# Do any of you write poetry?



## Gaer (Mar 25, 2020)

Come on, Jerryold and Gary O', and anyone else who writes poetry.  Would you please post it here?  This is a perfect time to write poetry!  We would all love to read it!


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## Pepper (Mar 25, 2020)

Roses are red
Violets are blue
If I were rich
I'd get outta Kalamazoo


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## charry (Mar 25, 2020)




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## Pepper (Mar 25, 2020)

I wrote this when I was 10:
A Bright Day
A bright day
What a nice day for this time of year
The sun is shining, the sparrows chirping
And I feel like shedding not a tear
But soon the wintry wind
Will howl in a wintry way
Then I'll think back and remember the sun
And then I'll be happy and gay


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## Gaer (Mar 25, 2020)

Pepper:  Pretty good for a 10 year old!  You must still write poetry!  Let's hear it!


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## Pepper (Mar 25, 2020)

Gaer said:


> Pepper:  Pretty good for a 10 year old!  You must still write poetry!  Let's hear it!


Actually, I don't.  I make up songs, but forget them.


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## moviequeen1 (Mar 25, 2020)

I wrote this poem in '73 when I was in my early 20's
As I sit watching it
through half- dusted panes,it feels warm against my soul
wishing to grasp it with my own hands,moving in and out,playing a game
from clouds that want to cover it
telling us here on earth that day is nearly done
until I see a golden fireball sinking lower and lower
until the sky makes a blanket of red and orange lining
day is done once more until the next time
hopefully to  touch the sun


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## Wren (Mar 25, 2020)

The Birthday Party

Candles on the cake burn bright
A 60th birthday, her special night

Friends and loved ones all around
Sing 'Happy Birthday' a joyous sound

Her mind drifts back across the years,
Of heartbreak, loneliness and tears

Where were you when I was home alone ?
No knock on the door no ring of the phone...

Times I would've loved to share
A walk a joke, but no one was there

The party over,  "goodnight" they say
"we'll phone, we'll meet for coffee one day"

Empty words, uttered often before
Mean nothing at all to her any more.....


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## Gaer (Mar 25, 2020)

Movie Queen 1 and Wren:  Wow!  Those are WONDERFUL!  Thank you for posting those!  Do some more!
I'm trying to coax JERRYOLD to share some of his INCREDIBLE poetry!  I guess he needs a little more coaxing!


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## Gaer (Mar 25, 2020)

Here is one I wrote last night.  It's prose, I guess.  rhymes, you know.

Do men still breathe the wild air?

Do men exist not bridle bound?
who stand lone in morn's rise?
Men not meant to soft dispose
by yarded fence or women's cries?

What men assert this rebel stance?
Who fiery fights mundane?
revels boldly with abash
and strides in worldly reign

Who's hearty laugh , unbridled taunt
who's bond of word stands just?
who can't be shackled in restraint
for freedom is his lust.

Me who gouge the paths they walk
who's bearing merges large
He bends to none, he can't be girthed,
who greets his fate with charge?

Do men still breathe the wild air?


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## ronaldj (Mar 25, 2020)

April

Looking out my window,
snow is slowly drifting down,
Covering up the bleakness,
that permeates the ground…

Trees gray and leafless,
appearing lifeless- at their worst,
Yet if you stop and listen,
you can almost feel spring about to burst…
Flitting birds chirp all abuzz,
soft breeze swirl, snow in the air,
That carries a damp chill,
Have faith winter is turning fair…
Don’t let this flurry fool ya,
spring is just around the bend,
The buds and flowers will spring forth,
as the calendar reads April once again.
Ronald J. Curell
March 2013


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## Gaer (Mar 25, 2020)

Ronaldj:  wonderful!  Have you published any of your poetry?  Ifnot, you should!


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## Gary O' (Mar 25, 2020)

Gaer said:


> Do men still breathe the wild air?


Interesting

very interesting


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## Gaer (Mar 25, 2020)

Gary O' said:


> Interesting
> 
> very interesting


I know.  What I wrote you was the beginning of this, but I changed it.    Are you going to add some of your poetry?


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## AnnieA (Mar 25, 2020)

Mourning Glories

Southern lawns
Manicured
Meticulous
Monotonous
I see
bright blossoms and magnolia trees
swathed in carpets of flawless green.
But one lone Morning Glory
blooms
where weeds and asphalt and drainpipe meet.
Beauty outside bounds of pristine green.

Southern lives
Manicured
Meticulous
Monotonous
I see
sculptured smiles and soft syllables
swimming in hymns of pious praise.
Manicured faith.

Oh, God
Open my heart.
Grace me to be one of your Mourning Glories
blooming
where hurt and sorrow and loneliness meet.
Beauty outside bounds of pristine green.

published 1991

Story behind this.  Saw the morning glory blooming as described while out walking shortly before I left a rigid Calvinist denomination to worship in an inner city, diverse, love-filled church with a lot of other hurting people.  Decided I'd erred on the side of legalistic theological 'law' and made a conscious decision to 'err' on the side of love.   Ashamed to say I have to dig deep sometimes to get back to the wonderful lessons I learned there, but they are still in my heart.


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## Gaer (Mar 25, 2020)

Annie:  Beautiful!


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## jerry old (Mar 25, 2020)

*Creases in time*

This ancient wife of mine
old and lumpy, beneath the sheets
stirs in the moonlight
cooing.


She coos again, fluttering a shenny eye.
Jerking, she falls back into the present
Pushing against my ample belly, her coos turn
into gentle sighs.

She’s been a decade without coos,
What could she be remembering?
me, another before my time?
old women and their sighs


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## jerry old (Mar 25, 2020)

I'm much better at dissecting poems than writing them.
the rules of poesy are twisted, disturbing the emotive content of a poem.
My sweetheart, Miss Emily had no choice, 'I must write, it is not an urge, it drives into my brain'
-give her poetry  a look-see, she talks to your brain.


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## Gary O' (Mar 25, 2020)

Gaer said:


> Are you going to add some of your poetry?


Well, I've got just the one, and I've posted it too many times, but, since this is the poetry thread...... looks like I'll be posting it again;

(a little story goes with it)

*I’ll Never Forget My First Friend





*

I was three.
He was a few months.
Neither of us had much to play with….but each other.
We never lacked.
He’d look up at me with complete unwavering trust.
Trying to read my face.
Ears perked up when I spoke.
Wherever I went, he followed.
He rapidly grew, and soon we were face high to each other.
We’d roam the patch of woods up the hill from our place, him guarding my every step, sometimes blocking my way when I got too close to the cliff edge. I didn’t know it at the time.
I’d take my naps nestled into his chest.
He’d lie there, never moving a muscle.

As I grew to boyhood, he remained a part of me, my shadow.
We’d wrestle….he’d let me win.

We’d hunt.

We’d fish.

Not that he took part.
He was no hunting dog.
Just my companion.
We’d share lunch.
He’d listen to my every word, as we sat on the creek bank.

Years passed.
I got very busy, but not so busy that we wouldn’t still roam the woods every so often, even though he had a bit of a time keeping up.

The day came when he just didn’t get up.
I was sixteen.
Mom told me to take him in to the vet.
‘He’ll be able to fix him up.’

I gathered him up and laid him in the passenger’s seat of the pickup, right beside me, and we had one of our conversations while I drove the twenty miles.
It had been awhile.
Too long actually.


I sat on the stool beside the exam table, while the vet did his thing.
Once again my best friend and I were face high to each other.
The vet was talking with my mom.
He handed me the phone.
It was time.
He had to be put to sleep.

