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Poetry....Your favorites, and your own.
#71
"I Love You."

Don't ever tell me that again.
We both know that it's not true.
Don't tell me that you know my pain.
I'm bleeding here because of you.

Don't smile at me and tell me lies
that were once so easy to believe.
I know the evil in your eyes.
With the devil's tongue you still decieve.

Don't promise me the world, and all
that awaits me there in heaven above me.
Just don't say anything at all
Because I know that you don't love me.

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#72
Hey Saws, I really liked that one!
But now for the inevitable, a sappy love poem...

"Still Water"

A safe harbor awaits me in your arms
When you hold me
I can forget this world we live in
My troubles wash away
in the warmth of your embrace

Once I hit the calm surface
of your kiss
The current carried me away
The depth filling my soul
never knowing I might drown there

Still, I return to the water's edge
Where I am free to dream
I dream this feeling never ends,
yet I know I will never be the same,
so I welcome the water's embrace
again and again

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#73
Nothin' wrong with sappy love poems...Diggin' on yours, Tom...

I scream to make you look at me
we both know this can't go on
open your eyes and you'll soon see
that I'm already gone

I've tried so hard and bled so much
only to end up empty handed
To taste your lips, to feel your touch
I gave all that you demanded

I scream but you won't look at me
because you know what I say is true
Maybe one day, you'll look back and see
that all that I needed was you.
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#74
Here's a new one from me. Kind of different. An extended metaphor. Exrta points if you can figure it out. The title has the only clue, really.

Autumn Leaves At Calvin College

The yellow falls first
Slamming, smacking, scraping
Against the paved parking crescent
Blood splatters everywhere, nature washing clean
The body curls and crusts to brown
A corpse of a life only two seasons long
Rolled by the wind across the graveyard of its brethren,
The red and the orange,
Each martyrs for the cause of change.
They go to death fearless,
Piled in cold pyres they themselves light,
Bright, the many colors of the flame ignite
Until they curl and crust to brown
And blow away on the breeze
To some spot of earth
Where other things grow, and live, and die,
And rise again in Spring.
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#75
Thunder, my guess is the (metaphorically) human life cycle of a leaf. I may be missing something else, but either way, that is a goddamn fine poem.

You reminded me of a few seasonal ones I did, heres one of them.

Daydreams

I step out the door
barefoot on a Spring morning
the sunlight dreamily kisses the dew
from the cool grass
As I lie down in its softness
the sun sings me to sleep
with a warm affectionate touch
and I daydream of you...

I step out the door
gazing skyward on a Summer eve
watching the twinkling stars
compete for my attention
Yet the moon pulls me away
for she seems to glow
as brightly as the sun
and I daydream of you...

I step out the door
for a walk on an Autumn day
a breeze scuttles the fallen leaves
stirring a cascade of colour
through the trees
and I immerse myself
in nature's beauty
and I daydream of you...

Finally, I step towards the door
shaking off the chill
of this wintry eve
aware of the blissful comfort
of the fire that awaits beyond it

I stop to hear the silence
of the snow
as it falls steadily
in the stillness of the night

And I smile
crossing the threshold
where dreams and reality collide
for as the day ends
you fall into my arms
and your fire consumes me...
Reply
#76
Quote:

Originally posted by RepairmanTom
Thunder, my guess is the (metaphorically) human life cycle of a leaf. I may be missing something else, but either way, that is a goddamn fine poem.



Hehe...not quite that obvious. We'll see if anybody else gets it.

As for "Daydreams" I like it, but some of the lines seem a little cliche. I don't know, I'm probably just as guilty of it, but
"summer eve"
"shaking off the chill"
"sunlight...kisses the dew"
"watching the twinkling stars"

I like the punch at the end, but it seems like a lot of pretty standard poetic language.
Now This:
In the park the jester walks
loneliness his majesty
heartache his queen
the stars his audience
the elements of the city
compose a symphony
air water concrete steel
sing in the stillness of night
as he dances for the multitudes
the fool walks alone

That's good stuff. The words aren't so buddy-buddy in this one. There's some great original phrasing here.
Regarding cliche, I try to think as I'm writing: "If it sounds great right away, somebody probably already wrote it."

Good stuff, Repairman. Keep it coming. this thread has been slow.
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#77
Awesome. Still.

