Today, I slept
to the sound of rain
on the roof, dreaming
of trucks and people
figurines, memorabilia
resting in boxes
unsorted, piled
in a corner gathering
dust, since the time
I first saw water
touch the window,
tears for hands
stroking the pane.
You think you're so dark and brooding,
but you're so positive, all the time.
When I see you the sky becomes lighter,
Even when it's pitch black. You try to hide from everyone.
I used to hide from everyone.
But I don't want to hide from you. And I don't think you want to hide from me. I know you don't.
It's like we have our own secret of love,
of what love is,
just here,
between us ...
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
Are you going to Scarborough fair?
If that's too far then come with me to Savannah.
That's all I really ask.
Just a four hour drive to the coast
Where a city stands in time with Ruth Chris
And cobblestone streets.
It won't be any trouble at all.
I'll drive five under and pay for the gas
In my truck that has over a hundred thousand miles on it.
The trip will add three hundred more.
I'll play Hank Williams and Lefty Fitzgerald
And we'll sing Margaritaville until we get sick of it
And burn the CD with sparklers on Tybee Island.
You can pick your favorite poison
And I'll drink water because I lied to myself
And said I don't drink alcohol but really
It's because I can't afford a cheap hotel
With roaches instead of room service
Besides, someone has to drive us home.
Do you still want to come?
I was going to go by myself anyway
But I though it would be better with someone else.
Sunsets are nice but they're better with you.
Parasols are shady but they're cooler with you.
Coca-Cola is sweet but it's sweeter with you.
Please don't make me go by myself.
This is the crow:
the silent sentinel
who sits above
crowded streets
in the reeks of oil
under ashen feet
taking note, it speaks
cold to pitters of rain
the ponders of black
passerines, the song
in croons of caw
in the mist, of a fog
tucking scrapers away
to lulls of the moon
or moans of stars
dead, their light
lost to signals, whites
of boxes concrete
all quiet, so hollow
in a city of carrions.
The pacific (an interpretation: last words if a dying soldier)
cool breeze of the nights of summer
it is the perfect kind of weather
in this tropical climate I ponder
when will this war be over?
blood on the hands of my neighbor
their gutt in the hands of the conqueror
in this tropical island I wonder
when will this war be over?
as I stand in this on and off lights
it came from a bomb that had fallen through the sky
and as I cower in fear of my life I wonder
when will this war be over?
beyond the darkness of this night
I fell asleep in the most awkward situation at night
blood flowing from my gutt as I breathe tight
fear is the only thing I feel tonight
all those bombs and bullets falling from the sky
will I ever get out of here alive?
and as i loose my sight in the middle of the night
I hope you'll read this letter my love as I say goodbye
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A team should be as happy as a meal - TEAM HAPPYMEAL
EDH - UWGrand Arbiter Agustin IV UBW Oloro, Ageless Ascetic Modern - Mono U tron / Polymorph / NFTW (ninja for the win)GR tronGR
Buy All the planeswalkers!!!
Buy All the Dual Lands!!!
Buy All the fetches!
Create tons of EDH Decks!!!
Eat Nothing but Oats!! (LOL, not true)
Train MMA!!!
Marry My girlfriend!!!
Get her Pregnant only Once!
Teach my Son/Daughter Sports and magic cards!!!
Continue my legacy son!!!/Daughter!!
Untitled - By Amory McKeever (AKA IcecreamMan80) 5/16/2011
Time stood still for her in frame
and in wooden box the universe contain
She was the wayfarer wayfarers tried to be
through a frontier full of galaxies
as if the tree became a seed
we plant her in our memories
Now grow with every story told
embellished so they don't get old
Still everything she left behind
like easter eggs for us to find
won't point the way to where she hides
in someones basement packed in lye
whoever stole our starry sky
and pawned it for no reason why
feel free to keep the body whole
heaven already has her soul
although this sounds a little morbid
on the day we bury her in orbit
remember that relatively speaking
she's just the tail of a comet streaking
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Thanks to Xenphire @ Inkfox for the amazing new sig
“Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity and ruin.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
Just wrote this, so criticism at the voting stage is welcome The primary inspiration comes from living in Florida my whole life, devoid of any "white" Winter. The first (only) time I saw snow actually fall was on a Spring Break trip to visit a friend in Maine.
