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[Nov. 15th, 2009|10:01 pm] |
As Soon as Fred Gets Out of Bed, by Jack Prelutsky
As soon as Fred gets out of bed,
his underwear goes on his head.
His mother laughs, "Don't put it there,
a head's no place for underwear!"
But near his ears, above his brains,
is where Fred's underwear remains.
At night when Fred goes back to bed,
he deftly plucks it off his head.
His mother switches off the light
and softly croons, "Good night! Good night!"
And then, for reasons no one knows,
Fred's underwear goes on his toes. |
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| On Turning Ten |
[Sep. 26th, 2009|02:38 am] |
On Turning Ten
The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.
You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.
But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.
This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.
It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.
-Billy Collins |
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| Novel |
[Jul. 22nd, 2009|12:48 am] |
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No one's serious at seventeen.
--On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade
And loud, blinding cafés are the last thing you need
--You stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade.
Lindens smell fine on fine June nights!
Sometimes the air is so sweet that you close your eyes;
The wind brings sounds--the town is near--
And carries scents of vineyards and beer. . .
II.
--Over there, framed by a branch
You can see a little patch of dark blue
Stung by a sinister star that fades
With faint quiverings, so small and white. . .
June nights! Seventeen!--Drink it in.
Sap is champagne, it goes to your head. . .
The mind wanders, you feel a kiss
On your lips, quivering like a living thing. . .
III.
The wild heart Crusoes through a thousand novels
--And when a young girl walks alluringly
Through a streetlamp's pale light, beneath the ominous shadow
Of her father's starched collar. . .
Because as she passes by, boot heels tapping,
She turns on a dime, eyes wide,
Finding you too sweet to resist. . .
--And cavatinas die on your lips.
IV.
You're in love. Off the market till August.
You're in love.--Your sonnets make Her laugh.
Your friends are gone, you're bad news.
--Then, one night, your beloved, writes. . .!
That night. . .you return to the blinding cafés;
You order beer or lemonade. . .
--No one's serious at seventeen
When lindens line the promenade.
-Arthur Rimbaud |
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[Jul. 20th, 2009|11:26 pm] |
Messy Room
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar! >/i>
-Shel Silverstein |
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| Tears |
[May. 10th, 2009|10:14 am] |
WHEN I consider Life and its few years—
A wisp of fog betwixt us and the sun;
A call to battle, and the battle done
Ere the last echo dies within our ears;
A rose choked in the grass; an hour of fears;
The gusts that past a darkening shore do beat;
The burst of music down an unlistening street,—
I wonder at the idleness of tears.
Ye old, old dead, and ye of yesternight,
Chieftains, and bards, and keepers of the sheep,
By every cup of sorrow that you had,
Loose me from tears, and make me see aright
How each hath back what once he stayed to weep:
Homer his sight, David his little lad!
-Lizette Woodworth Reese |
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| "When to the Sessions of Sweet Silent Thought" |
[May. 6th, 2009|11:20 am] |
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear times’ waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unus’d to flow,
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night.
And weep afresh love’s long-since cancell’d woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight.
Then can I grieve at grievance foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor’d, and sorrows end.
-William Shakespeare |
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[Feb. 1st, 2009|07:36 pm] |
"Untitled"
I hate you
for making me love you-
then stringing me along
until I realized
all was lost,
and that you have
left me standing
on you doorstep again-
Druid God.
Being your Muse-
your Sappho-
your Savior
is killing me slowly-
and painfully-inside.
Count me a fool-
a mere mortal
with a tragic flaw
called loving you.
A stupid girl-
who has dreams and morals
that you rose high above you-
asking for nothing-
but perfection.
I reached to the heavens for your perfection
but I only found lies and words-
and a concrete landing
that left me bruised and broken.
Because I can save you-
Druid God-
but you'll never save me.
You'll never change for me-
You can't even change for yourself.
Yet another one...I told you I couldn't keep away from this theme.
As always tell me what you think,
Lluvia |
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[Jan. 24th, 2009|11:09 pm] |
"Untitled"
I know now that I love him.