I finally found my old poetry book. Would it be okay for a female to join in here at some point?
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#78
Avalon, please, join us! And welcome!!

OK Thunder, anything to do with Burr & "Autumn Leaves at the Mansewood"?

Please explain, as I cannot access any pertinent info, but am aware of Burr's thoughts on science proving religion...

or are ya gonna leave me hanging?

Meanwhile, I will leave you with an old favorite of mine, Robert E. Howard, and "Visions"

I cannot beleive in a paradise
Glorious, undefiled,
For gates all scrolled and streets of gold
Are tales for a dreaming child.

I am too lost for shame
That it moves me unto mirth
But I can vision a Hell of flame
For I have lived on earth.
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#79
Yes, join us, Avalon!
Well, Repairman, as far as my metaphor, I didn't expect it would be easy at all. See, you were thinking leaves or autumn on both guesses, but it has much deeper theological musings in mind. You'd really need to dig for it I think, unless the reader knew already about Calvin College in order to make the more important connection to the process and characteristics of the Christian faith.

I'll give you that much and see what you can do with it, if you want.

Until then, here's another of my own poetry:

DARK
Unfortunate voices, speaking in nocturnes
Words like dirges heralding the passing of the deepest human passions
Many more than one life is lost when an image-bearer slides into the shadows
of death.
Grey tears on faces, pale and ashen,
drown eyes that would
damn the soul for just
one
last
glance.
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#80
Thanks, guys.

All of these are my own. Some good. Some not so good. Feel free to point fingers and laugh. (I suck at proper punctuation).

I'll try not to bombard you with them all at once, but thanks for allowing me to share amongst you. I am honored to feel welcomed into this fine group of poets.

The Err Is Human (6/23/93)

They say that to err is human,
but being human is the true err.
We cannot be part of, yet are full knowing
that true soul's found in flower; mountain air.

What more beauty can humans envision,
than to touch that of butterfly wing.
To see harvest moon, smell of lilac in June;
hear the haunting calls of loons as they sing.

What would bring humans more into sync
with the flutter of hummingbirds sweet,
than the pull at our feet of the oceans tide,
the harmonious bow of the summer wheat.

The dew in the crisp, early morning sun,
are the tears that the land weeps each day.
Will it be picked, and prodded or pricked,
or slowly just blown, plowed away?

The soft summer rains on a paved Paris street;
a picnic paradise on an Irish hill retreat;
are both but a vision, not a syncopated rhythm
of what the soul of nature can repeat.

Magical are the broad landscapes,
as the seasons play palette games.
Warm greens, soft ambers and bright whites,
each in turn, turn the seasons the same.

Grand then, are nature's canyons; gentle are the brooks.
Expansive is the desert; a fawn takes cautioned look.
An eagle soars even higher, as the vulture swoops down low.
A peony is taunted by ants to open; the redwood has far to go.

Err then! I am human!
My conscience keeps haunting me so.
In a world vast with visionary beauty,
how the senses have nurtured my soul.

By touch, by sound, by ear, by feel
the beauty of nature, sea-sky-earth revealed.
My soul is alive in as much as it's healed.
The stars, salty air and the sun are my meal.
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#81
This next one was written and given to my father on his final birthday. He died two months ( to the day) after I wrote it. He is buried with it (tucked away in his shirt pocket on top of his heart).

A Father, My Dad (9/9/87)

A Father's love will never die or ever change,
even though his children's goals are always re-arranged.
By their will and their spirits yet so untamed,
he guides them with faith and open promise.

The faded memories of all the good times passed,
a Father's love will truly always outlast.
Through toddling two's and school book blues,
and final visions of basketball dreams.

It's been said that I do idolize you,
yeah, well maybe it is really true.
I admire your stories of your life and living;
no one tells a story the way that you do.

You have done so much living in your lifetime,
things some people only dream of and even more.
Though many years you've hurt and been disabled,
who'd believe how much you've done in fifty-four!

Through all of the rough times - life's bitter pill,
through all of our growing pains, sweet memories linger still.
Like the beauty through your glasses (wide-eyed window sills),
and the oil on your canvas mountains yet unspilled.

The quiet reflections on each Christmas Eve,
would show through your eyes with help from the tree.
Your one and only wish came true with each Christmas Day,
that we couldn't walk throughout the rooms
because of all the toys with which to play.

