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Poetry....Your favorites, and your own.
Can do. In honor of Thunder's birth, I'll leave one for each of ya.

A Simple Hug

There's something in a simple hug
That always warms the heart
It welcomes us back home
And makes it easier to part

A hug's a way to share the joy
And sad times we go through
Or just a way for friends to say
They like you 'cause you're you

Hugs are meant for anyone
For whom we really care
From your grandma to your neighbor
Or a cuddly teddy bear

A hug is an amazing thing
It's just the perfect way
To show the love we're feeling
But can't find the words to say

It's funny how a little hug
Makes everyone feel good
In every place and language
It's always understood

And hugs don't need new equipment
Special batteries or parts
Just open up your arms
And open up your hearts

- Author Unknown

What A Hug Can Do

It's wond'rous what a hug can do
A hug can cheer you when you're blue
A hug can say, "I love you so"
Or, "Gee, I hate to see you go"

A hug is, "Welcome back again!"
And "Great to see you!"
Or "Where've you been?"

A hug can soothe a small child's pain
And bring a rainbow after rain
The hug! There's just no doubt about it
We scarcely could survive without it

No longer do you have to worry
For a hug is the way to say "I'm sorry"
A hug delights and warms and charms
It must be why we all have arms

Hugs are great for fathers and mothers
Sweet for sisters, as well for brothers
Chances are some favorite aunt
Loves them more than potted plants

Kittens crave them
Puppies love them
Heads of State
Are not above them

A hug can break
The language barrier
And make the dullest day
Seem merrier

No need to fret
About the store of 'em
The more you give
The more there are of 'em

So stretch those arms without delay
Give someone a hug today!

Pass one on...

- Author Unknown
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Running

My Momma loves me.
She told me that she would always love me,
and the only thing I had to ever remember was that
my Momma loved me,
but I told her "I know you love me momma, but I still get scared of you sometimes"
and she belted me in the mouth and made my lip split and she said
"Don’t you ever say you are afraid of your Momma because
your Momma can’t ever do no bad things to you
and she will always love you"
and she hit me again, hard,
and my head filled up with noise and I fell down on the carpet
and pretended to be asleep even though I felt really dizzy and sleepy anyway
and when she went away to the kitchen I got up and ran out the front door
and came out here to these dark woods because
my Momma loves me.
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sometimes i love you means goodbye
though we tell ourselves it isn't so
it's easier to believe the lie
than it ever is when letting go

perhaps we fight blindly to deceive
ourselves to keep pain from our hearts
though silently in tears we'll grieve
from the moment that life bids us to part

so with a smile i watch you go
choking back the tears i cry
life's lesson taught, and i now know
that sometimes i love you means goodbye
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Quote:

Originally Posted by billzæbub

Running

My Momma loves me.
She told me that she would always love me,
and the only thing I had to ever remember was that
my Momma loved me,
but I told her "I know you love me momma, but I still get scared of you sometimes"
and she belted me in the mouth and made my lip split and she said
"Don’t you ever say you are afraid of your Momma because
your Momma can’t ever do no bad things to you
and she will always love you"
and she hit me again, hard,
and my head filled up with noise and I fell down on the carpet
and pretended to be asleep even though I felt really dizzy and sleepy anyway
and when she went away to the kitchen I got up and ran out the front door
and came out here to these dark woods because
my Momma loves me.



Powerful, disturbing, painful. This is a great poem. I am envious.
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an illusion
that's all that it is.
there is no magic here.
there never was.
all this time
we tricked ourselves,
and each other
into believing
that it was more than
it ever could be.
when the magic is gone
all that's left
is smoke and mirrors.
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tiny and frail
sickly and pale
and oh so easy to break

make you a man
with the back of my hand
to see how much you can take.

he'd swear aloud
that he'd never be proud
of a weak little bastard like me

he'd spit in my face
call me a disgrace
and then take me over his knee

he'd make me beg
as he took hold of my leg
if i didn't then he'd use his fists

bloody and bruised
broken and abused
hell couldn't be worse than this

tiny and frail
sickly and pale
timid, quiet, and meek

brutally insane
unbearable pain
hell is life for the weak.
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Powerful, disturbing, painful....still.
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My Heart

I've taken this apart for you,
muscle springs, valve cogs, vessel pipes,
because it doesn't run well without you.

