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Poetry Corner
Since our wonderful headmaster doesn't seem to accept poetry as a valid form of expression, post your poems and song lyrics and whatever here. I've got a bunch of poems I would like to share, so please let me know what you think

“Writing, or, A Game of Hearts”

A poker table,
A barroom nightclub,
Etched in shades of grey and brown.
Fine newspaper shadows
Lie printed on concrete blocks
Sponges masquerading as brain cells.

Five chairs sit
Laughter, curses fill the smoky haze
Even though no one smokes
Light dust tinged with stale beer’s smell
Even though nobody drinks.

The games is Hearts, and
Stephen deals the cards.

Plastic kings twirling like saucers
Hurled by a rough hand whose
Tough fingers danced
Upon keys and candlelit pencils, whose
Hard grip stirred
Castle rocks and dreamcatchers, whose
Main palm carried mice
Down prison miles and
Up dark towers, whose
Carved fingers toss
The last card.

With the dealing done, and,
The youngest first,
Neil plays his cards

Blue shadows spill over
Darkening clubs and diamonds, as
British tips, stained with
Printer’s ink and dark mud
Found in London’s below, while
A highway’s smell clings to boots,
Odin’s talisman hanging.

The suit is clubs, and
Play moves left,
To Harlan

“Tick tock,” says the watchman
As cranky fingers look at soldiers,
Onyx eyes staring,
Driving in spikes,
That thick red moment found
In galaxies and Bradbury-tinged
Hometown fantasies.

Harlan leaves two spades, and
James must follow.

Heart’s hit men look back at
Spectacled spheres with a
Reckless versmilitude found
In cold six thousand
L.A. streets and Vegas clubs,
Flying cards scrawling
An American tabloid of
Black dahlias and Brown requiems.

Stephen moves to play, and
A knock from the door.

I enter.

My trembling notes flash yellow,
A nervous pencil asking,
Slipper’s feet smash, tripping,
Blue lines and dandelion rectangles
Floating through a lightbulb clone

I reach for my notes, but,
They are reading them.

Eight ellipses criticize pages until satisfaction,
Thin smiles creeping, considering
The stories and themes printed there.
I shake my own, anticipating
A well-earned rejection.

Stephen puts down his pages, and
Turns to me

“Have a seat,” they say.

Got no lines on my mirror
Got no tracks on my arm
The drug that is grievin’ my does twelve times the harm

I’ve got bugs in my brain
Things runnin’ in my mind
Images that craze me and I can’t leave behind

Visions of sex and violence
Plaguing my heart and soul
Lord I give these up to you ‘cause I have no control

God, you are my Lord and Master
And you have all the power.
You bring rain on us all
Wash my lines away this hour

I run around in circles
Mind racing away like mad
Thinking about all the things that I wish I had

I crave the things that all men do
Money, women, power, control
If one day I could have all this I’d be tempted to sell my soul

I feel these marks upon my spirit
The scars of pain in my life
I grow angry, I hurt, I’m tired, I’m under the strain of this strife

God, you are my Lord and Master
And you have all the power.
You let it rain on us all, I pray
Wash my lines away this hour

You gave us your Son
He shines through the rain
You gave us the rainbow
To let us know you’d wash away our pain.
Inspired by “Ars Poetica” by Archibald MacLeach)

A film should be POWERFUL and MOVING
As a prophet leading his people.

As a couple’s walk in Central Park, the Parthenon at sunrise

As a car flying over streets, diving down hills
Or under the belly of trains

A film should be SHOCKING
As a man eating his own vomit.

A film should remain forever young
As the buisness evolves

REELING while the young discover
A forgotten scrapbook that tells their story

TEACHING, as newspapers turn gold and textbooks fade
Mistake through mistake that should never be made again-

A film should be FRIGHTENING
As a shower of birds or tattooed knuckles

A film should measure up to:
Our imaginations.

For all the history of VIOLENCE
An assassin’s thunderstorm and a man sleeping in a sanguine puddle

An illicit kiss and two bodies wound together

But first, a film must be
“Jazz (A Total Convert)”

The saxophone’s lilt wails,
Streaking like sunbeans
Across, an’ through,
A thick haze, cancerous yet comforting
Covering this tiny Chicago club
While on the stage,
Sidney Bechet plays.

From roots seeded
In New Orleans dives,
The best chance
For a young man to make it out
A trumpet blares, Dolly’s greeting,
The trees green, a smile cast upon skies of blue
End of story, Miss red rose,
While on the screen,
Louis Armstrong riffs along.