OK, I brought him in to get fixed up, and now he’s going to be put down….just like that.



I was told I had to leave the room.

Like hell.

The vet did…..something. I don’t recall.

I held my best friend’s face with both hands.


His ears perked up as we had what would be our last conversation, telling him the reality.
Then I just cradled his head, holding it to my chest, not moving a muscle until, feeling his last breath against my heart, he went to sleep.

Even though the wipers were going, I had a hard time seeing through the rain drops on the way back home.


……..I’ll never forget my first friend


and the poem (a quite simple one);


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## Gary O' (Mar 25, 2020)

Gary O' said:


> Well, I've got just the one



Wait, I recall another one;

(I tend to put my stuff in poster form)








aaaand one with no rhyme.....just a bit of heart felt reason;


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## Gaer (Mar 25, 2020)

I guess this is my day to fill my eyes with tears.  Gary o" and Jerryold;  You did it!  You both responded to my call; and both so incredibly talented!  I can't talk, can't write.  Don't know what to say.  except, you guys made this the best thread EVER!  Please keep 'em comin'!

Thank you.


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## Gary O' (Mar 25, 2020)

Wren said:


> The Birthday Party


I can't do a 'wow' and heart and sad face at the same time....but that's quite poignant for many an ol' soul

indeed


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## Gaer (Mar 25, 2020)

All my poetry is on loose scraps of paper,thrown in boxes with art sketches, but I found a couple.  Don'tknow if they are any good.

Live gently.
Be tickled at the whisperings
softly flowing from your soul.
Brush the subtle delicateness
so deep within your
tenderest dreams.
Can you feel the quiet
purr of peace
that charms you with the
glow of love
and drifts you into esctasy?
Amongst the flush of lovely silence
blows the breath
of all existence.

I'll wait on the other one.


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## Gary O' (Mar 25, 2020)

Gaer said:


> Don'tknow if they are any good.


Oh, it's good alright 

I can't creatively go there, so I just do the simple
'simple'...as in simpleton 
I do appreciate what true poets come up with, but don't generally seek it
Mainly because I don't have a poetic bone in my body

I'll be in the woods


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## Gaer (Mar 25, 2020)

Don't show me that. ( teehee! ) I used to collect paintings of Mountain men.  (James Bama?)


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## Gaer (Mar 25, 2020)

O.K. What the heck.  Here's another one.

Come love,
Sit with me.
Look in my eyes and
tell me things
you dared not say.

Are you afraid
that tomorrow
when the other you
is frowning in the Sun;

I'll remember
gentle touches,
tender kisses
and words
sweeter than music?

Are you afraid
I've come too close
and won't step back?
that I might snicker
when you are
trying
to be stern?


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## Gary O' (Mar 25, 2020)

Gaer said:


> I used to collect paintings of Mountain men. (James Bama?)


Don't know
I've filched so much off the web, I no longer know where it came from


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## MarciKS (Mar 25, 2020)

I do. I have 2 published ones I just posted today in my Diary post. I have a binder full of them but, I can't find it at the moment and I don't have the energy to go dig for it. I scribble out stuff here and there and have little loose sheets around the house. The only time I really write is when I'm going through something. Helps me cope.


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## moviequeen1 (Mar 26, 2020)

I was in college in '73,taking an English course with wonderful teacher who encouraged us to try writing  poetry,this is another one I wrote
The room with assorted bars twisting in and out
lights move across me who is there what does it want?
The walls seem to cave in on the block it wants something but why?
alone with nothing or no one to talk to except myself
cold chill up and down my spine,heavy noises and breathing
outside the door but do I dare walk out?
The screaming and the footstep coming closer each second
banging of chains,a door slams its come to get me
where am I going?
keep talking to myself its ok,what is this force
the door creeps slightly ajar dark figure moves toward me
What does it want its coming closer now
I feel something on my back,I fight it its too powerful
hit the floor,its gone
I wake up dreaming of the prison in my mind


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## Gaer (Mar 26, 2020)

MovieQueen1:  enthralling!  very good!


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## ronaldj (Apr 1, 2020)

poem (April first)
Tis’ the first day of National Poetry month, time to write a poem.
Shall it be about love or hate, me thinks springtime sets the tone?
Possibly it should be funny, a story with comic relief,
Perhaps some unfathomable meaning decisive true belief.
How about a gay little yarn, filled with bliss and delight,
Or the anguish yearning distresses a tale of missy amidst plight.
Whatever the thorny script, of what meaning this poem should say?
Remember its April the first, the fool’s special day....


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## Em in Ohio (Apr 1, 2020)

Gary O' said:


> Well, I've got just the one, and I've posted it too many times, but, since this is the poetry thread...... looks like I'll be posting it again;
> 
> (a little story goes with it)
> 
> ...


Some things touch me so deeply, so profoundly...I'm at a loss for words.


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## Em in Ohio (Apr 1, 2020)

Great thread - I also started one to let folks post their favorite poems.  Funny though - I didn't know it was Poetry month... But, poetry has always been a form of solace to me, whether I write it or read the words of others.  By the way, songwriters - your works are poetry, too.


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## RadishRose (Apr 1, 2020)

I don't understand much poetry. I'm too lazy to figure it out. I don't like it much.
But some of what I read here, I liked.

When it's sad, I run from it. I hate feeling sad. I don't understand poetry; I know it's my loss.


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## Ruthanne (Apr 1, 2020)




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## ronaldj (Apr 13, 2020)

The Ant
I was out in the garden, helping grandpa getting it ready to plant,
When I looked over yonder and saw a little ant,
He picked up something that was twice his size,
Yet he picked it up with ease much to my surprise.
I said hey grandpa looky’ over there…
That ant is carrying something way up in the air…
He’s gathering food for winter Grandpa said with a smirk…
He’ll take it back to the hill and be glad for the work…
Then grandpa went on telling the story of the ant,
As I pushed dirt with my finger, for the seeds we had to plant.
He will teach us how to work, if we just watch awhile,
If you could see his face, bet it would even have a smile.
The Lord gave him the will, to labor, forage and save,
to take back to his home, share what the Lord gave.
He toils all the his days never having to be told,
Providing for his family as he is getting old.
We should go to the ant as the good book tells us so,
To learn how to toil and gather and even how to sow…
Ronald J, Curell
2014
Proverbs 6:6-8


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## Gaer (Apr 13, 2020)

Here's one I wrote many years ago: 

A cruel parody of 
joyless pleasure
of empty wrath,
befelled in stone faces
in icy glares.
or pasted smiles
and blandish coil.

Their mocking laughter
their feeble wit
sear through me like the
tongues of hell.
A jab of sweetness
caress of hate
adorn their babbling 
syrupy breeches

Where is my strength to
utter truth
to curb their vile intentions?
Stead I waddle through 
their calm discourse
and leave ideal behind.

Cheryl Gaer Barlow  2000


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## MarciKS (May 20, 2020)

I have some. Would you like me to share?


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## Furryanimal (May 21, 2020)

There once was a poet called furry
wrote limericks when life was so blurry
The cider he blamed 
for that he was famed
And his words they came out all slurry


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## Keesha (May 21, 2020)

Years ago I wrote a really long poem about my partner and I . It’s about how we met each other and our life journey together. It’s a really long poem and quite funny but I don’t know where it is right now and not sure if it’s shareable material.


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## jerry old (May 21, 2020)

All good stuff, all!
I'm wordy (no kidding?) reluctant as I know-once started it is
hard to stop.
Gary O: Good, Good stuff "Sustenance" a topic that need to be discussed and discussed.

