Poetry Thread: All RJ Poets :)

  • TannerMasseur

    Posts: 7893

    Nov 01, 2012 11:31 PM GMT
    To all the wordsmiths on RJ, post ur Top Ten favorite ditties & poems that u've written.....
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    Nov 02, 2012 1:45 AM GMT
    I'm going to love spilling my guts out onto this thread when the mood strikes me. Especially since I've got different kinds of inspiration from unconventional muses who've inspired me to write from a different direction altogether. Got to love the troll packs on this site. icon_wink.gif
  • TannerMasseur

    Posts: 7893

    Nov 02, 2012 1:51 AM GMT
    Feel free to inspire JR icon_smile.gif Gotta head to work so I'll post my ditties later..... icon_smile.gif
  • AMoonHawk

    Posts: 11406

    Nov 02, 2012 1:52 AM GMT
    They can take your money.
    They can take your land.

    They can take away your dignity.
    They can take away your dreams.

    They can blind your faith,
    Steal your love,
    And break your spirit

    But they can never take away your knowledge.

    And when they come,
    to take away your brain,
    your mind,
    and your thought,
    There it will always be.
    Deep in the recesses of your soul,
    known only to you and God,
    safe from sight and theft.
    Knowledge.
  • starboard5

    Posts: 969

    Nov 02, 2012 4:23 AM GMT
    To be sung with a country twang:

    I long to be a lawn ornament
    And live in your front yard,
    Ever since you let my heart's been broke
    And life ain't nothin but hard;
    If I were a plaster gnome,
    I'd make your doorstep my home;
    I long to be a lawn ornament,
    Just to live in your front yard.
    (I love ya, Darlin)
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    Nov 02, 2012 4:40 AM GMT
    Because centering and italicizing make prose into poetry!

    ---

    I called him Third, but He called him Second. In the end it only mattered what He called him. Third had been around ever since He and Her were in my life. Third was sweet, and his Raffaello Sanzio nose came only second to his glacier-brilliant eyes. He took to Third quickly, quicker and further than He ever took to me. I would have resented Third, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to, anyway.

    The three of us were walking one day, Third, He and I. We were blinded by the gray skies and the excitement of the day. The glass tipped over and that is when the day became pure liquid. We slid down the hill, marvelously, down that slope as if we were riding hot, molten silver. We laughed those big laughs. You know the ones. We laughed those laughs when we posed in pretension of being tough. We were confused, or rather they were. I was pure lucidity, albeit in denial. We rode back up. We struggled. We laughed and kept an intention not to pass out (just yet). The silver was cold, albeit just as fluid. We crashed on the emerald lawn, and said to them “wait, just wait!” unavoidably mixing in a snorted laugh while I prepared to amuse them. I told the Nome King “HE didn’t steal any of the emeralds, they were there when HE became King!” Third and He were laughing hard, but they weren’t looking at me. They were looking at each other. The silver hardened immediately, forming jagged metal spikes all up and down the curving street hugging that brilliant green lawn. The sheen of the gray skies dulled, and although it did not become silent, the wind became pedestrian, ordinary. It became indifferent. I became indifferent. He became indifferent. Third continued to remain warm and kind, neither of us could blame him.
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    Nov 02, 2012 4:49 AM GMT


    "It was a plainly seasonal shop, the cashier friendly and young, making an obvious effort to appear interested. He could sense she really wasn’t.

    This was too familiar and a patient and stoic expression came over him out of long habit because Frank was not handsome. In fact, he considered himself as others did, very plain.
    “Even,” he thought, cruelly, to himself, “ugly.” The cashier, her prettiness counterpoint to his stolid presence, blushed. Probably, he realized, because he wore a look that said he well suspected what she thought about his appearance. It was his customary defense, a kind of martyrdom. She played with the ribbon in her hair nervously.

    Silence began to stretch. She cast about for distraction. He supplied one for her.

    “That ribbon you’re wearing,” he said, pointing a thick and torn fingernail at her head, “in your hair.” he finished, lamely.
    “Oh, this one?” she replied; there was only the one. He raised his brows, and she turned her head away from him. “I have it braided in.” she said, stroking the thick plait of auburn.

    The ribbon was in reds and greens, a delicate repetitive pattern that appealed to him. It wound in and out down the length of her braid. She had his attention and took advantage; a sale was in progress. She gushed, telling about the different styles of ribbons they carried. She asked questions about the person it was for. A sister? A mother? A lady friend? This last made him blush, and her smile with a knowing look he thought comical.