Bring your best gal
To dance the war away at th’ U.S.O.
It’s time to twirl, twist, swing,
And sing, sing, sing
Left to right, counterclockwise,
You’re in the mood now, honey,
Now back into
Your fella’s arms, hold ‘im tight,
He’ll be gone come morn,
Off the next bullet towards Hitler
While on the platform,
Benny Goodman conducts,
And flows along with his dark clarinet.

Harlem wakes
To the sound of Renaissance
Poets and painters, prophets
Taking the “A” train
To a lush life, uptown
As the whites come here
To that new “jungle music”, downtown
Echoing across this mixed bowl of cotton
While on the stage,
Duke Ellington leads, and
Billy Strayhorn watches.

Coffee smells
A new beginning
In the shops of New York
A generation’s best minds,
Destroyed by madness,
War injuries lashing thighs,
Injustices binding minds,
It’s time to take five
And do something.
Let’s write!
While on the radio,
The Dave Brubeck Quartet sooths,
Yet stirs a dawning,
Availible only in stores,
Buy one, get one free,

In a studio, littered
With flamenco sketches,
Miles traveled across a broken landscape, which was
Kind of blue, smashed by a cannonball
A pretty type of shattered glass,
In a cool, smooth train-
A Coltrane-
Time out, man, it’s time to im-pro-vise,
Put that coke away, clean off those needles
It’s time to make magic
While through the headphones,
Miles Davis jams.

It started silently, creeping up
Smoothing the open space clean
With Sidney and Indy
Then moved onward, mixing forward,
With a raspy tape called Louis
Smiling from the television now
Still moving, now,
Time to swing,
Meet Benny Goodman, he’ll introduce you
To his friend Strayhorn
There’s the Duke-a silent master, his hand on Billy’s shoulder
Take his hand, trust Mr. Duke, slide down with him
Into a coffee-shop, in the city that don’t sleep
Now take five again with Dave and three pals
Who give you a CD

You find in waking hours
Checked out,
In your hands,
In your player,
Let’s roll, Miles, says Coltrane, and
That is the moment
You become a complete and total convert
To the music they call
“Big Band”
Many more, but a music that you call

Nice work, people. I may add some of my own over time.

Rath, that was great. I happened to be in a great little jazz club on the northside last night. I didn't get out of there until 1:00 a.m. (had to work today), but it was worth it. I managed to get myself a couple of autographs from some of the heavyweights of the genre, including Steve Rodby's. You're a jazz fan, I take it?
To Her Breasts
dedicated to the supposedly "most hated" CHUD member of them all

Hellish swarms of
Ennerving visions,
Robbing the eyes
Behind the darkness and celluloid,
Rallying the call of
Explicit fantasy
Astute and
Stern she waits
Tomorrow they
And then
Depending on one's
Reality and complacent
Energized, but
Deadened --

Well, this isn't the best I've ever written. I'm going to be honest, it's probably terrible. But, you have to do something to keep yourself sane during all nighters.

Caffeine and Regrets

Hate is asleep and disquiet dawn pains,

Overtaxed lymphatic, caffeine crash.

Ghosts of my pasts rattle their chains.

They have myspace pages.

Profiles and friendships both forgotten,

Joy Division by zero, happiness crash.

Hate awakes in chamber nearby.

Myspace load times inspire rages.

Spam mail with racy pics and browser crash.

Hate is back to bed.

The married one who hinted her regrets,
The long distance ex.

Behind, regrets;
and mistakes in lead.

let "hate=cat /home/wheretheheartis/hopesanddreams | egrep 'dis+[appointment|illusion]' > /dev/null" \

#and you can quote me.


Maria sits upon her bed, perched,

outside the snow-covered sparrows chirp

nestled in blankets, the night slowly pass,

as snow falls behind frost-infused glass

A haze of pancakes and eggs seep,

Maria springs from her warm-induced sheets

downstairs, “good morning, dad and mom,”

as the dawn clears of night’s bitter throng

Breakfast gobbled and black, silken hair brushed,

“Maria, you’re going to be late, we don’t mean to rush”

hugs and kisses, the aroma of dad’s coffee, sweet,

mom packs a lunch befitting for a queen

By the mailbox, for her bus she search,

As a wind propels her scarf atop a spiraling birch

she flings open the gate, and through the garden with haste,

to the garment-snatching limb, white and ice laced

Above the birch, landscape’s tranquil aesthetic,

below, the swimming pool, plastic protected

reaching for the scarf, slightly out of grasp,

A limb gives way, breath-seizing cold upon her back

Simultaneous signals to her brain, a frozen fire,

each breath taken, each breath transpired

an intrinsic system, implored compensation,

each struggle, water further encapsulating

Silence from frigid vocal cords,

fingers through frozen hair, tore

in her lungs, the dying of cells,

letting go, mustering from azure lips, “help”

