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Thread: Calling Card Thread (Poems by AWers)

  1. #101
    carpe noctem Sarita's Avatar
    Join Date
    Feb 2005
    Quote Originally Posted by Mom'sWrite View Post
    This looks like a great spot to park a video I made of NeuroFizz's poem, "Shadow to Shadow." Enjoy.

    Thanks, Rich, for letting me play.
    Oh this is lovely!


    "There are moments when, whatever be the attitude of the body, the soul is on its knees." ~ Hugo

  2. #102
    New Fish; Learning About Thick Skin vertigo78's Avatar
    Join Date
    Feb 2013

    He sat in the dark
    Keeping warm over a fire of images
    And no matter what colors
    Flickered through the glow
    His face stayed blue

    Influential Ecstasy

    I’ve built my life around chasing moments of influential ecstasy
    The euphoria that springs from the pages of great books
    The ache that follows a song whose lyrics you don’t even understand
    Those epiphanies brought on by clouds of marijuana smoke

    In the midst of these throes of the abstract


    Everything falls into place

    Or I resign myself to the chaos that reigns wild

  3. #103
    Fierce Pretender William E. Harlan's Avatar
    Join Date
    Apr 2013
    Cruising the web in my introvertible.

    There is something in our words, when heard, that releases, increases meaning between us and opens our eyes upon the rhyme.

    Words will say blood, lust, honor and love with truth thrust up fast past the last one for weight while measured close for beauty and time.

    They are blind signs to bind minds with nothing but the least and most important thing, breath.

    Bright lights of life to drive another's thoughts with their lines and touch them inside with what we've said.

    Our words are our reflections in sound and reveal more than we intend. And though we may abuse and bend them we are bound to them and let ourselves be found.

  4. #104
    Sockpuppet Lancastrian's Avatar
    Join Date
    Oct 2013
    ...if only Mars was habitable
    Hm... this is titled "Marionette"

    I loathe time
    Try to fall asleep
    Count back from 1000
    And end up at 2015
    Never claimed to be good at math
    Never asked to be a doormat

    I'm tired of lying
    And tired of hiding
    The void inside of me
    It shows no sign of dying
    And this one ain't on me
    No, this one's not from my lead
    You each took what you needed
    Till my heart barely beat
    A thin, struggling melody

    Lift your head, baby, you might just hear

    Yet I'm still firmly standing
    Isn't that's what's so shocking?
    And you, you're still a-pulling
    All of those thin little strings
    But guess what, dearie?
    This little marionette girl
    Always saw those thin little strings
    And one by one, she kept snipping
    Snip snip snipping till she was free

    Lift yourself up, girl, the world is within reach

    But if the war is over
    If this war was won
    What's left of the survivor
    But the personas she's worn
    And is that why she looks so very lost
    And is that why she seems so very torn
    She just keeps saving everyone else
    It's her nature now, all she has left
    But this here now is the final test
    Of if she can allow for help
    Of if she will save herself

    Oh, everyone, hold your breath
    Last edited by Lancastrian; 10-28-2013 at 02:36 PM. Reason: OCD and stylistic choice

  5. #105
    Learning to read more, post less JustSarah's Avatar
    Join Date
    Dec 2012
    This is my older style:

    When the fae, fly away,
    To the land of, nevermore,
    Reaper’s words, have no sway,
    Words one can’t, ignore,
    In the land of, nevermore.

    When the fields, turn to grey,
    One listens to, a wolves bay,
    As it howls to, nevermore,
    Singing words, one can’t ignore,
    In the land of, nevermore.

    One longs
    for the Sun’s
    shining ...

    light, it
    glows only
    in wake.

    Heed these words, do take,
    No more land of, nevermore.

    Nevermore is a recurring setting in my work. Shepherdess Song is technically more current. But it's so experimental, I wasn't sure if it was worth showing.
    Last edited by JustSarah; 12-25-2014 at 12:12 AM.
    Beyond The Dreamer's Edge -- Complete
    Simply Pace -- Complete
    The Incarnations Of Hemato Tomato And Anna-Marie -- Complete -- LitReads Sticker
    Meadow Of Gold -- Archival
    The Mortal Avatar -- Complete
    O Raphael -- W.I.P

  6. #106
    New Fish; Learning About Thick Skin
    Join Date
    Aug 2015
    People of Australia

    People of Australia, please stop, and try to understand
    From fathers strong and brave we came, they pioneered this land,
    Hang your heads in shame and weep at what we are today
    Let us take a look at how life was before we became this way.