    “I think” she said, completely wrong, “that you know her well, to pick out such a personal gift. And” she continued, pointing to a display case, “we have unusual and beautiful ribbons from around the world. She might like something rare and original; I know I would.” She smiled a dazzling, practiced smile at him. Obedient, he stepped over to the case and looked in.

    They lay in a uniform row, ribbons of every type and thickness. Silk, satin, velvet and other fabrics he couldn’t name were stitched, jeweled or embossed. Their colours fought for his attention. Only one held his eye. It ran in molten gleams and had patterns that looked like words but made him think of pictures instead."

    -A Ribbon Of Beauty
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    Nov 02, 2012 4:54 AM GMT
    I stood altogether close to the door, that one that led to the sculpture garden. That door that squeaked so distinctly you could hear it from your studio. It was a natural progression of sounds, those you would hear from your studio. First you hear that door, and it was a matter of six seconds or so before you heard that key card, swiping on the door lock. And then that click, immediately followed by the door opening. And then there he was. This was the progression I came to expect. But I was just standing in the hallway, just beyond the door to the outside. Outside was covered in a blithe of yellow, the faint outlines of the sculpture shed barely visible beyond the ochre sheath that the world was suddenly bathed in. It wasn’t so much sunlight as it was a cover of memory loss. I don’t know why, but the taste of the color of outside reminded me of October, when I was seven years old. I walked a few steps, standing in front of the door that led to the studios. I didn’t have a key. I turned around and walked the opposite way. I didn’t get far, as I had seen the opposite end completely inundated in black, as did the long hallway perpendicular to it. It must have been a Sunday, then. He must be around. I paced quickly to the double glass doors and went outside, into the yellow. Dusty sandstorms of yellow pigment swirled wildly around. I covered my eyes in futility, as yellow got onto every inch of me, including my eyes. I made my way to the window sill, the one which mysteriously remained perpetually unlocked.


    You know what I miss? You drive to USD on a Sunday afternoon, it’s winter, but the chill barely breaks 60. There’s parking on that curb, and you walk across that lawn, hoping it’s not wet (but it is, and you walk it anyway). You walk into the sculpture yard, past Dan’s metal thing, and that shade of toxic ooze green always catches your eye (always). You can’t wait to hear it, but first you pass Joe’s car (not his truck, that cute small one with the sarape in the back). You can’t wait to hear it. You hear it: That obnoxious door. That door, that squeak, that wail. Why does that door make that sound? It does, and you love it, and the only thing better is that clicking sound the door to the studios makes when you swipe your card. And it almost makes you forget that it’s winter and that’s why it’s 110 degrees inside. Almost. But it’s too damn hot, and silent. And then there is that feeling, that first feeling you always get when you first step into the studios on a Sunday afternoon, that mixture of sanctuary and sorrow. Maybe it’s the sound of the ventilation system and that mousy metallic squeak above. I never did figure out what that feeling was, that perfect feeling of being alone and that feeling of being a little too perfectly alone. You walk out, and at the far side the office door is covered in dark blithe (It’s Sunday). And you notice those neon green exit signs. You wonder why that long hallway is also in complete darkness. You usually ignore it, but every other Sunday you walk down that dark hallway, slowly. You walk all the way to the other end, past the empty display cases, which you’ve always thought looked fetching just like that, empty and proudly illuminated. Out of nowhere that silence bites you again. That silence you came looking for and you found, and then could not figure out what to do with. Maybe you have a beer with it, and hope that silence will change into something else. But he’s always the same. And you know that. And maybe you secretly always hope it stays that way, even if it doesn’t make you happy. You get something done, or you don’t. Who can concentrate with all this damn silence? You walk out, that obnoxious door makes a sound so rich you’d almost think you took a hit off something. You walk out, and it feels cold, because it was so ridiculously hot inside. The sun is gone, and you pass John Halaka’s van on your way from the sculpture yard. And you feel sad, just as you hit the lawn (but it goes away once you get in your car, for some reason). That’s what I miss.
  • AMoonHawk

    Posts: 11406

    Nov 02, 2012 4:59 AM GMT
    In these precious few fleeting moments of life,
    We grasp, and claw, and cling,
    To hold on to what?

    Misery, sorrow, pain,
    the game, the chase, the hope of tomorrow?

