View Full Version : Oh no, not another poetry game...

06-18-2005, 01:47 AM
Oh no, not another poetry game...

The poetry forum has gone very quiet
I thought it was time for a change
Another game is just what we need
To help us idle the days

The plan is to chat
To pass the time
On topics varied and wide
Whatever you want
with rhythm and rhyme
Or free verse, if you like.

To start it off does anyone want
To begin a topic - discuss.
I'm at a loss, I never was wont
To chit-chat - or is that a plus?

06-18-2005, 01:51 AM
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?

06-18-2005, 03:41 AM
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.

06-19-2005, 05:53 AM
It's exactly the same
I'm also ashamed
My bookcase is full
doubly so
But time of the essence
is such an oppressance
Oh where does all this time go?

The last book I 'read'
it has to be said
I really did not get that far
Was 'Sunday morning
At the centre of the world'
A play
by Lois de Bernieres.

It isn't the book
It's just what it took
And what was not there to be taken
My energy low
And wouldn't you know?
Sleep wins until I awaken.

06-19-2005, 09:14 PM
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.

10-06-2005, 03:36 AM
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.


10-06-2005, 05:08 AM
We notice you where e'er you tread
Where e'er you tread
You may step light but with delight
We watch where e'er you wend
We watch where e'er you wend

For stopping by, hoorah say I
hoorah say I
Please take a seat, How pleased to meet
And no word of a lie
And no word of a lie

The leaves they've started falling down
They've started falling down
Is it your favourite season too?
All gold, orange, and brown
All gold, orange, and brown

10-06-2005, 08:11 PM
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
Have published and read.
Poems much improved
Thank you

10-07-2005, 01:17 PM
ovulate ideas
that must be fertilized
by effort
yet more
breathe in a thought
and out a poem.

and there is poetry
in the movement of a hand
across the page
so subtle
so alive
so welcome

10-07-2005, 02:12 PM
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,
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.

10-07-2005, 02:26 PM
Don't we all see our speciality
as the central truth?
My sister, the mathematician, thinks the world
is ruled by numbers
and defined by them
She would say that without maths
the world is nothing
then start to prove it.

The medic or the tailor
the banker or the lawyer
the chef or farmer
the centre of the universe
but most of all
I think
the poet.

10-07-2005, 02:38 PM
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
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.

10-07-2005, 02:38 PM
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

10-07-2005, 02:44 PM
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,
say never.
That always helps too...

10-07-2005, 02:54 PM
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.

10-07-2005, 03:01 PM
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.

10-07-2005, 03:30 PM
We invest ourselves
in our actions
for a dividend
of posterity
Whomever we affect
carries us on
so that we do not die

We cannot be entirely
any one
when we owe so much
to so many
who themselves the same,
and we
in turn
more than ourselves
will be whomever we've supported

so hoarding all
is the only way
to end up with nothing.

10-07-2005, 03:37 PM
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.

10-07-2005, 05:26 PM
Yes, but oh,
Those who take
Bravery in hand
Out and put the word
to paper
the paint
to brush
to canvas.
Those who create
The book,
the painting-
Those are the giving
giving of themselves,
Forever for their loved ones.
Even the loved ones
loved ones.
They also learn to love you.
Love what you stand for.
What you had to say,
Even this gift
goes on and on.

10-08-2005, 12:42 AM
Then again
those who put the words
to paper
sometimes grumble,
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,
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.

10-08-2005, 09:58 PM
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.

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

10-08-2005, 10:48 PM
If you found her there it would be fine
but you are still alone
in there
are you not?
It is because it only seemed
she stayed inside
she does not often choose to be

Brave now,
go out and seek
the world
and be filled
and in her company
once more.

10-09-2005, 01:59 AM
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
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.

10-09-2005, 02:32 AM
poetry is the meld of thoughts
reaching in and reaching out
a 360 degree vision, past and future
and present
focussed and broad

poetry is a meeting of minds
that know nothing else
except shared words and meanings
and love
of patterns

poetry has its muse
but it is not named inspiration
it is the beautiful authority
called permission

10-10-2005, 03:13 AM
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?

10-10-2005, 03:29 AM
I've wandered, where I wonder
To a place yon under/over
In a space not here nor therefore
So, I'm really not sure, wherefore

If my point is particularly broken
And appears but a measely token
It's hardly one that's well-spoken
Perhaps because it's not awoken

But once it is entirely awake
I'm sure some sense it will make
So, if you but give it a kick
A kiss just might do the trick

This poem is just like a seed
A bit more nurture's the need
As you see it is but a weed
A bold-faced weed indeed!

