"Hey Junior, I've made these wings, resistant to the sun",
Cried Dedalus, who ran in rings, with all his hard work done.
"Hey Junior! Come try these on; I'll make you a propeller!",
The artificer bellowed: an enthusiastic fella.
"Ahh man, who wants those wings to fly? Get with the moment, dude!
You get up in those things and die, their structure's way too crude,
And you'll be flapping, dead, locked in the harness of the wind,
When you could be space-zapping, without gadgets of that kind."
Dedalus knelt down upon the ground, his head in hand.
"Oh, so's the way I've found, that you will never understand,
Your wingless claims to king the air can never come to pass
Because you don't go anywhere; you sit upon your arse."
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots "Hey Junior, I've made these wings, resistant to the sun",
Cried Dedalus, who ran in rings, with all his hard work done.
"Hey Junior! Come try these on; I'll make you a propeller!",
The artificer bellowed: an enthusiastic fella.
"Ahh man, who wants those wings to fly? Get with the moment, dude!
You get up in those things and die, their structure's way too crude,
And you'll be flapping, dead, locked in the harness of the wind,
When you could be space-zapping, without gadgets of that kind."
Dedalus knelt down upon the ground, his head in hand.
"Oh, so's the way I've found, that you will never understand,
Your wingless claims to king the air can never come to pass
Because you don't go anywhere; you sit upon your arse."
thats brilliant FPC.
amasing writting..love poems inpisred of mytholohy!
love chasing the sun
~~dont mind yer make up, just make up yer mind~~
~~its better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not~~
the point is
is that we do what we can
what suits us
each
personally
that we seek to fly
in the vehicle of our own choosing
and deal with whatever turbulence we might make along the way
and learn
and change
if we're uncomfortable
and if not
then why would we?
Originally posted by PastaNazi the point is
is that we do what we can
what suits us
each
personally
that we seek to fly
in the vehicle of our own choosing
and deal with whatever turbulence we might make along the way
and learn
and change
if we're uncomfortable
and if not
then why would we?
Indeed. My poem's about a person who thinks they can fly without trying to get up off their chair.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots "I weave better than a god, you know" ,
you laughed to your confider;
Who answered "I'm a goddess". Now
you're turned into a spider.
Love's counterpoints deny that entropy,
cranked punk electric frazzles filled with angst
That spat the overture of youth to me.
It's time to move on now and live amongst
The sounds of lovers' choral evensong
Where grown and wiser passions sound in throng.
Let the word resound like brakeless wheels
on an old pavement, passing the open window
of an old haunt you return to,
after a decade away.
Let the word resound like recorded cheers
on a record of performers you want to move you,
just once again.
Let the word resound like the telephone voice
of an old lover from teenage dance hall days,
no longer as eerily familiar
as the pulse of blood in your listening ear,
beating the rhythm
of a heart that would dance,
would dance.
The son of doting parents, guncut through
upon a nameless stretch of tarmacked yard;
A body hanging from a chestnut bough,
for taking silver coins as blood reward:
Reprisals for two wrongs that are not known;
Two pointlessnesses, when viewed on their own.
reminds me of Hopkins....shatters into loveliness....don't remember which peom.....you might know.....
Love's counterpoints deny that entropy,
cranked punk electric frazzles filled with angst
That spat the overture of youth to me.
It's time to move on now and live amongst
The sounds of lovers' choral evensong
Where grown and wiser passions sound in throng
this is great....but I'm a sucker for iambic metre
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
Have you sent a warm greeting
to the green East Anglia for me?
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Have you sent a warm greeting
to the green East Anglia for me?
I shall greet the voles in Hobson's Brook,
all scrunchy-nosing reeds, heads out from burrows.
I shall salute the starling and the rook,
on my allotment's broad potato furrows.
I shall halloo the colleges and spires
and sing when Hill's Road Churchbells sound in chime.
I shall greet warmly smells of rustic fires
Blowing in the wind this havest time.
I shall shout your name for you, and hear
its echoes on the fenlands far and near.
would it be ok with you, if I´d post it in my thread as well?
thank you for this lovely poem
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
So, this was the reason she'd learned how to drive, after all?
To pick him up drunk from O' Kelly's at four in the morning
In case he got found in a ditch by the road, from a fall,
after walking the bog road himself and not heeding the warning
he'd had far too much to be crawling five miles in the dark
over the mountain pass? Arra, those girls of her age -
Bride smiled as she drove past some graves - they all saw through this lark
and went off to Boston, to earn for themselves a good wage
while leaving this place to the ghosts. The good men went too,
Like Phelim and Matty, two brothers from Crinnish, and Joe
Who married out there to a Waterford girl. But she'd do,
herself, with old Pissyleg Hughie from Ballinasloe,
they'd told her... Bride steered without headlights, across the pub yard,
Then saw him there, retching. She thought of a clutch put down, hard.
