Fly afar, miss firefly -
stow away as star midst grotto sky;
still as moth to flame I'll follow;
for I spy thee ever high -
thy glowing bottom red ripe apple
to my pale wings patterned eye.
We walked an endless street
Uncertain why discreet our hearts
Refused to play their parts.
How much could words confide?
Each syllable shunned pride as though
We had no need to know.
And now I can see
The way we would should have gone.
So now I can be
The one to guide you home.
I won't believe
That all you gave to me was sympathy
And nothing more.
Such careless days we've seen.
I offered laughs between the sighs
To damn those flooding eyes.
A castle crowned with towers
With a fountain on a hill
Atop a winding, pine-lined driveway
Past which time is standing still.
There’s a garden and a dungeon
In this mansion, on this mountain.
There are forces in this fortress
That no crucifix can quell.
It must be haunted, thinks the village
Sitting shyly in its shadow
Home of fallen gods and demons
Hosting ghosts best meant for Hell.
And there are rumors spoke in whispers
Twixt the townsfolk over shoulders
That the daughters disappearing
Are not running off to marry.
No, they fear, they must be carried
Off in droves, beyond the groves
To early graves or hopeless cells
Within the high and hallowed halls
Of Bedenlyse.
caress the bulkheads thrumming
thrumming watch the gearheads churning
churning as the parts hold steady
steady as the octane burning
burning the fuel that's running out
out the horrors of knowing
knowing that there is a world out there
there that you cannot reach
(life is grinding, grinding, grinding)
reach heights you would never dream of
of your luck and toil built
built not so much by toil
toil thrown away with guilt
guilt of every wasted night
night spent writing, venting, lazy
lazy enjoyed, not remarked on
on a bed becoming hard
(the body falling by the bard)
hard to throw away childhood
childhood beckons to be seen
seen, acknowledged, not relived
relived, we would neglect our peers
peers who know responsibility
(it) cannot be freed
freed is not a better thing
things unhindered often bleed
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
The screeching bones snapped upon hinges
Too soft to be worn so casually,
Crescent shapes no longer
A pattern of capability.
Snide posture clacked most obtrusively,
Cantering unlike any enemy's
Delusions of majesty known now
Or anywhere throughout history.
Electricity wallowed in tattered sinew,
Stirred dead forms with makeshift life,
And rallied those forgotten movements
In one last dance of futility.
Where once nerves had lost sense
Of painful delights and the scathe of tragedy,
They then ignited like the snap of a match,
All a collapsing, ignoble finale.
We were supposed to meet today
at the eighth stop on the twenty third
line, yet somehow we couldn’t
reach.
We called two days ago, asking
each other to be here on time
but now I find myself on the
rural forty-first station, twelve
in the noon, summer, and the sky
all blue.
The train has not arrived
and I don’t think it will ever
come as the rails now have
begun to collect
moss and rust for
some time.
Concrete is already
burnt by the sun. The pigeons
are my only company when
I watch the trees sway and
the grass grow under the wood
walkway.
I’ve decided then, I should
leave a note for you
in the place where the track
winds through the woods that
we used to play in
the afternoon
during spring.
It will have my apologies
for not showing up, I hope
you can forgive, (I did say sorry)
and maybe you will
find it when you remember
me.
Its duty, now almost forgotten
treasured only by the lonely
I could not care less - a waste of time
If only I had some time to share
What if I had a Raven to stare
At my chamber door - and watched it soar
I gathered feathers in the perfect dusk
and scattered them over the floor
just to make sure poetry is greater
than a mere rhyme code
A dramatic ending - and nothing more.
poetry - dealing with some life aspects details people often forget.
I wait for the Dreadnaught to carry you home and ferry you across the pacific from the shores of Iwo Jima through the edges of the ring of fire where currents may have their way and push you north.
But the Dreadnaught will move east into the roil of gray clouds, thunder, and storms where they may make waves grate your hull and capsize your vessel, bringing you low into graves cold and heavy.
This may be, yet the Dreadnaught will prevail in the waters bleached by sunlight. Your men, brothers and companions, may go blind or perish from waiting or existing in the day, but even if so, your ship will remain to haul their bones.
The Dreadnaught may stop at the ports of Washington or Oregon or the Golden State, but it will not stay for long. It will travel south down the coast of Spanish— speaking natives and the Andes.
The Dreadnaught will not cross the panama. Its arrival is urgent and the canal is unable to lead ships with gates, unlocked and damaged. It will go under cape horn where winds undeterred blow ships to bluffs, to stone and crag.