The White
Wrought with wonder, I
wander beside you
waiting to see…
…are you all I dreamed you would be?
Without one Winter
Winterless Wonder
Sweat in December
Sweet heat walling the white.
Do you hear The Black Cat wailing?
With walls in ruins, I
wander beside you
waiting to see…
"To My Love" My love, when did we fall apart?
My heart has no use since you left me in the dark,
it's your face stamped in my brain,
I must forget, thus, it all remains the same
like the sky that never fades away.
I wish I'd die today and just escape,
this feeling I have? Must and hoping to have an end?
Please tell me how did you forget about me?
so I can apply to my life and this feeling could end.
Just like a poem known to all
autumn skies are blue,
after a hard rain a flower blooms,
I wish it was this easy to forget about you
but now I am still damned and so in love with you.
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A team should be as happy as a meal - TEAM HAPPYMEAL
EDH - UWGrand Arbiter Agustin IV UBW Oloro, Ageless Ascetic Modern - Mono U tron / Polymorph / NFTW (ninja for the win)GR tronGR
Buy All the planeswalkers!!!
Buy All the Dual Lands!!!
Buy All the fetches!
Create tons of EDH Decks!!!
Eat Nothing but Oats!! (LOL, not true)
Train MMA!!!
Marry My girlfriend!!!
Get her Pregnant only Once!
Teach my Son/Daughter Sports and magic cards!!!
Continue my legacy son!!!/Daughter!!
My mouth moves soundlessly
to the tune of the endless parting sea
that I wish you were behind.
Give me all your tenderness,
let me close my eyes and fall into bliss,
walking with my sight turned blind.
I won't let you have a respite
from the utopia in my inner sight,
even if there's something different that we find.
Let's sleep closely and enjoy each other,
the closeness of our breaths making me shudder ...
After this small break, we'll be fine.
I hope you feel the same.
If you don't, I'm to blame.
You'll see me ... just one last time.
(Won't you?)
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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
I have all the time for learning about things, knowing
There is still time to sit and think - a great prowess for a boy
Widely known as an impatient idiot
I was told to shut up too many times I cannot even remember.
But, this time my plan is working several times a week
Imperfection achieved until next december.
Something less serious this time. Wrote this in high-school nearly 10 years ago. Our prompt was to write a short story in the theme of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. I see plenty that irks me now, but I decided not to change anything--any change at this point would probably be to just scrap it
-Six Feet Under-
For the sake of time, I will keep this short.
A story in rhyme around verdict’s court
Involving a man, accused of killing his wife,
O.J Simpson, his name, one he’s had all his life.
Though in the end, the jury had kept him free,
Didn’t believe a killer was a man such as he.
After the trial, the people convened.
Some talked a while, and others got mean.
One group was that of just four.
Some would say five, but others ignore,
For you see, the fifth could not be seen,
One man’s imagination or maybe a dream.
And everything he said or he saw,
Was brought about, by alcohol.
Now it was this group, that didn’t all grasp,
That the tongue of the lawyer was that of an asp.
A few had believed that the jury did right,
While the others had all seen guilt in their sight.
It was this tension that brought out their views,
And without much delay, a search they did choose.
The few sought to prove there was a “real killer”
Much like the teens in a horror flick thriller.
Though, the others stayed to prove what they agreed.
That the man accused was just a bad seed.
Now the first of this group was dark as the night
Planning to fight against her race’s plight
Wearing proudly the black dress of her skin,
She knew only innocence in all of her kin.
O.J being no different, in fact just the same,
She couldn’t quite find why he was to blame.
But many despised her, she would always complain
Yet she blared music that would drive you insane.
And when at the grocer the people could see,
She’d buy the store out of all, but its celery.
She even once wanted an employee for her plate,
But when she had checked, they were all out of date.
Now about her name, it wasn’t quite plain,
So “The Fat Black Lady” is what I call this dame.
Next in the group was gorgeous, but shady.
A lady in blond like a Brady Bunch Brady.
Though she was a woman the entire group knew,
Her true identity they hadn’t a clue.
For she kept it hidden, a secret concealed,
Knowing only that it could not be revealed.
But for her views on guilt or innocence,
With the knowledge she had it didn’t make any sense.
Working simply as a waitress in sin,
She looked only to find rich musclemen.