You taught me the word humble
and to appreciate the small things in life.
To grow and be a true caring woman,
like the woman you married - your wife.

Dad, I could go on forever with all that you mean to me.
I only wish now that I could make you feel better,
and in Australia, pain free, you could be.

I love you more than just a Father,
more as a man of great wisdom and grace.
To take all the bullshit life gives you,
and still keep a smile on your face.
I love you.
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#82
I'll end this round on a happy note and dedicate this one to Nick and Catherine. It is a poem that won honorable mention in a national competition. It was written for my son, Kevin "Pumpkin" Allen.

Bundle of Joy (9/3/85)

Pale blue eyes of wonder,
kept under foot how you are.
With arms of flinging anticipation
and Heinz happiness in your jars.

How can it be that you are of me,
toothy smiles, piggy toes, heart of gold?
Soft as a sparrow you came to me.
Gift of God, a new life now unfolds.

Cuddly as a kitten is your backside,
with hair in sparing wisps of summer gold.
Your unfailing inquisitive nature
only adds to the story to be told.
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#83
Quote:

The Err Is Human (6/23/93)

They say that to err is human,
but being human is the true err.
We cannot be part of, yet are full knowing
that true soul's found in flower; mountain air.

What more beauty can humans envision,
than to touch that of butterfly wing.
To see harvest moon, smell of lilac in June;
hear the haunting calls of loons as they sing.

What would bring humans more into sync
with the flutter of hummingbirds sweet,
than the pull at our feet of the oceans tide,
the harmonious bow of the summer wheat.

The dew in the crisp, early morning sun,
are the tears that the land weeps each day.
Will it be picked, and prodded or pricked,
or slowly just blown, plowed away?

The soft summer rains on a paved Paris street;
a picnic paradise on an Irish hill retreat;
are both but a vision, not a syncopated rhythm
of what the soul of nature can repeat.

Magical are the broad landscapes,
as the seasons play palette games.
Warm greens, soft ambers and bright whites,
each in turn, turn the seasons the same.

Grand then, are nature's canyons; gentle are the brooks.
Expansive is the desert; a fawn takes cautioned look.
An eagle soars even higher, as the vulture swoops down low.
A peony is taunted by ants to open; the redwood has far to go.

Err then! I am human!
My conscience keeps haunting me so.
In a world vast with visionary beauty,
how the senses have nurtured my soul.

By touch, by sound, by ear, by feel
the beauty of nature, sea-sky-earth revealed.
My soul is alive in as much as it's healed.
The stars, salty air and the sun are my meal. [/B]

Wow. This is amazing. Do you, by any chance, read Jane Kenyon? This is better than hers.
(IMHO)
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#84
Thanks for the very kind words, HMT. Everyone in here before me has made great contributions, so I'm not afraid of truthful criticism on my stuff. I've never even heard of Jane Kenyon, to be honest.

I was curious, so I made note this time. Since I was last here the views jumped from 35 to 57. Is that a good thing or bad?
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#85
Quote:

Originally posted by Avalon
Thanks for the very kind words, HMT. Everyone in here before me has made great contributions, so I'm not afraid of truthful criticism on my stuff. I've never even heard of Jane Kenyon, to be honest.

I was curious, so I made note this time. Since I was last here the views jumped from 35 to 57. Is that a good thing or bad?


No problem!
I would recommend reading som Jane Kenyon as well as Donald Hall. (they were married, Jane died.) They, especialy Jane, have a very similar style to yours. The reason I liked yours better though is because of the flowing, fluid lines. Kenyon and Hall have some pretty arresting and vivid details in their poetry that can sort of take you out of the poem.

I think that happened for me with A Father, My Dad.
The whole poem is great, very moving, but the last two stanzas really took me out of the poem, and it got confusing. I still got it mostly, but the tone of the poem changes so suddenly at the last two stanzas, so it was a bit awkward for me.

