woo! five minutes between math and arts! :p
sorry, i didn't have much time. But congrats, Petrarch, and i really like that picture!!
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woo! five minutes between math and arts! :p
sorry, i didn't have much time. But congrats, Petrarch, and i really like that picture!!
hey y'all
Challenge of Word
what times are these, when the pens power wanes
fading to feint grey shadows, dust to dust
motes of age that float to dark tides of war
where swords gleam bright, beneath the white tooth snarl
growls and screams of rage echo across worlds
decades of gnarled growth, shattered by the ink
smooth curves and dots fight the red stains of bleed
who now dares to stand, neath the tall blank book
the unwritten page, that holds thoughts of old
words they dared to speak, but could not bear to write
for fear the future might judge their mind
cowards did fall, but now there needs to stand
the one who would be judged, by the white book
Swell of Spring’s Night Sweet Sadness
Evening’s glow falls upon gathered stones
As nights silver shimmer unveils by suns warmed moon
Shallow breath, quick glance
Bristle winds blow through leaves of many
I sit and wait patient no more
Cool night's silk embrace my self as soul
While he runs phantom on fences of light and crystal
tunnels with whispered roar
My mind races with fear and loss
then numbed in despair
For not cut of brow by viscous brawl quells the spirit
of tigers call
For love of night and sweet scent
As the night shown bright by suns warmed moon
And crystal tunnels under fences of light fall silent
With swells of spring’s night sweet sadness……..
sorry it's been awhile, but I did write something for this one.
Mercury Rises
Winged herald standing solemn
Scouts for hope through misty eyes
Resilient as a brilliant column
Gazing down from opaque skies
He stands above the world, aloof
From sublunary sorrow
The seraph’s name called Providence
The book he brings: “Tomorrow”
The writ he wields will fan the air
Its cover coarse and torn
The pages like its bearer bare
And likewise unadorned
Tomorrow’s text unmarred by ink
From troubling years now past and gone
Men free to rise, or free to sink
In vast Horizon’s crystal dawn
I know this isn't very good but I thought I'd give it a shot. It was kind of rushed and unedited but oh well. I haven't had much expirience with poems since I am only in 6th grade and I hope you my poem doesn't scar you for life with it's terriblness. ( is that a word?)
Truth
A man holds the book of truth,
of light, of knowledge ,of power.
For if your words should grace those pages
they shall be cherished for ever.
If you would be so bold,
to spill your mind onto the paper,
to let the vivid colors of your imagination,
paint this blank canvas full.
Of dark and bright and in between,
colors that make a beautiful world.
For you to explore,
For you to Love and enjoy.
In this world which is your own,
You are truly free
To think and feel however you please.
Books are the key to the door
Which leads to enlightenment and understanding.
Be sure you are ready, for once you open that door,
There is no turning back.
Light will come pouring through
And you can not stop it
No power can, for this is
Truth. Pure unblemished truth
And with the Truth comes power
It makes you feel big and strong
You tower over the weak ones who
Do not know the truth.
So open your eyes,
Pick up a book
And let the Truth be known
Congratulations Petrarch! Looks like you have your work cut out for you judging this rounds poetry contest.
I worked on it hard;Quote:
Originally Posted by Petrarch's Love
Day and night
In every kind of weather
Even in the candle light
I could not afford a tube-light
I could not afford a good dinner in the restaurant
Just because of this book, my wife and I had a big fight
She was angry with me because I did not earn much
Dear Lizzy was right on her place; children had to survive on a poor lunch
But still I kept on working on this very book, with no other thought
"Work and earn for yourself, children and wife," I forgot what my mother had taught
Dreams of being a writer were over me
So most of my time was spent under a tree
Away from home; children and Lizzy
And then one day, I completed this book, I was fizzy
So lively, happy and I was on the moon
But the published threw the copy away - my happiness he had to ruin!
He took away everything at that very moment
My dreams - my hard work of many years
Things happened according to Lizzy's fears
Now I am standing here, with this book in my hand
A poor man, but not as much poor as I was before
The experience has taught me well
I have started to work to have bread on my table; work other than writing
But am I going to make up for the past years?
Is this book going to cover me up well?
Is this book going to cover me up well?
Thanks, ktd. Yes, it would seem I have my work cut out for me. Great seeing the submissions so far and look forward to reading more. :)Quote:
Originally Posted by ktd222
Yeah! Some of these poems are pretty good! Would you guys please read my story? http://www.online-literature.com/for...090#post322090
He stands there
Holding his world it seems
And it feels empty
Maybe just invisible
Maybe just foreign
Maybe hidden
Maybe locked away.
Perhaps he is crying
Pushing himself back
Perhaps he is rejoicing
That no one will remember.
The pages of his life are
Not as invisible as they look
Rather they are filled
Line upon line upon line
Of scribbled ink and mystery
Of hope and dream and crime
Of love and pain and faith
Of struggling and suffering.
Or maybe they are filled with
Nothing but longing
Longing to show themselves
Longing to be read
Longing to be loved back
Longing to feel fulfilled.
Perhaps he is a facade
Perhaps he wears a mask
Perhaps he feels a giant
Perhaps his life feels
Far too overwhelming
His struggles too hideous
To show the world
That to him is both
Worse and better
Than himself.
Perhaps he was forced
Into hiding his soul
Perhaps he is afraid
Of revealing his mind
Of rejection
Of hate
Of distrust.
Or perhaps what he shows
Is merely the flyleaf
Of some great and
Beautiful work.
Hail Titan’s spawn,
Conceived in earth by time,
Midwived by thunder,
What would you add?
Re-returning again,
The words of our fathers,
As if from your brethren,
And none are their own.
Words carried, never possessed,
Forever given, never at rest,
What part of our soul
Shows on the cave wall?
Genesis, Sutra, I-ching, sing
Isaiah, Oyasama, Joe Smith, Bramah, bring
Hope, peace, charity, and love
How shall we call you?
Music that speaks with accents
Where others’ plainsong rasps the air and jars
That harmony to which it might aspire,
Two-part invention, loudly screeching, mars
A flimsy manuscript that’s born of ire.
Yet you, whose chant beguiles my dirge within,
With added fortune truly worth the name,
Will fashion soothing pulses on my skin
And sing so sweet the birds shall die of shame.
For some, the birthing blood of music rests
In dark discord where bitter rankling stains
Biopsy of lineage. Yet, perverse, attests
Denial of which; its wriggling whelp disdains.
Such sucklings we then, who, with vision joint,
Sing on in love ... with heed to counterpoint.
ooh, barney, that is i think my favorite so far
when's the contest over??? i think i might enter