I do savage critiques on other's lines. 
I've tried to tone it down, and have been successful.
In that I can't do the poesy myself, I berate others efforts.

Poesy is a good method to carryon my ongoing war against Standard English and grammar.  *Ms. Emily *taught me the rules of Poesy do not apply when your writing from the mind.

As in 'Cool Hand Luke," you gott'a get your  mind right to
write poesy.


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## Gaer (May 21, 2020)

MarciKS said:


> I have some. Would you like me to share?


YES!!!


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## jerry old (May 21, 2020)

Add bookmark 
                                        #29                                      
 
Moviequeen post 29
"The room with assorted bars twisting in and out
lights move across me who is there what does it want?
The walls seem to cave in on the block it wants something but why?
*alone with nothing or no one to talk to except myself"*

Good lines in verse often come from isolation, your brain talking to itself.  Random thoughts that flitter through your
awareness then disappear if not written down.`

In responding to verse, I need to copy it to documents then
highlight the impact lines and words.  Then send it to the author.  The author may not agree, with my response, but it has to be a PM, not for public reading.

I do not like to hit the like button, or write: 'good stuff.'
the lines deserve more than that.  Your often responding to
a person that has laid a secret part of themselves to public view.
I've been reading the verse posted on this thread.
I'm not sure how to respond-'Like,' good stuff is such a thin
response.  However, I don't see any other way given time
constraints.

Double RR:
You got it right, poetry is difficult to understand-it should not
be that way.
Technique, yes some can follow the rules of poesy, but it never made sense to me.  Why learn a foreign way of communicating, when you already have the words, the emotive content to lay the words down without learning
a 'required method.'
It is a foreign thing


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## JaniceM (May 21, 2020)

[QUOTE="jerry old, post: 1360386, member: 72                        

Double RR:
You got it right, poetry is difficult to understand-it should not
be that way.
Technique, yes some can follow the rules of poesy, but it never made sense to me.  Why learn a foreign way of communicating, when you already have the words, the emotive content to lay the words down without learning
a 'required method.'
It is a foreign thing
[/QUOTE]

I agree.  

I wrote poetry-  and tons of it-  when I was much younger.  But I found when I stopped, I lost both the interest and the ability.


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## jerry old (May 21, 2020)

FIND MORE
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A long tedious poem-okay why did you post it?
Because, it is unique.  Ammons crafts opinions that authors
are not ever supposed to share with his readers.
It is unique!
*"Coon Song," by A.R. Ammons*
I got one good look
in the raccoon's eyes
when he fell from the tree
came to his feet
and perfectly still  
seized the baying hounds
in his dull fierce stare,
in that recognition all
decision lost,
choice irrelevant, before the
battle fell  
and the unwinding
of his little knot of time began:

Dostoevsky would think
it important if the coon    
could choose to
be back up the tree:    
or if he could choose to be
wagging by a swamp pond
dabbling at scuttling    
crawdads: the coon may have
dreamed in fact of curling  
into the holed-out gall    
of a fallen oak some squirrel
had once brought  
high into the air
clean leaves to: but
reality can go to hell    
is what the coon's eyes said to me:
and said how simple
the solution to my    
problem is: it needs only
not to be: I thought the raccoon
felt no anger,    
saw none; cared nothing for cowardice,
bravery; was in fact  
bored at    
knowing what would ensue:
the unwinding, the whirling growls,  
exposed tenders,    
the wet teeth--a problem to be
solved, the taut-coiled vigor  
of the hunt
ready to snap loose:
you want to know what happened,    
you want to hear me describe it,
to placate the hound's-mouth  
slobbering in your own heart:    
I will not tell you: actually the coon
possessing secret knowledge
pawed dust on the dogs    
and they disappeared, yapping into
nothingness, and the coon went  
down to the pond    
and washed his face and hands and beheld
the world: maybe he didn't:  
I am no slave that I
should entertain you, say what you want
to hear, let you wallow in
your silt: one two three four five:
one two three four five six seven eight
nine ten:
all this time I've been  
counting spaces
while you were thinking of something else)
mess in your own sloppy silt:
the hounds disappeared    
yelping (the way you would at extinction)
into--the order
breaks up here--immortality:  
I know that's where you think the brave
little victims should go:
I do not care what
you think: I do not care what you think:
I do not care what you
think: one two three four five    
six seven eight nine ten: here we go
round the here-we-go-round, the here-we-
go-round, the here-we-go-round: coon will end in disorder at the
teeth of hounds: the situation
will get him:    
spheres roll, cubes stay put: now there
one two three four five  
are two philosophies    
here we go round the mouth-wet of
hounds
what I choose    
is youse:    
baby


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## jerry old (May 21, 2020)

AnnieA said:


> Mourning Glories
> 
> *Southern lawns
> Manicured
> ...


Post 15. AnniaA
Getting real close to a minimalist form, which is quite difficult.
Do you see the emotive content achieved by single words repeated, difficult to do
I  read the lines 3 times, the more I read them, the more I like it.  It has the quality of 'REAL.'

My girlfriend Miss Emily did it at times when she was telling
society to go to hell.

Look at post 10, Gaer
'Do men still breath the wild air?'
If that does not send your mind to times and places once known, but now long ago.  The mind dims, and then a phrase, a line goes 'thunk' and memory returns with a pleasing glow.


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## peppermint (May 21, 2020)

I love to write....But I never thought it was poetry....Many paper's are under our 3rd bed where no one sleeps...
When I get home, I'll try to get that mess under the bed....I dabble a lot ….  When I am sad....It makes me 
do something to get the sad out of me....I have ringing in my ear's, so I start writing to get myself in
another place....I'll be back with this when I get home....
I love everyone's poetry..♥


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## MarciKS (May 21, 2020)

Here you go @Gaer...

*This particular poem is only partially mine. I had a relationship with a man who had a penchant for lying so I can't say whether or not he wrote the first part or if it was stolen. Those words will be in italic. I then added on 2 different versions of a second half to pair with the first.*

~*~
_Mystic Lover
The moon is high, the stars are bright.
Look into my eyes and you will see the light.
Mystic love is what my heart beholds, which leaves my soul empty and cold.
Come run with me through fields of love, beneath the moonlight from above.
Hear the whispers from beyond, feel the pain as they play our song.
Through your touch you make me feel like no other, my mystic lover._
~*~

*I added this first version while we were still in the relationship.*

~Our souls entwined till the end of time.
The sky above cradles our love.
In your eyes that shine so bright, I see within this glorious night.
A love that will unfold with each caress so tender yet, so bold.
Stay with me in the house of forever for in each others arms life can be no better.
Through your gentle kiss you make me feel like none other than your mystic lover.~

*Now, after we broke up, I wrote this version.*

*Our souls entwined
For such a short time.
The sky above
Whispers of our love.
My eyes no longer shine so bright 
Now that I'm lost in the dark of night.
A love I so wanted to hold
Has now come to unfold.
In the house of forever
Your love I shall treasure.
Memories of your gentle kiss
That made me feel like none other.
Sincerely, your mystic lover...*


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## Gaer (May 21, 2020)

Marciks:  That was beautiful!  I loved the last part the best!  You REALLY are talented!!!


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## MarciKS (May 21, 2020)

Thank you. I finally found my poetry book yesterday. I have stuff that's untitled and things clear back from the 80s.


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## Gaer (May 21, 2020)

MarciKS said:


> Thank you. I finally found my poetry book yesterday. I have stuff that's untitled and things clear back from the 80s.


