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I like writing poetry when I feel particularly inspired, and I was wondering if any of you do, too. :)

Here are a few short examples I wrote that I enjoy (none of them technically have titles):

From beyond the grave,
And out of my cave,
I do shamble and walk about.
To visit my town
And people around,
I live--without a doubt!

I pay the bills
And work the tills
And feel my death is anon.
But no one has said
That I need not dread,
For I had already gone.
------------------------------------------------
Write, write!
Revise, revise!
It's not quite perfect in my eyes!

Write a couplet
With a scene to covet.
Create an image so insane,
It makes dragons and fairies seem inane!

Write, write!
Revise, revise!
It's not quite perfect in his eyes!

So is the poet's curse:
Often his best poems are his worst.
---------------------------------------------------
I was:
A kid
A teenager
Confused

I am:
A writer
A musician
Confident

I will be:
A teacher
A role model
Successful

But then I won't.
------------------------------------------------------
I looked up to you,
But--after awhile--I looked down.
An unfortunate side-effect of you advancing well through your seventies,
And I through my teens.

Yet, even more, I looked up--
Craned my neck into the sky!--
To get a mere glance at the head way atop.

Being respectful, I kept my distance,
For fear was something well-instilled.
I let your life lessons arrive on their own--
As if I deserved them.

Then I stood in that ominous line,
And people told me I spent too much time with someone who cared too little,
And too little time with someone who cared too much.
Finally--unabashedly trite, and forward--my life lesson had arrived.

They say a teacher's greatest lessons don't end in their death,
But rather begin in your life,
And you were--are--no different.
 

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I like writing poetry when I feel particularly inspired, and I was wondering if any of you do, too. :)

Here are a few short examples I wrote that I enjoy (none of them technically have titles):

From beyond the grave,
And out of my cave,
I do shamble and walk about.
To visit my town
And people around,
I live--without a doubt!

I pay the bills
And work the tills
And feel my death is anon.
But no one has said
That I need not dread,
For I had already gone.
------------------------------------------------
Write, write!
Revise, revise!
It's not quite perfect in my eyes!

Write a couplet
With a scene to covet.
Create an image so insane,
It makes dragons and fairies seem inane!

Write, write!
Revise, revise!
It's not quite perfect in his eyes!

So is the poet's curse:
Often his best poems are his worst.
---------------------------------------------------
I was:
A kid
A teenager
Confused

I am:
A writer
A musician
Confident

I will be:
A teacher
A role model
Successful

But then I won't.
------------------------------------------------------
I looked up to you,
But--after awhile--I looked down.
An unfortunate side-effect of you advancing well through your seventies,
And I through my teens.

Yet, even more, I looked up--
Craned my neck into the sky!--
To get a mere glance at the head way atop.

Being respectful, I kept my distance,
For fear was something well-instilled.
I let your life lessons arrive on their own--
As if I deserved them.

Then I stood in that ominous line,
And people told me I spent too much time with someone who cared too little,
And too little time with someone who cared too much.
Finally--unabashedly trite, and forward--my life lesson had arrived.

They say a teacher's greatest lessons don't end in their death,
But rather begin in your life,
And you were--are--no different.
Your poetry rocks! I used to love poetry, but now I can't focus on it for a second. Kinda got sick of all my old poems too. This one got published, but I don't know how much relevance you'll be able to glean from it without having seen/read about Vancouver Island:

Elegy for Impatience

Toe-tapping—tap-tap—two-times-
four to the floor of the ferry yard,
the artist is not one for waiting
at Horseshoe Bay for thoroughfare;

nor does she care for the sea
otters, bald eagles or dolphins,
drifting by, as they do, detatched
from her damn-near delirium

at some basket case, basking on board
in his disengagement, disregardful
of the regard held for him—geriatric
gentleman—by pursuing generations;

the misty leviathan Island
unveiled into pillars, monolithic—
nothing like their leafleted likenesses—
between which the winos (or worse)

weighed and wade, while scarlet wails
wound around the waterfront
and wheels read as the substance
to which suffering stuck; sickened

by sprawl and straying from the centre
of the city whose name sounds
sweeter than it should (Nanaimo
gave her no hand), she flees inland

to find the body of a brimming tree,
awake on a lake, alone where no red-
wood should be; she raises her canvas,
and so arises her first full stop.