Having said that, I also fully understand that that poem is for a very private audience, who probably would follow that poem right to the end and even further. On the issue of audience, I really struggle with that. I write every poem for the same audience: Anyone who will read it.
I feel a repsonsibility to the truth in writing, in whatever subject it may appear. I think you do too, which is why the poem seemed to jump a bit for me, because the truth is sometimes arresting. Hall and Kenyon work that way. They build these fantastically minute details into a whole picture and then they stop showing and just tell you exactly what's happening.
Donald Hall does this especially in Names of Horses and The Painted Bed.
Without is also a really good one of his, in which the arresting detail actually draws you deeper into the poem. very cool.
I also forgot to mention about you poems, Avalon: LOVE the vocabulary. Awesome, beautiful word choices.
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#86
WOW. I haven't been in here lately and everyone is doing amazing stuff. HMT, Dark is awesome.

Avalon, your stuff is fucking great and I hope that you will become a usual contributor to our little thread.

Hopefully guys I will have some new stuff soon as I have been to busy to write anything. But there are some lines tumbling around in my meager noggin, they should get out soon.
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#87
Wow, wow, wow . . . such fine prose from all of you. I just returned from hypersleep, guess I've missed some of the great posting to this thread . . . may I contribute . . . (forgive the length, this is from my Poe-esque period)


Darkway

I stayed too long in this loathsome place
drinking from an endless glass of self pity
and when the Innkeepers clock chimed midnight
and the eyes of men with dishonorable intent
began to glance over my face and form
I quickly settled my bill and made my farewells
and walked the seething gauntlet of the drunken hoards
and without a look I passed them by and out the door
onto the quiet walk that led to my safe and lonely home

My heartbroken thoughts carried me many blocks
and to my surprise where my stoop should be
a dark and stately iron gate stood silently before me
I turned around to stare the way I'd come
and did not recognize the solemn path I'd walked
for somewhere in the churning of my thoughts
I had diverted from my normal taken course
and gone so astray as to be led to the Cemetery gates.

The cold skeleton hand of the North wind blew
blinding me with the furious tempest of my own hair
and when I had pushed the chestnut locks away
I stood before the now opened Cemetery gates
and of their own accord a step back my feet took
while the grip of icy fingers seized my pounding heart
though frozen in fear an overwhelming desire flooded my senses
and before I could stop my self I stepped forward
into the menacing darkness of the open Cemetery gate.

The blackness enfolded me like a lover's embrace
swallowing all sense of my physical shape and being
yet up ahead the pale light of the moon cast forth a beam
along the ground like a fairy guide before me
and with courage abounding at such a sight
I willfully followed the celestial light to its end
where there upon the damp cold winter soil
lie the marker of one whose spirit had flown this world.

The clouds moved overhead and hid the moon from me
leaving only momentary darkness until once again
lovely Diana emerged and cast her glow upon cold alabaster
leaning forward I read the epitome of this one departed
Here lies the fair and radiant Emile
A tale of misfortune led her to this grave
By the evil deeds of men, folly and booze

A lesson she leaves to those who loved her well
When you walk home alone Beware, beware.
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#88
Dude, that IS very POE-like. It doesn't come out much in my writing, but I LOVE Poe. I think Darkway captures the best of the "mystery and horror" style without actually just ripping off Poe. Good job!
I actually wrote three poems today, and I really, really like each one. That's not something that happens often! I'm going to go over them a bit, make any changes, but after that, I'll post 'em!

More poems, people!

Until I get to my own, here's a really cool one:
Dilemma by David Budbill

I want to be
famous
so I can be
humble
about being
famous.

What good is my
humility
when I am
stuck
in this
obscurity?
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#89
Thank you and btw, Ripley is a chick as in Lt. Ellen Ripley . . .
different style below . . . ahaha



Endless

My heart
screams loudly in my heaving chest

I fear
it will burst at your slightest glance

Every minute
every thought is entirely of you

Breathe me
into the depths of your soul

Drink me
and quench this mutual thirst

Eat me
and savor the taste of my flesh

Feel me
quicken at your gentle-handed touch

Hear me
moan my endless desire for you . . . .
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#90
I call everybody dude.
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#91
Quote:

Originally posted by HeavyMetalThunder
I call everybody dude.

Hey Baby, then I feel most welcomed!

. . . I call all the guys baby!

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#92
Here's a couple I wrote today:

Shower
I struggled with the tiny keyboard
of your laptop computer
Browsing e-mail and sipping water
trying to get the cat
to play with me.
I listened to the water running through
your hair
and across your body
your soapy, slippery, steamy skin smelling sweet
and you were singing
I heard the bathroom door open
and you came in
to pick your clothes
covered in a fuzzy robe
and I looked at your wet red hair
and your wet blue eyes
and I knew that I wanted this to be my life.

