First poem you posted in this Forum

pacifier

oh, and then I made it positive, because I have a tendency of starting to write something negative and then adding hope to it by the time I had finished. At least I used to all the time, now I don't know if I do so much.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Ms. Haiku wrote:

Take my other suggestion, and post your favorite one.

Okay.


You want One-Nil again?

Okay:


One-Nil

The evening went well, Jim thinks. They paid
him cash, always a boon for poetry
read live. A vital crowd. No, not the staid
old tweedy lot you'd mainly get. The try-
out of those newer pieces live was ... nice
road testing, nice ... A girl sat at the front.
She mouthed out her number to him twice:
Should have spoken to her. Hmm, you don't
Pass these chances up. That's what's at stake
in this: a lonesome gravestone. Shame the night
ended when it did, a little late to make
The Swimmers for last orders. It's the blight
of this old life: that words should be the curse
to keep one from good loving and the throng
of life out there. To write to make a purse
dries up the throat and falsifies the song.

Jim thanks the organisers, then shakes hands
and quits the 'net cafe. Coats and shoes
flap past him. Cold air breath streams past in bands
that smell of burger vans. Loud, banshee throes
begin to agonise his frosted ears:
Some lads, whose song "One- nil, one-nil, one- nil",
provokes in him an echo of the good old years
when no-one read his work. "I'd party 'til
I couldn't stand or talk, but never bore
and never spout out poetry. I'd swear,
love, curse, fall down, get up for more.
Then words came in the morning with my fear.
How dare these lovers mouth to me and rude
young louts shout out the score as if to chide
me, left to walk these streets alone? Plain, crude
words will mock my solitary pride."

He slaps his forehead. "Thinking like an ass
again, old James?" Moonlight on his boots
makes a moment's poem. It will pass
when he looks before him and he roots
through faces passing for that prettiness
he saw tonight. And there she is, just by,
behind another cafe window, her dress
offpink, seamed with one red butterfly
sequined, a flash of memories
of Jean, his first wife. Pah. A young man sits,
just opposite. "Don't listen to his lies!"
He mutters on the glass. The kid takes hits
deep from his coffee cup and starts to mouth
some monolgue. The girl's eyes narrow now.
"Oh no. A would-be poet. Stupid youth!
Girl! Run from his sham, his flash, his show,

His verbless scrawl without a period,
those metaphors he mixes,those broad
fat brushstrokes drawn to make a blob of god
inside his world view splodge. Run from that toad
and find a carpenter, a fisherman,
a coalman or a beggar, but don't fall
for someone with a notebook and a wan,
world-weary look and wish to offload all
that poetry on you. Get out of there,
live, start breathing, love, try not to care
about the Beat!" A pigeon raised its cere
to look up at him. "Tell me, does he scare
you, little birdy? Does your instinct say
That kid's a poet, summoning chill rain
over his lover's life? You'd run away,
dear bird! If only humans had your brain."

Jim heads through midnight crowds, and breathing in
he feels the river breeze upon his face
and reaches bridge still silence. There within
cool waters down below, there's the embrace
of lovers from high stars where no word
hinders kissings. Jim looks to the still
unrippling river belly where the cord
to good dream-motherlore remains. Until
the river ends, the heart of poetry
is nameless, moonknown, whiteblack; here
he knows in shadows where the song lies. "Try
not to make a sound", he thinks. "Not where
the light on water's all. I'll live from now
watching midnight water for the glow
of starlain lovers on the stream. And free
from words, I'll laugh, and dance, and learn to Be."

__________

catefrances

according to the search engine this is my first one here. 14 dec 2005.

i don't know where
you want to go
or where it is
you've been
the only thing that i do know
is you're never here with me
i sit and wait
and bide my time
i'm always all alone
the noise i hear
inside my head
is me forcing out the lies
and empty promises
you never keep
that are trapped
within my mind.

DopeBeastie

i remember so many of these y'all have posted again... nice

---

May, 2003

Suppose Heaven was void
A Black Swirling antimass
of synapses loose
and not even bouncing
For space is too great
and too wide
and too roomy to encounter God
Would we,
our thought-processed soul,
Embrace it as whole?
Would sometimes we scream
for our flesh-bound gravity?
Singing, "Hey It's Good to be Back Home Again"
While tears sting our
waterless eyes?
Or suppose it's the promise
beat against the Rock of Ages?
Thumped upon the Good Book's
pages and filled with segregated,
wild-eyed Christians?