It looks so simple when written;
like the pen didn't hover-
the poet didn't struggle-
to make such a weighted declaration
final-permanent-openly stated.
You'd never know
that such an epiphany
is double edged-a sword
that cuts only her.
Because once it's said-
it can't be withdrawn-
but more so-even though it's said-
it won't matter-
it won't change anything.
It only makes the pain more acute.
The loss that much greater-
it only makes her realize
that she never lost anything
because she never had it to begin with.
The pain is so great-
she can't even cry.
So silly for a mortal to love a God-
but I know now-that I do love him.
The pen hovered-
the blood was drawn.
It's been awhile since I've written anything, and this it seems is the only theme I can run with at the moment.
Please tell me what you think.
Thank you,
Lluvia |
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[Jan. 22nd, 2009|04:40 pm] |
sing hey! For the bath at close of day
that washes the weary mud away
A loon is he that will not sing
O! Water Hot is a noble thing!
O! Sweet is the sound of falling rain,
and the brook that leaps from hill to plain;
but better then rain or rippling streams
is Water Hot that smokes and steams.
O! Water cold we may pour at need
down a thirsty throat and be glad indeed
but better is beer if drink we lack,
and Water Hot poured down the back.
O! Water is fair that leaps on high
in a fountain white beneath the sky;
but never did fountain sound so sweet
as splashing Hot Water with my feet!
-J.R.R Tolkien |
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| Inside My Head-by Meganekko |
[Nov. 8th, 2008|03:45 pm] |
Inside My Head
Thoughts, thoughts, inside my head,
Where are we going now?
To the circus, horse races, or to buy a dumbell?
Oh poor mind, you follow no reason, no rhyme,
Even I can't follow this time
Oh my mind, you're so insane, I am embarrassed for you,
You shriek as a madman, gibbering and pointing,
I shall pretend I don't know you.
...Oh great, now everyone is looking at us again.
-![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) meganekko |
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| Through Pleasant Paths, by James Lionel Michael |
[Oct. 20th, 2008|08:48 pm] |
Through Pleasant Paths
Through pleasant paths, through dainty ways,
Love leads my feet;
Where beauty shines with living rays,
Soft, gentle, sweet;
The placid heart at random strays,
And sings, and smiles, and laughs and plays,
And gathers from the summer days
Their light and heat,
That in its chambers burn and blaze
And beam and beat.
I throw myself among the ferns
Under the shade,
And watch the summer sun that burns
On dell and glade;
To thee, my dear, my fancy turns,
In thee its Paradise discerns,
For thee it sighs, for thee it yearns,
My chosen maid;
And that still depth of passion learns
Which cannot fade.
The wind that whispers in the night,
Subtle and free,
The gorgeous noonday's blinding light,
On hill and tree,
All lovely things that meet my sight,
All shifting lovelinesses bright,
Speak to my heart with calm delight,
Seeming to be
Cloth'd with enchantment, robed in white,
To sing of thee.
The ways of life are hard and cold
To one alone;
Bitter the strife for place and gold --
We weep and groan:
But when love warms the heart grows bold;
And when our arms the prize enfold,
Dearest! the heart can hardly hold
The bliss unknown,
Unspoken, never to be told --
My own, my own!
James Lionel Michael |
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| The Eye of the Beholder, James Lionel Michael |
[Oct. 11th, 2008|02:59 am] |
The Eye of the Beholder
IF, as they tell in stories old,
The waters of Pactolus roll’d
Over a sand of shifting gold;
If ever there were fairies, such
As those that charm the child so much,
With jewels growing ’neath their touch;
If, in the wine-cup’s sweet deceit,
There lies a secret pleasant cheat,
That turns to beauty all we meet;
The stream, the fairy, and the wine,
In the first love of youth combine
To make its object seem divine.
No golden sand of fabl’d river,
No jewel glittering for ever,
No wine-born vision’s melting quiver,
In vivid glory can compare
With that which we ourselves prepare
To throw round that we fancy fair.
Never such beauty glittered yet,
In golden beams of suns that set
On cupola and minaret.
