Oh no, not another poetry game...

i read a book
it was interesting
you should have a look

it's called the wheel of time
characters developed
very well and fine

but enough about me
what books did you read?

I posted a few, and before I knew
it, I was passed time and anew.

I critted, and posted of mine,
I've said it in so-many
words, your thoughts for my penny,
you know, mine for your nickels,
but nothing was written below
the line, and though I wish to opine,
wish to show-off (I'm a writer, ain't I?)
I feel, heck, you're rubber neck-
ing, dear fellow, go sit on your deck
and care for the the book
you read now.

It's "Atlas Shrugged", by Ain Rand,
a thousandplus pages, mind
you, and in the chiffon veil of the night I
find that it will take me forever, prob'ly,
to finish the tome in timely
manner for books awaiting in line,
their names on their spine
staring at me, making me guilty
of money and time and concern and
of why do I buy, when well
do I know that by the rim of the well
I'll be sitting, counting the stars and
scratching my balls until bleeding,
do all and every and any but reading.

This said and well done, I
wanna give thanks to the
few who passed by
and gave of their time and remarks
and some rep points, as well,
and so they helped me to quell
the fire, to open the mire,
to make a man happy
with reason and rhyme.

Oh, you wanted to say some?
"kay, come and sit by and
put hands to the keys and let flow,
sing it and fill the white space below.

Re: Poetry game

Alas, my alphabetic friend,
Better to go online then rend,
My paper musings into shreds
For I feel the poet might be dead.

The worth of words will carry on,
Both good or bad, both lost and won,
The game's afoot or so it seems,
Now even the least of us may dream.

Thanks, Alphy, for this gift of rhyme,
I think it comes to me in time,
Words of practice here I'll post,
And from this I will gain the most.

I saw this thread
and thought I'd stay
and pass a few
idle moments away

I get so snarky
I get so hot
I suppose my mind
is really shot

It doesn't matter
what I say
because no one
notices any way.

Pbbbbtttt

On becoming a high-minded poet

I came to this forum
To learn to be a poet.
I really stunk
But I dint know it.

Enthusiasm and praise
Met me at the door.
I felt really welcome
Starting up from the floor.

One day I learned
I dint have to rhyme
A welcome relief
For my tired mind.

I write decent verse
Now
Have published and read.
Poems much improved
Thank you
Forum,
Friends.

Ah the hand
across the page
so subtle,
so in tune with the way
a comet
passes by our green planet.
It is like breath,
like a sigh
on a winter's night.
The short burst of bright cold
returned to the lungs
reminds one of the hand
reaching for the new page.
That, my friends, is why I read.
To feel the contact
of hand, breath, universe
as I take in the words
as they pile up
on bookshelves,
wall-to-wall.
Title against title.
Hand across the page
or hand across the spines...
either way
I am excited by words
as they fall across
my field of thought.

Yes, the poet.
He is between professions,
capable of seeing the mathematician,
the cable repair man,
the crack of a plumber's...
The poet can take these
people,
carve them into cut-glass figurines,
make them and their worlds one.
The poet is the numbers
the mathematician calculates,
the potatoes the chef dices,
the flowers the florist chooses.
The poet has a hand in universal thought...
just as the mathematician touches the number five
and sees the truth in the world behind this one.
Just as the Doctor touches the pancreas
and sees the place where this world touches the other.
The poet dabbless both in mediocrity and amazement,
unafraid of gathering tidbits,
rearranging the order of lives unseen.
The poet presents the subtle truth
behind the numbers
which pulse throughout the minds of mathematicians.
The poet counts to ten
and laughs at the outcome,
rewrites the order
and dares you to defy him.

The forum isn't quiet
the people are

My thoughts always wander
like a dreaming star

If life is a game
I may be a poor player
but who needs to know the rules
if rules are there to be broken

Never ever say never
he who said it is like
wearing a froggy suit in
wedding dinner
yet pretend not to be care
about living
which is a game
we all will be forgotten
forever.