10-10-2005, 04:26 AM
That's bad luck, getting stuck
half way through, what a rue!
That's like paper stuck in the pen.

That's a jam in the printer
In the finger a splinter
You do have my sympathy, friend.

You're a pleasure to read
You can't call that a weed
Be at ease, plant your foot in the door.

Conversation is rife
'bout the poetic life
Now don't tease, please come back, talk some more.

10-11-2005, 02:33 AM
When in a space too narrow,
too miniscule to breathe
I usually just succumb,
just let myself empty
It makes for an easier transition
just a squeeze and you're there
within that second world
once refused.
Death is a daily benefit
allowing us to step
into bright new worlds
big and small.
Just an end to breathing
and you can be there.
Of course there is always
the escalator
boarded upon
when eyes are closed
and dreams whisper
alternative worlds into our waking lives.
So, die or dream
and you can go
to the place between
the place
that isn't really

10-11-2005, 02:34 AM
The weed is a seed I concede
Of which a flower will form indeed
But I will not harp on it
or make it a sonnet
Cause that's not its want or its need

The pen seemed quite stuck in the well
So, I've looked for one far yond the dell
I fell in the well
and took quite a spell
And you might say that the well rung my bell

I've patched up the pock of my pants
Just to find my pants full of ants
They pricked like a lance
For which I did dance
So forgive if I rant at the chance

You can imagine the mood of my day
And the reason I've so much to say
The month ate my pay
And I've lost my way
So I'll weep by the dock of the bay

10-11-2005, 02:39 AM
Weep if you must
but I'm sure you'll trust
that reason is sound
for you to itch like a hound.
Ants in your pants
may even slow the pen,
one never knows until
they themselves are faced
with the same
tasty critters dancing
a scratchy jig
in their own billowing pants.
I'd rather jump in the bay,
then sit on the dock,
if pants were afire
with dancing ants.
Did you question their motives,
these fiery ants,
and their reasons
for stopping the pen
in your hands?
I would question
why you did not
swat not once but twice
to avoid the dance...
were they stealing
your will to dance
with pen across the page...
or were you just ready to sit by the dock
and take in the view?

10-11-2005, 03:04 AM
We die a million deaths each day
The death of all those other ways
we could have taken

The death of dreams each moment we
discard the possibility
we could have made them

If we stopped breathing every time
Another aspect of us died
There'd be no breathing

All we can do to justify
this situation, make it right
is be a pheonix

10-11-2005, 03:08 AM
Ah yes, rise from the ashes
this is true
but so tiring
to rise from ash
into something so beautiful.
So trying to the wings
as they rise a burnt umbre
tired from their perilous injury
yet willing to lift us once again
into the azure skies.

10-11-2005, 03:20 AM
The trick of the pheonix
is that he didn't burn
He flew away while your eyes
were blinded by the fire
And back again while smoke
obscured your vision
leaving you searching for explanation
amongst the ashes.

10-11-2005, 03:21 AM
My explanation
would be
that he assembled
from the ashes,
able to perform the feat
without mirrors
thus causing even more awe
in my withered ashstrewn gape!

10-11-2005, 04:08 AM
Weep if you must
but I'm sure you'll trust
that reason is sound
for you to itch like a hound.
Ants in your pants
may even slow the pen,
one never knows until
they themselves are faced
with the same
tasty critters dancing
a scratchy jig
in their own billowing pants.
I'd rather jump in the bay,
then sit on the dock,
if pants were afire
with dancing ants.
Did you question their motives,
these fiery ants,
and their reasons
for stopping the pen
in your hands?
I would question
why you did not
swat not once but twice
to avoid the dance...
were they stealing
your will to dance
with pen across the page...
or were you just ready to sit by the dock
and take in the view?

I questioned the ants "Where have you been!
And why would you come stop my pen?"
They said in a jest
We thought it best
to go for your vest
So give it a rest
Or before long we'll come back again

They torched my dock by the bay
That's really why I can't stay
The ants built a pyre
And lit it on fire
And with flutes they sung this lay

"Your shirt caught on fire
and you've tripped on a wire
You're down to your socks
and you've slipped on the rocks
There's only one thing left to say
It doesn't seem like your day!"

10-12-2005, 09:19 PM
I am not dying,
Only caught between
two breaths.
The world here is quiet
my mad scattering ceased.
Exactly in the moment
feeling the world as it is.
Not as I wish it to be
or not be.
Creativity at its finest
flying wildly and sweet
sweeping me along
in its joy or fury
A sigh.
Time to return.

