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  • OT: Original Poetry Thread

    Seriously, post your original poetry, of any type.
    I'll start with my free verse from the 9-11 thread on the guitar forum.

    Recollections,
    the classroom filled with the volume of the utter silence,
    the roar, drowning the cries of the civilian, the newscaster,
    as we sit, stand, faint.
    I have seen the evil of man.
    I have heard his anger,
    moving thousands to tears,
    to places we are not, but shall be.
    We have changed,
    we have not,
    we have had,
    we now give.
    Prayers,
    the bees,
    the traffic of the day, the week,
    now, the year.
    Remembering,
    the nation weeps,
    shedding tears that carry the shell,
    the empty husks of locust that we once were,
    to the wounded, yet healed soil.
    Reality is the original Rorschach.

  • #2
    I posted a bunch of stuff on USENET back in 1996 designed to irk and annoy. Here you go.

    It may have been the way she fell
    greasysmooth into the chair that seemed
    hewn for her arrival

    Or the languid dangling
    of the shoe pivoting on her toe
    that stopped Billy short
    and forced him to whisper
    "jesus did you see
    the butt on her"
    CONTAINS TRACE AMOUNTS OF ROCK AND COUNTRY. South Bound LaneHC 3.0 -- Making you miss HC 2.0

    Comment


    • #3
      Speaking the masses agree to the production line running a foot away, leaving them behind in an uproar, a stupor from which they refuse to recover those things they have lost themselves in a way they do not realize what has taken place they have not been around the corner shop of cathartic words that condemn each for his belief that he should believe that faith is his choice of life, attempted restraint of his desire to do harm to those that wish upon a Star that could save them if they allow it to do so. They will not.
      Reality is the original Rorschach.

      Comment


      • #4
        here is one that i wrote that still moves me:

        tapped on my window
        a gentle reminder of things to come
        and out across the field where my grandfather lies
        this stranger's droning, ever-droning voice doesn't comfort me
        he can't deliver you

        by j. wells

        Comment


        • #5
          Improvise something. Come on, people! I know more than three people have poetic ability.

          As I stand, watching the world turn upon itself,
          I mourn, for that, the pain, the destruction,
          Is bound upon the hearts of men,
          And so shall it be.
          Loosed from those iron hearts,
          The iron hands grasp the will of the weak,
          Bending them,
          As the drums of war are beaten, I am Caesar,
          I am the powers that were, and will be.
          Reality is the original Rorschach.

          Comment


          • #6
            Here's one I posted a while back:

            Push me, pull me
            Steering my life off course
            Like the balding tire on my car
            Pulling me toward that twisted guardrail
            Where the last life was taken

            Push me, pull me
            Self control like stripped rack & pinion
            Careening wildly through the night
            Images of long-dead lovers
            Beckon like sirens from the abyss

            Push me, pull me
            Two tires on pavement
            Two in thin air
            Chewing through my brake lines
            She draws me closer to the ledge

            Push me, pull me
            Like suicide, so selfish
            Wanting only what my soul was told to desire
            Swerving to the wrong side
            Almost took out that family of five

            Push me, pull me
            Cut the wheel hard
            Vision clears, the wind carries the voice from my ears
            That was too close for comfort
            Won

            Comment


            • #7
              Sometimes America

              The place was filled with business men
              Farm boys and truant kids
              Housewives and working men
              Cops and young soldiers

              We tried to hook a ride
              From Lamar to Boulder
              In our p-coats and stash bags
              And hair below our shoulders

              The locals and their attitudes
              Stares and whispers, looking rude
              Helped to make our hard time harder

              The winter storm was blowing in
              I had twenty-seven cents
              You hummed tunes from Big Pink and Revolver

              An American scene, we were two James Deans
              We were lost, but never alone
              No regrets, nobody sweats
              Someday those times would take their toll

              Today you are a CPA
              I waste my time in cyberspace
              Cocktail parties, football games
              Years fly by like bullet trains

              We suffer from this heart disease
              It
              Nerve

              Anyone who is disturbed by the idea of newts in a nightclub is potentially dangerous. - Frank Zappa

              Comment


              • #8
                Originally posted by The Eristic

                As I stand, watching the world turn upon itself,
                I mourn, for that, the pain, the destruction,
                Is bound upon the hearts of men,
                And so shall it be.
                Loosed from those iron hearts,
                The iron hands grasp the will of the weak,
                Bending them,
                As the drums of war are beaten, I am Caesar,
                I am the powers that were, and will be.


                that is awesome eristic! just awesome.

                nerve, i dig "sometimes america" too. i have read that before i think. most excellent.