What does a painted scene mean?
She, muddled, muddies her brush.
She abandons her easel, and drives off.
She will make a hard-working citizen.
 

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This is one I wrote the other day, tell me what you think !

If anything could detract from your beauty
A picture would take away the life that makes you beautiful
If I were born to write,
I would write the rules that you live by,
And a holy book dedicated to one movement of you.
We'd hold hands in the twilight
You would hold more mystery to me in the pale darkness than any star struck night,
Thousands would bear a symbol of our time together,
And that would be our love story.
I follow you like a character in a book,
always looking to the next exquisite line.

:cool:
 

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Lmao, the only poems I still have are ones I wrote when I was 12 for school. Not really much of a poet myself, don't get all the subtle nuances...being a not so subtle person. XD
 

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One from my little black book of poetry secrets (rarely shared and never published)...


The Bedouin Path



You, you are the desert moon
Beckoning to the listless dunes
In the never-ending dance of
The desert

An oasis appears, but is it real?

They call to me…like a lover’s
whisper
the infinite murmur of wind
caressing sand.
And I am transfixed by the
endlessness of space, time and sky.


So many possibilities in endlessness.


I venture forth, but which way do I take?

The Bedouin path is unmarked
But it reverberates in the infinite shifting sand.

I make my way



 

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@Essay

Loved the poem...it transported me back to my time in BC/Vancouver Island...thanks for sharing. (hugs!)
 
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I've written some poetry (and some flash fiction which is similar). It's been a while though. I'll try to dig some up.

But thanks to everyone for sharing. I love poetry. :)
 

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Self Perception:
"I see myself through the mirror of my peers,
they reflect my thoughts or instill my greatest fears.
Dancing with my the world I may experience myself,
so that I can explore all my inner wealth.
If I reach out I'll find this world so enchanting,
my mind to be found amongst the clouds dancing.
I mold this reality by what I see,
my feelings project who I truly am back into me.
Yet still there are chains that fetter me down,
society's grip dragging me below to drown.
I thrash in this sea of relentless waves,
the undertow of their perception leaving me in a daze.
Sometimes I feel this pressure force at my being,
shifting my concept of what I am seeing.
Those around me are obscuring my sight,
until in my heart I find strength to take flight.
Once then my wings shall extend into the sky,
So that I may be myself until I must die.
For I alone can tread with my soul,
which whispers to me who I am as a whole."


Among The Trees:
"How predictable it is.
That in the end it would come down like this.
Where two trees stand, close together to embrace their sun.
One receives his light while the other is coldly shunned.
Murder is the way of nature.
Its grip ignores not one creature.
Thus I should have known.
For your actions, quite have shown.
That you betrayed all those close in order to hide.
For consequence all to much for one lacking a spine.

Always thinking only of yourself, your heart is all to thin.
You’d surrender all that’s good for pleasures as deep as skin.
So no longer will I stand, open armed at the great hearth.
For when the time comes I will close my door to the one without a heart."

Lillith's Cry:
"Do you know that bane of men?
Wish not to meet her in your den.
She lies deep in the folds of Mother Nature’s cradle.
Her story’s quite old, a great ancient fable.

The sweetest daughter and gift of creation.
With one twist of fate bound the world to her incantation.
She casts her spell over men, weaving the seeds of their doom.
To avenge the curse of her tainted womb.

Temptress of flesh, dark Queen of the night.
Fate’s cruel hand touched her heart with blight.
Consumed with her lust she was lost to the shadow.
Contorted by pain found herself in eternal sorrow.

She carries the weight of shattered hearts upon her shoulder.
The icy tempest of time froze her heart so hard as a stone boulder.
Her one lost love had left her thrashing in the waves.
Now her black wings drape over all men’s hollow graves.

Flawed are we all, just born into the ground.
Love is a fool to which we all our bound.
The answers we seek await in that astral sky.
For the music of lust is that woeful tune of Lilith’s cry."
 

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@Fenrir awesome poems...particularly liked Lillith's Cry. Thanks for sharing!
 