I give you one tiny bolt from it,
loosen, tighten, tighten, loosen,
to prove it isn't made of stone.

It still runs without that bolt,
tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tick-tick-tock,
but if you lose it my heart will break.

I'm so in love with you,
blood in, blood out, life off, life on,
because the part of me you own is the part I own of you.
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Quote:

Originally Posted by Copperlocke3

I enjoy reading here, especially when I can't sleep at night. Thank-you for that.
I never go back and finish anything I write....so its always just like it comes out (or up, cos most of the time its painful...more like puking up bile than anything else). So it has lots of ......'s, I know. Just comes out that way.

excerpt from my journal.....

Dec. 2001
'Not sure/ how long/can continue.........
frustration & resentments are strangling
fear is relentless waves; their crashing is claustrophobic.... I am drownding-
with face hidden-
and my mind beats frantiKally against the Kold Kage enKasing my sKull's Kavity-
My heart gallops to burst my eardrums and I can't recognize any of my dreams in here.........?

No where to run...
No where to hide..... I'll have to stay trembling in this corner.
Insanity or Suicide........... dead ends......no answers........only an end to this.
I capitalize them,
and use no last name as if they were close friends of mine.
The pain has dug with cold DARK root-fingers into my core......and the ruts are deep and WILL NOT scab.
An evolving separate thread of myself gropes for a shard to cut out
what's left of me
that wants to live...
that is still in love with this world.
She has left me..............She who wanted to make a difference?

The Punishing Game Takes Its Toll and I noticed today/last week/last month
I dont talk-
to anyone-
I dont want to-
tell them....... because the Darkness inside will have MORE OF ME THEN.
It Will Have a Name.
That Which Talks....to the one crouching in the corner....
she is so small.,
it goes like this...


"You are nothing but an ugly, scrawny, and crippled hag/ Your life is over and you will NEVER HAVE ANYTHING./Your stupid dreams are only fairy tales and they only happen to special people/ There is NOTHING special about you & there never has been/You don't deserve the rights extended to a slug....to a maggot......to rotten/stinkin/steamin deathflesh/you/are/nothing/nothing/NOTHING. Most of all what strikes me about you is what a Joke you are. "


All feelings ever felt by me parade along as dry husks.......... it peeks between each one as if to say;
"I was always there, tee hee"
How Pale and Perfect is this Deep,
Penetrating,
Perpetuating,
Paralyzing > Despair.

(then they usually end with like a "poem" or something)

Oh Lost disrobed Little Girl.
Tomorrow's Textile of a Moments Weave
will be wrinkled...
as you awaken....
there to touch and mend
Deep Folds of sheared shame.
Shake loose and run-
your mind's a-screamin
Cut away and fly
To keep from a-seein
A dark-caped spectre astride your Virtue
who's rearin' and SCREAMIN
Your Life........Sweet Child
too far... Too Far. Your life has stretched too far.
For anyone to reach you
But Me, in Whose Sheet Sweat you cry.


Copperlocke, welcome to the poetry thread. Your work is wonderfully sad, and terribly painful.... I like it...alot. Thank you for posting it, and please...if you have any more don't neglect to share it with us....and Billz "My Heart" is top notch as always. Great job. Avalon, thanks for the hug.
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Those are closer to prose poems than actual poetry.
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my breath quickens as you touch my skin
your finger softly traces my nose
I close my eyes and wish for more.
You kiss my neck and tell me you love me

I sigh softly and want to believe you
these beautiful words you speak
I want to believe are spoken only to me
but I know better.

I turn to my side and kiss you
trace your lips with my tongue
For a moment I will believe
that you are mine

You lay with me until I drift off to sleep
Then you quietly get up
and leave me dreaming;
dreaming that this time you might stay.
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Quote:

Originally Posted by Copperlocke3

nice bibba, I almost lost you while doddering in my own self-pity.
Good Job!

Copper

Thanks Copper, I enjoy your stuff too, be it poetry or prose.
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ABSENCE

by: Pierre Louÿs (1870-1925)

HE has gone out, she is far from me, but I see her, for all things in the room, all pertain to her, and I, like all the rest.