Though the ones she would find rarely did last,
She married a man that in movies was cast,
But in the end an odd thing had happened
Something she did made her life blackened.
As for her name, she goes by Nikki Ann Tate,
And whenever events arise she shuns to partake.
For she likes to hide, until it is her time to shine.
But going now further on down the line,
We have a man named Danny McKay,
An active member of the KKK.
He hates all, every Negro and Jew
Even himself, and probably you.
His only purpose on this trip you see,
Is merely to preach white supremacy.
Though in the courtroom, he was quite perturbed,
Finding the jury’s verdict to be completely absurd.
And in his hat, pointy and white,
He plans to prove what he believes right.
Though few agree with his philosophy,
He hopes the group will come through to a tee.
For he finds there will be mass devastation
If the world has lost sense of justification.
Now stumbling along in the back of this group,
We have a man named Jiminy Newp.
For a long time he was priest in a church,
A father to many in their righteous search.
But faith, a hard path to follow, with Christian laws
Wouldn’t allow him to do what he wished with his paws.
So he was left to pray on the street
With always a bottle in hand, and nothing to eat.
And day by day getting more plastered and fried,
He’s now begun to think it’s O.J that died.
Though almost oblivious that he’s on the trip,
His friend helps him out with every sip.
For his friend only greets him when he is drunk,
A black glove in figure, one that has shrunk.
So next I will tell you of this black glove,
One that Jiminy always treated with love.
Though of what it made he wasn’t quite sure,
The process of thought was hard to endure.
But the one day he decided to think and to sit,
He believed it was a reformed Rubber-Maid toilet.
Yet at night the glove would have terrible dreams
Covered in blood and surrounded with screams.
And though in this story, the glove does not fit,
The rest of it too is all full of ☺☺☺☺.
And now as is known, it isn’t over till the fat lady dies,
Nikki had killed her, stabbed out her eyes.
And although Danny had loved it, laughing it seemed,
Jiminy the drunk started to scream.
For he believed he was beginning to see double.
Two ghosts in one is more than just trouble.
On one side of his vision he saw Danny’s white,
While on the other Nikki was O.J’s dead wife.
He made the connection, brown roots in her hair,
And also noticed the unmistakable flair.
When it was stated she quickly confessed,
And then put the true story to test.
She explained that she was the killer,
That O.J brought home the perfect life filler.
And though she was with many a man,
O.J’s following she just had to ban.
So slitting the girl’s throat she did start,
Carved at her face, then went for the heart.
Knowing that the girl and herself looked the same,
She had it wrapped who would take the blame.
And as O.J still loved her, he took the fisting,
While the girl that was dead was reported as missing.
And now she was living free from record and time,
Frequent with face-lifts, lost of past reason and rhyme.
From Nicole Brown to Nikki Ann Tate her name changed,
Living her life amongst the many deranged.
But now out with her story the others could see,
She was no longer the same secretive Nikki.
And Nikki seeing then that they knew too much,
She took advantage of her special touch.
With knife in hand and elegantly dressed,
She took final swings to kill all the rest.
Knowing then she could not have made blunder,
For how could she, she was six feet under.
My dear friends.
This poem has absolutely
No sign of pretension.
(I love contradicting myself, hahaha)
This poem is not going to make you see stars
Not going to seduce you with words and sounds
It will neither help your soul to find its way
Nor heal its wounds.
This poem is here just because of a poet's whim
It is just there.
A sweet misdirection
Without pretension
At first I thought it was just another day,
Unsurprising and predictable,
Just like any other,
Left behind in our constantly moving world.
I was in a quick stride,
As I find myself quite often in,
I was late,
But when I saw you I decided I really didn't care.
Your hair is unlike any other,
As beautiful if not more than the sun,
It lay down around your shoulder,
A beautiful thing I never had saw.
Your eyes as blue as the ocean,
Filled with such mystery and knowledge,
The glanced my way for a mere second,
At least so I hope it was not just a trick of the light.
Your face looks like it was sculpted for perfection,
It is perfect,
There are no flaws,
It is a thing I have never seen, or will so again.
Your hands are smooth as silk,
Or look so from where I can see,
They too are without flaw,
But wait I see a problem.
It sits there,
Laughing at my newly birthed rage,
It shines mocking me,
That ring placed ever so tenderly on your weak finger.
