not one living soul that knows,
Where or when this power was born
Except -
" I AM ", THE POWER THAT HAS ALWAYS BEEN.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Sigvard

Friends, Romans and countrymen - lend me your ears.
Hallo everyone I think it is about time that I introduced myself to you.
As I am a newcomer to these shores, I do not know if this is actually the
right way. However let us see what happens. I hope to get some communications in return.
My name is Sigvard von Brevern. I am of German nationality, but have for
some 40 years lived in the United Kingdom, my abode is "sunny " Brighton.
Since a young age already I have been interested in writing some form of
poetry, mostly the rhyming type. Well, as you probably gathered, I am quite
an old " biddy " I am of the tender age of 70.
Besides of writing poetry, I also like the composing of music in various styles,
some of which has been performed to live audiences at different venues,
such as stately homes, ships, hotels/restaurants, music bars etc.etc.
I hope to hear from some of you, especially some comments and constructive
criticism to my poetic contributions.
For now, Roger and out, arrivederci, ta-ta and so forth.

---

Hi Sigvard,

I’m glad to know you better. The “gathering” is easy; it is the retaining what’s gathered I have trouble with. It makes sense to me that this would be your natural trajectory: writing poetry from composing music. Aren’t words, when broken down to their syllables, notes on a musical scale? I will try my best to give you some constructive criticism…as you can already gather from my responses to a couple of your written pieces.

She said, this sleepy, little town was draped in gray
And that real soon she`d go insane,
It is even more depressing,
When biting, cold November-winds howl
With their skin-seeking, stinging rain.

On days like these, when feeling low
How can she turn those blues to warming cheer?
The answer is to light a fire,
Burn sweet-smelling incense,
Go for the drugs that cost her dear.

She said,that like before she would welcome
unworldly beings leaping from the glowing coal,
Reveal exciting worlds
In yet unknown dimensions
To her anticipating soul.

Yes, she would fly with them in vivid visions,
Explore the secrets of the spheres,
Ignore the sudden warning flashes -
Of those life-scarring
Mental flares,

What else might she encounter
In the greater depths of the unknown?
Would she behold in sudden anguish
The face of death -
In the doorway of the reaper`s home?

Then yet to come the inevitable, slow sliding
From the grip of the drugs to a paralysing state of fright
For even after hallucinations have subsided,
She may still gape in convulsive terror down the widening abyss
Of deep despair, in the coming and perhaps endless seeming night.

Is it all worth it, to face the let down,
That leaves her drained, as everything turns gray,
How will she soothe the pain, the numbness,
When all the psychedelic dreams have died away?

She said, that she might well consider,
To go to church when evening falls,
To pray within the cooling comfort
Of solid stone and marble walls.

But will Lord Jesus really help her
And heal her wounded, tormented mind?
Lest she will make the first, hard effort
To leave those former delusions behind.

Would she remember after prayer,
When she returns to her domain,
That the demons she had summoned
Could be waiting to creep once more inside her tortured brain?

Would she be strong, prepared to give up
This gnawing, re-occurring lust,
Or would the heavy lid slam shut -
And she`d be taken - into the undertakers` trust? ....

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Sigvard

"We belong to the clan of Neanderthal-man,
Clear proof of evolution.
God is dead, creation a myth", so the ` Know it all ` said -
And " Let science be your solution. "
But now it has come out that after all,
He wasn't our original father at all,
That today`s knowledge has shown,
From the DNA in his bones,
We must be related to totally different species.
Perhaps to prehistoric garden-gnomes,
Or the long extinct tribe of highland-trolls,
Therefore, I am convinced that the blighters can see,
Our advancement is continually.
So, naturally from garden gnomes, from highland-trolls,
From our present stage of existence,
We have already started our next gradual change,
Into the next specie -
Of cabbage-patch dolls.

---

You got some chuckles out of me with this one. I always feel ignorant when discussing (religion, for example) certain topics that I have very little understanding of. Not to say that you don’t have a grasp on the scientific POV, but it is conveyed that way here. Your correlation that we could have easily come from highland-trolls as from Neanderthal man is to degrade science down to imagining and guessing. Science is more than that, don’t you think? I mean you start out with an educated guess; then research is done to determine whether that guess is likely to be true or false. In this way, doesn’t science deserve more of our trust than guessing (which the speaker seems to do towards the end of the poem)? I know there is a fine line between arrogance and ignorance…and scientist cross that line all too often, but don’t you feel you are doing the same thing by treating the subject of science this way?