Good!  Let's hear some more!


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## MarciKS (May 21, 2020)

*IN THE DARKNESS*

In the heart of the night
As I turn out the light
I suffer in silence
In a world without sight
Where only my mind can take flight.

Somewhere there is a light
Buried deep within the night
Tears rock me to sleep
As visions of you come to my minds sight
In hopes that someday my life will once again be bright.


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## MarciKS (May 21, 2020)




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## jerry old (May 21, 2020)

ghost post-wrong thread, how do I do this!!!!


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## jerry old (May 21, 2020)

*Figures of Speech*

She was a mute
signing away her love,
figures of speech
from heated hands

He was deaf and dumb
unable to follow her rapid flow
Answering the only way he could,
 awkward shrugs of things he did not know

(lines tend to suck, the thought is there, key words, but it just
does not gel


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## jerry old (May 21, 2020)

Crystal Cathedral

A pint, stuck down in my belly
dragging my cardboard behind
a concrete fissures sought
to hold a cease in time.

A dwarf whore offers,
“For a drink.”
She is brushed aside, these wintry men
left romance far behind

Refuge found,
burrow deep
cardboard laid,
forming a desperate barricade.

A hole pierced in the cardboard,
for the scrutiny of the eye.
Then dig out my bottle
No flash to prying eyes

Now, to worship
Toasting the crystal container high
Placing all my tomorrows
in this crystal receptacle of time

(True Stuff, a favorite of mine) I


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## MsFox (May 27, 2020)

@Gaer Here is the DB Cooper one I wrote in about a minute. It is loosely based on a true happening. A bit juvenile and just for fun.

I highly suspect that DB Cooper was a near neighbor
living poorly slowly spending the fruits of his labor
I once walked by when he was out in his yard
His bushy bearded face looked weathered and hard
I said good morning and leaned forward to pick up a quarter
His eyes rested on my boobs, for a moment they did loiter
I saw those eyes, they looked like the ones in the paper
They had the set, the color, the shape, and the taper

He moved shortly after and my career playing private eye
was halted abruptly, but I won't stop searching until I die
I still walk the river banks, dreaming, searching for the cash
Old DB is real and I must find his mysterious hidden stash
I should have been more discreet with my female way
of seeing his eyes, something still in my mind to this very day
I bet he saw me drop that disc engraved with Washington, George
and went back and moved his stash hidden in the Columbia Gorge

Zek says I am delusional and it wasn't Cooper at least not DB
and I am a silly old broad that thinks I am Nancy Drew, hee hee
He laughs at my repeated, unyielding, insistence that I saw DB eyes
He says I watched too many movies about sexy women spies
Well, I told old Zek he is just a jealous cantankerous old fart
I saw Cooper, the DB's eyes, I know it and I feel it in my heart


----------



## Gaer (May 27, 2020)

MsFox said:


> @Gaer Here is the DB Cooper one I wrote in about a minute. It is loosely based on a true happening. A bit juvenile and just for fun.
> 
> I highly suspect that DB Cooper was a near neighbor
> living poorly slowly spending the fruits of his labor
> ...


Wow!  You have a REAL TALENT!!!!!  Why don't yougather them alltogether and send them to a publisher?  Serious!


----------



## MsFox (May 27, 2020)

Gaer said:


> Wow!  You have a REAL TALENT!!!!!  Why don't yougather them alltogether and send them to a publisher?  Serious!





Gaer said:


> Wow!  You have a REAL TALENT!!!!!  Why don't yougather them alltogether and send them to a publisher?  Serious!


I did on my cowboy ones and they were quickly rejected. I don't care about getting published anymore. I also wrote several novels that were also rejected. If others enjoy my poetry, I am happy to share it here for free.


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## Gaer (May 27, 2020)

MsFox said:


> I did on my cowboy ones and they were quickly rejected. I don't care about getting published anymore. I also wrote several novels that were also rejected. If others enjoy my poetry, I am happy to share it here for free.


I sent my manuscripts to many publishers before they were accepted by a reputable publisher.  Please don't give up because of a few rejection letters.


----------



## Pecos (May 27, 2020)

I enjoy reading good poetry, but when it comes to writing it, "my brain waves don't oscillate at that frequency."
I am more at home describing the inner workings of some mechanism.


----------



## Gaer (May 27, 2020)

Pecos said:


> I enjoy reading good poetry, but when it comes to writing it, "my brain waves don't oscillate at that frequency."
> I am more at home describing the inner workings of some mechanism.


Pecos:  I am considered an expert on Heavenly Angels.  I consider myself an expert on Heavenly angels.  Don't be impressed.  This just means I know a lot about one particular thing and absolutely nothing about a thousand other things.


----------



## Pecos (May 27, 2020)

Gaer said:


> Pecos:  I am considered an expert on Heavenly Angels.  I consider myself an expert on Heavenly angels.  Don't be impressed.  This just means I know a lot about one particular thing and absolutely nothing about a thousand other things.


You are absolutely right, we all have our areas of knowledge and that is one of the main reasons I continue to hang out on this forum where I might just learn a thing or two.


----------



## MarciKS (May 27, 2020)

jerry old said:


> ghost post-wrong thread, how do I do this!!!!


What do you mean when you say ghost post??


----------



## jerry old (May 27, 2020)

'deleted,' but I prefer ghost post: I didn't do it, it was a supposed person goofed up.


----------



## grahamg (May 27, 2020)

Gaer said:


> Here's one I wrote many years ago:
> 
> A cruel parody of
> joyless pleasure
> ...


You've a real gift here. I struggle to write a single poem, though my mother, and my aunts all wrote slightly sentimental, though lovely poems, but the "poets gene" passed me by I think.  .


----------



## Gaer (May 27, 2020)

grahamg said:


> You've a real gift here. I struggle to write a single poem, though my mother, and my aunts all wrote slightly sentimental, though lovely poems, but the "poets gene" passed me by I think.  .


Thanks Graham G!  That was so kind!


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## Ladybj (May 27, 2020)

Yes... I wrote a poem many years ago titled "Never Give Up".  I submitted it and it was published in a book.


----------



## Gaer (May 27, 2020)

Ladybj said:


> Yes... I wrote a poem many years ago titled "Never Give Up".  I submitted it and it was published in a book.


Will you share it with us?


----------



## Ladybj (May 27, 2020)

Gaer said:


> Will you share it with us?


It was so long ago.. I remember just a little

Never give up, never say I can't
If you can't, you won't and you give up without trying
and that's called failure..
Never Give Up

That's the jest of it, there is more.. its been so long ago - can't remember it all.


----------



## grahamg (May 27, 2020)

If I can I'll find one of my mothers most poignant poems, where she wrote about what she wanted us to think of her after she had died. 

The little bit I can remember though, at the end, went,"May my love comfort you",(or "I hope my love comforts you"). 

It is written on my parents gravestone, and was approved of by my daughter and other family members - my daughter, and another grandchild reading out two of my mothers poems at her funeral, though not the one I'm thinking of here.  It would obviously have been the one to use, but hadn't been found by then.    .


----------



## MsFox (May 28, 2020)

Gaer said:


> I sent my manuscripts to many publishers before they were accepted by a reputable publisher.  Please don't give up because of a few rejection letters.


Well, it was several and I understood their reasons. There really wasn't any market for it. I have had a few published articles but they were technical articles.