Scars on my hands
My left hand's middle finger's joint to the palm on the top side
reminds me of when I
crashed
while rollerblading with you after you
broke
my heart and wanted still to be my friend.
You took me to the Health Center on campus
and held my hand while the nurse pierced my skin
and you told me you loved me and
kissed
my forehead before you left for work after which you
returned to you dorm to be with the
boy
you left me for and came
back
to me because of.
My right hand thumb at the fat, round knuckle
bears a spot where my guitar
tore
open the skin
because I took it all out on
the strings.
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#93
eh, what the heck...I'll throw in the third one I wrote today.

Are you ok?
I will not ask you to heal wounds of mine
which you did not inflict.
I will not hope that you will right the wrongs
made against me by other men.
I will not demand you listen to my woes
of before I met you.
But will you sit with me while I cry?
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#94
Thanks, Smirk! Welcome Ripley! I really enjoyed these new additions. Yay!

HMT, thank you for this post! I really appreciate your feedback. I would like to bow out of this thread a bit until I see more of DWC. After all, this is his thread, so...

I think that happened for me with A Father, My Dad. The whole poem is great, very moving, but the last two stanzas really took me out of the poem, and it got confusing. I still got it mostly, but the tone of the poem changes so suddenly at the last two stanzas, so it was a bit awkward for me.

Completely understandable. I don't write for the masses. My poems are highly personal. I, too, usually have a line in mind and build from that, unless it is directed at a specific source..then I will address it directly. If you knew my dad's history, the poem would have made perfect sense. You never knew the man so there is no possible way to relate to those stanzas, and I'm fine with that. If you enjoyed part of it, that's nice. If you didn't, that's fine, too. I write for myself. It is my blog, if you will. I haven't written poetry in years, which is why I provide dates. What mattered most to me at the time that I wrote it was for my dad to relate. He did. He cried as he read it and that spoke volumes to me.

I feel a repsonsibility to the truth in writing, in whatever subject it may appear. I think you do too, which is why the poem seemed to jump a bit for me, because the truth is sometimes arresting.

Heh. I can totally relate to what you're saying. I'm nodding my head here. Not all of my poetry (The Err Is Human, for example) is so deeply personal that others can't relate, but most is. I'm not looking to ever have them published, though I did enter some in a contest eons ago. There are two published writer's in my family and hopefully, soon, a third. I am not one of them, nor do I long to be. I'm just sharing for fun so critiquing is most welcome.

I think that's why it's hard for me to get real vocal when I respond to the different CHUDSTORIES. I love reading them all. I love commenting on them all, but I have a hard time critiquing because to each writer, they ARE highly personal and so a bit of each writer appears in their work. I'm looking deeper, into the mindset of the person showcasing their piece. Every story is a touch of that writer and so they are ALL good to me. So, yeah, I sound the same in every response, because I DO love them all.

In other words: Critique me, so I can learn how to critique!

However, Hall and Kenyon work that way. They build these fantastically minute details into a whole picture and then they stop showing and just tell you exactly what's happening.

Thanks for sharing that. I'll have to check them out!
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#95
Quote:

In other words: Critique me, so I can learn how to critique!

The cool thing about being critiqued is that you never have to take any of it seriously if you don't want to. Sometimes when I write essays, the editor will change words, shift sentences from passive to active, etc, but I sit down with him and say, "You know, I appreciate you wanteing to make this better technically, but I wrote it this way purposely, and here's why..."
It almost always works!
For the times it doesn't, it just takes trust that an audience reading your work might have just enough emotional distance from the piece to be able to see it a little better than you. Sometimes it's a rotten feeling to not get your way, your initial inspiration. But again, that almost always works too! Constructive criticism is really awesome when people know how to give it and people know how to take it. It makes a lot great art much better art when the artist is willing to listen to his/her audience, and his/her audience is courageous and kind enough to offer their input.
I hope you won't stay away long, Avalon.
I'm glad you joined us!
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#96
I totally agree with you. Constructive criticism is great, but you have to know how to take as well as give. I concur. I think I have a problem giving it because I'm so sensitive in not wanting to hurt people's feelings. I don't know how it might be perceived. Hearing it vocally, is one thing. Typing it, you can throw in all the smilies or whatever you want and it may still read differently. I'm afraid to step on toes. Now live with me...and that's a whole other matter. I'm like a drill seargent. LOL

Speaking of which...my clan beckons. Gotta run. I hope to read more poetry from ALL of you later this evening.