Forgotten yes,
but like writing on water
we will be remembered
in concentric circles...
only eventually forgotten.
I tend to think
the more we reach into wedding dinners,
the more birthday parties we crash
with twisted smiles and mischevious grins,
the more our circles of water-dancing, rock skipping patterns
will tie us to the past we leave behind.
Make yourself known
and the froggy suit will be remembered
if only for another day.
Make a laugh appear
on the face of another
and that laugh will ripple out
longer than you can ever imagine
into the future ahead of you.
And yes,
never
say never.
That always helps too...

When you give the gift of dreaming
Your friends remember not the wit
or the sharp arc of meaning
but the cold mist of dawn
rising from that warm place
in your heart.

So true.
So many ways
to be remembered longer.
Reach out with wit,
or with kindness
and it will follow you
even past the shadowy
death of tombstones,
even past the memory
of your smiling face.
Kindness will reach out
beyond the sepia photo
hidden in attic buried albums.
Kindness will light fire
to the future...
carry itself through generations.
Doesn't cost a thing.

True, so true!
We are each
each person we have met.
We carry each other
like the dust we inhale.
We can die,
in body,
yet still be carried
by those we have touched...
just as we deposit those who die
into our own presence,
carry not to drop them
into that place where nothing reigns,
that liquid silver universe
where it is only rumored
that we have ever truly existed
to begin with.
We are all we touch,
that's a good point.
Not only the people in the crowd
but also the trees that sigh
and sway in a morning breeze.
Once we leave a forest
it crackles with excitement
in the mindscape we carry with us.
Still it provides our thoughts
with new air to breathe.

Yes, but oh,
Those who take
Bravery in hand
Move
Out and put the word
to paper
the paint
to brush
to canvas.
Those who create
The book,
the painting-
Those are the giving
courageous
giving of themselves,
Soul
Forever for their loved ones.
Yes!
Even the loved ones
loved ones.
They also learn to love you.
Love what you stand for.
What you had to say,
Accomplished.
Even this gift
goes on and on.
Courage.

Then again
those who put the words
to paper
sometimes grumble,
curse,
besmirch the names of others.
Hostile pen wielders
do indeed exist.
But, oh
the prose
of those who practice
but for pleasure...
those are the words,
preambles,
grocery lists
I need to get my fingers on.
Trace my eyes across the page,
eat those black lines on white paper
with gusto.
Words traced
into cloudless skies,
either by kite tails
or planes with magic ink
still cause me to raise my eyes
to heaven...
just one more word
just one more perfect line
before the darkness
blots it out.

Greyness

Before your eyes are open
You know the day is grey.
Panic dips in your heart
Yet you breathe in and out.
The muse is gone.
Hiding from your stress
the world
your pain.

She has retreated
covering her heart
gone to the dark place
to the tiny cellular drawer
in the file cabinet of your mind.

Inconsolable
You draw up your knees
Lay down your head
weep.
For life without her
is droll, boring
so you join her there.

But again I wonder
what good a muse
when one can reach
inside and beyond
to the place inside themselves
pull out from there
all that they need.
No need for the flowing
white
gowns
and flowered hair
of a willowy muse.
Muse be thyself.
muse be the other half
of the wild mind brain
from which you pull
your spirits
both evil and mischevious,
from their dark little corners
and play awhile.
Play with the spark
inside your head
that unites you
to pen
to paper
to keyboard slamming.
Take it upon yourself
to tell the words that bounce
within your thoughts
to reassemble
on the empty white page
so pristine with forethought
so ready for your rant
and rave.
Take the chance
to be your own muse.

I've lost me riddle

Once I had a thought
somewhere in the midst of me head
I thunk it and sunk it
and don't know much of it
But I think my thought is now dead

Once I knew a riddle
Now the riddle is lost
Rid of the riddle,
I'm stuck in the middle
And carefully counting the cost

Rime Ryhym, I'm out of my mind
But where I am is not clear
I'm neither flying nor floating
I'm certainly not gloating
But I wonder why I'm here?