    Oh blessed are you lucky few,
    Who have found the love and joy to survive.

    Alas, I am not one of you,
    Nor can I ever be.

    This world was meant for another kind,
    But not for me.

    I shall not grasp,
    I shall not claw,
    I shall not cling,
    To life's last fleeting moments.

    With open arms and a song in heart,
    I shall leave this life behind,
    For a better world,
    Where there is truth in spirit and strength in heart.

    Where I no longer need endure the hate of man,
    The beguilement, taunts and jeers,
    The humiliation, snideness and sarcasm,
    The waste of my precious life for another's Earthly joy.

    And day by day I do endure,
    Yet another day,
    For in the end I shall be free,
    Where all of Heaven's glory has been set aside for me.
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    Nov 02, 2012 4:59 AM GMT

    Before I read any more Ario, (and by the way that's like eating chocolate cake - I love chocolate cake)

    "a blithe of yellow"

    !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! How the hell did you know? I have some synethaesia, and that's just what it's like. icon_eek.gif


    -Doug
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    Nov 02, 2012 5:02 AM GMT
    meninlove said
    Before I read any more Ario, (and by the way that's like eating chocolate cake - I love chocolate cake)

    "a blithe of yellow"

    !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! How the hell did you know? I have some synethaesia, and that's just what it's like. icon_eek.gif


    -Doug


    mmmmm......caek =DDDD

    Color is an infection in me. It pretty much floods my every sense.
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    Nov 02, 2012 5:03 AM GMT
    Ariodante said
    meninlove said
    Before I read any more Ario, (and by the way that's like eating chocolate cake - I love chocolate cake)

    "a blithe of yellow"

    !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! How the hell did you know? I have some synethaesia, and that's just what it's like. icon_eek.gif


    -Doug


    mmmmm......caek =DDDD

    Color is an infection in me. It pretty much floods my every sense.


    images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQj879rjJCNNcYdKDHfLQO
  • RaggedyMan

    Posts: 7185

    Nov 02, 2012 5:08 AM GMT
    Didn't they always say we were the lucky ones? I guess that we were once Babe, we were once But luck will leave you cause It is a faithless friendAnd in the end when life has got you down You've got someone here that you can wrap your arms aroundSo hold on to me tight Hold on to me tonightWe are stronger here togetherThan we could ever be alone So hold on to me Don't you ever let me go There's a thousand ways for things to fall apartBut it's no one's faultNo it's not my fault Maybe all the plans we made would not work out But I have no doubt even though it's hard to seeI've got faith in us and I believe in you and me So hold on to me tightHold on, I promise it'll be alright Cause it's you and me togetherAnd baby all we've got is time So hold on to me, hold on to me tonightThere's so many dreams that we have given upTake a look at all we've gotAnd with this kind of loveWhat we've got here is enough So hold on to me tightHold on, I promise it'll be alright Cause we are stronger here togetherThen we could ever be aloneJust hold on to me Don't you ever let me go Hold on to me, it's gonna be alright Hold on to me tonight They always say we were the lucky ones
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    Nov 02, 2012 5:09 AM GMT
    You would have seen me. I’d spend the hours sitting quietly on the long wooden benches in the upper corridors of that building. I would pretend to be busy, if only fidgeting with pockets of that gray pea coat I used to wear, back then. I had noticed those stairs, yes, but never really wondered where they descended. I just knew they went somewhere I didn’t belong. Once I pretended to read a large book, without noticing the sun had set, just to ignore talking to someone. He noticed, and asked me if I could read in the dark. I said no, and neither of us paid any attention to the contradictions. He left, and I, relieved, lay back on that stone bench out in the cold autumn air of night. I can’t really remember what it was my mind did all those years I’d simply sit idle in front of the world. I spent my summer of fourteen sleeping through the days and quietly observing the nights. I waited for cactus flowers to open, as they did so in the very early dawn.
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    Nov 02, 2012 5:10 AM GMT


    "They took an outside table, its proximity to the street of people a daring of sorts. Overhead, a canopy of blue and white stripes was lit by rows of tiny lights. Black wrought iron rails completed and framed their table on two sides.
    They relaxed into the chairs, observing the crowds, for possibly the first time in their lives, with an amused detachment rather than a feeling of imminent threat.
    They sat in the comfort of each others’ presence, unaware of their sudden ability to do this at all, feeling the vigor of the emancipated. Frank’s hand stole around the small table until it found Janice. He held her hand and spoke to her that way, in lieu of words. Janice responded with a few squeezes of her own. The fact of this communication was the most telling of all. It super-ceded any embarrassment of public display. They were occult, magical as telepaths.