Commence!!!
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#97
Avalon, great stuff, I particularly liked "The Err is Human", and was moved by "A Father, My Dad". Written from a very private place, not unlike my poem about my father. Keep posting!!

Thunder, "Shower" wow. Terrific. 'Nuff said. Ditto for "Are You OK", though I slightly prefer the former.
And thanks for your insightful critique, I really appreciate the advice!

Here's one fresh off the pen, before I have time to fiddle with it endlessly, you can tell me how it works...

Look into your soul
condemned as is mine
Were my deeds so evil
and yours so sublime

You ran with the demons
blood streamed in your eyes
Arrived on the doorstep
to tell me your lies

In love I believed you
perhaps in my lust
You whispered great secrets
as we rolled in the dust

It all became clearer
when you never came home
Realized, with releif
once again I'm alone

I'm gone, not forgiven
the screen fades to black
Still in your thoughts
a knife from my back

Look in the mirror
and write me a poem
The devil's reflection
may well be your own
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#98
Quote:

Originally posted by Avalon
I would like to bow out of this thread a bit until I see more of DWC. After all, this is his thread, so...


I'm here.... so get back to posting your poetry woman! Seriously, your poems are fantastic. It would be a shame if you had more and neglected to share them with us...Please, we need more poets here in this thread. This is my CHUD legacy. This is what I want to be remembered here for. So any chance that you have to post your poetry....take it. If not for me, then do it for the thousands of lurkers who have yet to become part of this message board. They are after all, our future....Please, think of the children....
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#99
There's the thread owner! Where the heck ya been, man? Do it for the children? LOL

I'm waiting on more of your goodies. I honestly love your poetry. Maybe because it is filled with such deep sadness from loss, I feel a connection. Great, great stuff. Thank you for having me. I have a few love poems of my own to share.

Repairman, I loved the poem you wrote about your dad. Loss of someone..be it stemming from not barely knowing someone at all..to knowing one too well, still bonds us. (hugs) This last one you posted is my favorite of yours (so far). Keep up the great work.

Smirk - First Time was raw and dark. I liked it because it showed the flipside.

Ripley, I enjoyed yours for the same reason. It has a harsh coldness to it. Great read.

To everyone that has contributed, I have followed along from the get-go of this thread and when I say awesome...still...I do mean it. Please add more. Even that loins poem had me cracking up. Very well done!

HMT, thanks for helping me along here. You've stepped up to the plate and I dig that. Now teach me well! My daughter and I had a very lengthy conversation this afternoon in regards to the classes she is taking in genre writing and conceptual thinking. I told her you were helping me and she said that the best way to criticize constructively is by asking questions..the VERY example you gave me up above in regards to how you handle critiques of your own work. So thank you very much! I'm starting to grasp the best way to approach how to critique stories, poems and the like. Please continue to critique mine, as I trust you. It's like getting a college level course for free!

Now if I could only grasp speke n' spele..I might have spelled sergeant correctly!
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The Architect (I stood in awe) (3/25/92)

Yes, you were articulate, as others I have known.
A handsome profile perched steadfast at a relentless corner throne.
I stood in awe of a giftedness; changing facades in changing cities.
Your widened eyes and wider smile made me seek my own self-pity.

Arrogance or humility, which one calls out your name?
Patronize me or canonize you, in essence we strived for same.
Your artistic words and drawings made me stammer in my lame.
Watching you, I stood in awe, it made me glad I came.

Far away you were a safe temptation and for always will remain,
a constant and steady reminder of beauty in a concrete and steel domain.
Your never ending dedication put all the other architects to shame.
I hope that my work was not a hinderance, but always helped you to gain.

I stood in awe of a powerful presence; couldn't speak for you made me tongue-tied.
You knew your subject matter well; how your partners beamed with pride.
You can drive down any avenue and see your work displayed.
What remains to be seen of this architect's dreams as he arcs the partition parade?

Jericho (6/29/93)

Laying broken - rattled, in ravaged war torn fields.
Holding battered mace; silver shields at our heels.
Forfeit every trinket strung loosely from our throats,
fling them high across the damp and barren castle's moat.