Never such beauty met men’s eyes
In silver light of moons that rise
O’er lonely lakes ’neath tropic skies.
The world holds nothing of such worth,
There ’s nothing half so fair on earth,
As that to which the heart gives birth:
External beauties pall and fade;
But that which my own soul hath made,
To my conception, knows no shade.
To every ark there comes a dove,
To every heart from heaven above
Is sent a beauty born of love.
The moonlit lake, the waving trees,
It is the eye which looks on these
That makes the loveliness it sees.
Out of myself the beauty grows,
Out of myself the beauty flows
That decks the petals of the rose.
So, when at Ada’s feet I lay,
And saw her glorious as the day,
’Twas my own heart that lent the ray.
-by James Lionel Michael |
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| The Dreams of a Moon and Sun's Slumber |
[Sep. 25th, 2008|10:38 pm] |
the little sun sleeps
quiet and content
while the moon floats
and watches over the world
in the morning the moon lays down
it's shining face
and drifts into deathly slumber
and the little sun wakens
and takes it's place in the sky
he smiles and sends down warmth
upon everyone on this earth
sometimes too much
sometimes too little
but always he is there
calm and contant
always following his brother the moon
Forever
-meganekko |
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| Working title... |
[Sep. 4th, 2008|09:01 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  crappy | ] |
This isn't complete yet. Just wanted to get some feedback on it.
I've fallen in love with someone,
I'll never be with.
Never hold them tight,
feel their warm kiss.
These true emotions that run,
deep inside of me.
I can't let them go,
but should let them be.
Any feedback is welcome. |
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| Poem, Anne Bradstreet |
[Sep. 2nd, 2008|07:14 am] |
Here followes some verses upon the burning of our house, July 10th, 1666.
By Anne Bradstreet
In silent night when rest I took,
For sorrow neer I did not look,
I waken'd was with thundring nois
And Piteous shreiks of dreadfull voice.
That fearfull sound of fire and fire,
Let no man know is my Desire.
I, starting up, the light did spye,
And to my God my heart did cry
To strengthen me in my Distresse
And not to leave me succourlesse.
Then coming out beheld a space,
The flame consume my dwelling place.
And, when I could no longer look,
I blest his Name that gave and took,
That layd my goods now in the dust:
Yea so it was, and so 'twas just.
It was his own: it was not mine;
Far be it that I should repine.
He might of All justly bereft,
But yet sufficient for us left.
When by the Ruines oft I past,
My sorrowing eyes aside did cast,
And here and there the places spye
Where oft I sate, and long did lye.
Here stood that Trunk, and there that chest;
There lay that store I counted best:
My pleasant things in ashes lye,
And them behold no more shall I.
Under thy roof no guest shall sitt,
Nor at thy Table eat a bitt.
No pleasant tale shall 'ere be told,
Nor things recounted done of old.
No Candle 'ere shall shine in Thee,
Nor bridegroom's voice ere heard shall bee.
In silence ever shalt thou lye;
Adieu, Adeiu; All's vanity.
Then streight I gin my heart to chide,
And didst thy wealth on earth abide?
Didst fix thy hope on mouldring dust,
The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?
Raise up thy thoughts above the skye
That dunghill mists away may flie.
Thou hast an house on high erect
Fram'd by that mighty Architect,
With glory richly furnished,
Stands permanent tho' this bee fled.
It's purchased, and paid for too
By him who hath enough to doe.
A Prise so vast as is unknown,
Yet, by his Gift, is made thine own.
Ther's wealth enough, I need no more;
Farewell my Pelf, farewell my Store.
The world no longer let me Love,
My hope and Treasure lyes Above. |
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| News and Poetry |
[Aug. 21st, 2008|12:02 pm] |
News first, I have started a poetspassion on scribbld, since there are NO general poetry communities there, none, not even dead ones like we have here :P
http://www.scribbld.net/community/poetspassion/profile
Poetry. I have two poems I wrote on a message board really quick. I'm not a calling them a work of art, but they were fun to write, and I'm fond of them. So I will share them with you.