    Coffee arrived. Janice insisted and paid, her fussing annoying the waiter, who would rather have rounded up a larger bill over the course of half an hour. They sipped coffee and drank each other in under halogen stars.

    “Frank,” Janice’s voice was different, smoother and somehow with a quiet depth, missing before, or not as evident. “I brought this, silly me, but it has some good memories already, so it’s graduated to lucky charm-dom.”
    Her eyes smiled at him.
    Her hand came up with the ribbon.
    It spilled between her fingers, imbued with a sense of expectancy Frank found a little unnerving. His hand took it from hers and right in the open before passing groups of people, she turned her head and presented him with her hair, an unbound river of brown down her back. He paused and his hands, on their own, took over. Amazed, he watched himself as he braided her hair and wound the ribbon into it, as deft as could be. His fingers found lengths of hair; he twisted, wove and tucked. The ribbon went in and out in mesmerizing little waves. He tied it with a flat bow, the ribbon’s ends arching out and slightly down, their shining patterns reflecting back the lights overhead.
    Janice turned back, her lips parted. She had felt an intoxication through every follicle in her head. Frank’s hands had been the kindest of invaders, their caressing touch gentle and organized as she’d felt him braid her hair. Frank’s smile at her smile lent intriguing angles to his face.
    Janice watched her hand come up and stroke those angles, her touch finding a dimple’s cleft in his cheek and laugh lines near his mouth. His skin was a duality against her palm, coarse from beard shadow and smooth where it wasn’t present. So familiar, it was her male reflection, after all, though different, enticing, for all its sameness."

    -A Ribbon Of Beauty,
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    Nov 02, 2012 5:17 AM GMT
    AMoonHawk saidIn these precious few fleeting moments of life,
    We grasp, and claw, and cling,
    To hold on to what?

    Misery, sorrow, pain,
    the game, the chase, the hope of tomorrow?

    Oh blessed are you lucky few,
    Who have found the love and joy to survive.

    Alas, I am not one of you,
    Nor can I ever be.

    This world was meant for another kind,
    But not for me.

    I shall not grasp,
    I shall not claw,
    I shall not cling,
    To life's last fleeting moments.

    With open arms and a song in heart,
    I shall leave this life behind,
    For a better world,
    Where there is truth in spirit and strength in heart.

    Where I no longer need endure the hate of man,
    The beguilement, taunts and jeers,
    The humiliation, snideness and sarcasm,
    The waste of my precious life for another's Earthly joy.

    And day by day I do endure,
    Yet another day,
    For in the end I shall be free,
    Where all of Heaven's glory has been set aside for me.


    *enjoying this, and remembering times I felt this way*
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    Nov 02, 2012 5:21 AM GMT
    I guess I should point all all of these are completely autobiographical.

    - - -

    The sort of, bubbled snap of a twisted ankle. Daniel opened the door for me, but He was the only one who could carry my weight through (He and only He and never Daniel). I hobbled through the common room of our student studios, still with drunk smirk and shuttered eyes. I threw myself on the filthy couch thrown between our two spaces. I couldn't speak really. But I could think. Even beneath the pathetic inebriation I could think. I could think of him, and only him. He took off my boots as I heard Daniel somewhere off in the distance of that cement expanse. He took my boots off and laid them next to each other close to me. He walked off for a while to his studio, as I felt my feet cooling slowly beneath the studio vents. And then he threw a blanket on me (how does an art student produce such a marvel?). And then darkness. I felt that blanket, his blanket, slowly and gently with my hands there in the black. And I thought of him, and only him. Beneath the metallic cricket of our student studio vents. Him and only him. Drowned in cabernet poison, quarter and sixteenth notes of tangerine and fragrant elm. Him and only him. In that shaded night I limped over to the studio sink and sucked water from its faucet. I'd woken up with a mouth of chalk, alone in that strange home and non-home. Thirst. Emptiness. Alcohol.