                Comment


                • #9
                  I *will* turn this into a song one day...

                  Scarecrow

                  The King stands on top of his hill
                  looking out with dry and empty sockets that will cry no more.
                  Not a thought stirs in his head
                  nothing to disturb the hollow numbness.
                  A heart as dry as tinder
                  and as black as mildewed straw.

                  His coat of glory, now tattered and torn
                  flaps in the breeze like a warning flag
                  to sailors in uncharted waters
                  where many put to sea, yet none returned,
                  or a battle standard of faded victories
                  mocking its own past.

                  No more to walk and breathe,
                  crucified on his frame of old sticks,
                  the scarecrow sees the dawning day
                  and screams his silent agony
                  across the waking world.
                  Coppula eam se non posit acceptera jocularum.

                  Comment


                  • #10
                    Originally posted by casper gomez


                    that is awesome eristic! just awesome.

                    nerve, i dig "sometimes america" too. i have read that before i think. most excellent.


                    Thanks Casper! This is the first time I've posted the finished version, I posted a rough draft once. Actually it's a song, Moe has agreed to sing it for me.
                    Nerve

                    Anyone who is disturbed by the idea of newts in a nightclub is potentially dangerous. - Frank Zappa

                    Comment


                    • #11
                      Not one of mine, but by an ex-girlfriend, an author. She wrote this very clever parody of "Dulce et Decorum", and it's called...

                      Dolce et Gabbana

                      by Jane Lovering

                      Here they come, rows on endless rows
                      From Knightsbridge trudging on down Oxford Street.
                      Each as blackly dressed, as uniform, as crows
                      Marching forward, Gucci shoes on Gucci feet.
                      And - dear God - the children, each a mother's son
                      Clad in ill-fitting sports wear - daughters too.
                      Proud to show they're Gap Kids, every one.
                      We ordinary mortals draw away, we let them through.

                      Harrods Sale! We must be there, the prices tumbling
                      Of Versace ... and that Chanel dress I'm told
                      Supports, contains, prevents the body crumbling,
                      When one buys designer wear one cannot gracefully grow old.
                      Everything which can must be tucked, stitched around
                      Or else upraised, oh blessed Wonderbra!
                      That stops my boobs from dragging on the ground.
                      One cannot praise too highly Wonderbra.

                      But are they happy? Sticklike, thin and pale?
                      That look as though they need some food and sun
                      And have instead cocaine and smoke - though none inhale,
                      Stay up all night at parties having fun.
                      Sleeping with male models - chiselled faces
                      Who know how to roll a joint in just one hand,
                      Make love in front of mirrors, and kiss places
                      That the plain suburban girl has yet to understand.

                      Oh yes. The beautiful, the rich, they have the best.
                      It's still the same, the old, old story,
                      Sadly, but Dolce et Gabbana est Pro Patria Mori.
                      Coppula eam se non posit acceptera jocularum.

                      Comment


                      • #12
                        Very nice thread indeed.
                        Minutus cantorum, minutus balorum,
                        minutus carborata descendum pantorum
                        -----------
                        A little song, a little dance, a little seltzer in your pants

                        Comment


                        • #13
                          Excellent poetry. We should publish a HCVF compilation book.

                          Thanks, Casper.

                          Keep it up. I'll be back tonight to write more, and check on everyone.
                          Reality is the original Rorschach.

                          Comment


                          • #14
                            Your insurgent verse
                            Is no match for the awesome
                            Power of haiku

                            "I had a cat named Snowball
                            She died! She died!
                            Mom said she was sleeping
                            She lied! She lied!"

                            Comment


                            • #15
                              I strangle your haiku with incessant rhymeless rhyming of the ways in which we are falling upon stoned fooling none other than themselves in whom we find solacing ourselves once again in apathetic joy to this world is rejected by those seeking life have found it and given it away.
                              Reality is the original Rorschach.

                              Comment



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