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Sigvard

Spring brought warmer days,
Melted the ice on the lake,
Found the willows still asleep,
Then kissed them awake.
Countless hours and more
Have I searched our " haunts of yesterday ",
Where were you when the song-birds flew back
From their far-off hideaway?

Summer came with those
Warm nights in soft shades of blue,
Gave a new lease of life
To my memories of you.
I recalled how we hand in hand chased the wind
Just like children play,
Where were you when the wild geese returned
From a cold and distant bay?

Autumn changed summers` brightness
To new color schemes,
Leaves fell, drowned in the lake,
Sadness lived in my dreams,
Once more winter-winds
Drifted the snow across a moody sea,
Where were you when a cruel, frosty morning
Froze every hope in me?

Yes, where were you when I thought of you,
longed for you,
wanted you with me?

---

Hi again, Sigvard!

Great idea! Looks like the memories of her coincides with the seasons of the year, blooming (in you) in summer, and disappearing in autumn. Why does she not appear (physically)? Her physical appearance is the only unpredictable factor amongst the seasons and the memories, for the speaker. If there is a relationship between being able to remember her and the season of year it is (which I can sort of sense in the way the description of spring flows right into your memories of her), then why (when talking about the absence of her physically being here) is there not feeling, or description…or just something to detach me along with her, from the memories and the season? I feel she shouldn’t even be in the same stanza.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by babyface123

This is the poem I have wrote..
I walked into that hollow room,
I looked and looked to find you.

There you were, sitting and stairing at me like you were guilty. Why not smile at me?

I wanted to run into your arms, but can't because I felt like I would get trapped.

Just keep waiting, and you will have me all to yourself forever and always.

I mean that because here you were. I saw you the first time after all of this. There you were.

There you were sitting and stairing at me.

---

Hi babyface123,

You wouldn’t be offended if I said this is terrific, would you? I like how the poem connotes reconsideration from itself and the reader, to the image. Of course I’m having trouble orienting myself to properly view the two of them. The jump from stanza one to two is disorienting because the speaker does not see the other character; yet there are these details about how the speaker feels the character feels about her. How can this be? Unless you meant “and found” in the first stanza? The way you set up your lines are also strange. Is there a reason?

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by babyface123

Another poem I have written: Why
All the days have passed by and thinking of you. Why not think about me?

You have the key to my heart, why not use the key?

You play our song, Why not dance to our song?

I dream of you, why not dream of me too?

Why,
Why,
Why?

---

How odd – even though every single line is cliché, the poem is still working for me. What works is the speaker is unquestionable about her feelings towards this other person, yet is unsure whether this other person knows this, and if so, why is he/she not returning those feelings. The whole poem seems to center around the speaker, as if she is having a conversation with herself…and as the conversation progresses, self-assurance turns into self-doubt. I would work on those cliché lines, though. I would also work on the context of this poem, because as it stands now I don’t know if the speaker is alone or not.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Sigvard

Present your thesis, speak up, be bold,
Explain the power from its source of Old,
That you express in kilowatts and volts.
Whence came this energy unseen,
Governed though by definite laws,
so its action can bee seen?
Oh, postulant - hear the mystic voice,
Tease inside that brittle shell,
Just as there is no one who can tell,
Did the sheaf come first,
Or did the grain of corn?
There is not one living soul that knows,
Where or when this power was born
Except -
" I AM ", THE POWER THAT HAS ALWAYS BEEN.

---

Hey Sigvard,

This is very similar to Neanderthal-man in its message about the fine line between understanding, ignorance and arrogance. I’m not going to repeat what I said, but this poem has the same sort of problems that Neanderthal-man has. The main difference is the introduction of the speaker at the end of the poem, his tone, is more believable and not as ridiculous as that of the speaker in Neanderthal-man. I don’t know, maybe it’s because I can connect and understand the power of the mind as an apparatus that reasons.

" There will be rain and high winds tomorrow ",
The expert said
" All across the British isles ".
Well, he knows his job, his cyclone charts,
Knows all about computer files.
He is a learned meteorologist, tells the weather on TV,
And yet at times he fails to see,
The winds can change quite instantly.
Alas, the sun shone brilliant all day long
Once more the weatherman was wrong,
Quite obviously -
And this in spite of his bachelors`degree,
In the science of meteorology.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Sigvard

She said, this sleepy, little town was draped in gray
And that real soon she`d go insane,
It is even more depressing,
When biting, cold November-winds howl
With their skin-seeking, stinging rain.

On days like these, when feeling low
How can she turn those blues to warming cheer?
The answer is to light a fire,
Burn sweet-smelling incense,
Go for the drugs that cost her dear.