Her easel's placed at forty five degrees to the window, and it's lit by a desklight that sends golden concentric circles out across the canvas she's matted with jutting, curling slabs of green. She gazes at gold on green and tries to capture that trick of light with a spread of oils converged and changing into another colour again under the lightbulb's constant trickery. But then a bird shadow streaks the picture; she looks up out through her window and down onto the pavement below.
She sees him! There he is, below, in that freshly ironed pink shirt and blue jeans, and dark blue sneakers like her own, yes, just like her own she's wearing now! She giggles. He lopes out of the cul de sac opposite, the top of his head bald and his frame a little portly; not like in the famous photographs of him; holding out his hand and swaying a little to avoid an overgrown roadside conifer, pushing the green from his face and frowning under a dazzling sun. She gasps, wringing her hands a little, standing at the window, jumping like a child at the dazzling sight of an ice cream van tinkling in her neighbourhood on a summer weekend, and looking at her watch. Ten to five! Right on time! Always right on time!
But he never looks up at the window. She crouches down to the carpet suddenly, eyes always fixed through the window, not wanting to lose sight of her beloved; she grips the feet of her easel and turns it almost to face parallel to the pane. Yes, he was an artist too, before seclusion; he will look! He will see! He will notice! It will come, the moment will come! All the way from Johannesburg, to be here, opposite his! He will notice. He will see the canvas, he will knock on the door, he will ask for her, and he will come! She will be his return!
You are Wiley's yellow bird, transcended
through a rainbow after diamond rain;
You are suncloud brilliances; winded
shimmerings of love in stem and vein
of leaves, on suncoin golden treasure trees
upon the greeny common ground; you are
river signet ripples in the breeze,
a gentle heartbeat guiding seas from far.
You are bluebell morning; you are why
My word becomes a light that shall not die.
I see the three of us between the trees
deep in the old school wood, aged five, I'd say:
Simon, with old scabs on both his knees
and cuts, always from falling; Peter's grey
roller neck half-covering his chin.
We had one plastic barrel each, at play:
we'd lay them flat and then, we'd each get in
and kick them forward, then we'd roll away
down, down the leafy ground, we echo-roaring
in our noisy, spinning tubes. A crash into
a dead elm set some men, there busy sawing,
to shout, "Come on, clear off, the three of you."
Simon rode his moped into town
one Monday night, with not much on the road.
Seventeen. He took the lamp-post down,
Killed his mother's light. I see his broad
face now, popping out of his red barrel,
giggling, he a baby, just like Peter.
I saw Peter at the funeral,
Death grey, dead already. One night Peter
made good a promise on the third attempt,
successful. Why tonight, they come to mind
I just don't know. I guess I'm not exempt
from brokenheartedness, come of this kind.
I see the three of us between the trees
deep in the old school wood, aged five, I'd say:
Simon, with old scabs on both his knees
and cuts, always from falling; Peter's grey
roller neck half-covering his chin.
We had one plastic barrel each, at play:
we'd lay them flat and then, we'd each get in
and kick them forward, then we'd roll away
down, down the leafy ground, we echo-roaring
in our noisy, spinning tubes. A crash into
a dead elm set some men, there busy sawing,
to shout, "Come on, clear off, the three of you."
Simon rode his moped into town
one Monday night, with not much on the road.
Seventeen. He took the lamp-post down,
Killed his mother's light. I see his broad
face now, popping out of his red barrel,
giggling, he a baby, just like Peter.
I saw Peter at the funeral,
Death grey, dead already. One night Peter
made good a promise on the third attempt,
successful. Why tonight, they come to mind
I just don't know. I guess I'm not exempt
from brokenheartedness, come of this kind.
Wow I really like this Fins! Brings back memories for me. The innocence of childhood, and before we know it, its all taken away.
I have lost a few childhood friends and its not an easy thing to go through. Thank you for this poem, it really hits my heart!
If being sane is thinking there's something wrong with being different....I'd rather be completely fucking mental.
(Angelina Jolie)
A seven in the evening transience
greets Mill Lane; sunny gable panes and bright
white rendered housebricks shine like brand new pence,
Coining future memories of light
nights of gentle headings into town
of sleeveless, laughing groups of twos and threes,
who stop inside The Anchor first to down
a pint, and then head riverward, the breeze
following their route toward the full,
lapping Millpond water. There, broad punts
rock their hollow knocking in the pull
of ripples guided under gushing shunts
of boat poles pushing forward. Coin this grace
forever in my memory of place.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots A seven in the evening transience
greets Mill Lane; sunny gable panes and bright
white rendered housebricks shine like brand new pence,
Coining future memories of light
nights of gentle headings into town
of sleeveless, laughing groups of twos and threes,
who stop inside The Anchor first to down
a pint, and then head riverward, the breeze
following their route toward the full,
lapping Millpond water. There, broad punts
rock their hollow knocking in the pull
of ripples guided under gushing shunts
of boat poles pushing forward. Coin this grace
forever in my memory of place.