10-12-2005, 10:57 PM
I am not dying,
Only caught between
two breaths.
The world here is quiet
my mad scattering ceased.
Exactly in the moment
feeling the world as it is.
Not as I wish it to be
or not be.
Creativity at its finest
flying wildly and sweet
sweeping me along
in its joy or fury
A sigh.
Time to return.

I am not-
Living between two worlds
One scattered, not feeling
One sweet and wildly mad

Fury ceased being for a moment
Dying, but sighs and breath returns

Creativity is quiet, yet
joy is flying
and sweeping time along

I am dying to fly wildly
Sweep me along sweet joy
between two worlds,
living as I wish to be

10-13-2005, 07:01 PM
Living blind
Wildly feeling.
Ceased being
Death seen momentarily.
Time becomes
Joyous song
Of life.

Note: getting minimal with the same words.

10-13-2005, 08:42 PM
I've just realised
I am a pheonix
I've been burned
And risen again
Proud of my new coat
Of feathers
I've been burned again
And risen
Proud of my new coat of feathers
And unafraid of fire.

10-13-2005, 09:54 PM
Living blind
Wildly feeling.
Ceased being
Death seen momentarily.
Time becomes
Joyous song
Of life.

Note: getting minimal with the same words.

Joyous feeling of life
scattered sweet song
time becomes momentarily wild

10-13-2005, 09:57 PM
I've just realised
I am a pheonix
I've been burned
And risen again
Proud of my new coat
Of feathers
I've been burned again
And risen
Proud of my new coat of feathers
And unafraid of fire.

Ashes to dust
Dust to the ashes
burn all the feathers
and coat them with trashes
risen is fire,
unafraid of the phoenix
what rhymes with phoenix, must be a spleanix

10-22-2005, 06:18 PM
I've been gathering, gathering
in the woods woods woods
I've been seeking seeking seeking
as I should, as I should.

Bang Bang!
The rhythm calls it in, calls it in.
The rhythm pulls it in.

But if you hear my voice
If these words make sense to you
You would have no choice
no choice
Poets are as poets do
And you, you and only you (and you)
would know - Oh surely you would know
It's true.

Bang Bang!
The rhythm calls it in, calls it in.
The rhythm pulls it in.

Where are you all?

10-22-2005, 06:37 PM
The rhythm articulates
my very blood.
I am here,
in the flesh
and in the dream.
Skating on the ice
of your thinly veiled
Come hither
You shout,
Come to.
I surrender my rhthym
to your pleading call.
I only ask,
and partly as a distraction,
that not now,
or at any time,
would I care
to be beaten
with your
rhythm stick.
Come poets,
and meander...
think of thoughts
that trip and blot
on the blank onscored page.
Give the creator
your gaggled rhythm.
We are not here
to deny the words
you so badly desire.
We are here to melt
those words
into your very pores...
One scattered stanza
after the other.

10-22-2005, 07:04 PM
You've pulled me in,
I'll try to lend
a poetic hand
to online friend...
This game of chat
is new to me,
but I love to write
in poetry.
My favorite form
has rhythm and rhyme;
I use this form
'most all the time,
(though editors
turn up their nose
when receiving in the mail
such prose...)
Not all my poems
are quite this trite,
but for this post,
I'll keep it light.
Please wish me well,
I go this week
to a conference,
where I will seek
to find a home
for poetry book;
may editors there
entertain a look...

10-22-2005, 07:37 PM
I wish you luck
your poetic pages
may it find the home
it searches for
May it enter the slipstream
of spine glancing buyers
in great mega book stores
in every region
from lake geneva
to katmandu
may it soar above
the lacklustre multitudes
give bread to those
who need the muse
to carry them away
into a time of poetic dances
may it sing with the voice
of a thousand stary-eyed dancers
clap with the volume of crowds
anticipating greatness
at the opening of the plush
red curtain.
May it find that place,
where your dream
finally finds its needed fulfillment.

10-22-2005, 08:06 PM
Such an imagination you have, KTC ;-)
Your wishes mean the world to me;
May your muse be good to you
In all the writing that you do... http://bestsmileys.com/writer/2.gif

10-24-2005, 03:28 AM
How did I get here?
I remember this place
Friends laugh and jest
Compassion paints their face.

Forgotten for a decade
Maybe even more
It's mighty fine to see you
Go on - write some more.

10-25-2005, 04:41 AM
I'm always lurking, not that I linger
Why should I comment, lest with a zinger?
Sometimes a phantom, but hardly a stinger
I have no trigger, so I'll pull on my finger

Now that it's pulled,
out plops my poe-em
Dark as a raven
Least what I show-em

Missed you all bunches
but not all with kisses
some more with hugs
others wet-hisses

Don't be alarmed
I's only teasen
Hisses and disses
Are long out of season

So, with motions mixed
And mixed emotions
I pour out my greetings
Like waves of the oceans

Some push you out
and some pulls you in
But I wish you all well
"So how have you been?"