There was a man
He likes lamps
he was a strange man
people liked to laugh at him
but he was just a man
like any other
one day when he was pushing his cart
that was full of beautiful old lamps
some mean boys called him an old fart
and it hurt his feelings
the cruel words hit his heart like a dart
and he was never the same
he's just a good old man
getting by as he can
he doesn't take charity
and he won't take insults
he has dignity
and grace
and can see the beauty in everything
even cruel people and old dusty lamps
we could learn a thing or two from him.
-Meganekko
On a still winter night
warm bread sits
one might try with all their might
until one loses their wits
but they could not find so perfect a sight
on such a cold winter's night
One woman will just stare
breathing in the steamy air
trying to freeze it into her memory
One man will think only of
stealing a slice
But a little boy
that was nice
will sneak up at night
just to set things right
and share some with the little mouse
-by Meganekko |
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| The poetry game |
[Aug. 14th, 2008|10:14 pm] |
My writings from The Poetry Game.
The nauseous angels danced around my love unknown
Shattering the sunbeam alone
So he died upon the cloud
Shattering my heart so proud
His bright soul did dim
when his face their feet did skim
I screamed my rage unto the sky
God just did not care why
His righteous wrath would all applaud
His sword in hand he stalked the land
And all that saw him would give a nod
Their merry talk his ears did ear
The laughter from their dinner table
Tan skin gleaming, he stole their joy
Their skewered heads became his toy
Drama sung, a sweet sweet roar
The harpy danced, that trifling whore
She leapt to bite, crest abristle,
My fist swung out,
It hit her hard,
Her scream rang out
A bitter shard
Of glass in the eye of my heart
When will this war end, when depart?
Children lie listless, hearing parent's idle quirks
Seagulls fly glaring, all accusing eyes, fish lurk
The sharks titter, and say they lack respect
The jellyfish reply they need therapy, victims of neglect
A merry sponge dances a reel, heedless to all
The boy rises, and runs into the sea
The girl sighs, thinking "why me?"
Another boy says
"maybe the shark will rip his leg off"
"or the jellyfish will sting him" she bantered.
Either way, he went to sea.
-Meganekko
Anyway, here are the rules for The Poetry Game;
Post five words, unrelated or no.
The following person must create a quick poem using at least three of those words in it.
[They /can/ change the form of up to two of the words.]
Then they should post five more words, and the next player shall continue.
pale/cloth/moon/blade/book |
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| A Rose Petal Falls (In memory of my Ashley) |
[Aug. 1st, 2008|06:44 pm] |
This is the first poem I ever wrote. I wrote it in memory of my niece who died that year from Leukemia. I was 15. It’s not very good, but that was the start of my intense love affair with poetry.
A Rose Petal Falls
In the garden beyond the ivory gate, stands a lone rosebush
Beside it sits a littler girl, and for one,--the end is near.
The rose bush weeps, the little girl watches
The rain falls down, and angels sing.
Louder and louder the chorus rises, a smile
The child smiles, and pain is forgotten.
With morning, voices echo on the wind
The light caresses, and takes her hand.
Then through the pain, the smile is back
A little girl dies, and a rose petal falls.
GMH, 1981 |
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| The Eye of the Storm |
[Aug. 1st, 2008|06:00 pm] |
I've wanted to get more involved with this group, but working 82 hours a week leaves me very little time for anything else.
The Eye of the Storm
The roaring wind, and pounding waves
The blackened sky of stormy days
Tossed and turned, tattered and torn
'Til I found you in the eye of the storm.
Crushed and defeated, I stood alone
My emotions trampled, My heart as stone
My will was weakened, badly worn
Then I found you in the eye of the storm.
Now I face each troubled morn
With my arms around the eye of the storm.
GMH, 2008 |
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[Jul. 9th, 2008|06:02 pm] |
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Does anyone have any dark or sad poetry they'd like to submit to next month's issue of Blue Forest Ezine? Unfortunately I can't pay anything at the moment, so all you'll get is the satisfaction of being published online. But if that's enough for you then please consider it. Thankies! |
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