I hope my entry is more like
the digital helicopter pulse
of multiple orgasm
my eyes ripped open,
sucking up the universe
with my soul's spongy iris.

And then, in the calm,
being told every tear
I never cried
saved someone's life.
~lifeisworth, may 03


i've been writing on the pj boards for a long long time. i lost most everything.

EvilToasterElf

A Walk Outside

In waking dreams the swirls convene,
to discuss epic tales of wandering chipmunks.
Clouds roll by not asking why,
the tax cuts aren't helping to make a longer lasting gum.

From atop their perch the sparrows lurched,
in the way of a neon antelope.
God resolved to take time off,
as man prepared for Joe Millionaire.

The band played on,
to a cheering throng of drunken plastic cups.
And alarm clocks wailed from shadowed vales,
as waterfalls composed Homeric prose.

Around the bend a frog defends,
his ancestral home from legless giraffes.
Wasps descend from now and then,
but are beaten back by the wisdom of the lampshades.

Boiled lobsters fly helicopters,
over fields of growing taxis,
over a river of moles that’s bridged with holes,
the toasters glide playfully by.
Where they pass by a herd of one-eyed interns,
who see their reflections shooting bread and bagels.

Elected fools with stoic drool,
rain dollar clouds over nickel earth.
While laughter escapes from a pebble called fate,
and comets hurl toward another rebirth.

But on it’s way the road is paved,
with layer upon layer of socks unpaired.
And naked feet fall back and retreat,
from the storm of burping sweatshop urchins.

So the stars are sucked in
to the shape of a grin
And physics no longer applied
life shows us a smile every once and a while
If you’d all take a walk outside.

catefrances

FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:

Okay.


You want One-Nil again?

Okay:


One-Nil

The evening went well, Jim thinks. They paid
him cash, always a boon for poetry
read live. A vital crowd. No, not the staid
old tweedy lot you'd mainly get. The try-
out of those newer pieces live was ... nice
road testing, nice ... A girl sat at the front.
She mouthed out her number to him twice:
Should have spoken to her. Hmm, you don't
Pass these chances up. That's what's at stake
in this: a lonesome gravestone. Shame the night
ended when it did, a little late to make
The Swimmers for last orders. It's the blight
of this old life: that words should be the curse
to keep one from good loving and the throng
of life out there. To write to make a purse
dries up the throat and falsifies the song.

Jim thanks the organisers, then shakes hands
and quits the 'net cafe. Coats and shoes
flap past him. Cold air breath streams past in bands
that smell of burger vans. Loud, banshee throes
begin to agonise his frosted ears:
Some lads, whose song "One- nil, one-nil, one- nil",
provokes in him an echo of the good old years
when no-one read his work. "I'd party 'til
I couldn't stand or talk, but never bore
and never spout out poetry. I'd swear,
love, curse, fall down, get up for more.
Then words came in the morning with my fear.
How dare these lovers mouth to me and rude
young louts shout out the score as if to chide
me, left to walk these streets alone? Plain, crude
words will mock my solitary pride."

He slaps his forehead. "Thinking like an ass
again, old James?" Moonlight on his boots
makes a moment's poem. It will pass
when he looks before him and he roots
through faces passing for that prettiness
he saw tonight. And there she is, just by,
behind another cafe window, her dress
offpink, seamed with one red butterfly
sequined, a flash of memories
of Jean, his first wife. Pah. A young man sits,
just opposite. "Don't listen to his lies!"
He mutters on the glass. The kid takes hits
deep from his coffee cup and starts to mouth
some monolgue. The girl's eyes narrow now.
"Oh no. A would-be poet. Stupid youth!
Girl! Run from his sham, his flash, his show,

His verbless scrawl without a period,
those metaphors he mixes,those broad
fat brushstrokes drawn to make a blob of god
inside his world view splodge. Run from that toad
and find a carpenter, a fisherman,
a coalman or a beggar, but don't fall
for someone with a notebook and a wan,
world-weary look and wish to offload all
that poetry on you. Get out of there,
live, start breathing, love, try not to care
about the Beat!" A pigeon raised its cere
to look up at him. "Tell me, does he scare
you, little birdy? Does your instinct say
That kid's a poet, summoning chill rain
over his lover's life? You'd run away,
dear bird! If only humans had your brain."