10-27-2005, 01:58 AM
Season my being
with some sweet words of poetry
So I remember.

10-27-2005, 02:22 AM
I don't have a poetic bone in my body
but then, what would a poetic bone be?
If words flesh out the poem then
is it invertebrate?
Or is it the structure, these bones?
If so,
This jelly-fish of a poem
swimming through your consciousness
(as through water)
might strike
and make no bones about it.

10-27-2005, 02:39 AM
The more we try, the more we fail
Poetry isn't about try
It's about allowing
The Being to flow
Through and around
Over, Under, Above
and from Below
The darkest hour
still holds the flowers of dawn
We just don't see them.
Yet, they are there
Waiting for us to discover
Sometimes we must wait
the still, small voice returns
in Heaven's good time
and not our own.

10-27-2005, 07:03 AM
poetry has never been
about trying, my dears-
for tell me,
who would ever try
to find a poem
in a skull,
lyrisicm in
smooth bones?
yet when I
hold the skull
in my two hands-
it's poetry
that springs to mind.

10-29-2005, 01:26 AM
Hold onto the bones
Eveningsdawn, the bones
Call out
To those who listen
Is it medicine that you seek
to learn in your macabre dance?
Will the skillful handling of the
bones of chance
leave you breathless at the end
Or is it merely a subject required
and an artful minuet
the bones leave dancing
on the pages of your
blue book?

10-29-2005, 01:42 AM
tiny and perfect
under leaves
wind sings
through empty sockets
birds hunt repast
between snowy teeth
smiling always
waiting to be dust

A doe comes
seeks to know
the fawn is still
last years baby
food chain
for the lion

I hear the song
see the mourning
know the poetry
of nature
the reason
the all

11-06-2005, 03:58 AM
I do the bump,
shuffle and grind
if I must.
Whatever it takes
to get motion
to the conversation.
I'll sit pale and unhinged
in the darkened corner
Awaiting the music
of the harvest moon...
something about slow dancing
hips swaying in tandem
to the tic tic tic
of the rythmic melody.
I'll usher her out
onto the sandy floor
sway while whispering lyrics
on this harvest moon.
Sunlight will want to enter the hall
too bad that night has fallen
that cold air lingers
at feet level
from the door held open
by the clumsily leaning chair.
I just thought I would bump,
sway with my own mind music...
but most importantly bump
this game to the top.
We must discuss
the discussion at hand.
Whether we choose to dance
or sway
join the fray in dissarray...
doesn't matter...
just type
just let the fingers muse you
enthuse you.
remember, while you type,
to punctuate your dance
With oscillation,
To flaunt the fact
you are not bound
by the constriction
of earthbound roots.

11-06-2005, 06:34 AM
We are embarked upon a journey, all of us: meandering and pausing, our directions unplanned but responsive, we call through the trees to eachother. However many of us get distracted, however many of us grow forgetful, there is always one of us able to remember the purpose of the journey - to summon the spirits.

I am soaring now
keyboard miraculously
within fingertips

I've been floating over dancefloors and listening to the tic tic tic of the rhythmic melody. I've been shown the poetry of nature and watched the doe watching. There has been the dance of bones.

The flowers of dawn
have survived the darkest hour
As they always do

My words oscillate
While my thoughts are spiralling,
But heart made steady

It must be fitting that there is no real end to this poem, just as there is no real end to life, and no real end to friendship.

Albedo of Zero
11-06-2005, 12:12 PM
Friends we are
and words are the link
for those who dream,
and those who think

in purple prose,
freestyle and meter
we take ideas
and make to greet her

or him,
whomever comes next,
we understand
-its in our text

we cry, we gasp, we even blink,
this idea couldn't be neater
thanks Alpha, with all due respect

11-06-2005, 01:34 PM
I've missed you
It's not the same
when the chair where
you sit is empty.
I wonder where you are
how you are
Are you busy
I wonder if you miss us
As much as we miss you.
Your return is call
for celebration
I wonder if you can hear
the music
smell the popcorn
hear the buzz
buzz, buzzing
of a million monitors
around the world
celebrating the return
of the heart
of a friend
of the page.

11-13-2005, 02:05 AM
the white is bright
and entices with a blankness,
a nude
waiting to be revealed;

the blush
of first words,
and climax
of the ecstasy
draws me to the page

thank you
for the indulgence
only friends
can spare

11-14-2005, 02:54 AM
Time to sing
to laugh
to play.
Time to love
the poetry
of friendship.
The give
the take
the forgiving.