It will circumvent—the Dreadnaught will ride on roaring currents to the Atlantic, to the tease of cape hope, return to South America once again, rising to the Caribbean, to the land of promise where I wait. For
war can sink ships—prowlers, cruisers and corvettes and naval vessels and carriers, bodies will pile high in gatherings a thousand times ten strong. Where the course is straight, men cease to be so. Mutiny gives, takes lives as ambush does, but the Dreadnaught will
shoulder all of these the same, and so I fear naught. You may die, but you won’t.
This was meant for you,
And yet I'm just so tired.
I never know what I'm getting at,
But today I'm just so tired.
Maybe another night,
Maybe another time,
'Cause today I'm just so tired.
Tomorrow is a new day.
Now its time to sleep.
Don't think I'm not thinking of you,
You'll never read this anyways.
If there's even a reason I'm writing,
Then lets just say,
If the snow happens to stay,
It just might,
It just might be ok,
But if the snow goes away...
If the snow goes away...
You will still be ok.
I know you.
I know you.
You will still be ok.
You'll be ok.
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Your time is coming to an end. Your kind must face extinction. You cannot survive, you must die. That is the rule of nature." ~ D
The constables, they came to me, and asked me for credentials.
Showing none, they asked me then, where might I maybe come from.
Bedenlyse, I told the police, and hoped that would dismiss them,
Yet stay they did, like statues stood, and cast me with suspicion.
Conversation quickly steered to snide interrogation.
Mentioning some missing girls and if I might have seen them.
I questioned when they disappeared and if their lovers miss them.
Close to home, my comment stabbed, oh - how their eyeballs glistened!
No man should be ostracized for time spent in the village.
If as much is considered crime then drag me to the dungeons!
For all I’ve done is sit and watch the water fowl frolic.
Perhaps these women flew the coop to join the ducks and heron?
Quite a crowd had gathered 'round, I loathed the wide attention.
Mammon would be most displeased; I could not say I blamed him.
Hunting grounds as ripe as these should never be abandoned;
Not until the crop runs out and stocks all leapt the fences.
The constables, they asked my name, I told them Hippolytus.
But before they could ask more, Nicola was beside us.
She said I was a guest of hers, a friend and something more.
With that they left, as peons should, with chips upon their shoulders.
The crowd dispersed but she remained and took my hand in hers.
I told her that was not my name - she dragged me to the shore.
She gave me her lopsided grin and told me names don’t matter.
We sat and watched the fowl swim until the morning after.
Put my **** in my sock and my **** got socky
Put a rock on my **** and the rock got cocky
Live in Chinatown so I chew on Pocky
Looked at the clock and it said "tick tocky"
Flocked to the bar where I drink my sake'
Like silent movies but I don't like talkies
Dig Mr. Data but I don't dig Spocky
Put a lock on the door when it goes "knick knocky"
I'm not mean but I feel a bit mocky
Make sweet music like Sebastian Bachy
When I get dirty I put on my smocky
Always brillig like a Jabberwocky, wocky, wocky, wocky, wocky
note to moderators/sensitive readers: the use of the word "****" in the above poem refers exclusively to the barnyard animal- take your dirty minds elsewhere!!!
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"The dark unspeakable horror choked my wounded soul" - Richard Nixon
i find myself
Trapped in a prison cell
Not of metal or glass
But of mind and body
There's no guard's
There's no need
for There's no escape
I must be blind
For there is nothing to see
in this prison of my mind
I've been here to long to
Because I can not remember
My way out
of this prison of my mind
Do my eyes lie to me
There is a crack in the wall
a crack which holds light
light which i must grab
Grad with all my might
to escape this prison of my mind
So I scratch break punch
Do whenever I can
too shattered
this wall of blackness
After countless hours
The foundation
of the prison walls
fall like dominoes
I can fill the heat
of the sun upon me
I'm finally free
of this prison of my mind
But then I wake up
and the walls are back up
in this prison of my mind
Dawn could break even with the night and call it
day, but the morning star dares to say otherwise
as it has yet to arrive, declaring, “it is not time”
in some voice or another, possibly the gray haze
of the clouds, the invisible shadow that waits for
the reveal of the sun, unveiling greens of spring and
the whites of suburban, the blue, dandy, and clear
in general, where failing corners crease to success:
to become the dew that hangs on the uncut blades
of grass, the cold tiles of rooftops from two hour’s
ago’s rain, the trash cans, the recycling bins, the news
on the front lawn, or driveway, or porch, or bush
of two-story homes, and the telephones and power lines,
the stands of the pigeons—the only things alive.