This bed still warm, over which I let my lips wander, is disordered with the imprint of her form. Upon this soft cushion has lain her little head enveloped in its wealth of hair.

This basin is that in which she hath bathed; this comb has penetrated the knots of her tangled locks. These slippers beg for her naked feet. These pockets of gauze contained her breasts.

But what I dare not touch, is the mirror in which she gazed upon her hot bruises, and where perhaps remains still the reflection of her moist lips.




DANCES BY MOONLIGHT

by: Pierre Louÿs (1870-1925)

PON the soft grass, in the night, the young girls with hair of violets have all danced together, one of each pair playing the part of the lover.

The virgins said: "We are not for you." And as if they were ashamed, they hid their virginity. A satyr played upon the flute under the trees.

The others said: "We have come to seek you." They arranged their tunics about them like the dress of men; and they struggled in ecstasy while entwining their dancing legs.

Then each one, feeling herself vanquished, took her lover by the ears even as one takes a beaker by the two handles, and, the head bent forward, drank a kiss.
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For my mom, who taught me to do the right thing. No matter how difficult it is. Be proud of me, mom. I love you.



mother


i held you when you were a child
i cradled you to sleep
i kept you safe, undefiled
lulled you with my heartbeat
i sheltered you far from the cold
and my love kept you warm
carried til you were too big to hold
and i prayed you safe from harm
i watched you grow into a man
so strong, you've made me proud
i know that i've done all i can
with not a moments worth of doubt
though my time is growing short
and ever shorter still
you have my love and full support
just know you always will
if i had it all to do again
my son, there is no other
greater joy one could attain
than being someones mother.
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You guys and gals are leaps beyond me, but I still wanted to share some things from my school days:

Something I wrote for 12th grade English


A "cheating" Haiku

Have you ever been
Down the road of love to be
Stab'bed by the fork?

And a limerick from sixth grade:

There once was a turkey named Lou
Who became very despondent and blue.
He said what the heck
And was cut at the neck
And served as Thanksgiving Dinner for two.
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i'll never regret the way that i fell
or the pain that i felt when i landed
and i'll never forget my time under loves spell
no matter just how underhanded

i'll never regret the fall that i took
or the way that i leaped so blindly
nor the way my heart ached and the way my hands shook
or the way i still thought of her kindly

i'll never forget the way that i fell
when i swore that i'd fall no more
though i'll never regret the way that i fell
just the one that i had fallen for.
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my warm breath on her inner thigh
a flick of tongue
a little nibble
the salty sweet taste of sweat
quick, sharp, gasps
fingers wrapped in my hair
pushing my head ever forward.
the smell....god, that smell.
face first into a bliss beyond words.
legs shaking in ecstasy
forcing me deeper
deeper still.
moans muffled by thighs
pressed roughly against my ears.
this is my favorite place.
my own personal oblivion
eager flesh begging for my touch.
this is heaven and
i am god here.
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i've spilt my blood
and shared my pain
and put it into words.
i've done more here
than i thought i could,
and i never thought that
it would go this far, or that
it would last this long.
but there is nothing more for
me to do here.
no more words for me to
share. so i leave this all
to you now. i hope that
you use this as i have,
and that it gives you the
peace that it always
gave me. treat it well.
love it like i did.
don't ever let it fade.
keep writing.
always...
keep writing.
this is my goodbye.
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The Song of Wandering Aengus

William Butler Yeats, 1897


I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name,
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands,
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.


(one of my all time favourites - read aloud it has some real weight)
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Hi everyone. I've been reading, but not posting. I like what's been posted lately. There are some very different offerings from the standard fare.
It's a little strange for my first post in a while, but I wanted to share a poetry review I wrote a while back of Anne Sexton's 1969 collection "All My Pretty Ones." It's a little long, but I'm told it's hard to look away.
I hope you enjoy it.