For friendship
and poetry thereof
teaches us
to look
ever watching
to look
the light
in us all.

11-14-2005, 05:18 AM
my time to play
is short;
college looms
and I must
write for it now,
at least
for a little time.
And it's here
that I come
to find solace
and serenity.

11-21-2005, 08:18 AM
By Kdnxdr
Of Like Mind

thank you
for the inspiration,
the challenge
to create anew;
thank you
that you endure
the self indulgence,
and listen
to the cry;
hearts broken,
souls in cathartic
your empathetic
a port
for every storm.
universal gratitude
a sea of discontents,
beacons the lost
home again
and comforts those that morn.

By pb10220
Sometimes it's easier to write a


Best to write my thoughts out here

Shared words oft’ give rise to fear.

“Cryptic,” “morbid,” poems alarm;

Send me to the funny farm.

Here it’s safe to fall apart,

Witness crumble of the heart.

I can ride the downward slide,

Swim into the sea’s riptide.

None to panic or advise,

None to hear unspoken cries.

Words don’t soak a page with tears,

Don’t describe the worst of fears.

Deepest thoughts remain unfound,

Deepest secrets still are bound.

By Alphabet

last night I had a flash fever
and I came here to this forum
beginning deliriously feverish
ending deliriously happy
feverishly happy
I couldn't write but I could read
Though hard to breathe
So easily inspired
today the fever cleared
And maybe it was this medicine
That made it bearable
Maybe it was these friendships and this bond
These shared secrets and unafraid words
The love that keeps us returning
For poetry and for eachother
And isn't it also true that
The incohate scream
tapped into and given voice
Comes out like birdsong
Isn't this our aviary
And isn't this our poetry
Our shared song

By kdnxdr
blank, out of my head

white, stark nothingness
the ink of my pen

words and scribbles
across the page

the spew
of vowels and consonants
a gross
repulsive mess

poet fever
grips my soul;
the antecdote, I must
write the poem untold.

By P.H.Delarran

You drew me in,
or is it out?
for where I was
I was not
My verse is slow,
my marks askew,
so would I write,
if not for you?
my thoughts
chaotic visions
random emotions
and you stand there
with your crazy notions
about poetry.
A glimpse inside
you've drawn me out.

A. Hamilton
11-25-2005, 12:20 AM
Thanks Alphabet, for rescuing those.

11-25-2005, 05:08 AM
You're welcome but you really ought to know
By now that here only a verse will do
Or free form, sure but then and even so
Was little free or form in your thank you
Go back my friend, reword it, make it shine
So that here it may proudly claim its place
Amid the sonnets, free-flow verse and rhyme
Or banish it forthwith without a trace
Your 'thanks Alph-a-bet for rescuing those'
Unless being experimental form
Seems much as if it really were just prose
You must have noticed here that's not the norm

But more than thanks for rescuing your verse
I owe you thanks for sharing it with us.

11-25-2005, 08:42 PM
Dipping my toe in the poetry pool

Feeling like a fool

I don't even want to rhyme

But, joke of the muse, I find this time

It's just happening, it's out of my hands

And I beat the drum like some other bands

Stodgy, traditional, a Souza march

When my heart wants to sing the words of larks

Warm mysterious beats of wing and feather

That take flight in your mind forever

11-25-2005, 09:03 PM

Your poem is beautiful to behold,
But the next theme word we must be told.:)

11-25-2005, 09:10 PM

Your poem is beautiful to behold,
But the next theme word we must be told.:)

I don't have a clue.
I need more info
and I'd be glad to give a theme.
I was just shagging in on this fine
in verse a bit...
not like normal talking
not like normal poetry!!

11-25-2005, 09:21 PM
Kindest apologies, Prosperity Sue!
It appears to me the right one's you.
THIS poetry game is for chit-chat, it's true
So let's carry on without further ado!

11-25-2005, 09:35 PM
Oh, would that I had music for our talk
Someone to play the bongos
Or drums and cymbals
Bang and crash
To punctuate this verbal stuff.
I feel restricted by the line
Certainly tightened up by rhyme
And yet --
And yet, you know...
And yet (she paused thoughtfully)
Tis practice.
Airing out the stale words
Hanging them out in the sun and wind
Making space for the blue of skies
Fading into that vast distance
To the next star.