Your eyefed heart has clasped snug to your reddened inner desire that the next day bore anything but bruises to the trod-by smile that by now must clasp your muscles with a rigid, urgent permanency that has admittedly abandoned the intrigue and mystery it once held in favor of desperate invitation for anyone stupid enough to spare a glance in your general direction
– that I’m not really so different, and I honestly feel –
Your heartless eyes have forsaken blinking for awkward staring that not only frightens when intending admiration but speaks wordless volumes that the aforementioned smile is too cowardly to do so itself; a rabid, stagnant gaze whose intent is plain not only to the recipient but also to their lover, their parent, their child and to anyone else unfortunate enough to be accompanying them when you stroll eerily by
– that by despite dismissing subtleties far too often in hope that someone stops and initiates whatever it is that you are unwilling to initiate yourself, you’re not really so awful, just awfully lonely.
stow away as star midst grotto sky;
still as moth to flame I'll follow;
for I spy thee ever high -
thy glowing bottom red ripe apple
to my pale wings patterned eye.
We walked an endless street
Uncertain why discreet our hearts
Refused to play their parts.
How much could words confide?
Each syllable shunned pride as though
We had no need to know.
And now I can see
The way we would should have gone.
So now I can be
The one to guide you home.
I won't believe
That all you gave to me was sympathy
And nothing more.
Such careless days we've seen.
I offered laughs between the sighs
To damn those flooding eyes.
Be proud I say
the finale is here!
Grab your tie and your hat
and keep your instrument near.
The saxophone whines
and the piano cries
sounds so joyous to hear
bliss and pleasure to my ears!
Triangle chime!
Gallantly so,
Cello follow suit
what a magnificent show!
Pick up the sounds
how they beautifully blend
onto the final note,
and then a sharp end
The crowd rises,
listen to them cheer!
Whistles galore,
and screaming encore!
Get up,
play more!
Your not done yet,
grab your violin
and play a duet
Soft sounds embrace
my eardrums they do
perfectly smooth
they flow.
My Mafia Stats - My Helpdesk
G Omnath, Locus of Mana U Arcum Dagsson BUG The Mimeoplasm GW Gaddock Teeg X Karn, Silver Golem
Submissions for PRC Round 102 are now over. Be sure to vote and join us for PRC Round 103!
A castle crowned with towers
With a fountain on a hill
Atop a winding, pine-lined driveway
Past which time is standing still.
There’s a garden and a dungeon
In this mansion, on this mountain.
There are forces in this fortress
That no crucifix can quell.
It must be haunted, thinks the village
Sitting shyly in its shadow
Home of fallen gods and demons
Hosting ghosts best meant for Hell.
And there are rumors spoke in whispers
Twixt the townsfolk over shoulders
That the daughters disappearing
Are not running off to marry.
No, they fear, they must be carried
Off in droves, beyond the groves
To early graves or hopeless cells
Within the high and hallowed halls
Of Bedenlyse.
caress the bulkheads thrumming
thrumming watch the gearheads churning
churning as the parts hold steady
steady as the octane burning
burning the fuel that's running out
out the horrors of knowing
knowing that there is a world out there
there that you cannot reach
(life is grinding, grinding, grinding)
reach heights you would never dream of
of your luck and toil built
built not so much by toil
toil thrown away with guilt
guilt of every wasted night
night spent writing, venting, lazy
lazy enjoyed, not remarked on
on a bed becoming hard
(the body falling by the bard)
hard to throw away childhood
childhood beckons to be seen
seen, acknowledged, not relived
relived, we would neglect our peers
peers who know responsibility
(it) cannot be freed
freed is not a better thing
things unhindered often bleed
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Her corpse, from which now she's free
Is what he treasures the most
Rather than flower, bird or tree
He writes sorrow, dark and ghost
And they found a home
Written in the back of a lonely stone
Eternally engraved in a cliff near the sea
Are the words muttering their last plea
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
The screeching bones snapped upon hinges
Too soft to be worn so casually,
Crescent shapes no longer
A pattern of capability.
Snide posture clacked most obtrusively,
Cantering unlike any enemy's
Delusions of majesty known now
Or anywhere throughout history.
Electricity wallowed in tattered sinew,
Stirred dead forms with makeshift life,
And rallied those forgotten movements
In one last dance of futility.