    Our children once played outside with toys, had lots and lots of fun

    No wires hanging from their ears, nor those of Dad or Mum,
    A cardboard box, a piece of wood, a house built up in a tree
    Their imagination made these things a pirate ship at sea.

    Our mothers washed our clothes by hand, worked hard for me and you
    Now we need a ‘Smart Machine’ that tells us just what to do,
    And our steam irons have an IP address, now that’s a real must
    Did we truly once use our hands, to sweep and clean and dust?

    Once T.V sets (if owned at all), beamed proudly black and white

    No choice of fifty channels, on which to waste our sight,
    There was a time when mobile meant to walk and run around
    Now all we hear everywhere, is the latest Ring tone sound.

    Clothes were made to last and last, and then passed down the line
    The quality was very good, and the workmanship was fine,
    Lovely garments strongly made, we wore those clothes with pride
    No three months of cheap imports, which soon get thrust aside.

    There was a time when payday meant, our cash was paid out by hand
    We loved to hold those notes and coins, now that was something grand,
    And do you recall when women were so proud they worked at home?
    Their incomes were not needed to pay out the mortgage loan.

    Much is wrong in this land of ours, when you hear your neighbours say:
    ‘Your Christmas Tree offends me: just remove it right away!’
    And the politicians they do forget those who placed them there
    Too busy with their limousines and beauty parlour hair.

    Now there’s Political Correctness, goodness, what a shocking term
    But it has a very real tragedy; our children will not learn,
    When books are changed in fear of any term that might offend
    They no longer print the words that the original author penned.

    If we give the vote to ID cards it will be the first step down the track
    To our freedom gone and we won’t know until we want it back,
    What fools of us the world wide that Millennium Bug did make
    Panic all around the globe, we thought our lives at stake.

    It has become a land of want, of rush and stress and greed
    We have moved so far away from what we really need,
    What would happen to us all, with one EMP burst from space?
    Back to the stone-age life we’d go, and perhaps a state of grace?

    So people of Australia, please stop and look back down the years
    Our fathers pioneered this land for us, toiled with blood, sweat and tears,
    Hang your heads in shame and weep at what we are today
    Because people of Australia, we have surely lost our way.

    Last edited by Escaliba; 08-23-2015 at 04:56 PM.

  7. #107
    ... Steppe's Avatar
    Join Date
    Mar 2008
    Port Orchard, Washington
    For Robert Kipniss

    leaves limn

    night falls

    tones of
    the solitude

    ghost like
    the quietude
    "Don't worry about readers. Their on their own and will find meanings for your poems in their histories and yearnings. Let language go where it wants. If readers respond to your language, the poem can't help but mean." Poet Richard Hugo

  8. #108
    practical experience, FTW danaberrywrites's Avatar
    Join Date
    Aug 2015
    I posted this one in another thread, but I think it represents me.


    in the cradle
    of sturdy tired arms
    your head

    no longer baby, not yet child

    legs draped over my thighs
    touching ground

    I sigh
    kiss your hair

    I cradle closer
    though rocking is past
    I miss you
    even while you are still mine

  9. #109
    New Fish; Learning About Thick Skin
    Join Date
    Feb 2016
    (Hope it's not too late too add on to this thread. This is a new piece for me. It's a little out of my typical style, but more suited to reading than my typical spoken word pieces.)

    I am comprised of nursery rhymes
    School photos with bobbed off hair
    A thousand and one Christmas dresses in plaid and velour
    Worn squirming with my polished patent soul.

    My mother's voice drags me into the past
    With half remembered quaitrains
    From midnight storybooks and tattered tales.

    If I have ever existed it is
    Comfortably caged by childhood memories
    Bedtime stories and
    School Picture Day and
    Christmases more ancient than my eyes.

    Every day I fade in the mirror
    Collapse into pieces of poetry like entropy.
    The rhyme is all that remains when the reason disappears.

    Poems are ghost stories
    And if ghosts exist in these pentameter parameters
    I am the spirit I would most like to meet.

  10. #110
    Join Date
    Feb 2012
    Now that this thread has been bumped, I might as well contribute. This one of mine probably comes closest to the spirit of the OP, as I understand it.