    The morning gave the palest light into that space, somewhere off near Tatiana's studio, the only privileged room with a window in our basement. I sat up and wrapped his blanket around me, imagining him as he walked on the wet lawns of the University back to his student apartments. The heartburn of wine washed over me in acidic waves, frothing with guilt and a dull remorse. I'd poisoned myself yet again so he could take care of me. Care for me and walk off silently. In the snowed meadows of my imagination he climbed vertical steps to live in the atmosphere, somewhere cold and silent where I could look up at the sky and imagine him thinking of me. Was he thinking of me? The studios were abandoned. Saturday morning was blindingly bright out, a sheen and warmth so violent it made my shadowy form recoil. I folded his green blanket and put it in his studio.

    I drove home.
  • AMoonHawk

    Posts: 11406

    Nov 02, 2012 5:26 AM GMT
    meninlove said

    *enjoying this, and remembering times I felt this way*

    Thanks ... mid 90's ... kind of a darker period
  • Kriss

    Posts: 690

    Nov 02, 2012 5:38 AM GMT
    Cities gone and the days from yesterday.
    Swept away in the rivers and tides of the world,

    Perhaps I am lost; but I had a chance too at least say hey.
    Simple and sweet life a moist strawberry cake.

    Silly of me to make so many mistakes,
    so I watched it all vanish, and dissipate.

    Now back at square one and in the dark.
    Memorize and practice with all my might.

    Can't seem to find the light,
    but never closing my eyes.


    That one came out wierd but it was on the fly with minimal edits ._. icon_redface.gif
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    Nov 02, 2012 5:52 AM GMT
    poetry is cool
    but i really suck at it
    so i write haikus icon_smile.gif



  • thatirishbast...

    Posts: 3523

    Nov 02, 2012 5:57 AM GMT
    Real Jock: A Haiku

    It is past midnight.
    Why am I still on Real Jock?
    Go to bed, fucker!
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    Nov 02, 2012 9:00 AM GMT
    I struggle daily with nights of broken mind.
    Contending the premise of a strategic decline.
    New faces in new places but I am stuck in time.
    A broken riddle by life's design.
    The memories of us a beautiful grime.

    A steady tremble my beating heart's footsteps quake.
    The death of us keeps me awake.
    You played me well my biggest mistake.
    Battered, shattered, alone I am here.
    Surrounded by nothing blanketed in fear.

    _ _ _

    I used to think the world was a beautiful place,
    but I can't seem to escape your face.

    Time distorted love to hate.
    The life you gave you took away.

    The stench of regret holds the air heavy.
    I want to let go, but no, I'm not ready.

    Dust refuses to settle and my time has come.
    I desperately want to undo what you have done.
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    Nov 02, 2012 9:05 AM GMT
    Solo

    She was alone with no one to love
    Inevitable solitude, she could not break free of
    No one to turn to
    No one to think of
    Now the last of what she had, she had to get rid of

    He could not see the ethical one
    Existence with the felonious, his life became none
    To lose the twinkle
    For love to be done
    It was no more, he was the last one

    She set the hour for her own demise
    He let the mist of the darkness rise
    Solace has come
    Fate belies
    Paradise crumbles, as evil broke the skies
  • Fable

    Posts: 3866

    Nov 02, 2012 12:37 PM GMT
    The Colour Red

    630 – 740nm, I used to believe you
    brought me sanguine heat,
    warmed my bones, tanned my flesh,
    made me flush angrily, oxygenated
    haemoglobin rising to my cheeks.
    Created passion and spurned it -
    The Scarlet Letter.
    Even tormented poor Lady Macbeth…
    Red-handed…
    Caught innocently stealing love-hearts
    from the corner-shop, slightly
    unaware it was wrong.
    Adorned with achiote paste,
    she turns from child to woman,
    governing “that time of the month.”
    Far East, tiny, bound steps and a drop of you
    in an ocean of white, indispensable in
    the mask of Memoirs.
    STOP
    But,
    Now you creep,
    ominously enveloping, chewing Sunflower Seeds to paste,
    unRemembering
    grateful not, for your shining nest of steel,
    a veritable international accolade.
    Unlike Sujata Bhatt, your tongue
    is not a natural blossoming of remembrance.
    It is a grating of oppression:
    he “shall pay a price.”

    copyright protected, bitches!

    If you get what it's about props to you. If not, you're stupid. Wrote it ages ago for college (2 years methinks)
  • TannerMasseur

    Posts: 7893

    Nov 02, 2012 7:52 PM GMT
    To fable: Adultery....