I stop now,
And there I will stand as you just walk by,
I can never have you,
I see thaty is now true.
You are a beautiful thing,
That will always be just out of my reach,
Is it possible to have love at first sight?
I find it to be true, but I will never ask you.
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Thanks to Hakai Studios and Heroes of the Plane for my avatar a sig!
It seems love/passion/desire oriented poems have become popular lately. The only time I've ever written such a poem was indirectly, as a portion of a story that was never finished (a continuation of the Romeo and Juliet story). As it was never finished, this forum will be the first to see it In the story, it was a letter, so the poem has no title, though I suppose "Dearest Lady Capulet" will suffice for now.
Dearest Lady Capulet,
I have been dreaming of you
Sleeping in a series of sighs.
For of you is all I have dreamed
Since your image last passed thine eyes.
It twas several moons ago as we mourned
The loss of Verona’s most virtuous.
The sorrowful gathering at Castle Montague.
For long I have been allured by your beauty
Held at bay by wedlock and war.
Yet then, I watched you through the night
As you quietly excused yourself down
A darkened corridor to cry as a lady.
Oh, just to get a glimpse of your shape
In the darkness, for the mere sight
Of your silhouette sends my soul into shock.
I longed to come to your aid, to comfort you
And had thoughts to caress you.
As my dreams, you consume all my thoughts.
No amount of wealth, freedom, or power
Can keep me from being enslaved to passion.
Alone, I breathe your name into the night
To ease my pain. Yet the night is cold
And my breathe is warm, like how the blood
Of Montague and Capulet once was.
But not even the Nile could hold
A river full enough of tears to change the past.
Though perhaps the ones I weep as I write
Will restore peace to my woeful future.
-- Your Loving Admirer
Feel free to criticize--the "Nile" line already looks terribly cliche to me
Somewhere, out there, is a place far from here
Away from the splintered fenceposts of town
And the busted bell that called far and near
Now a deadweight noose on the steeple's crown.
It used to be a boom town, a new town
The kind that made men out of sweat and grit
Who dove in dreams so deep they almost drowned.
Now it's a ghost town, a hick town worth spit
And somehow, I don't know how, I'm stuck here
Choking on the tight knot in my dry throat
That wants to drink an ocean deep and clear
But it's easy to say "Swim!" from the boat!
Somewhere, anywhere, there just has to be
A way to get out. A place just for me.
we thought that we'd be quiet
when the gun hit overhead
the oil ran profusely
the ship quaked as it bled
the liquor not thick enough
to break the bond of blood
through allegories, quaking,
the calm before the flood
when the warning bells began to toll
and the pots to boil o'er
the sun burned bright red at my feet,
the moon, above, a blower.
and quiet we were, the mariner's plea,
to keep the structure safe as can be
while we huddled as one under our one tiny gun
and the ground 'low our feet grew unbearable: run
to another safe haven, higher and lower,
the two halves both splintering, lifeboats no more,
the old ticking clock breaking monotony
while we stood, still silent, as done as could be,
hoping for luck to save us from our own blind folly.
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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
Between the ages of about 3-5, I had a recurring dream (many times over the course of those years). Being a 3-5 year old, white child, it was certainly odd to dream that I had dark skin and was 20-30 years old in a situation I had no prior knowledge of (e.g., I had no idea tunneling was used in war or that Churches took care of war orphans, etc.--I'm still not 100% certain what I saw in the dream, so the children weren't necessarily war orphans, but it seems to fit). The appearance of the church certainly wasn't what I grew up viewing as a church either (black, Gothic--rather ominous).
Some years back, before my mother passed away, she came across a book about children that had past lives ("Life Before Life"). They had seen those lives in dreams at an early age and many of them were able to prove what they saw. As a young child, I had told my mother about the dreams when I realized how often I had the same dream, so in remembering this, my mother brought the book to my attention. That lead me to write the poem posted here. It makes me wish that someone would have told me to write down what I saw in the dreams when I was young, as I expect only portions were burned into memory.
The Black Church
In the peripheral glow of the dream
I could see the children screaming
Feel the barren air bleeding, as it
Pushed me closer to death.
Or was it not my death I had seen
What could I as a child have dreamed?
Recurring over and over, forever it seemed.