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here is one of mine :)
Fallen


Falling deeper and deeper into the depths of despair,
Withdrawing inside without much care.
Lonely and sad, pain doesn't escape me,
misery again being my only company.
I stay in the shadows of my mind,
broken, shattered, left behind.
I hurt so much all the time,
by and by the rope harder to climb.
I wish to escape the shackles that hold me abound,
swim for the shore before i drowned.
Leave the chains that keep me down,
I want my voice to have a sound.
The darkness falls; i close my eyes,
a cold wind blows from these night skies.
I collapse to my knees, hands clenching my chest,
I failed you again, give me your best.
I hear the screaming from within my soul,
the darkness starting to take its toll.
I'm weary, weak, and feel so numb,
again to darkness i succumb.
I have nothing to offer, nothing to give,
please take me Death, i don't want to live.

I feel the cold touch upon my skin,
thus awakening the fire from within.
I will fight you Death, you will not win!
I will not be captive to my sin.
I may be tired, i may be weak,
but it is the light for which i seek.
I will fight, I will persevere,
I will get my ass up out of here!
My heart is broken, pain running through my veins,
I long to break free from my aching chains.
Sorrow, I will not be held back by you.
Shame, I will not be beaten down by you.
Anger, i will not be torn apart by you.
Hate, i will no longer be destroyed by you.
I will push my way through!
Death you may laugh and criticize,
but i am stronger than you realize.
I am a fighter with deep wounds and scars,
I can escape through depression's bars.
Lonely, broken and wounded to the core,
but love is always worth fighting for.
When surrounded by darkness, i don't see much hope,
I feel lost, abandoned, not able to cope.
Yet i pull myself through with some inner drive,
and fight for my right to stay alive.
Guard your heart for it affects all you do,
Darkness is tough, but love will never leave you.
When all is shaken, love is the strength in me,
when i am weak, love carries me through,
Sadness can overwhelm and Death be callin,
but love still stands when all else has fallen.

Me :)
7/18/11
 

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I write free verse, which usually ends up like prose. There's a word for it, which I conveniently forget right now.
-------------------------------
Death
There is an image
A bitter memory
Stained into my mind
Forever more
It was, maybe, the,
Saddest day of my life
It takes little to move me, yes, it’s true.
But, in the light straining through the stained rainbows of the Methodist Church,
I felt,
Hot tears roll down my cheeks,
And my fragile heart breaking, like a glass bird.
I had arrived late that day,
Frazzled from putting on a shroud of cloth,
Black as the shadows cast by the casket,
Dark as the expressions on these unknown people’s faces.
I strained against stinging signs of weakness
While the choked words of sons, wives, brothers
Washed over me.
As the countless sobbing figures passed me by,
I stood, stoic and steely,
Guarded against emotion.
Then.
The vessel of a great man never known wheeled by, out to
The hearse.
And the girl,
Following close after
Eyes cherry red, mouth opened
In a silent wail
As she
Unleashed all the emotion
I knew she hid behind a plastic smile.
The girl I danced in the hallway with,
The one who had helped me up when kicked down,
My Olivia,
Broken and ripped to shreds with loss.
I stood,
A sea of black rising around me.
And,
I became a mourner.
I cried,
Not for the hole left by a father,
But for my friend,
Who I never want to see cry again.
-------------------------------------
Going Home
At the seaside...and always

I am an ocean child
One of those always drifting
Like people before us
We dive towards the ocean
Don’t be afraid!
She holds us and rocks us back and forth
Showing us parts of the world we never imagined
She sings songs, a gentle lullaby of creaking ships and the ever changing sea
And whispers at me to come home whenever I get too far from the surf
She looks after me
And clutches me safe and secure
But
She’s holding something back.
Something...
Mysterious
She’s elusive and quick
Always slipping away with the turning tide
‘Mama, what’s in the deep? Far down, all the way in the heart of the ocean?’
‘Danger.’
I don’t believe that.
I can’t believe that.
The ocean isn’t dangerous. She’s warm and nice
She goes on forever, all compassing
And she cares for all her children
Because we trust her
She only hurts those who don’t welcome her embrace
They panic
And lose their lives in a gasp
But we know she wants us to come home
That she would hold us forever
In a cradle of waves
I would welcome it
A home of foam and salty skin
Never having to anchor
When I have to leave the gentle hands of the ocean
I look into the deep
The ocean’s eyes
Her eyes
And
I see myself.
Always changing
Not wanting to be tamed
Windswept
 
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