She said,that like before she would welcome
unworldly beings leaping from the glowing coal,
Reveal exciting worlds
In yet unknown dimensions
To her anticipating soul.

Yes, she would fly with them in vivid visions,
Explore the secrets of the spheres,
Ignore the sudden warning flashes -
Of those life-scarring
Mental flares,

What else might she encounter
In the greater depths of the unknown?
Would she behold in sudden anguish
The face of death -
In the doorway of the reaper`s home?

Then yet to come the inevitable, slow sliding
From the grip of the drugs to a paralysing state of fright
For even after hallucinations have subsided,
She may still gape in convulsive terror down the widening abyss
Of deep despair, in the coming and perhaps endless seeming night.

Is it all worth it, to face the let down,
That leaves her drained, as everything turns gray,
How will she soothe the pain, the numbness,
When all the psychedelic dreams have died away?

She said, that she might well consider,
To go to church when evening falls,
To pray within the cooling comfort
Of solid stone and marble walls.

But will Lord Jesus really help her
And heal her wounded, tormented mind?
Lest she will make the first, hard effort
To leave those former delusions behind.

Would she remember after prayer,
When she returns to her domain,
That the demons she had summoned
Could be waiting to creep once more inside her tortured brain?

Would she be strong, prepared to give up
This gnawing, re-occurring lust,
Or would the heavy lid slam shut -
And she`d be taken - into the undertakers` trust? ....

---

This makes a nice story Sivgard. I don’t or can’t identify any poetic qualities expressed in this piece, though. From the first line I had hoped for an inward/outward thing, which I got from the “glowing coal” and little town “draped in gray”. That spark of outer feeling from an outer thing transposed in her turned quickly into explanation though, this was where you lost me. Why not let the “glowing coal” and what happens next to it be the emotions she is trying to express?

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Sigvard

" There will be rain and high winds tomorrow ",
The expert said
" All across the British isles ".
Well, he knows his job, his cyclone charts,
Knows all about computer files.
He is a learned meteorologist, tells the weather on TV,
And yet at times he fails to see,
The winds can change quite instantly.
Alas, the sun shone brilliant all day long
Once more the weatherman was wrong,
Quite obviously -
And this in spite of his bachelors`degree,
In the science of meteorology.

---

I’m starting to detect a single theme in your written work no matter the subject. I feel as though this poem is a third draft of the previous two poems which dealt with the same theme. I no longer feel like the speaker is ignorant (as I did in Neanderthal-man) because he is not making anything up. I also feel you’ve used a metaphor which is much more identifiable to the reader. I like the opposing viewpoints, and the introduction of opposing voices. You definitely have the tone down.

My sonnet-

It has been said a rose is but a rose
All that’s pink cannot be called a beauty
But if a rose is nothing but a rose
Life’s succumbed to nothing but it’s duty
A single breath is nothing more than this
Lungs retract and then expand in motion
But truthfully if that is all it is
Than life is not but a repetition
If it is true a rose is but a rose
Than why strive to become anything more?
For we will be like arrows without bows
We cannot change; we have no way to soar
We will always be this and nothing more
If a rose is but a rose to the core.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by AdoreroDio

More poems:

Diamantes

Art
Simple, beautiful
Inspiring, commenting, awing
Unique, individual, new, universal
Forming, shaping, living
Dynamic, exquisite
Creation


Religion
Mythical, reliant
Comforting, fulfilling, unifying
Living believing, knowing, seeing
Separating, teaching, learning
Complicated, logical
Science

Kyrielle

Sitting at the crossroads at last
I must come to my decision
I’ve been told to forget my past
To look ahead with new vision

But how can I not glance behind
When my future gets provision
From all that in the past I find
Then look ahead with new vision

I’ve been told to go everywhere
For it’s the correct direction
I’ll leave my past and leave me bare
And look ahead with new vision

---

Some other poems by me

Quote:

---

My sonnet-

It has been said a rose is but a rose
All that’s pink cannot be called a beauty
But if a rose is nothing but a rose
Life’s succumbed to nothing but it’s duty
A single breath is nothing more than this
Lungs retract and then expand in motion
But truthfully if that is all it is
Than life is not but a repetition
If it is true a rose is but a rose
Than why strive to become anything more?
For we will be like arrows without bows
We cannot change; we have no way to soar
We will always be this and nothing more
If a rose is but a rose to the core.

---

Hi AdoreroDio!