I’d have dark skin, be at war, and not know what it means.
I’d be much older
_________________Perhaps a soldier
__________________________________Yet maybe a prisoner
With a group walking towards a black colored church in the distance.
An old lady would answer the door.
Beyond her, children in rags—the poor.
Havened from the fuzziness of my war.
The horrid war inside my head—a turbid, placid trance.
It could have been such a nightmare had it gone further
But each time it would end as I began tunneling to France.
Why? What did it mean? I was a child with a recurring dream.
Unexposed, it seemed peaceful, but now I know the horrors I’d seen.
Today, I slept
to the sound of rain
on the roof, dreaming
of trucks and people
figurines, memorabilia
resting in boxes
unsorted, piled
in a corner gathering
dust, since the time
I first saw water
touch the window,
tears for hands
stroking the pane.
You think you're so dark and brooding,
but you're so positive, all the time.
When I see you the sky becomes lighter,
Even when it's pitch black. You try to hide from everyone.
I used to hide from everyone.
But I don't want to hide from you. And I don't think you want to hide from me. I know you don't.
It's like we have our own secret of love,
of what love is,
just here,
between us ...
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
If that's too far then come with me to Savannah.
That's all I really ask.
Just a four hour drive to the coast
Where a city stands in time with Ruth Chris
And cobblestone streets.
It won't be any trouble at all.
I'll drive five under and pay for the gas
In my truck that has over a hundred thousand miles on it.
The trip will add three hundred more.
I'll play Hank Williams and Lefty Fitzgerald
And we'll sing Margaritaville until we get sick of it
And burn the CD with sparklers on Tybee Island.
You can pick your favorite poison
And I'll drink water because I lied to myself
And said I don't drink alcohol but really
It's because I can't afford a cheap hotel
With roaches instead of room service
Besides, someone has to drive us home.
Do you still want to come?
I was going to go by myself anyway
But I though it would be better with someone else.
Sunsets are nice but they're better with you.
Parasols are shady but they're cooler with you.
Coca-Cola is sweet but it's sweeter with you.
Please don't make me go by myself.
Around and around we dance
avoiding eachother at every chance
when we touch my heart withers to dust
I'm sick of all the pain but you say I must
Your cold cruel hands spinning me down
down into the dark depths of despair
what is the point of going on
if I lack the will to care?
This is the crow:
the silent sentinel
who sits above
crowded streets
in the reeks of oil
under ashen feet
taking note, it speaks
cold to pitters of rain
the ponders of black
passerines, the song
in croons of caw
in the mist, of a fog
tucking scrapers away
to lulls of the moon
or moans of stars
dead, their light
lost to signals, whites
of boxes concrete
all quiet, so hollow
in a city of carrions.
cool breeze of the nights of summer
it is the perfect kind of weather
in this tropical climate I ponder
when will this war be over?
blood on the hands of my neighbor
their gutt in the hands of the conqueror
in this tropical island I wonder
when will this war be over?
as I stand in this on and off lights
it came from a bomb that had fallen through the sky
and as I cower in fear of my life I wonder
when will this war be over?
beyond the darkness of this night
I fell asleep in the most awkward situation at night
blood flowing from my gutt as I breathe tight
fear is the only thing I feel tonight
all those bombs and bullets falling from the sky
will I ever get out of here alive?
and as i loose my sight in the middle of the night
I hope you'll read this letter my love as I say goodbye
EDH - UWGrand Arbiter Agustin IV
UBW Oloro, Ageless Ascetic
Modern - Mono U tron / Polymorph / NFTW (ninja for the win)GR tron GR
Buy All the Dual Lands!!!
Buy All the fetches!
Create tons of EDH Decks!!!
Eat Nothing but Oats!! (LOL, not true)
Train MMA!!!
Marry My girlfriend!!!
Get her Pregnant only Once!
Teach my Son/Daughter Sports and magic cards!!!
Continue my legacy son!!!/Daughter!!