Onto the fleeting ships, crawl the rebels one and all.
Run now! Haste to cover! Take heed in not to fall!
Take off now, ever faster, daring not to slow.
Lest ye forget our battle lost in the land of Jericho.

Desert (6/25/93)

Unmoving is the light
and absent is the breeze
merciless are the rays
that stab and choke the trees.

Barren is the nightscape
way out and far beyond
what the mind can conquer
flow'r brittle; no fronds.

Sun beaten animal skull
unopened morning seed
both fully sweltered
the barren tumbleweeds.

Cactus green (pinchy scarecrow)
Vulture waits to swoop below
mountains color - terra cotta red
hold wolves in crouch for shadow.

The sizzling desert sun
swollen, doomsday clouds
birds plucked and matted
their bodies in feather shrouds.
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The time to dance has long since passed
the band has ceased its tune
and though we knew this couldn't last
still it ends too soon

The time to dance has long since passed
our song is at its end
and though this dance will be our last
my heart cannot pretend

The time to dance has long since passed
yet still we both dance on
and though our time is fading fast
we dance into oblivion

The time to dance has long since passed
yet we'll start this dance anew
and though we know that this won't last
I'll save this dance for you.
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That was great, Chainsaws. "Who will survive and what will be left of them?" *sniff*
Okay. Okay. You want to continue sad? I'll continue sad, too.

He's In Love (6/30/93)

He came to me with eyes so blue
I knew I had to believe them
Without a doubt, when he needs out
I hope for the courage to free him

He came to me with knowledge of you
telling how you failed to love him
How you cried and teased - his friend released
in return for his love gave him nothing

I fear your appearance wherever we go
for his love for me will no longer show
Let me remain his for the days to come
when we're only in tune with one and one

Don't break his heart and tear mine apart
for he can't love us both at once
You loved him, left him, then loved him again
all the while you cared but an ounce

It eats at me now and does every day
what is it you have that he can't turn away?
You're not that great and I'm not half bad
so what you got that I don't have?

How lucky I am then to be with him
though first place will reap all rewards
You see my dear girl it's a sad lonely world
but still he sits - blue eyes at my door

I know when he loves me he's thinking of you
but I'm deeply in love so what should I do?
I'm in love with him - he's in love with you

My Valentine (2/2/78)

I know one hell of a woman
that never would let go
she tried to fight for what was right
but her head kept telling her no

If in his head there lies a love
that could be ever so true
Then where is this heart of gold in return
for my love that I give to you?

All the presents that I gave you
the best of loving every night
But still passions flared for someone
undared, tried to help you see the light

If only in your lonely hours
could memories stir your heart
Then maybe my love you do love me
and we were never meant to part

But babe, ya know it's funny
you miss me less and less
I paid and paid and cried and prayed
now our baby's heaven blessed

But lover, God above does love you
if everyone else has failed
because my darling you were my man
and now is the end of our tale

Oh, My Mistake (3/26/77)

His love, however unfaithful
is now so oh long gone
I thought he was my heaven
but I was oh so wrong

I thought it was you, and it was true
dared me to dream in brighter hues
you gave me a chase, oh what a waste
you passed me right up too

Pinches (9/3/85)

Glossy overlay smiles not forgotten
in the beginnings of long ago
Constant pinches of bittersweet reminder
like staples in the heart of the soul

Faded egos stand close, come between us
the mirror once cracked now removed
Understanding is talking without any words
What memory remains to be viewed?

Trembling hearts and still life pictures
Apathy, no - just regret
courses in romancing silence
the testing of time at it's best
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Quote:

Originally posted by Avalon
My Valentine (2/2/78)

I know one hell of a woman
that never would let go
she tried to fight for what was right
but her head kept telling her no

If in his head there lies a love
that could be ever so true
Then where is this heart of gold in return
for my love that I give to you?

All the presents that I gave you
the best of loving every night
But still passions flared for someone
undared, tried to help you see the light

If only in your lonely hours
could memories stir your heart
Then maybe my love you do love me
and we were never meant to part

But babe, ya know it's funny
you miss me less and less
I paid and paid and cried and prayed
now our baby's heaven blessed

But lover, God above does love you
if everyone else has failed
because my darling you were my man
and now is the end of our tale


I dig this one.
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A hearty round of applause for all!