    I bristled
    when he came too near,
    .....severed roses his hand,

    he would
    cut me down,
    haul me to his parlor
    .....pruned to fit,
    .....shedding needles
    ...........bit by bit,
    .....burdened with baubles
    ...........hung by children,
    .....bowed beneath
    ...........his ceiling,
    .....bound between
    ...........his walls.

    That was not my plan.

    I dug my toes into the soil,
    sprawling wide
    .....and reaching high.

    I grew tall
    .....and proud.

    Years coiled round
    .....and marked me,
    .....thickening my skin.
    One by one,
    .....they passed me by.

    I stand surrounded by sky
    .....and barren ground

    and I wonder,
    when I fall
    if I will make

    .....a sound.

  11. #111
    New Fish; Learning About Thick Skin
    Join Date
    Mar 2016
    BC, Canada
    This was written in room 587 of the Sandman Hotel in Kelowna, a few nights before Christmas; these were the last great memories and fun times with the woman who near-destroyed me. That I am able to look at them now is a marvel. I give no promise as to their worthiness amongst all your works here...but the image should be apparent. Hopefully.

    Hidden Pieces

    There are pieces of the night,
    between the sheets a resonance.
    A star hidden in the darkness of
    our spent silence.
    And in the heavy room
    where light is trying double-hard
    to gain our companionship,
    to play awhile longer at some sort
    of game that involves a deck of
    cards and alcohol,
    we'll let it follow far behind,
    let it wait until we throw our cries
    from five floors to a waiting lot
    We are all children in our hunger,
    in our expectation.
    We are all nervous of what
    is unwell,
    and lies hidden weakly behind
    the kindness
    and the sweet word.

  12. #112
    Has a few recurring issues kborsden's Avatar
    Join Date
    Oct 2006
    Where opinions have a distinct aroma.
    Just realised I never posted in this thread. So here we go:

    a grove, a wall, and an aeroplane

    Raindrops sprinkled down from the pine tops,
    painting the dirt track ahead, while the moon
    guided us back to the old country road...
    each forward step, an October undone—
    our friended lips met—teen lovers again.

    We stopped to sit on a crumbling wall
    and played at spotting a shooting star,
    but settled instead for an aeroplane
    to grant that teen lovers could remain.

    The grove behind, secreted away,
    is where, as kids, we warmed our hearts with cider
    and dared to dream of a world beyond
    the trees—a world where you would hold my hand,
    whisper our future: teen lovers always.

    any other place

    If I had known of any other place
    (a woodland grove, or perhaps speckled cliffs)
    to serve as a backdrop, and if I’d shared
    that place, would you have stood in front of it?

    If I had known the path that led toward,
    or to a stretch nearby, could we now say,
    ‘forget such foolish ifs’, and live instead,
    passing by the moss and rock of day-by-day?

    Yet, just as the tides eat away the shore,
    a remnant thought corrodes the path we took
    while clambering vines struggle forth to adorn
    the what-if place we never stood before—

    and if you could believe in such a place
    as where we are, would you still walk with me?

    for Demi

    To know that slumber could never take you
    (that hushed words meant a single caress,
    or one last second with you to my breast)
    nor angels, smiling, could fold their wings,
    I would submit to silence: psalm, spoken
    between moments chained to culled breath—
    augmented melody in recall, and yet
    never allow my weary lids to shy.

    There is no truth to find in peaceful rest,
    no peace in pressing the day from my head,
    but in darkness, I wait to hear—and long
    for your disruption: nothingness in song.

    For in the tune of your timid somethings,
    I could surrender to a lullaby.

    I often pretend to see her dancing

    I often pretend to see her dancing
    at twilight, between stars where light refuses
    to lift — she twirls against the ether
    while the cool evening patina resolves
    to degage in blotted words on a page.
    I misprint moments pooled in spilt ink,
    and allow for ripples to plie —
    the ephemeral ballet then seeps soft
    behind the nocturnal eye as movements
    that never were and never will be
    again; tenderly, the veiled tendu
    turns the final step, and the phrase is clear.

    I often pretend to see her dancing
    at twilight, pas de deux with sunken verse.

    a dream of Mumbles

    With our heels pointed toward the distance,
    we watched the moon shatter across the pier
    and promised we'd find each fallen fragment
    no matter where the night would seek us.