The Good, The Bad, and All the Pretty Ones

There are few people who can look at the world and see consistently either a dark paradise of pleasure, pain and perdition, or a sub-Eden of endless wonders and gratitude. It is hard to find such persons because the world in fact exists in both realms, the light and the dark. The inherent beauty of life and order and prosperity is conjoined to its bastard twin, the seemingly endless cycle of suffering, death and calamity. If one could surgically separate these two halves of the world, the aura, the spiritual connection left between them would be the poetry of Anne Sexton. Her poetry is careful to never appear too cheerful, yet it can never fully condemn the heart’s need for gladness. There seems to be a desperate loathing for hope in her writing, yet the writing itself becomes redemption. Just as the separation of twins joined by birth cannot undo that certain duality unknown by those born alone, Anne Sexton seems to carefully choose which way to shift her weight as she sits on the fence.
The two-faced reality of living is a difficult burden for any of us to bear, but what drives us toward our conclusions is often unclear. This, of course, is what we have poets for. These lines from With Mercy For The Greedy define, at least for Sexton, the only ointment for the injuries of the world.
“This is what poems are:
With mercy
For the greedy,
They are the tongue’s wrangle,
The world’s pottage, the rat’s star.”

Her poetry is her confession of sin, her prayers of both petition and praise. The stanzas of her poems are the frontlines in her battle to choose a side. Sexton longs to touch the sweet, soft, white underbelly of the world, but consistently draws her hand back from the raised and prickling hairs on the back of the beast. She sees the wonders of the world, even acknowledges God, but as she writes, “need is not quite belief.”
In All My Pretty Ones, Sexton does seem at times to step over the edge, completely, into either the bliss of ignorance or the dead man’s walk of self-absorbed bitterness. Her poem, The Hangman, is a heartbreaking picture of disappointed motherhood, in which a child is stricken near death, only to live on, cruelly.
“Supplied
With air, against my guilty wish,
Your clogged pipes cried
Like Lazarus.”

Against her guilty wish. How many times have we wished for the beauty to die? How many times have we begged the eyes of the face of God to simply turn away? It is this kind of realism in Sexton’s poetry that does not anger or hurt her reader, because she will not take a side. Indeed, she is not without her moments of joy.
I Remember is one of the few poems in this collection which lingers for its whole duration on the beautiful. At least in this collection, it is a rare moment. All of her images are of satisfied adventure, not perfect, but just right.
“…one day I tied my hair back
with a ribbon and you said
that I looked almost like
a puritan lady and what
I remember best is that
the door to your room was
the door to mine.”

It is in the lines of these poems that one sees the spirit of a person torn in two. Sexton’s poems are exploratory, consolatory, and reconciliatory. She seems to be trying constantly to make even the numbers of an impossible equation. If ever wandering spirits, lost and confused souls could communicate their frustrations, perhaps they would find their clearest voice in the words of Sexton’s poems. As she writes in Flight of the streetlights which, “sucked in the insects who had nowhere else to go,” Sexton’s poetry seems to beckon the leftover auras of broken people to sit with her on the fence, in the hope that they will not have to chose a side after all, and perhaps instead there can be a middle place, a gathering of unhappy dreamers, all her pretty ones.
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can i get an honest opinion of some stuff i wrote?

THOUGHTS
These thoughts squirm through my head
These words are unable to express
These hands can’t explain
These feet serve no use
Can i explain, can i try to do this right
Do you know what its like?
Do you know how it feel’s
That every word that flows out of your mouth,
Is just none sense in another persons ear?

Untitled
With those sad looking eyes,
and with that beautiful smile.
She laughs, and she acts
like everything was ok.

She looks so happy, how could she be hurt.
When all she feels is pain and confusion.
She stands in the mirror looks at herself,
All she sees is emptiness and pain.

With the scars on her arms and with that
Glimpse of pain, she cries herself to sleep
Hoping everything will be ok

She fills herself with hopes
That soon shatters into pieces,
Leaving her scars and a broken heart.

No, she doesn’t want to cry anymore,
No she doesn’t want to feel any pain.
All she can ask for, is everything she will never get.

Because she is the only one who can save her
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(06-20-2006, 01:16 AM)here you me Wrote: can i get an honest opinion of some stuff i wrote?

I loved them. I know it's over a decade late, but thank you for sharing that. I see that you only have one post and it was this one. Whoever you are, wherever you are, I hope you're still writing. Great job, my friend.

 

 
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I had no idea that this thread existed, but I love it. Here's a western horror story by Robert E. Howard:

Dead Man's Hate

They hanged John Farrel in the dawn amid the marketplace;
At dusk came Adam Brand to him and spat upon his face.
"Ho neighbors all," spake Adam Brand, "see ye John Farrel's fate!
"Tis proven here a hempen noose is stronger than man's hate!