Where once nerves had lost sense
Of painful delights and the scathe of tragedy,
They then ignited like the snap of a match,
All a collapsing, ignoble finale.
We were supposed to meet today
at the eighth stop on the twenty third
line, yet somehow we couldn’t
reach.
We called two days ago, asking
each other to be here on time
but now I find myself on the
rural forty-first station, twelve
in the noon, summer, and the sky
all blue.
The train has not arrived
and I don’t think it will ever
come as the rails now have
begun to collect
moss and rust for
some time.
Concrete is already
burnt by the sun. The pigeons
are my only company when
I watch the trees sway and
the grass grow under the wood
walkway.
I’ve decided then, I should
leave a note for you
in the place where the track
winds through the woods that
we used to play in
the afternoon
during spring.
It will have my apologies
for not showing up, I hope
you can forgive, (I did say sorry)
and maybe you will
find it when you remember
me.
Is technology an advancement?
or simply a hindrance.
Is it quickening our step?
or handicapping our existence.
Is technology an advancement?
or is it causing stagnant life.
Are we gaining strength from it?
Or only becoming feeble.
Is technology an advancment?
right now I wonder.
do we need human interaction anymore?
or does a computer suffice.
Is technology an advancement?
only time will tell.
Am I truly in love with devices?
or simply clouded.
My Mafia Stats - My Helpdesk
G Omnath, Locus of Mana U Arcum Dagsson BUG The Mimeoplasm GW Gaddock Teeg X Karn, Silver Golem
Its duty, now almost forgotten
treasured only by the lonely
I could not care less - a waste of time
If only I had some time to share
What if I had a Raven to stare
At my chamber door - and watched it soar
I gathered feathers in the perfect dusk
and scattered them over the floor
just to make sure poetry is greater
than a mere rhyme code
A dramatic ending - and nothing more.
poetry - dealing with some life aspects details people often forget.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
I wait for the Dreadnaught
to carry you home and ferry
you across the pacific
from the shores of Iwo Jima
through the edges of the ring
of fire where currents may have
their way and push you north.
But the Dreadnaught will move
east into the roil of gray
clouds, thunder, and storms
where they may make waves
grate your hull and capsize
your vessel, bringing you low
into graves cold and heavy.
This may be, yet the Dreadnaught will
prevail in the waters bleached
by sunlight. Your men, brothers
and companions, may go blind
or perish from waiting or existing
in the day, but even if so, your ship
will remain to haul their bones.
The Dreadnaught may stop
at the ports of Washington
or Oregon or the Golden
State, but it will not stay
for long. It will travel south
down the coast of Spanish—
speaking natives and the Andes.
The Dreadnaught will not cross
the panama. Its arrival is urgent
and the canal is unable
to lead ships with gates, unlocked
and damaged. It will go under
cape horn where winds undeterred
blow ships to bluffs, to stone and crag.
It will circumvent—the Dreadnaught will
ride on roaring currents to
the Atlantic, to the tease of
cape hope, return to
South America once again, rising
to the Caribbean, to the land
of promise where I wait. For
war can sink ships—prowlers, cruisers
and corvettes and naval vessels
and carriers, bodies will pile
high in gatherings a thousand times
ten strong. Where the course is straight,
men cease to be so. Mutiny gives, takes
lives as ambush does, but the Dreadnaught will
shoulder all of these the same,
and so I fear naught.
You may die,
but you won’t.
This was meant for you,
And yet I'm just so tired.
I never know what I'm getting at,
But today I'm just so tired.
Maybe another night,
Maybe another time,
'Cause today I'm just so tired.
Tomorrow is a new day.
Now its time to sleep.
Don't think I'm not thinking of you,
You'll never read this anyways.
If there's even a reason I'm writing,
Then lets just say,
If the snow happens to stay,
It just might,
It just might be ok,
But if the snow goes away...
If the snow goes away...
You will still be ok.
I know you.
I know you.
You will still be ok.
You'll be ok.
Your time is coming to an end. Your kind must face extinction. You cannot survive, you must die. That is the rule of nature." ~ D
The constables, they came to me, and asked me for credentials.
Showing none, they asked me then, where might I maybe come from.
Bedenlyse, I told the police, and hoped that would dismiss them,
Yet stay they did, like statues stood, and cast me with suspicion.
Conversation quickly steered to snide interrogation.
Mentioning some missing girls and if I might have seen them.
I questioned when they disappeared and if their lovers miss them.
Close to home, my comment stabbed, oh - how their eyeballs glistened!