11-27-2005, 02:52 AM
When I were a young lass
(Yes a story is on the make)
Bongos meant beatniks
Those cool cats had it all.
Black clothes and talk in rhyme
Tiny goatees and girls in capris.
Coffee flowed and poets nodded.
They began what we are to follow
Poems may no longer rhyme
may indeed be just "I am."
Cooool man.

11-27-2005, 08:17 AM
a slam
and a jam
are my gigs
of choice
where the spoken
becomes the voice
of silence,
and jest,
where creativity
and poets
are best;
you can rap it
and tap it
and yell it out loud,
and chant
with your head in a cloud,
the metered counts
and the free
where this is going
only the poet

12-04-2005, 08:16 PM
I dig the slam, man,
two weeks,
that's my next gig,
featured poet
mike in hand
wailing my word wagon,
reading published
and unpublished works
I save one or two at the end
of the gig
where I hold up
nothing but white
a sheet so white
it humbles zen
and I read from it
wail on the mike
whatever sits
at the top of my cluttered mind
read from the white zen wall
in the back of my eyes
I think they like that the most
the words not written
splashing against them
like a molten wave.
I never know what will come out
but I know they stop
what they're doing,
lower their styrofoam cups
filled with steaming coffee
and look at me
with mouths agape
while I'm slamming down
my unwritten tracts.
I love doing that,
taking them by surprise
with my stark white sheet.
After the mike sits on the stool
on which I was too wired to sit.
they come up to me
they ask
how'd you do that!?
I say, it's all right there
my babies,
all right there.
And I hold out the white sheet
with nothing on it.
And I say,
Can't you see the words, man!?
Can't you see them.
Right there in black and white
my children...
black and white
and read all over!

12-05-2005, 12:09 AM
O O O O o o o o, man
I dig
dig it deep
down to the beginning.
it's the word
the word spoken
calls it all
calls it
calls to it
to the soul
it's the whole
of what is
to be
is not a question.
it is

12-05-2005, 03:46 PM
Let's not go there
this question of being and time
too much to bear
this place in time
this place and time
I was just saying
time to throw down some words
reach into the hollow
of a chicken neck
and pluck some neon words
into the atmosphere of libraries,
was not looking to put an end
to the question of time
ticking through a wobbly
poorly made glass bauble
it ticks, man,
I've seen it...
just let it tick
let it be
it'll get to where it's goin'
without you or I or the other guy
sayin', "Hey look! It really ticks!"
Spit out the words
while you still have the box
inside your narrow neck
and turn your back on clocks
as they melt languidly
into a high-brow red rose sunset.

12-06-2005, 03:32 AM
it's a ribbon
of slaughtered
on to planks of despair,
tippetytoed bankers
finding their way,
candles in the wind.
syntaxed synapsis
through the sorter box,
our euphoric dream
a sham,
bartered for better?
someday we'll awake.

I see.

12-07-2005, 06:04 AM
We will awaken,
become alert all at once,
the world inside.

12-07-2005, 07:10 AM
inside out
right side up
voices salute
the air,
eyes wide open
dream states
and I will hear,
masked maurader
ride a midnight
poetry speaks
for those
who have no

12-07-2005, 07:37 AM
Stuck in the throat of whales,
is the music of the night.
Siddhartha remains quiet,
filling the world with poetics.

12-07-2005, 08:10 AM
Sid and Martha
were awful
their music
whaled the night away,
the world is filled
with poets' throats
and I am one
who's stuck

12-07-2005, 08:17 AM
i'm wailing
i'm said whaling
when I meant
to say wailing
and now,
I'm sailing...............


12-07-2005, 08:20 AM
oops, not that one
sit and spin
tumble and grind
like bras in the washer
all in a bind
where's the fun
what happened to my words
lately they sound so
patently absurd
shuffled like a deck of cards
slapping them down
one hundred, two hundred....
Your deal.

12-07-2005, 08:21 AM
sleepy eyed
creepy eyed
in the morning,
black eyed.
"I'm" when "I"
should have been
"I" 'stead of "I'm"
bowing out now,
'cause it's beddy bye time.

12-07-2005, 05:57 PM

I’m going on a journey;

what shall I pack today?

The calendar’s turned pages

are sprinkled now with gray.

The day calls for decisions—

what will I leave behind?

A legacy of hope and love,

a word that’s true and kind?

A light to guide a faltering step,

some food for a hungry soul?

What of the other stuff of life—

some gold? a lump of coal?

I close and shelve my empty bags;

my next home’s furnished well.

I’ll leave it all behind…its worth

eternity will tell.