----------



## MsFox (May 28, 2020)

@Gaer Here is one I wrote all in fun, so please no one take offense. It is written in the style of the old cowboy poetry and lacks the graces required for the modern trend of cowboy poetry. Remember all in fun and chuckwagon campfire cowboy-style sarcasm and humor from an old ex cowgirls point of view.  A few years ago at an old time cowboy poetry reading, this one was the crowd favorite. To fully appreciate this style and meter, it really is best when recited. Notice I didn't capitalize the 5th line as it is read as one line with the 4th. I added commas to indicate pauses and may not be correct grammar.

What Ever Happened to Cowpokes
by Faye Fox

Cowboy that and cowboy this
I’m sick of it, no respect for the Miss
In fact, little or no respect for the cow
Lots of bull while boys drink morning coffee
with half fried eggs and meat from the sow

Have these boys forgot who taught them to deliver a calf?
It wasn’t their daddy, who put his arm in half
Mama was the one that put her arm in all the way
She was never skirmish or dramatic but was calm and steady,
turned the breech around, then went about her day

Now I must address the real issue
So you drugstore types may need a tissue
I’m sick and tired of the boy or girl with only a horse or pony
Braggin about rodeo belt buckles so dang big from fancy riding,
just city slickers, and riding in the rodeo doesn’t erase the phony

They call themselves cow boy or girl
It makes me nauseous and sick, I want to hurl
If your mini ranch or city lot has no cows that moo
Just horses all groomed up and pretty,
calling yourself a cow anything is just lots of bull poo poo

Call yourself a horse girl or boy
Your $100K horse trailer pulled by your $50K toy
Doesn’t impress me, as I see no cows in the back
Just fancy expensive horses, special blended horse food,
choice hay, expensive custom made saddles, and all your tack

Your boots girl, look at the extra high heel
I bet that crocodile will soon off the cow leather peel
Lucky for you, you have a horse and don’t have to walk
Because those fashion boots you wear up to your knee
with those denim looking leggings, so tight you can hardly talk

Real western wear is not made in China or places with forced labor
It is made in the Americas, Australia, and such and something to savor
Real cowgirls or boys never dressed up all fancy and guss
Fashion wasn’t considered, just wear that aided them in their work,
their hat had a purpose as did chaps, boots, dressing was never a fuss

So real cattle people prodding cattle along were called pokes
Long before the all-inclusive cowboy became popular and material for jokes
Real cowboys never called their mama a cowboy, not even a cowgirl
When her jeans were ripped and worn, they got mended, not sold
in a boutique for a high price, because they had back pockets adorned with pearl

Just look at all the tops for women and girls, so many and once called a shirt
Spaghetti straps tank tops crop tops camis bandeaus all designed for flirt
I confess and reveal I love the fitted tanks especially ones with built in bras
My old age has made me observe being more traditional and modest,
therefore, I buy the built-in extra, not for support but to hide my ta tas

The cowboy of the past with all the blood and gore
Were not defined by dress from a western store
Past cowgirls worked hard from rising till bed
Not like the Hollywood ones, angrily marching,
wearing plastic female genitals on their head

Cowpokes is correct not slang as Hollywood wants us to believe
The cowpokes language isn’t totally lost, just needs retrieve
Ever try to poke a horse?
Just try it, if you don’t believe me
just don’t come crying to me with your fools remorse

Listen guys this isn’t a women’s lib rant
Just me, now a city girl, that doesn’t know can’t
I no longer can call myself a cow that or this
I live in town wear sandals and girly sports wear,
fix my hair all pretty, and the cow poo ..... I don’t miss


----------



## Gaer (May 28, 2020)

Ms Fox:   Hahahahaha!  LOVE IT!  I grew up in Miles City, Montana, so it really appeals to me!  Baxter Black, Move over!!!


----------



## MsFox (May 28, 2020)

Gaer said:


> Ms Fox:   Hahahahaha!  LOVE IT!  I grew up in Miles City, Montana, so it really appeals to me!  Baxter Black, Move over!!!


Miles City! That is definitely in the cowboy range country. When I was 10 we visited someone my dad knew around there and I still have photos of a big bison drive. When I lived in Montana in the 70's, I was living in a tepee in the Bitterroot Mountains. I think you said you live south of Albuquerque. About 1969 I had a scary experience in Socorro about midnight that led to a high speed chase that ended about Los Lunas when my chasers finally turned around. I spent lots of time in Taos and Sante Fe at arts, crafts, and music events. I was always getting offers to buy my homemade buckskin dress (tanned the hides myself).


----------



## jerry old (May 28, 2020)

Ms. Fox
This is how it is, no more real cowboys.  Ranchers can't afford full time cowboys.
There are a lot of part time cowboys, during nutting  and brand and roundup; 
there are cowboys for a few days, a week or two, then sent back to find city work.

The real cowboys are the son's and daughter's of the rancher: free labor.
There are still real cowboys in the Northwest, their a disappearing breed.

Rodeo cowboys, most are the real deal, brought up on ranchers, working stock
daily, thinking there may be  more money in rodeo, and for some-there is.

There are some real cowboys in  my world, put they work three days on this ranch, 
two days on another, a week here and there.
Men want to be cowboys, but he jobs don't exist.

Cowboy poetry depicts the real life of a cowboys, it not fun and excitement, it freezing your butt off, sweating like a dog, for what.  It is what  they want to do,
it is their life, there is no other.


----------



## drifter (May 28, 2020)

No, I don't but I'd like to. Foot I'd like to write anything but too far gone.


----------



## treeguy64 (May 28, 2020)

I wrote the following when I was around nine. My mom and sister were out, and my sister's typewriter was on her desk. I couldn't resist the temptation:

Death hangs over the old man's bed, 
Waiting to inject her shot of infinity. 
Witfully, the doctors try to conquer her, 
Alas, they to know the outcome. 
But does he, as he smiles at his grandson? 
Suddenly, a gasp, all is silent.......

And this one:

A joy to be alone, 
Ah yes, but then, no. 
As on the telephone you talk
you know you'll have to stop
and hear the moan of the wind, 
As you wait, wait, wait
for your loved ones to return. 

My mom didn't believe that I had written those poems, when she got home. She kept asking me what book they were in. She finally accepted that they were mine, but never encouraged me to keep at it. I think she was a bit freaked out. 

I took to songwriting once I started playing bass guitar. One of my tunes made it onto an album, and got local airplay. I did win an award in the old, yearly National Songwriting Competition, decades ago.


----------



## drifter (May 28, 2020)

treeguy64 said:


> I wrote the following when I was around nine. My mom and sister were out, and my sister's typewriter was on her desk. I couldn't resist the temptation:
> 
> Death hangs over the old man's bed,
> Waiting to inject her shot of infinity.
> ...


Well, they do sound a bit mature for anine yerar old. I might have thought the same as your mother. Sounds like a whole lot of potential in those 
two poems.


----------



## MarciKS (May 28, 2020)

My mother wanted to know if I had any that weren't gloom and doom. But darkness is the place I go to when I write. I don't ever need to unload when I'm happy. So this was as close as I could get for her...

TEDDY BEARS
Things teddy bears can't fix
Things far worse than stones or sticks
Teddy bears can cuddle
But, that's far too subtle
Teddy bears are furry
But, life is in too much of a hurry

Teddy bears are there
Life's troubles I can share
But, teddy bears are not the answer
To this lonely dancer
Hearts of peace
Faces of fleece
A teddy bear will never do
When what I really need is you
©2004


----------



## ronaldj (May 31, 2020)

Contest Entry.

There I sat, perpetual egg on my face,

High brows and thinkers all over the place.

Them in their tweed suits and cute matching neckties.