That's a scene I can picture. Thanks for a short escape.
Liberal Douchebags that Blame Bush for Everything are Useless Pieces of Trash. I Shit on You.
Comments
preys upon a drenched head,
white, beaten, bowing
eyeless to the grass.
The black Dover sky beats down
babefed cormorants,
bloodmouthing thunder
flashes, over blind Gloucester
praying to bad gods.
The old man drops down
the imagined cliff fall,
cloudbirds screaming spoil;
Waking to flat land,
into tragedy's comfort,
sunny meadowed.
and taste the gem of glycerin.
I feel your body rising, warm:
I move within.
I sense the rise of breath that moves
each skying wave azureward now
beyond the oldest joys and loves:
O deepest flow!
Cried Dedalus, who ran in rings, with all his hard work done.
"Hey Junior! Come try these on; I'll make you a propeller!",
The artificer bellowed: an enthusiastic fella.
"Ahh man, who wants those wings to fly? Get with the moment, dude!
You get up in those things and die, their structure's way too crude,
And you'll be flapping, dead, locked in the harness of the wind,
When you could be space-zapping, without gadgets of that kind."
Dedalus knelt down upon the ground, his head in hand.
"Oh, so's the way I've found, that you will never understand,
Your wingless claims to king the air can never come to pass
Because you don't go anywhere; you sit upon your arse."
thats brilliant FPC.
amasing writting..love poems inpisred of mytholohy!
love chasing the sun
~~its better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not~~
F.ZAPPA
His father bode him not to trust
The structure of a wing in wax
nor his own adolescent lust.
And still, he donned this fabrication
come to trust as he did fly
toward an ever-bright horizon
toward the stars beyond the sky.
Every Maiden fan does know
the edging of this story’s haze
Icarus’ wings turned to ashes
The lack of which to him his grave
What’s often left but yet unmentioned
Daedelus’ instruction biding
“Icarus, don’t fly too low, Son
lest ye be washed up in the tiding.”
And so the fabled fables blow
all the smoke up all the asses
quite cliched and unamazing
FLIGHT is oft slow like Molasses.
“Slow down, you move too fast, You got to make the morning last, just, skipping down the cobble stones… doo-n-de-doo and Feeling Groovy”
No, I'm not an Iron Maiden fan.
is that we do what we can
what suits us
each
personally
that we seek to fly
in the vehicle of our own choosing
and deal with whatever turbulence we might make along the way
and learn
and change
if we're uncomfortable
and if not
then why would we?
Indeed. My poem's about a person who thinks they can fly without trying to get up off their chair.
Better kingless on his ass
than kissing the ground
in a pool of melted wax.
:-)
Dat cass.
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
you laughed to your confider;
Who answered "I'm a goddess". Now
you're turned into a spider.
phhhtttt.
That's the sound of the spider getting caught under the spindle again.
cranked punk electric frazzles filled with angst
That spat the overture of youth to me.
It's time to move on now and live amongst
The sounds of lovers' choral evensong
Where grown and wiser passions sound in throng.
on an old pavement, passing the open window
of an old haunt you return to,
after a decade away.
Let the word resound like recorded cheers
on a record of performers you want to move you,
just once again.
Let the word resound like the telephone voice
of an old lover from teenage dance hall days,
no longer as eerily familiar
as the pulse of blood in your listening ear,
beating the rhythm
of a heart that would dance,
would dance.
Let the word resound.
Let it cease.
upon a nameless stretch of tarmacked yard;
A body hanging from a chestnut bough,
for taking silver coins as blood reward:
Reprisals for two wrongs that are not known;
Two pointlessnesses, when viewed on their own.
Shatters into loveliness,
colours unwanted.
this is great....but I'm a sucker for iambic metre
Have you sent a warm greeting
to the green East Anglia for me?
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
I shall greet the voles in Hobson's Brook,
all scrunchy-nosing reeds, heads out from burrows.
I shall salute the starling and the rook,
on my allotment's broad potato furrows.
I shall halloo the colleges and spires
and sing when Hill's Road Churchbells sound in chime.
I shall greet warmly smells of rustic fires
Blowing in the wind this havest time.