Time stood still for her in frame
and in wooden box the universe contain
She was the wayfarer wayfarers tried to be
through a frontier full of galaxies
as if the tree became a seed
we plant her in our memories
Now grow with every story told
embellished so they don't get old
Still everything she left behind
like easter eggs for us to find
won't point the way to where she hides
in someones basement packed in lye
whoever stole our starry sky
and pawned it for no reason why
feel free to keep the body whole
heaven already has her soul
although this sounds a little morbid
on the day we bury her in orbit
remember that relatively speaking
she's just the tail of a comet streaking
Thanks to Xenphire @ Inkfox for the amazing new sig
“Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity and ruin.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
The White
Wrought with wonder, I
wander beside you
waiting to see…
…are you all I dreamed you would be?
Without one Winter
Winterless Wonder
Sweat in December
Sweet heat walling the white.
Do you hear The Black Cat wailing?
With walls in ruins, I
wander beside you
waiting to see…
…my first snow-flake falling in Spring.
By: Gregory Stephen Jones II
My love, when did we fall apart?
My heart has no use since you left me in the dark,
it's your face stamped in my brain,
I must forget, thus, it all remains the same
like the sky that never fades away.
I wish I'd die today and just escape,
this feeling I have? Must and hoping to have an end?
Please tell me how did you forget about me?
so I can apply to my life and this feeling could end.
Just like a poem known to all
autumn skies are blue,
after a hard rain a flower blooms,
I wish it was this easy to forget about you
but now I am still damned and so in love with you.
EDH - UWGrand Arbiter Agustin IV
UBW Oloro, Ageless Ascetic
Modern - Mono U tron / Polymorph / NFTW (ninja for the win)GR tron GR
Buy All the Dual Lands!!!
Buy All the fetches!
Create tons of EDH Decks!!!
Eat Nothing but Oats!! (LOL, not true)
Train MMA!!!
Marry My girlfriend!!!
Get her Pregnant only Once!
Teach my Son/Daughter Sports and magic cards!!!
Continue my legacy son!!!/Daughter!!
My mouth moves soundlessly
to the tune of the endless parting sea
that I wish you were behind.
Give me all your tenderness,
let me close my eyes and fall into bliss,
walking with my sight turned blind.
I won't let you have a respite
from the utopia in my inner sight,
even if there's something different that we find.
Let's sleep closely and enjoy each other,
the closeness of our breaths making me shudder ...
After this small break, we'll be fine.
I hope you feel the same.
If you don't, I'm to blame.
You'll see me ... just one last time.
(Won't you?)
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
There is still time to sit and think - a great prowess for a boy
Widely known as an impatient idiot
I was told to shut up too many times I cannot even remember.
But, this time my plan is working several times a week
Imperfection achieved until next december.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
Like ballerina's at war
They don't stop moving
Long enough for me to grab.
They don't make sense as they used to
You've taken even that
But when I focus
The world seems to understand.
All around there are good tidings
But they are not noticed anymore
They swirl back into the thick paste
Like a painter mixing colors.
I have lost all hope of trying
To decode their unusual flow
It's giving me a headache
And I must let you go.
-Six Feet Under-
For the sake of time, I will keep this short.
A story in rhyme around verdict’s court
Involving a man, accused of killing his wife,
O.J Simpson, his name, one he’s had all his life.
Though in the end, the jury had kept him free,
Didn’t believe a killer was a man such as he.
After the trial, the people convened.
Some talked a while, and others got mean.
One group was that of just four.
Some would say five, but others ignore,
For you see, the fifth could not be seen,
One man’s imagination or maybe a dream.
And everything he said or he saw,
Was brought about, by alcohol.
Now it was this group, that didn’t all grasp,
That the tongue of the lawyer was that of an asp.
A few had believed that the jury did right,
While the others had all seen guilt in their sight.
It was this tension that brought out their views,
And without much delay, a search they did choose.
The few sought to prove there was a “real killer”
Much like the teens in a horror flick thriller.
Though, the others stayed to prove what they agreed.
That the man accused was just a bad seed.
Now the first of this group was dark as the night
Planning to fight against her race’s plight
Wearing proudly the black dress of her skin,
She knew only innocence in all of her kin.
O.J being no different, in fact just the same,
She couldn’t quite find why he was to blame.
But many despised her, she would always complain
Yet she blared music that would drive you insane.
And when at the grocer the people could see,
She’d buy the store out of all, but its celery.
She even once wanted an employee for her plate,
But when she had checked, they were all out of date.
Now about her name, it wasn’t quite plain,
So “The Fat Black Lady” is what I call this dame.
Next in the group was gorgeous, but shady.