For heard ye not John Farrel's vow to be avenged upon me
Come life or death? See how he hangs high on the gallows tree!"
Yet never a word the people spoke, in fear and wild surprise-
For the grisly corpse raised up its head and stared with sightless eyes,

And with strange motions, slow and stiff, pointed at Adam Brand
And clambered down the gibbet tree, the noose within its hand.
With gaping mouth stood Adam Brand like a statue carved of stone,
Till the dead man laid a clammy hand hard on his shoulder bone.

Then Adam shrieked like a soul in hell; the red blood left his face
And he reeled away in a drunken run through the screaming market place;
And close behind, the dead man came with a face like a mummy's mask,
And the dead joints cracked and the stiff legs creaked with their unwonted task.

Men fled before the flying twain or shrank with bated breath,
And they saw on the face of Adam Brand the seal set there by death.
He reeled on buckling legs that failed, yet on and on he fled;
So through the shuddering market-place, the dying fled the dead.

At the riverside fell Adam Brand with a scream that rent the skies;
Across him fell John Farrel's corpse, nor ever the twain did rise.
There was no wound on Adam Brand but his brow was cold and damp,
For the fear of death had blown out his life as a witch blows out a lamp.

His lips were writhed in a horrid grin like a fiend's on Satan's coals,
And the men that looked on his face that day, his stare still haunts their souls.
Such was the fate of Adam Brand, a strange, unearthly fate;
For stronger than death or hempen noose are the fires of a dead man's hate.

First published in Weird Tales (January 1930)
"Looking at the Trump administration, I'm starting to think I was too hard on the characters in Prometheus."  --  MrBananaGrabber
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(08-01-2018, 03:29 PM)Reasor Wrote: I had no idea that this thread existed, but I love it.  Here's a western horror story by Robert E. Howard:

Dead Man's Hate

They hanged John Farrel in the dawn amid the marketplace;
At dusk came Adam Brand to him and spat upon his face.
"Ho neighbors all," spake Adam Brand, "see ye John Farrel's fate!
"Tis proven here a hempen noose is stronger than man's hate!

For heard ye not John Farrel's vow to be avenged upon me
Come life or death? See how he hangs high on the gallows tree!"
Yet never a word the people spoke, in fear and wild surprise-
For the grisly corpse raised up its head and stared with sightless eyes,

And with strange motions, slow and stiff, pointed at Adam Brand
And clambered down the gibbet tree, the noose within its hand.
With gaping mouth stood Adam Brand like a statue carved of stone,
Till the dead man laid a clammy hand hard on his shoulder bone.

Then Adam shrieked like a soul in hell; the red blood left his face
And he reeled away in a drunken run through the screaming market place;
And close behind, the dead man came with a face like a mummy's mask,
And the dead joints cracked and the stiff legs creaked with their unwonted task.

Men fled before the flying twain or shrank with bated breath,
And they saw on the face of Adam Brand the seal set there by death.
He reeled on buckling legs that failed, yet on and on he fled;
So through the shuddering market-place, the dying fled the dead.

At the riverside fell Adam Brand with a scream that rent the skies;
Across him fell John Farrel's corpse, nor ever the twain did rise.
There was no wound on Adam Brand but his brow was cold and damp,
For the fear of death had blown out his life as a witch blows out a lamp.

His lips were writhed in a horrid grin like a fiend's on Satan's coals,
And the men that looked on his face that day, his stare still haunts their souls.
Such was the fate of Adam Brand, a strange, unearthly fate;
For stronger than death or hempen noose are the fires of a dead man's hate.

First published in Weird Tales (January 1930)

I started this thread years ago. I was surprised to see it's still here. Dude, I LOVE  Robert E. Howard. His mythos stuff was my favorite, but I'm a huge Lovecraft fan, so ...yeah.

 

 
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Setting this site up was something of an endeavour, as I understand it. A large part of the reason why was that people convinced Nick to import the old message board in its entirety.
"Looking at the Trump administration, I'm starting to think I was too hard on the characters in Prometheus."  --  MrBananaGrabber
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