    Through December's familiar retention,
    each turn saw shards lost beneath faded touch
    and silence now steals us from the teenage cwtch
    when the sky was ours for the keeping.

    Yet, always recalled to the promenade
    where age has altered memory's store-front —
    we will never cash in our cosmic pieces
    nor sandy heels for their distance covered.

    We linger, embraced beyond sound's reach
    in a dream of Mumbles on the horizon.


    That should do.
    Last edited by kborsden; 03-04-2016 at 02:37 PM.
    Kieran Borsden
    "to be born Welsh, is to be born--not with a silver spoon in your mouth, but with song in your heart, and poetry in your soul"

    -->Read Me

    Got to write an Englyn or 2

  13. #113
    New Fish; Learning About Thick Skin
    Join Date
    Apr 2016
    I write a lot of non-fiction poetry and historical poetry. I'm waiting on possible publication for this one. I have a Harriet Tubman poem I need advice on, which was my motivation for coming here

    [INSERT Self Portrait Along the Borderline Between Mexico and the United States, 1932 by Frida Kahlo]

    This is an early self-portrait by Frida Kahlo, three years after her marriage to famous Mexican painter Diego Rivera. Rivera achieved renown in Mexico and the United States, which brought the couple to the states so Rivera could create large commissioned murals in New York City and Detroit. Kahlo was relatively unknown as an artist in her lifetime. Rivera and the press referred to her as Carmen Rivera. She preferred Frieda, but the name evoked thoughts of Nazi Germany. She later removed the ‘e,’ calling herself ‘Frida’ so as to sound less German.

    Frieda Kahlo, Standing Along the Borderline of Mexico and the United States

    Covered in blood and cheese, purple,
    I came into hot lights, black curly hair, brown arms,
    screaming, writhing, fighting—
    Two hemostats clamped and then between,
    a doctor cut a pearly, blue cord.

    My given name, Carmen,
    Now born a Rivera,
    I still scream, mierda, fight—
    I cannot find myself.

    I chose Frieda,
    which extends from silver nostrils
    like large, flat paint bristles
    and burns like noxious gas,
    crossing, sharp edges—
    abrupt halt.

    1925, there was a crash.
    ¡Ay! ¡Dios!
    Shattered glass suspended midair,
    One moment—
    a grand chandelier sparkled brilliantly in the sunlight,
    before turning to sand whipping over jagged, hard peaks—
    arms and legs made right angles amidst screaming.
    Then I felt it—
    a hot, sharp metal piercing into my soul.

    A fertility god lay broken at my feet,
    dead as my womb, dead as calaveras
    dancing before tamales, mole negro, pan de muerto.

    I look to the Aztec sun,
    rojo, blanco, verde.
    The cacti flower and their roots
    reach deeper into the earth
    for water,
    for life.

    Plumes of black clouds
    block the scorching heat as
    steel and glass rise from the earth
    like sequoias.

    I cannot see myself.
    I blow like a seed among rocks, thirsty,
    I cannot see the sun.

  14. #114
    He Who Prefers the Anachronistic NordicWrath's Avatar
    Join Date
    May 2016
    In a Van Down by the River
    Britons Afire

    Poison, a means to this so bitter end.
    Stand defiant around death. No pikeman
    Will your flesh and at last your spirit rend.

    The first rape ichorous upon your tongue:
    Virgin women, your nation, your daughters.
    Too many and more final dirges sung.

    War-painted faces, same daughters reclaim-
    Ambush, metal and wood crack. Success.
    Travel further. A rape for a rape. Flame.

    Camulodunum burns. Reinforcements.
    Escape, to the plain. More to take, to free.
    More soldiers seen, call upon the ancients.

    Phalanx finds Celt fury. Willing to die.
    death for briton death for life death for rage
    Slaughter- Retreats- Viscera- Fear cry.

    O, Warrior Queen, drink the loss of Celt.
    Poisonous hatred crashes through the veins
    In your slowing heart: every crime felt.

    Fall, Boadicea. Your fight is done, lost.
    Roman and Celt in arms. Honor the cost.
    Life... is like a grapefruit. Well, it's sort of orangey-yellow and dimpled on the outside, wet and squidgy in the middle. It's got pips inside, too. Oh, and some people have half a one for breakfast. -Douglas Adams

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