Me in my bib overalls, swatting away flies.

They read stories that made little since,

With deep seated mystery and lots of suspense.

Feathers were flying when we took the stage,

Literally standing with droppings on my page.

Opened the crate out came my prize rooster,

Someone inquired what’s he to do with Simon and Schuster?

We’re here to win your prize so grand,

As my rooster strutted up and down the stand.

Your entry must contain rhyme and meter,

A story of love nothing is sweeter.

My prize banty is up there with the best.

What? This isn’t the Poultry contest?

Ronald J. Curell

2003


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## JaniceM (Jun 4, 2020)

BRIGHT-EYED CHILDREN WITH GUNS 

Camelot was broken that sixth day in June
And with it, the hopes and dreams of a nation
Divided by war, united in strength
When everyone had something to stand for,
Something to believe in 

And the Bright-Eyed Children With Guns
Destined to grow old before their time
Their manhood halted in the realization
That nothing was the way it had seemed
And it was too late to turn back  

For the Bright-Eyed Children With Guns
One moment a childlike dream of stardom
Idolizing Mickey Mantle and
Collecting baseball cards;
The next moment _"Over There," _where
"_The Vietcong have attacked Danang-
It's a fierce and bloody battle"..._
I turned off the radio and worried 

For the Bright-Eyed Children With Guns
Absorbing unspeakable nightmares
To carry a lifetime's worth of pain,
The buddy the neighbor blown to bits
Destroyed by his own grenade,
A young life ended like many other
Bright-Eyed Children With Guns
Returned home to coffins or lives of torment--
Shells of the boys they had once been

And Barbara laughed.
_'They'll all get killed.
That's what they go there for-
To get killed.  HA HA HA.'_
I said nothing.
I was told his portrait hung at his funeral
Above the closed coffin.
I was told
_"They all look the same
In their Dress-Blues."_

For the Bright-Eyed Children With Guns
The hope of a generation, broken,
Shattered minds, lives, and dreams
Of what might have been.


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## Gaer (Jun 4, 2020)

treeguy64 said:


> I wrote the following when I was around nine. My mom and sister were out, and my sister's typewriter was on her desk. I couldn't resist the temptation:
> 
> Death hangs over the old man's bed,
> Waiting to inject her shot of infinity.
> ...


Awesome!!!


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## Gaer (Jun 4, 2020)

ronaldj said:


> Contest Entry.
> 
> There I sat, perpetual egg on my face,
> 
> ...


You are so talented!!!


----------



## Gaer (Jun 4, 2020)

JaniceM said:


> BRIGHT-EYED CHILDREN WITH GUNS
> 
> Camelot was broken that sixth day in June
> And with it, the hopes and dreams of a nation
> ...


That was extraordinary!!!


----------



## Gaer (Jun 4, 2020)

MarciKS said:


> My mother wanted to know if I had any that weren't gloom and doom. But darkness is the place I go to when I write. I don't ever need to unload when I'm happy. So this was as close as I could get for her...
> 
> TEDDY BEARS
> Things teddy bears can't fix
> ...


I loved that!  Keep writing!


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## MarciKS (Jun 5, 2020)

this was one i recently put on my website.


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## Gaer (Jun 5, 2020)

MarciKS said:


> this was one i recently put on my website.
> View attachment 108408


Beautifully written.  I like the repition of the last sentence.  It's beautiful!


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## MarciKS (Jun 5, 2020)

i hope you guys are appreciating this. these are my dark places and i'm slapping them up for you to see.


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## MarciKS (Jun 5, 2020)

sometimes i will write stuff and slap an ~anonymous on it. this is one of those. it's from august of 2014.

WHEN IT HURTS

the bitterness i can taste as you've laid my heart to waste.
with minds full of deceit and mouths full of hate, your task is now complete as you accuse me of being a reprobate. 

i am now blinded by pain so severe that your friendship, i no longer revere. 
as far as i'm concerned, you can go to hell, as nothing will ever again be well.
​


----------



## grahamg (Jun 5, 2020)

MarciKS said:


> sometimes i will write stuff and slap an ~anonymous on it. this is one of those. it's from august of 2014.
> WHEN IT HURTS
> the bitterness i can taste as you've laid my heart to waste.
> with minds full of deceit and mouths full of hate, your task is now complete as you accuse me of being a reprobate.
> ...


A good friend of mine had some extremely difficult times in her life before I knew her, and she wrote the blackest, of black poetry whilst in the depths of her own troubles. I lost touch with her and her sons who were my age before she died unfortunately, but she was formidable, as you are!   .


----------



## ronaldj (Jun 10, 2020)

The little church mouse

Hello, my name is Fredrick I’m a church mouse you see…

And no matter who you ask, they think I’m as poor as can be…

Yet that is so far from the truth, as you will soon learn…

Fact is most days I eat so well; I develop bad heartburn…

My house inside the church is a cozy little spot…

Cool in the summer and winter oh so hot….

True I live in a cast off, something someone left behind…

But what can I say its mink fur, and its soft and mighty fine…

Sundays, I eat like a fat rat, not a poor little mouse…

You would think they are feeding five thousand, in this Lords house…

From Sunday potluck suppers, to after sermons brunch…

No reason meals- are plenty we’ll just call it, a get together lunch… 

All during the week there are morsels a bounty to be had…

They’ve only a part time janitor, for that I’m mighty glad…

Girl and boys classes serve fresh donuts galore…

And it takes till mid week; to vacuum the classroom floor….

Candy as a verse saying treat, you can count on this…

Kids dropping abound everywhere it’s like a food abyss…

Still my reputation as poor church mouse must stay an urban myth.…

And if you question me otherwise, I’m pleading the fifth…

So worry not about me, I will fend the best I may…

And live like a colossal king each and every day…

The food here is scrumptious, and there is lots left around…

Pie, cookies, or cake heaped with frosting, yellow, red brown…

Don’t forget weddings and funerals or get together that need food…

Enough morsels are left in corners; I don’t even have to be shrewd…

I enjoy being a poor church mouse; it’s not a bad job…

Beats being a lab rat, turning into a glob…

Got to run now my friend, something’s cooking and I think I see the hearse….

Then after dinner some candy spilled from the pastor’s wife’s new purse….

Ronald J. Curell​


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## Sassycakes (Jun 15, 2020)

*I'm not good at writing poetry ,but I came across something my Husband wrote me when we first starting dating. I wish I could make it clearer to read.*


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## jerry old (Jun 16, 2020)

not a poem, but he takes you on journeys

 



 
And the wind will whip your tousled hair, 
The sun, the rain, the sweet despair, 
Great tales of love and strife. 
And somewhere on your path to glory
 You will write your story of a life.
Harry Chapin


----------



## MarciKS (Jun 16, 2020)

grahamg said:


> A good friend of mine had some extremely difficult times in her life before I knew her, and she wrote the blackest, of black poetry whilst in the depths of her own troubles. I lost touch with her and her sons who were my age before she died unfortunately, but she was formidable, as you are!   .


Like I said...some of these poems are from the 80s. I was a different person then.


----------



## Ferocious (Jun 16, 2020)

If I could float and hover on clouds
and stay away from bustling crowds,
then coronavirus wouldn't bother me,
I'll have to go now, I'm dying for a pee.


----------



## jerry old (Jun 27, 2020)

AnnieA said:


> Mourning Glories
> 
> Southern lawns
> Manicured
> ...