No man should be ostracized for time spent in the village.
If as much is considered crime then drag me to the dungeons!
For all I’ve done is sit and watch the water fowl frolic.
Perhaps these women flew the coop to join the ducks and heron?
Quite a crowd had gathered 'round, I loathed the wide attention.
Mammon would be most displeased; I could not say I blamed him.
Hunting grounds as ripe as these should never be abandoned;
Not until the crop runs out and stocks all leapt the fences.
The constables, they asked my name, I told them Hippolytus.
But before they could ask more, Nicola was beside us.
She said I was a guest of hers, a friend and something more.
With that they left, as peons should, with chips upon their shoulders.
The crowd dispersed but she remained and took my hand in hers.
I told her that was not my name - she dragged me to the shore.
She gave me her lopsided grin and told me names don’t matter.
We sat and watched the fowl swim until the morning after.
A thorn only knows how to stab
There is certainty in this pain
One finds a solace from the unknown
You never smell the rose
You never feel it's loving embrace
Walking through nature
Exploring her paths
Leads to great beauty
but also great pain
. . . . . . . which is better?
I dread that I must fall in stride
With the world's thoughts of celebration;
That without cause or earned elation,
I'm asked to embrace social pride.
Their annual romps so twisted on
The values that they called instinct,
Lose any wealth they claimed distinct
When compared to the tribal wrong.
Those days are kept just to forget
That woes will waver regardless,
And not a tongue will dare confess
They play such parts in thick regret.
Burn! The hallowed holidays
Will crumble down. They all will see
The everlasting effigy
I scar into their horrid gaze.
Put my **** in my sock and my **** got socky
Put a rock on my **** and the rock got cocky
Live in Chinatown so I chew on Pocky
Looked at the clock and it said "tick tocky"
Flocked to the bar where I drink my sake'
Like silent movies but I don't like talkies
Dig Mr. Data but I don't dig Spocky
Put a lock on the door when it goes "knick knocky"
I'm not mean but I feel a bit mocky
Make sweet music like Sebastian Bachy
When I get dirty I put on my smocky
Always brillig like a Jabberwocky, wocky, wocky, wocky, wocky
http://www.ilike.com/artist/oro_oro_oro
http://www.ilike.com/artist/oro_oro_oro
my Mind
i find myself
Trapped in a prison cell
Not of metal or glass
But of mind and body
There's no guard's
There's no need
for There's no escape
I must be blind
For there is nothing to see
in this prison of my mind
I've been here to long to
Because I can not remember
My way out
of this prison of my mind
Do my eyes lie to me
There is a crack in the wall
a crack which holds light
light which i must grab
Grad with all my might
to escape this prison of my mind
So I scratch break punch
Do whenever I can
too shattered
this wall of blackness
After countless hours
The foundation
of the prison walls
fall like dominoes
I can fill the heat
of the sun upon me
I'm finally free
of this prison of my mind
But then I wake up
and the walls are back up
in this prison of my mind
Dawn could break even with the night and call it
day, but the morning star dares to say otherwise
as it has yet to arrive, declaring, “it is not time”
in some voice or another, possibly the gray haze
of the clouds, the invisible shadow that waits for
the reveal of the sun, unveiling greens of spring and
the whites of suburban, the blue, dandy, and clear
in general, where failing corners crease to success:
to become the dew that hangs on the uncut blades
of grass, the cold tiles of rooftops from two hour’s
ago’s rain, the trash cans, the recycling bins, the news
on the front lawn, or driveway, or porch, or bush
of two-story homes, and the telephones and power lines,
the stands of the pigeons—the only things alive.
Your eyefed heart has clasped snug to your reddened inner desire that the next day bore anything but bruises to the trod-by smile that by now must clasp your muscles with a rigid, urgent permanency that has admittedly abandoned the intrigue and mystery it once held in favor of desperate invitation for anyone stupid enough to spare a glance in your general direction
– that I’m not really so different, and I honestly feel –
Your heartless eyes have forsaken blinking for awkward staring that not only frightens when intending admiration but speaks wordless volumes that the aforementioned smile is too cowardly to do so itself; a rabid, stagnant gaze whose intent is plain not only to the recipient but also to their lover, their parent, their child and to anyone else unfortunate enough to be accompanying them when you stroll eerily by
– that by despite dismissing subtleties far too often in hope that someone stops and initiates whatever it is that you are unwilling to initiate yourself, you’re not really so awful, just awfully lonely.