A lady in blond like a Brady Bunch Brady.
Though she was a woman the entire group knew,
Her true identity they hadn’t a clue.
For she kept it hidden, a secret concealed,
Knowing only that it could not be revealed.
But for her views on guilt or innocence,
With the knowledge she had it didn’t make any sense.
Working simply as a waitress in sin,
She looked only to find rich musclemen.
Though the ones she would find rarely did last,
She married a man that in movies was cast,
But in the end an odd thing had happened
Something she did made her life blackened.
As for her name, she goes by Nikki Ann Tate,
And whenever events arise she shuns to partake.
For she likes to hide, until it is her time to shine.
But going now further on down the line,
We have a man named Danny McKay,
An active member of the KKK.
He hates all, every Negro and Jew
Even himself, and probably you.
His only purpose on this trip you see,
Is merely to preach white supremacy.
Though in the courtroom, he was quite perturbed,
Finding the jury’s verdict to be completely absurd.
And in his hat, pointy and white,
He plans to prove what he believes right.
Though few agree with his philosophy,
He hopes the group will come through to a tee.
For he finds there will be mass devastation
If the world has lost sense of justification.
Now stumbling along in the back of this group,
We have a man named Jiminy Newp.
For a long time he was priest in a church,
A father to many in their righteous search.
But faith, a hard path to follow, with Christian laws
Wouldn’t allow him to do what he wished with his paws.
So he was left to pray on the street
With always a bottle in hand, and nothing to eat.
And day by day getting more plastered and fried,
He’s now begun to think it’s O.J that died.
Though almost oblivious that he’s on the trip,
His friend helps him out with every sip.
For his friend only greets him when he is drunk,
A black glove in figure, one that has shrunk.
So next I will tell you of this black glove,
One that Jiminy always treated with love.
Though of what it made he wasn’t quite sure,
The process of thought was hard to endure.
But the one day he decided to think and to sit,
He believed it was a reformed Rubber-Maid toilet.
Yet at night the glove would have terrible dreams
Covered in blood and surrounded with screams.
And though in this story, the glove does not fit,
The rest of it too is all full of ☺☺☺☺.
And now as is known, it isn’t over till the fat lady dies,
Nikki had killed her, stabbed out her eyes.
And although Danny had loved it, laughing it seemed,
Jiminy the drunk started to scream.
For he believed he was beginning to see double.
Two ghosts in one is more than just trouble.
On one side of his vision he saw Danny’s white,
While on the other Nikki was O.J’s dead wife.
He made the connection, brown roots in her hair,
And also noticed the unmistakable flair.
When it was stated she quickly confessed,
And then put the true story to test.
She explained that she was the killer,
That O.J brought home the perfect life filler.
And though she was with many a man,
O.J’s following she just had to ban.
So slitting the girl’s throat she did start,
Carved at her face, then went for the heart.
Knowing that the girl and herself looked the same,
She had it wrapped who would take the blame.
And as O.J still loved her, he took the fisting,
While the girl that was dead was reported as missing.
And now she was living free from record and time,
Frequent with face-lifts, lost of past reason and rhyme.
From Nicole Brown to Nikki Ann Tate her name changed,
Living her life amongst the many deranged.
But now out with her story the others could see,
She was no longer the same secretive Nikki.
And Nikki seeing then that they knew too much,
She took advantage of her special touch.
With knife in hand and elegantly dressed,
She took final swings to kill all the rest.
Knowing then she could not have made blunder,
For how could she, she was six feet under.
My dear friends.
This poem has absolutely
No sign of pretension.
(I love contradicting myself, hahaha)
This poem is not going to make you see stars
Not going to seduce you with words and sounds
It will neither help your soul to find its way
Nor heal its wounds.
This poem is here just because of a poet's whim
It is just there.
A sweet misdirection
Without pretension
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
At first I thought it was just another day,
Unsurprising and predictable,
Just like any other,
Left behind in our constantly moving world.
I was in a quick stride,
As I find myself quite often in,
I was late,
But when I saw you I decided I really didn't care.
Your hair is unlike any other,
As beautiful if not more than the sun,
It lay down around your shoulder,
A beautiful thing I never had saw.
Your eyes as blue as the ocean,
Filled with such mystery and knowledge,
The glanced my way for a mere second,
At least so I hope it was not just a trick of the light.