----------



## mlh (Jun 29, 2020)

Wren said:


> The Birthday Party
> 
> Candles on the cake burn bright
> A 60th birthday, her special night
> ...


that is so pretty and i can so relate to this


----------



## charry (Jun 30, 2020)

Who knows what’s in a lifetime


Never you or I

Living each day as it comes along

And the years go passing by

Then out of the blue our biggest shock

Which nobody could foresee or like

Devastating  our life style

A complete change for myself and hubby,

8yrs ago  ,have passed since that sad day

But Mike and I have stayed strong

And conquered the demons before Us 

Overcame the obstacles as they came along

And now as our love grows stronger

Working together as a team....


----------



## Treacle (Jun 30, 2020)

I wrote this many many moons ago and won £50 back in the days   My grandmother was a real cockney and I just imagined what it would be like when she was out shopping because the small shops knew their customers and customers seemed to know each other. It was a relatively small world then, it seemed that everyone new their neighbours and the people who lived in the street. Most people had lived their lives at the same address for years. Gossip was rife!      censored: -not)


----------



## Treacle (Jun 30, 2020)

Gary O' said:


> Wait, I recall another one;
> 
> (I tend to put my stuff in poster form)
> 
> ...


Absolutely beautiful and such a brilliant way of presenting your poetry. This has inspired me. I wrote poetry many years ago and like most things in my life they have come to a halt but through this Forum I think I'm starting to get going again even if I'm just in the thinking stage. ☺Fantastic Gary O'


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## Gary O' (Jun 30, 2020)

Treacle said:


> This has inspired me


Wonderful

My job is done


----------



## grahamg (Jul 2, 2020)

Found this poem, written by a friend's friend I believe:


----------



## grahamg (Jul 2, 2020)

Here is a very famous comedy genius showing us why he went so far:


----------



## charry (Jul 2, 2020)

charry said:


> Who knows what’s in a lifetime
> 
> 
> Never you or I
> ...


----------



## ronaldj (Jul 8, 2020)

PLAY IN THE DIRT
As you find yourself a little lonely, as you are getting up in years,
Perhaps a flower garden will help take away some tears.
Your coffers are a little low, but don‘t just sit and fret,
Plant yourself a garden, soon your troubles you will forget.
Plant a few tomatoes, propped up with a stick,
Don’t forget chives, garlic or onions, they help you not get sick.
Have a patch of peas and for-get-me-not’s, next to the beans,
A good sharp hoe to lean on is helpful by all means.
Adding a few flowers in the vegetable row,
Will assure there will be some color when it’s starts to snow.
Right there with the marigolds, mix a tater plant or two.
A rutabaga or parsnip will add great taste to any stew.
Better plant a peony and clematis, that grows on a vine,
Gives your garden color, which will help you not to pine.
Plant a few cucumbers and squash, pansy’s in a row,
And lots and lots of zinnia’s for they are easiest to grow.
When you find yourself a fretting, because you move not so fast,
Plant yourself a garden it will help the summer last.
Ronald J. Curell


----------



## MarciKS (Aug 30, 2020)




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## bowmore (Aug 30, 2020)

Along long time ago, I had to attend a meeting at 4 PM every Friday to discuss Integrated Logistics Support (ILS) matters,. The meeting normally ran on for an hour and a half, and were boring. To pass the time, a number of us started writing doggerel. It always started off with "Another ILS meeting..." and went on from there. I worked with a man named Bill Knight, who was somewhat of a BS artist. My lines went like this:
Bill Knight has shining armor
And he smells like a rose
I stand smelling like a farmer
Covered with the manure he throws


----------



## drifter (Aug 30, 2020)

No, don’t write poetry.


----------



## Ladybj (Aug 30, 2020)

Yes.  I wrote a Poem titled - Never Give Up".  My brother was a singer but never recorded anything.  However he made a song from my poem.  My poem was also published in a book.  This was many years ago... not sure what happened to that book


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## Old Dummy (Aug 30, 2020)

Gaer said:


> Come on, Jerryold and Gary O', and anyone else who writes poetry.  Would you please post it here?  This is a perfect time to write poetry!  We would all love to read it!



Hi Gaer, how are you? 

Decades ago I used to fool around with poetry, but haven't even thought about it in years. Here's a limerick I just whipped up:

I once knew a gal named Mary
Who had a sweet sis named Kari
We all jumped in bed
And Kari she said
It's you who I want to marry!


----------



## Gaer (Aug 31, 2020)

Old Dummy said:


> Hi Gaer, how are you?
> 
> Decades ago I used to fool around with poetry, but haven't even thought about it in years. Here's a limerick I just whipped up:
> 
> ...


Hi!  Glad to see you're in good spirits!


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## grahamg (Sep 17, 2020)

Not my work of course, (and a very challenging subject):

No Enemies

By Charles Mackay
(English Chartist poet, 1814–1889) 

YOU have no enemies, you say?  
Alas! my friend, the boast is poor;
He who has mingled in the fray  Of duty,
that the brave endure,
Must have made foes! If you have none, 
Small is the work that you have done.
You’ve hit no traitor on the hip,
You’ve dashed no cup from perjured lip,
You’ve never turned the wrong to right,
You’ve been a coward in the fight


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## Irwin (Sep 17, 2020)

My wife and I watched a peaceful movie about a poet the other night called Patterson about a bus driver in Patterson, NJ who writes poetry. It's a bit of a character study of the main character, also named Patterson -- played by Adam Driver, and was like a little vacation from these dark times.


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## Kayelle (Sep 18, 2020)

Irwin said:


> My wife and I watched a peaceful movie about a poet the other night called Patterson about a bus driver in Patterson, NJ who writes poetry. It's a bit of a character study of the main character, also named Patterson -- played by Adam Driver, and was like a little vacation from these dark times.


Thanks for the tip @Irwin, I've put it on my Amazon Prime watch list..love your description of it and just what we need right now.


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## grahamg (Sep 19, 2020)

(Written by a grandparents rights campaigner)

        APART 

“This is your grandchild” 
   I remember you say 
“You’re part of his life now 
       in every way.” 

So why did you take him 
and tear me apart? 
You walked from my son 
but took also my heart. 

I know he is growing, 
I’m told that it’s so, 
but nothing of me 
will he grow up to know. 

Whatever has happened 
‘tween you and my son 
was that really reason 
to do what was done? 

I cannot make contact, 
The law makes it so, 
but I’m hurting to be there 
my grandchild to know. 

So please, if you read this, 
think not of my son 
but of loving grandparents 
who’d bring so much fun 

To the child you delivered 
and then took away. 
I pray that we’ll meet soon 
and again hear you say -

 “you’re part of his life now in every way”


----------



## ohioboy (Mar 1, 2021)

I only have about 150 in my Cannon. Have written many more, but some seemed to have just vanished over the years. For many years depression was a barrier to creativity, but I am just starting to write again. Here is one of my favorite ones, simple, quaint, prophetic.

That house at the top of that hill

That house at the top of that hill
Was cursed with no love to live there.
It's life is tragic, sadder still,
It's cupboards of love are always bare.

It's mail box read "Occupant".
The path to the door read "Lonely Lane".
It's door mat read "Need love, no rent",
And a Heart sat on the window pane.

Daily visitors come to mend
Those never loved, or maybe once.
Blown there by a crying wind
Then forgotten there ever since.

That house, not it's own Mausoleum
With a furnished chapel for prayer,
Known as "Broken Hearts Lyceum"
With many registered there.

Now a state Historical site
And on the World Heritage list,
For hearts that loved, or thought they might
A home to rest is all they wished


----------



## Shalimar (Mar 1, 2021)

I just finished writing this, perhaps not my best work, but given my present state of mind, it brings comfort and hope.