This poem is beautifully constructed. I love it! Is “My Sonnet” the title of this poem? If it isn’t, may I suggest the title be “Their Sonnet”? Because when I think about “their” I think about their opinion, how they feels about a certain idea, which definitely falls in line with the opinion expressed by them through the speaker. I’m also wondering about the ending and “core”. If living things do not have an inner need to aspire for something greater than what they are, (which is what I feel they have conveyed) then why not chose a word that is repetitive in sound with “rose” and “rose” in the last line. Your first two images are wonderful. The third image seems out of place. Maybe an image that is an extension of the second image would serve as a better fit.

Thank you for you ideas- I put the title as my Sonnet only because I have no title yet but I wanted everyone to know what form I used, which also explains the word core because the rhyme scheme for a Shakespearian Sonnet, such as mine is abab cdcd efef gg. I will try and come up with another third image....the current one does seem a bit out of place as you say. Thanks.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Sigvard

If I walked with you
Amidst the blaze of beautiful flowers,
I would ask them to bow to you
For you are my Queen.

If I could affect the light of the moon that`s full, at will,
I would command it to change its` color
To the one that is your favorite,
for you are my Queen.

If this my poor attempt at painting words for you,
Can bring home to your understanding
Only some of the deep feelings, that I hold for you,
I would have achieved something.

And if I could speak my words with a voice that does not break up
For all the emotions that swell up inside of me,
I would try whilst you listen, to convey to your mind
All the things, that I always wanted to say to you,
But that can not be easily expressed in common speech -
Such as my deep devotion, that I would be prepared
To take all the pain and unhappiness that ever may come your way,
Gladly upon myself, to suffer in your stead,
So you may be happy,
For you are my Queen.

If all the music that has ever been written, could be put together
As one composition of immortal sound,
I would get the greatest masters to work on it
And present it from me to you
As a confession of my everlasting love,
For you are my Queen.

If it were at all possible for me
To form the stars of a nightly summers` sky
Into an orchestra, I would do so -
Then tell them to play just for you, whilst I myself would conduct
This concerto of a million harmonies and magnificent beauty,
For you are a very precious gift -
My strength , my friend, my life,
you are my world, my beloved wife,
You are my Queen.

---

Wow, to be loved like this! Awesome, Sigvard!

Quote:

---

Spring brought warmer days,
Melted the ice on the lake,
Found the willows still asleep
Then kissed them awake.
Countless hours and more
Have I searched our " haunts of yesterday ",
Where were you when the song-birds flew back
From their far-off hideaway?

Summer came with those
warm nights in soft shades of blue,
Gave a new lease of life
To my memories of you.
I recalled how we hand in hand chased the wind
Just like children play,
Where were you when the wild geese returned
From a cold and distant bay?

Autumn changed summers` brightness
To new color-schemes,
Leaves fell, drowned in the lake,
Sadness lived in my dreams,
Once more winter-winds
Drifted the snow across a moody sea,
Where were you when a cruel, frosty morning
Froze every hope in me?
Yes, where were you when I thought of you,
longed for you,
wanted you with me.

---

Beautiful, I loved this poem. Cheers, Kizzo :)

Quote:

---

Sitting at the crossroads at last
I must come to my decision
I’ve been told to forget my past
To look ahead with new vision

But how can I not glance behind
When my future gets provision
From all that in the past I find
Then look ahead with new vision

I’ve been told to go everywhere
For it’s the correct direction
I’ll leave my past and leave me bare
And look ahead with new vision

---

I admire your writings for taking into consideration the poem’s structure. It shows you have a certain level of control in containing and conveying your ideas. “Containing” is good – not at the expense of expressing yourself though. I feel like the ending could have broken out of the mold, the form – new direction, new vision…move somewhere beyond the scope of present and past.

In nomine Dei nostri Satanas Lucifery excelsi
Regie Satanas Ave Satanas
Shemhamforash !

In the shady grove of yonder ancient trees,
Lies an old, neglected cemetery,
That has seen in it`s day half the worlds` tears,
And, as the story has it - the wonder of a miraculous healing.

Here they laid young Esther McCray, lamenting her untimely passing away,
b`neath the wording on stone " Rest beloved child in heaven`s peace "
Yet still she kept stirring and her tormented soul,
Pleaded for its release.

On her overgrown grave grew a strange, unknown flower,
that was black like the cloak of the priest,
who had summoned Satan`s power, cast a spell at the hour,
The hour of the ritual to the horned beast.
Tracing the serpent-circle with revenge on his mind,
of the most unholy, the most gruesome kind,
he uttered a curse that broke her will, her will for life,
when his efforts had failed to make her his wife,

vile servant of hades, prince of night,
then - her memory had died.