© 2005 by Patricia S. Baker

12-08-2005, 08:05 AM
Tis a solemn occasion
to be happy
a sober reflection
for joy
deep and abiding
the meaning
this wonderful time
of the year

12-08-2005, 10:41 PM
Negative to be sure.
Hating consumerism
Forgetting the birth.
When did it be
giving the mostest?
Being not right
if you fail
to be present?
My only answer
is to look at stars
feel the wind
Watch the animals
they know
it is Christmas and
a new beginning.

12-09-2005, 02:04 AM
There are no
new beginnings.
The wheel only turns
Beginning and end
are just chases
the tails
of one another
never ending
never beginning
just being
within the confines
of the Karmic wheel
over and over
it turns,
though it never
and it will never

12-09-2005, 03:01 AM
There are no
new beginnings.
The wheel only turns
Beginning and end
are just chases
the tails
of one another
never ending
never beginning
just being
within the confines
of the Karmic wheel
over and over
it turns,
though it never
and it will never

how very strange,
yes my first post in this thread,
was about these books i read
entitled the wheel of time,
though you just almost quoted the opening paragraph for each book (not in rhyme)
which is odd, since my only two posts here
are directly related to those books, my dears.

(man that was bad,
didnt know how to point it out,
without breaking the pattern)

pan lhat ras sad?

12-09-2005, 05:17 AM
Sorry for the accident
don't know the books
to which you refer.
Just kickin' off
from Paint's
of new beginnings.
What it is
is these
white mice
racing in a web
of creativity
across the world
like dew in a spider's web
we each are mice
skimmin' from the surface
collecting the words
afloat above our heads
sometimes they unjumble
in relative familiarity...
I ate the words
of continuity
and spit
and upwards
in an arch
reaching near the moon
and the words they fell
assorted themselves
on this white-like screen
in new, but old order.
What you recognized
was the thread
the capillary
linking mouse to mouse
in this little brick sh*thouse
we amusingly call Earth.
I will try not to skim
from the books
of which you speak.
My mind was reaching too far
into that silly Karmic wheel...
I should watch out
for those sharp little spokes!
they poke and poke,
those bad little spokes!

12-09-2005, 05:09 PM
it burns white
hot brains aflame
molten words
in red jello
cherries bob
where do i find
such as this
mine eye
wants to see the pretty

12-09-2005, 07:13 PM
your eyes.
for color.
the purple,then red, then green, then yellow.

All will visit
in the quiet
of your mind.

your eyes
the color
over earth
before you.

12-09-2005, 09:00 PM
bounced from the interior
absorb the day.
glass flecks
the rays
to compliment
the other

12-15-2005, 07:06 AM
the stream of this consciousness,
refracted, reflected
intent to communicate,
one alone
the silence now holds;
speak up,
the trail runs cold.

12-15-2005, 07:22 PM

To be radiant
or to see.
Is it the same?


To be gray
or to see,
not the same.

Or black and white photo
what to be today.

12-19-2005, 09:04 AM
a light let loose
to illuminate
the darkest corner,
a glow,
and serene
lites on the forbidden
the book of all ages;
and now released
I see, my liberty
the culimination
of all struggles
held in a word,
the word
that sets me free;
free to be
to live and die;
and now I try
to spend each day
with the word
to give all words
new light.

12-22-2005, 12:12 AM
a thread of light
burning bright
the brillance
of our minds,
the glow
a show
that we know
the other
is our friend,
eye to ear
and back again
in the round,
release the word
that sets the fires,
always feeds

A. Hamilton
12-24-2005, 01:18 AM
a crack was found
the darkness flees
i blink away my hesitation.
once reluctant ink
now spills
the page.

12-28-2005, 03:25 AM
spilling light
reluctant pen
now free;
brilliant the invite
cracked darkness
now flees;
it's my delight
to you answer,

12-28-2005, 11:13 PM
Hence a struggle ensues
desire to stay
within the light.
To be understood
and write
the verse

darkened corner
colorless dawn
isolation becons
eyes bleed tears.
Withdrawn to the shadow
no thread of light

12-30-2005, 08:48 PM
does the shadow
only know;
hold the key
to the community?
the poem
and speaks.
colored dawn
spills paint
on every corner,
the withdrawn
are not alone
and the eyes
forever see.
black, for all it's
is a color.

01-09-2006, 08:46 AM
conversation never spoken
seems forsaken;
silent words are the barbs,
daggers of sensation.

01-11-2006, 10:02 PM
I fight this!

Depressing words.

Somewhere I write
on paper napkins,
or in the snow.

Somewhere I put
my words of hope.

The poet lives
and breathes
and writes
even with daggers

brings all
to one.

The one who
doesn't understand

So we wait
for response.