Jim heads through midnight crowds, and breathing in
he feels the river breeze upon his face
and reaches bridge still silence. There within
cool waters down below, there's the embrace
of lovers from high stars where no word
hinders kissings. Jim looks to the still
unrippling river belly where the cord
to good dream-motherlore remains. Until
the river ends, the heart of poetry
is nameless, moonknown, whiteblack; here
he knows in shadows where the song lies. "Try
not to make a sound", he thinks. "Not where
the light on water's all. I'll live from now
watching midnight water for the glow
of starlain lovers on the stream. And free
from words, I'll laugh, and dance, and learn to Be."

__________

i like this one very much.

olderman

Thanks ETE

my first poem, from about 3 yrs ago or at least 2 1/2, was horrible. i challenge y'all to find that simplistic begging for nookie....

here is one of my favorites, a sonnet dedicated to Jimi, my favorite rock artist of all time, no exceptions.

first posted 05/18/04

jimi and the blues -

In a vision full music I did see
Jimi stretching strings, psychedelic blues,
Silk shadows, dance reflections of blue sea,
Colorful coral reefs of many hues,
The which would have been hidden if not for
Jimi's intense sonic whispers and screams,
His mermaid swimming on the ocean floor,
Castles on the beach, wash waves foam - the streams

In high mountains where his red house did stand,
Run clear, cool like rapids create vortex,
Waterfalls like crashing cymbals accent
The music in this vision of his band,
The circus mind, the textures will now flex
As I waken from the scene truly spent.

DopeBeastie

oh, hell yeah, olderman... i missed that one... it's beautiful!

reeferchief

"Joe"

A westway to the world of freedom
you sang the songs, I started to believe in
a beat pounds, like my heart, I'm breathing
starting to achieve what my mind is dreaming..

I wish you had stayed
your words had such meaning
I wish you had stayed
hadn't gone and left me bleeding

London called and you screamed out
your words of warning, stark world dawning
a tommy gun with his heart in his mind
pouring it out with every song and..

I wish you had stayed
your words had such meaning
I wish you had stayed
hadn't gone and left me bleeding

The day I heard, I cried out loud
I felt so down, now you wern't around
played out your music proud
a white riot made it's sound

I wish you had stayed
your words had such meaning
I wish you had stayed
hadn't gone and left me bleeding

Not been posting my stuff for long here, this was the first one I posted a month maybe 2 months ago, and was an ode to Joe Strummer.
Working on some chords to go with it as we speak.

Ms. Haiku

This may be one of my favorite ones I wrote.

Inspired by Pearl Jam's "Alone"

---

On the stairs between first and second floors
she stops a breath between past and future.
She resumes after the pause consciously
thinking of this evening's dinner menu.

Within a prepared guest room she removes
his items from a labeled container.
She burns the contents and places remains
in a tray next to cigarette lighters.

Smoke in her eyes causes isolated tears.
Tired, she covers her face with her hands.
She revisits years of wrestled regrets
as stray grey hair brushes her next gold ring.

Pictures circa 1963 burn
with an official note of condolence.

olderman

Ms. Haiku wrote:

This may be one of my favorite ones I wrote.

Inspired by Pearl Jam's "Alone"

---

On the stairs between first and second floors
she stops a breath between past and future.
She resumes after the pause consciously
thinking of this evening's dinner menu.

Within a prepared guest room she removes
his items from a labeled container.
She burns the contents and places remains
in a tray next to cigarette lighters.

Smoke in her eyes causes isolated tears.
Tired, she covers her face with her hands.
She revisits years of wrestled regrets
as stray grey hair brushes her next gold ring.

Pictures circa 1963 burn
with an official note of condolence.

that's beautiful maria.. the imagery is so very real.

likepilateihaveadog

Here's mine...no one ever replied to it...during my Bukwoski phase...glad that's over.


"2:57 AM poem"
In the vein of Bukowski



well, I've rolled another cigarette
and drunk beyond remorse
time to sit on the back balcony
and think about the snow
falling down
like me
on yet another weekend
failure to step up
and say,
"hey, do you want to?"

God,
it's been so long
and so many nights
I've listened to the voice I need to hear
but never my own
and the screams that lie within

time to smoke that cig
time to rip that butt

the cancer that will eat away
the promise you hold now

for what?

shit

time to go out back and figure it out
before it's too late

or is it?

there's still time...

yeah, right.