Your face looks like it was sculpted for perfection,
It is perfect,
There are no flaws,
It is a thing I have never seen, or will so again.
Your hands are smooth as silk,
Or look so from where I can see,
They too are without flaw,
But wait I see a problem.
It sits there,
Laughing at my newly birthed rage,
It shines mocking me,
That ring placed ever so tenderly on your weak finger.
I stop now,
And there I will stand as you just walk by,
I can never have you,
I see thaty is now true.
You are a beautiful thing,
That will always be just out of my reach,
Is it possible to have love at first sight?
I find it to be true, but I will never ask you.
Dearest Lady Capulet,
I have been dreaming of you
Sleeping in a series of sighs.
For of you is all I have dreamed
Since your image last passed thine eyes.
It twas several moons ago as we mourned
The loss of Verona’s most virtuous.
The sorrowful gathering at Castle Montague.
For long I have been allured by your beauty
Held at bay by wedlock and war.
Yet then, I watched you through the night
As you quietly excused yourself down
A darkened corridor to cry as a lady.
Oh, just to get a glimpse of your shape
In the darkness, for the mere sight
Of your silhouette sends my soul into shock.
I longed to come to your aid, to comfort you
And had thoughts to caress you.
As my dreams, you consume all my thoughts.
No amount of wealth, freedom, or power
Can keep me from being enslaved to passion.
Alone, I breathe your name into the night
To ease my pain. Yet the night is cold
And my breathe is warm, like how the blood
Of Montague and Capulet once was.
But not even the Nile could hold
A river full enough of tears to change the past.
Though perhaps the ones I weep as I write
Will restore peace to my woeful future.
-- Your Loving Admirer
Feel free to criticize--the "Nile" line already looks terribly cliche to me
Away from the splintered fenceposts of town
And the busted bell that called far and near
Now a deadweight noose on the steeple's crown.
It used to be a boom town, a new town
The kind that made men out of sweat and grit
Who dove in dreams so deep they almost drowned.
Now it's a ghost town, a hick town worth spit
And somehow, I don't know how, I'm stuck here
Choking on the tight knot in my dry throat
That wants to drink an ocean deep and clear
But it's easy to say "Swim!" from the boat!
Somewhere, anywhere, there just has to be
A way to get out. A place just for me.
we thought that we'd be quiet
when the gun hit overhead
the oil ran profusely
the ship quaked as it bled
the liquor not thick enough
to break the bond of blood
through allegories, quaking,
the calm before the flood
when the warning bells began to toll
and the pots to boil o'er
the sun burned bright red at my feet,
the moon, above, a blower.
and quiet we were, the mariner's plea,
to keep the structure safe as can be
while we huddled as one under our one tiny gun
and the ground 'low our feet grew unbearable: run
to another safe haven, higher and lower,
the two halves both splintering, lifeboats no more,
the old ticking clock breaking monotony
while we stood, still silent, as done as could be,
hoping for luck to save us from our own blind folly.
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
Some years back, before my mother passed away, she came across a book about children that had past lives ("Life Before Life"). They had seen those lives in dreams at an early age and many of them were able to prove what they saw. As a young child, I had told my mother about the dreams when I realized how often I had the same dream, so in remembering this, my mother brought the book to my attention. That lead me to write the poem posted here. It makes me wish that someone would have told me to write down what I saw in the dreams when I was young, as I expect only portions were burned into memory.
The Black Church
In the peripheral glow of the dream
I could see the children screaming
Feel the barren air bleeding, as it
Pushed me closer to death.
Or was it not my death I had seen
What could I as a child have dreamed?
Recurring over and over, forever it seemed.
I’d have dark skin, be at war, and not know what it means.
I’d be much older
_________________Perhaps a soldier
__________________________________Yet maybe a prisoner
With a group walking towards a black colored church in the distance.
An old lady would answer the door.
Beyond her, children in rags—the poor.
Havened from the fuzziness of my war.
The horrid war inside my head—a turbid, placid trance.
It could have been such a nightmare had it gone further
But each time it would end as I began tunneling to France.
Why? What did it mean? I was a child with a recurring dream.
Unexposed, it seemed peaceful, but now I know the horrors I’d seen.
By: Gregory Stephen Jones II