Ripley, where are you? I loved "Darkway". More!

Avalon, I adore "Jericho", reminds me of the rousing battle tales tales by Robert E. Howard (can't resist those pulp writers!)
...and hugs right back atcha, baby!

Saws, "Time to Dance" was terrific, as always.

You guys inspire the liver out of me! My fondest childhood memories were of an old dusty place called Carson's Shoe Repair. That's where I discovered comic books, and learned about life...

"For Buster"

A silent old man
a shy quiet boy
One black and one white
in his shoe repair store

The smell of the polish
and pulp magazines
A new batch of comics
a new stack of dreams

From behind the counter
an old weathered face
I patiently waited
as he unbound the case

The Hulk, the Avengers
and heroes galore
Monster magazines
and the Fantastic Four

The business owners
brought in their worn shoes
They bought their newspapers
girlie magazines too

But as time went by
I stopped going there
Bought a guitar
and grew out my hair

I walked by one day
to see the old man
The sign in the window
said Closed Come Again

Now that I'm older
my dreams in a jar
My son buys the comics
but I still play guitar

His shop is all dark and
the news stands are gone
But my memory of Buster
will always live on
Reply
Quote:

Don't break his heart and tear mine apart
for he can't love us both at once
You loved him, left him, then loved him again
all the while you cared but an ounce


This happened to me. This poem hits so close to home...I thought I was the only one. I'm trying not to cry.
It sounds wierd, but...thank you.

Repairman: For Buster is a really cool poem. I'm not sure what to say about it other than that it is amazingly vivid. There's a palpable sense of nostalgia in it, in the strictest Greek sense, "a longing for home."
A great, great poem. I especially like the last four stanzas.

Dances: The time to dance... took me a few reads. At first, the repetition of the first line didn't seem to flow well, but i think I was reading it out of rhythm. (It IS, after all, about "dancing"!) I read it out loud, and it works great. The sound and pace is really cool. I'm not sure I fully understand the poem, but I like the phrasing and the music of it. I'm interested to know what inspired that poem.


Also, I have a few general questions for all of our posting poets.
1). Which authors do you like to read?
2). From what/who do you typically draw inspiration?
3). How often do you write?

I'll go first.
1). For poets, I like Jane Kenyon, Donald Hall, Robert Frost, George Herbert, Egdar Allen Poe, W.B Yeats, and some but not all John Updike. It's hit or miss with him. For non-poets, I like to read Herman Hesse, Sue Grafton, C.S Lewis and Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
2). I like to find my inspiration in things that are typically otherwise overlooked, whether they are people, objects, feelings, moments, etc. Subtle, overlooked things.
3). I try to write something (mostly poetry, some essays) every day. I usually succeed. Even if it sucks, or is rather UN-inspired, I keep it, just in case. It's good practice to write something that sucks so that you don't start looking at everything as good.

And, here are two of my poems, one pretty old, and one brand new.

(new)

Getting Sleepy
The bright pictures on the pages of your biology textbook,
paperbacked, opened across the foot end of your bed on
which we lay in caution of the cat who curled up next to
us to sleep between petitions to be pet with our hands which
we had laid upon each other, studying, suddenly inspired you to laugh
and I joined in and we could not stop.

(old)
Christ was on The Cross
The dying King, hung on a fallen tree
Mourned by the waking dead.
They weep as he bleeds,
From his side his life rushes to the dusty earth
"Son of God, save yourself!"
Holy ruler of love, his crown a band of hateful torture
Gentle eyes stained with his own holy blood
Flowing red and strong from his hands and feet,
His body, pale and weak.
"Son of God, save yourself!"
His bones break with every breath.
The shattered King falls deeper into the sleep of
mortal man, gasping for air,
Thirsting, bursting with pain.
The Prince of Peace cries out loud.
"Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!"

In the night, it is cold and quiet.
The man is parted cruelly of the tree, the tree
which held the King of Kings while he died,
Its splinters still in his skin.
The way to the cross, the way to the Christ,
Christ the way to the truth, the truth of life;
Life, lost and found on the night while
Christ was on the Cross.


Finally, here's one of my favorites by Jane Kenyon.
Let Evening Come
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.




Whoo! Long post...
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