In nomine Dei nostri Satanas lucifery excelsi
Regie Satanas Ave Satanas
Shemhamforash !

With those lewd incantations and with dark invocations,
He would turn her into his master`s slave,
I am told of rumours that kept flying, someone heard a faint sighing,
From within the deep of her grave,

And in her state of death-like sleep,
She could still hear the daywinds, hear the nightwinds weep.
Oh to break the devil`s power, who would pluck the demon-flower,
So her poor, her tortured spirit could go free.

Satan`s priest deemed it duty, when he cursed her young beauty,
till her life`s blood dried up in her veins,
though her body was dying, Esther's` soul was still trying,
to be rid of it`s terrible pains.

In nomine Dei nostri Satanas Lucifery excelsi
Regie Satanas Ave Satanhas
Shemhamforash !

Through the seasons, through the years in this restless sleep,
She could still hear the winds, hear the tall trees creek,
feel the winter`s cold,
feel the summers` heat.
Oh to break the devil`s power,
Who would pluck the demon-flower,
So her imprisoned, tortured spirit could go free ?

Then the Lord intervened, caused a young man to ponder,
How to wrench her from Baphomet`s claws,
He revealed in his dreaming how to work out a scheming,
To be truly a plan without flaws.

The young man saw quite clearly, he who loved Esther dearly,
That he must be prepared for the worst,
But with God by his side and love as his guide,
He would free her from the infernal`s curse,
free her from the curse.

It was almost the ninth anniversary
since the rape of Esther`s liberty,
Then when the actual day drew in,
triumphantly the priest did shout " My time has come, I shall yet win ! "
The final bond I shall yet complete,
This day shall see my victory,
And I will win !

In nomine Dei nostri Satanas. "

Suspended from heaven`s canopy,
A waning moon shone through the rustling trees,
the only witnesses to see,
The renegade enter the cemetery.

With him he carried the pentacle of shame,
Inscribed with the cyphers of the beastly name,
and a mantle of crimson that by her grave he would spread,
In readiness for the marital bed.

Asmodeus he would invoke, the lord of flies,
To make her re-animated body to rise - from the bowls of the earth,
And in virginal white,
He would dress her for the wedding rite.

Rex Mundi`s chalice of blood would be filled to the brim,
He`d have her drink thereof, she`d be ready for him
Intoxicated with the elixir of desire,
She would open to him, her loins on fire.
But, he would not be rushed, first he would tease her,
Oh, how that should please her,
Then he`d close in - hold back - only half way would he meet her
Until she`d beg him to ravish, mistreat her.
Then he`d fall upon her with all his might,
And in sexual frenzy he would beat her.

Ha ! what delicate foreplay this might be, tingling, heightening the ecstasy,
Her delicious, whimpering cries, her deep-throated sighs,
will sound like hell`s choir sweet harmony,
Praise ! thrice exalted satanic majesty.
Finally, with one more brutal thrust of lust,
He`d consummate this hideous union
achieved through sorcery, with an act of unspeakable vulgarity.

The droning strokes of a church-clock spoke midnight,
As if to urge the young man, no longer to wait,
Before dawn he must challenge the blasphemous fiend,
Beyond the cemetery`s rusty, old gate.

He was trembling with fear on his slow-paced approach to the grave, -
Then his tightening grip tore hard at the flower,
With desperate strength and power,
with a prayer on his quivering lip:
" Lord deliver me from evil,
And the terror that haunts the night. "

Sudden flashes of lightning, earth-shattering roars of thunder,
Then a blood-curdling, unworldly scream,
The black priest fell dying and his soul came out flying, -
To hell ! in a green-colored steam.

`Twas the Lord`s mighty wrath, that had felled the great sinner,
The young man stood transfixed, struck with awe,
Then the darkness was lifted, God ! The earth on her grave shifted,
He could not believe what he saw.

From the dust of the ground, from the opening mound -
There was rising his beautiful Esther,
But that just could not be, it was a ghost, he should flee,
Just a vision - it could not be Esther.

But then forth from her eyes shone a new-given life,
When they suddenly fully opened,
Then, as her arms reached for him, she spoke " touch my skin,
for to know, the sting of death has been broken. "
Oh Lord was he sleeping ?
Could he still be dreaming ?
Oh, dear Lord, could this really be true ?
But due reward had not missed him,
For the lips that now kissed him,
Were as fresh as the morning`s dew.