New Poetry Thread

[mirinda]

It appears the Chronners need a new thread for poetry. Come on now don't be shy.

[Heretic]

Bottles fly in and out the void of doors

with lanes of bottles flying everywhere

but with billions of bottles

some small, some big

some original, some repetitive to annoyance

all sent from other worlds

only to reach another point

to have its message taken out and read

to be laughed, to be hated, to give deep thoughts

endless imaginations, thoughts beyond the most smartest of geniuses

and then, sent back to the void of letters in bottles, only to be sent to another door, to be read, to communicate, to debate.

My futile attempt to talk about the internet.

[Heretic]

An ancient tactic

used by both the toddler who set the rug on fire and the man behind the curtains of politics

to say one thing and mean another

to disconnect words from actions

and to make man lost

from the Garden of Eden to corporate scheming

the art of hiding the truth and filling it with a shell

is as common as the aliens in our bodies

except, they are aliens in our souls.

[mirinda]

Well you certainly convey what you mean in a unique way Heretic. My hat's off to you. My poetry consists mainly of pretty rhymes.

[Heretic]

Millions of lightning bolts hit the soft, perpetual land of hills and slopes

all of them hit the ground

passing from one end to another

but do not be afraid

these are good lightnings, mostly

ones that bring life and words are as good as the estimate of the stars

jagged, quiet spears that may or may not bring death

all inside a hollow world with white solid skies

billions of these worlds exist

sending out products of the storms hitting the land to other hollow worlds

sharing the yield, combining to make better

though, sometimes, light hits light and heat comes out

positive versuve negative

battling each other

people may say these may be harmless

but that must mean they never heard of Adolf.

[Heretic]

Whisperer of the the past, present, and future,

art comes in many waves

from the most fluent to aggressive and emotional

speaking with the cousins of sounds is one of them

I sing like flowers

random and varying

from the most wonderful rose to the useless weed

I change forms, depending on the wind of my life source.

That was a reply to your comment, Mirinda.

[Manarion]

Well, the ancient tactic was the better of all these......


And poetry doth not be thy only method of communication in this thread, critique and reply be pretty to the eyes as well.

[mirinda]

You do have a point. Perhaps I will put up another of my rhymes...as soon as I find a good one that is. Most of mine are up in the old thread.

The third one is very good. I like that last line.

[Heretic]

The third one was about our minds, making ideas and being imaginative, and sharing those with people, but also fighting because of different ideals.

I added Hitler because, well, you know, his memos that he wrote in, like, prison.

[j. d. worthington]

In the sere of the leaf,


We are reminded:

of opportunities lost
of loves betrayed
of innocence destroyed
of the pangs of guilt
of dreams forgotten
of hopes that withered
of tears now dry as dust of mummia, that serve only to preserve the past's pain

We are also reminded:

of the children of our love
of joy shared
of the laughter of our youth
of the warmth of the sun
of a world in ferment
of a better tomorrow
of the heart's beat as we found life and the living of it sweet

And in that memory, we realize:

the sere is only a bud not yet born

[Heretic]

I can tell that this talks about an elderly person sitting out their last days, remembering days both foolish and wonderful. Beautiful.

[Manarion]

A tale is told
In the frigid cold
Of evil inside all our souls

And those who use these powers so dark
Greed and corruption are their mark
They leave the Earth so barren and dead
In the name of riches to get ahead

Practitioners of unholy death
They drain from Light its very last breath
In the shadows of night where good cannot stand
They crush out hope with a fisted hand

Power and wealth are the kings of this land
Where no one in need gets a helping hand
Kindness and love have long since gone
In the end of glorious dawn

Youth in war are stricken and killed
Left in beds of dirt near Capitol Hill
Where the ones who remain are deaf to the cries
Of widows and ex-mothers who are treated like flies

But in my heart, I hope and pray
For the start of a brand new day
Where light and justice rule once more
And darkness is blocked by love’s powerful door

[mirinda]

Your poison infected me, you raped me with hate, the red lines on my back were not made by mistake. Life is so twisted by malice and fate. You ravage me daily you take and you take.
Death does not always seem so bad, compared to this it almost seems glad. But I’d rather survive you every day than to let you think you can win this way. You speak only lies through your forked tongue, for once I wish you’d just swallow that gun.
On the edge of sanity the brink of despair one false step and my strength will fail. You know this, you see it, you tempt me every day you laugh at my sorrows you smile and my pain.
By body aches with my hatred for you it clouds my judgment but what can I do? If only with one word you’d disappear then maybe my outlook would finally be clear.


Well there you are.

Karn you are much to hard on yourself I say. That was not bad at all. In fact I think it was VERY good.

Nostalgic JD.

[Heretic]

Ok, your in Oregon, so you're from the US of A, and you mention Capitol Hill. There is blood and darkness, and love and light...

For some reason, I know the meaning of this poem. Is this Anti war-ish?

[Heretic]

You guys are too dang dark and abusive! Do something less creepy. I can't sleep anymore now.