01-11-2006, 10:23 PM
I live in Hell
the eighth year
of an eighteen year sentence
I'll be free in the year 2015
Until then
I wait

01-15-2006, 02:49 AM

is more than walls
than bars
or chains


to a job
to a relationship
or credit cards


is of the spirit
not the flesh
bound by rules.

01-15-2006, 07:00 AM
waiting in the wings
of a freedom I never
sailed, released myself
to a jailer's keep and now I weep
wait and weep
for wings that sail
to freedom

waiting in the belly
of a fish that smells
it's a ride to hell
and so I pray
for release someday

waiting, a lady
for her turn to walk the aisle
perhaps beguiled,
wait for a chance
and hope it's romance

waiting for a cry
that the babe didn't die,

02-24-2006, 01:26 AM
Waiting for the right time
to say 'I love you'
'I care'
'Where are you going?'

And still we wait
words unspoken, we watch
until the tiny speck
way off in the distance
cannot hear our hail

Did we wait too long
to say 'I love you'
'I care'
'Can I come with you?'

Do you believe in second chances
or are you content
with burning bridges
a quick flash in the night
tomorrow's road looks different
than today's.

In your second chance dreams
Will you tell them
'I love you'
'I care'
'I'll wait for you'

02-24-2006, 02:37 AM
In my second chance dreams I am a spotted pony throwing my head up into the wind smelling the trees
walking in the swishing golden grass that lays down when

In my second chance dreams I am a green beetle hoping for a chance to get in your window
crawling on a flat yellow leaf on fragile legs taking a drink of

Dreaming I never hurt you for a mad moment with a pretty stranger who winked and bought me
a white russian and told me I was

Really I did not ever know there were some things you did to those you loved
that cut so deep
you left me to learn that there are

08-06-2006, 10:32 PM
Another drink
just to get the ink flowing
Another drink
just to get the think flowing
Just one more

Look! The bottle's empty
I never was
very good at math.
But the ink is dry
and the think
well, the think
just walked

A. Hamilton
08-11-2006, 02:50 AM
your drinking
and thinking
would be tempered
not sempered
with an alternating dose
of H2O

the ink would not dry
nor the bottle
a nice mellow high
not throttled

A. Hamilton
08-30-2007, 12:14 PM
too late
the remedy failed
revival failed
where is the hope?
will someone slip in
-some sage of poetic wit-
and resuscitate?

09-16-2007, 10:53 AM
Come on people...

Wake it up
and shake it up!
Get on in and take it up

a notch or two.

Tear it up
and share it up!
Find the time and write us up

a line or two.

Hype it up
and type it up
then hit the switch and send it up

Pick a game that's right for you.

A. Hamilton
09-16-2007, 10:36 PM
a game I play
on listless days
is make believe
that you are me

what would you say
holding my pen
can you stop this way
and humor my yen?

09-17-2007, 04:10 AM
Leaves of season passed
Tempurature of outdoor life
Arc of sun in sky.
Year of life now gone
Fruit of this years vine
Tick of clock unstoped
Rise not again
Prize swiftly spent
Cries never heard
Away from me

A. Hamilton
09-17-2007, 04:34 AM
I refuse to fall
I cling relentlessly
to this silly thread
of hope

09-17-2007, 04:43 AM
like a pendelum
to and fro
I go
wondering which direction
when time
is oh, so slow

my watch
I wait to see
if you will talk
to me

casting furtive
looking for the chances
just to say a word

09-19-2007, 01:20 AM
I lurk
behind the curtains
between the threads
I listen
to the conversations
and the observations
of others
Too close to the bone
and someone may find
my secrets
so cunningly hidden right out
in plain sight they hide
I lurk
and listen
Are you speaking to me?

A. Hamilton
09-19-2007, 01:25 AM
you cannot
close your eyes
you cannot
cover your ears
our words
are meant for you
they're meat for you
they're stalking you
you cannot hide

09-19-2007, 04:19 AM
Those voices
in my head
they're taunting me
telling me,
yelling at me
too bad, too bad
Too bad
I don't speak Greek

09-24-2007, 06:19 AM
often times
a thought will hide
right behind
both my eyes

I hold it back
choke it down;
then give it slack
though it's not profound

a word finds a way
regardless of heed,
a public display
to plant a seed

in hopes of response,
a simple connect,
with a little confluence,
override the check.

09-30-2007, 05:51 PM
Checks and Balances
Double or Nothing
Truth or Consequences

Do we dare?

10-12-2007, 05:22 AM
Dare to remember
dare to divide
truth a sword
that lays aside
dark from light
a heart asunder
and shared
it's all a wonder
cut the word
find the part
that speaks your mind
and reveals your heart