I shall shout your name for you, and hear
its echoes on the fenlands far and near.
would it be ok with you, if I´d post it in my thread as well?
thank you for this lovely poem
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
To pick him up drunk from O' Kelly's at four in the morning
In case he got found in a ditch by the road, from a fall,
after walking the bog road himself and not heeding the warning
he'd had far too much to be crawling five miles in the dark
over the mountain pass? Arra, those girls of her age -
Bride smiled as she drove past some graves - they all saw through this lark
and went off to Boston, to earn for themselves a good wage
while leaving this place to the ghosts. The good men went too,
Like Phelim and Matty, two brothers from Crinnish, and Joe
Who married out there to a Waterford girl. But she'd do,
herself, with old Pissyleg Hughie from Ballinasloe,
they'd told her... Bride steered without headlights, across the pub yard,
Then saw him there, retching. She thought of a clutch put down, hard.
She sees him! There he is, below, in that freshly ironed pink shirt and blue jeans, and dark blue sneakers like her own, yes, just like her own she's wearing now! She giggles. He lopes out of the cul de sac opposite, the top of his head bald and his frame a little portly; not like in the famous photographs of him; holding out his hand and swaying a little to avoid an overgrown roadside conifer, pushing the green from his face and frowning under a dazzling sun. She gasps, wringing her hands a little, standing at the window, jumping like a child at the dazzling sight of an ice cream van tinkling in her neighbourhood on a summer weekend, and looking at her watch. Ten to five! Right on time! Always right on time!
But he never looks up at the window. She crouches down to the carpet suddenly, eyes always fixed through the window, not wanting to lose sight of her beloved; she grips the feet of her easel and turns it almost to face parallel to the pane. Yes, he was an artist too, before seclusion; he will look! He will see! He will notice! It will come, the moment will come! All the way from Johannesburg, to be here, opposite his! He will notice. He will see the canvas, he will knock on the door, he will ask for her, and he will come! She will be his return!
through a rainbow after diamond rain;
You are suncloud brilliances; winded
shimmerings of love in stem and vein
of leaves, on suncoin golden treasure trees
upon the greeny common ground; you are
river signet ripples in the breeze,
a gentle heartbeat guiding seas from far.
You are bluebell morning; you are why
My word becomes a light that shall not die.
deep in the old school wood, aged five, I'd say:
Simon, with old scabs on both his knees
and cuts, always from falling; Peter's grey
roller neck half-covering his chin.
We had one plastic barrel each, at play:
we'd lay them flat and then, we'd each get in
and kick them forward, then we'd roll away
down, down the leafy ground, we echo-roaring
in our noisy, spinning tubes. A crash into
a dead elm set some men, there busy sawing,
to shout, "Come on, clear off, the three of you."
Simon rode his moped into town
one Monday night, with not much on the road.
Seventeen. He took the lamp-post down,
Killed his mother's light. I see his broad
face now, popping out of his red barrel,
giggling, he a baby, just like Peter.
I saw Peter at the funeral,
Death grey, dead already. One night Peter
made good a promise on the third attempt,
successful. Why tonight, they come to mind
I just don't know. I guess I'm not exempt
from brokenheartedness, come of this kind.
deep in the old school wood, aged five, I'd say:
Simon, with old scabs on both his knees
and cuts, always from falling; Peter's grey
roller neck half-covering his chin.
We had one plastic barrel each, at play:
we'd lay them flat and then, we'd each get in
and kick them forward, then we'd roll away
down, down the leafy ground, we echo-roaring
in our noisy, spinning tubes. A crash into
a dead elm set some men, there busy sawing,
to shout, "Come on, clear off, the three of you."
Simon rode his moped into town
one Monday night, with not much on the road.
Seventeen. He took the lamp-post down,
Killed his mother's light. I see his broad
face now, popping out of his red barrel,
giggling, he a baby, just like Peter.
I saw Peter at the funeral,
Death grey, dead already. One night Peter
made good a promise on the third attempt,
successful. Why tonight, they come to mind
I just don't know. I guess I'm not exempt
from brokenheartedness, come of this kind.
Wow I really like this Fins! Brings back memories for me. The innocence of childhood, and before we know it, its all taken away.
I have lost a few childhood friends and its not an easy thing to go through. Thank you for this poem, it really hits my heart!
(Angelina Jolie)
greets Mill Lane; sunny gable panes and bright
white rendered housebricks shine like brand new pence,
Coining future memories of light
nights of gentle headings into town
of sleeveless, laughing groups of twos and threes,
who stop inside The Anchor first to down
a pint, and then head riverward, the breeze
following their route toward the full,
lapping Millpond water. There, broad punts
rock their hollow knocking in the pull
of ripples guided under gushing shunts
of boat poles pushing forward. Coin this grace
forever in my memory of place.
That's a scene I can picture. Thanks for a short escape.
Thank you. I'm pleased you liked that one. It was a beautiful summer's evening in the centre of Cambridge today and I really wanted to write about it.