When she was found, visage of a sapphire moon,

lying motionless within her watery cocoon

A father’s plea, “please, baby breathe,”

Her body placed upon cold concrete

A heart still able, breathing she could not preserve,

oxygen deprived brain, damaging of nerves

A cacophony of terms, insignificant numbers,

the sound of machines and unwarranted slumber

As time elapse and her body grow frail,

yarns of a child’s gift, told in divine tales

healer of wounds, vitality she can restore,

power of the celestial, she is thought to bore

Traveling great distance, to a small house they meet,

to gently kiss her hand, lay gifts upon her feet

tender weeping, among meek and holy men, alike,

faith amidst plight, a sacramental site

A lighthouse glimmers through sullen night air,

like a white rose through black, silken hair

blackened waves, the secrets of their time,

befell and bestowed before brown, tender eyes

Galaxies expand and violently expire,

decay of neutron stars, endless waves of fire

Maria witnesses from her lush garden, green,

the life and death of all things, cycles of a dream

Strolling the misty garden, tiny bare feet,

faint but familiar aromas; strange but sweet

chilled stream of consciousness, memories hide,

as the roses wither and perspire, her she will reside

Countless headlights from the roadway shine,

anxiously awaiting entrance to the sacred shrine

as the leaves, through winter, wither and flesh deplete,

through the degradation of time, Maria sleeps 


no words express
memories churning
no mnemonics are needed
perfect detailed moments
snapshots leave warnings unheeded
rattling chains while ghosts
endlessly march their useless posts
relief is not coming.


wow! nice poem about games.

i have here a poem that is inspired by heart breaks.

it's painful to see her go away
it's painful to not convince her to stay
those things that happened you just can't accept
and there's nothing i can do to help
i know what you feel inside you
why don't we just let her go?
then maybe we can move on
and try to live in this situation.
my heart, just let it be
everything would be okay
stop aching, please heed to me
i'm begging you, start to be free
you know i am affected by your actions
i can't think straight with these emotions
can't you just consider our future?
thinking about it can help you cure.
but my heart you're right, you're right
even if our future would be bright
without her we can't soar high
and eventually we'll end up null and dry.
then what would our actions be?
what would it take to be happy?
my heart, answer me honestly.
because my mind is not in this reality.

what would be my next step in getting the girl that i love? please help me.


On a moon-lit evening,

Mist and fog-laden;

upon the damp, beaded clover

stands the weary, widowed maiden.

Her silky cheeks salty

from the crooners somber cadence;

songs of mutual memory and merriment;

relished, together, in sullen radiance

A variety of hands hoist their ale,

while a fatherless vitality in her womb did pale;

preserving poise, she does not dare tell,

enduring strife, like that of a Celt.

Atop the bed of ice, her husband slumber,

the revelry dispersing upon the echo of thunder;

comrades and kin bid their farewells, forever,

wishing fortuity in his incorporeal endeavors.

On a moon-lit night,

rain and fog-laden;

upon the saturated, beaten clover

weeps the worn, withered maiden.

The wind – a cautionary banshee

screams transient through the trees,

while the child within the warmth of the womb dreams;

upon this patch of clover from which it was conceived.

Departing homeward, requiring respite,

Seeking refuge from this ghastly twilight;

through the forest, haunted and mist-laden,

travels the weary, widowed maiden.


lewis, this is a really nice poem. thank you for sharing


On a cool, misty morning stands the church by the sea
Through painted glass, a spectral view of nature's spree
Upon the cob-webbed altar, hang the body, Christ
The silent congregation it mournfully presides

On the grey sands of the shore, saltwater seeps
Down her breast, the blessed Mother weeps
White crabs emerge from their dark, salty homes
Morning brings light through a mix of ethereal tones

From a coral-ridden rock, a brown pelican takes flight
From the opaque gloom, into morning light
Across the tide, its enduring feathers skim
With the conviction and grace of a seraphim

Sea bass and snapper in the veil of a gaping beak
Nourishment for ailing children, tethered and weak
The only remaining resolve, a mother's endearing love
Sands sodden with sacrificial blood

On a cool, foggy evening stands the church by the sea
Beyond weathered oak doors, nature's silent revelry
Pelicans return to warm their brood for the night
unhesistant to bestow eternal life



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