  Walk with me
   Under  this shrouded
     Caul  of night, caressed
     By memories of forgotten
    Stars whispering
    Above the gravid trees,
     While, drunk beneath our
     Feet, tender grass threads
     Tiny fingers within the
      Scented breath of Gaia’s
      Love. Oh, my beloved, breathe
       Deep this promise, like a
       Fond forgotten joy,
        Unearthed in the greening call
       Of Spring!


----------



## Liberty (Mar 1, 2021)

I write some poetry from time to time.  Was published in a poetry book once.  Not really good though, I always write in rhymes.


----------



## rcleary171 (Mar 1, 2021)

Gaer said:


> All my poetry is on loose scraps of paper,thrown in boxes with art sketches, but I found a couple.  Don'tknow if they are any good.
> 
> Live gently.
> Be tickled at the whisperings
> ...


Beautiful - gentle, emotional but grounded in the moment. This poem teleported me to a sunny spring morning. Nice work and thank you for sharing.


----------



## rcleary171 (Mar 1, 2021)

I joined a poetry group during my Reddit days. I wrote two poems, this is my second. I had just finished Mantel's book* Bring Up the Bodies* so I was well immersed in Tutor history.


*The Execution of Anne Boleyn*

This pale star, our regal lamb
Lights the ancient fort
The grim herd face this soft flame
In this muddy port

Tenant crows recite crude prayers
On this dreadful hour
Silence is our mere refrain
Tethered near this tower

Stripped of gold, mantled white on
Stage of pine and dust
Her blind guest – the Eastern sword
Waits with unsheathed lust

The royal crown falls to earth
None hear her last breath
Tender breeze holds echo high
To spite humbled death


----------



## rcleary171 (Mar 2, 2021)

My first poem.

_A Winter Dirge_
Beyond the yoke of
Lenten rum
Bright judgement waits with
Beating drum

Perched on brows appear
Ashen cross
As dreamers march in
Futile loss

The shredded dawn bleeds
Through the trees
Lank limbs sway in the
Silent breeze

The sacred hour passed
All is still
None shall rise before
Winter kill


----------



## rcleary171 (Mar 2, 2021)

Shalimar said:


> I just finished writing this, perhaps not my best work, but given my present state of mind, it brings comfort and hope.
> 
> Walk with me
> Under  this shrouded
> ...


A fine poem. The first read sets the mood and subsequent reads (each slower than the last) savors your words and phrases. Very creative, light yet emotional. You are an accomplished wordsmith. Thank you for sharing your work.


----------



## Murrmurr (Mar 2, 2021)

I'm not a poet but I've written dozens of rhymes for my kids and grandkids. 
Like this one...

Atop a mountain or in the dell
A fairy comes to ring her bell

The bell warns children in their beds
Shut your eyes, don’t raise your heads

Don’t look at me when I come creeping
Let me think that you’re still sleeping

I come to trade your tooth for money
But if you peek, the deal’s off, Honey.


----------



## rcleary171 (Mar 2, 2021)

Murrmurr said:


> I'm not a poet but I've written dozens of rhymes for my kids and grandkids.
> Like this one...
> 
> Atop a mountain or in the dell
> ...


Nice work!


----------



## Murrmurr (Mar 2, 2021)

rcleary171 said:


> Nice work!


It's fun. And the grandkids love it.


----------



## Shalimar (Mar 2, 2021)

rcleary171 said:


> A fine poem. The first read sets the mood and subsequent reads (each slower than the last) savors your words and phrases. Very creative, light yet emotional. You are an accomplished wordsmith. Thank you for sharing your work.


Thank you so much for your kind words.


----------



## Shalimar (Mar 2, 2021)

rcleary171 said:


> My first poem.
> 
> _A Winter Dirge_
> Beyond the yoke of
> ...


  Oooh, I felt the somber chill. Beautifully evocative.


----------



## Lara (Mar 3, 2021)

Wrote this poem today specifically for this thread of my current situation while I await my forever home to be finished with renovations. All true. I haven't yet registered the name for my beach house and may change it. If you have any suggestions for a beach house name feel free to suggest one. Critique is also welcome. I can take it....I promise...ha
Thank you for the gentle "push" @Gaer 


Windsong

Soon I’m bound for the Crystal Coast
Carolina’s Emerald Isle
Steeped in history of pirates and wars
Peace now fills the Isle

I found my seaside sanctuary 
My dream to live at the beach
With endless views of sea and sky
Windsong is the name

But this piece of island paradise
needs some renovations
Where “Island-time” slows the pace
My Windsong awaits

Morning songbirds among maritime oaks
Whispering palms in the breeze
Toes in the water, seagulls delight
Windsong’s worth the wait

In the evening I turn off the lights  
sunset colors fill the room
And then I feel like part of the sky
As Windsong heals my soul

Constellations so clear on the Isle
Stargazing on the deck
Moon-kissed glasses of Cabernet
Windsong sings goodnight


----------



## Shalimar (Mar 3, 2021)

Lara said:


> Wrote this poem today specifically for this thread of my current situation while I await my forever home to be finished with renovations. All true. I haven't yet registered the name for my beach house and may change it. If you have any suggestions for a beach house name feel free to suggest one. Critique is also welcome. I can take it....I promise...ha
> Thank you for the gentle "push" @Gaer
> 
> 
> ...


Beautiful, takes me back to the beach where I grew up. Thank you


----------



## rcleary171 (Apr 7, 2021)

A Forgotten Dream​Be not - be still,
   breathe deep and walk back slowly

Avoid the sharp bright thoughts
   that pierce the cherished fabric

Tattered flags of forgotten allegiance
   melt and fade with the distant trees

Be wary
   for there is no place to stand

No guiding star
   to pilot through vulgar memory

Past the closing act
   beyond the stage
      and the mere dust.


----------



## Patch (Apr 8, 2021)

Don't ask me to join you communicating in prose and in rhyme!
My goodness it would be such a waste of my valuable time!
I've entirely too much more important things to do, I'm telling you now.
So, pardon me as I exit without even taking a bow.

There was this incident while playing golf, just yesterday
When on the third hole, my second shot I was preparing to play.
From the trees off the fairway there was a resounding sneeze
And what happened afterwards brought me to my knees!

I, politely, said "Bless you!" and a reply came from the trees... "Thanks!"
That reply was followed with, "Today, you've been fighting the awful shanks!
Well, this voice from the trees knew my game had been in the tank.
In fact, the way I'd been playing just downright stank!!!

The voice continued, "I have some assistance if you would like my advice."
I told the voice any help for this old duffer would really be nice.
About that time, from out of the tree flew a large, very black crow.
That bird began to talk and here's how the conversation did go.

That old crow's beak was moving at warp speed as he tried to help my game.
He just stood there on the cart path... no fear at all... seeming so very tame.
"Now if I tried to fly with my left wing and right wing flapping at a different speed
I'd never get off the ground and instruction at flying would be my need."

"Your right arm is trying to overpower your left arm and it is causing you to shank.
If you move the arms at the same speed, I will be the one you will thank!
Drop a golf ball on the grass and pretend you are a bird just like me.
Act like both arms have to be in concert and you'll play this game with glee!"

With a sudden movement of his wings, the crow flew off and out of sight.
I walked to my next shot, shaking my head, wondering if the crow had been right.
Taking both arms back at the same speed as, by the crow, I'd been told
I moved through the ball, flawlessly, and watch as the white orb was holed.

So, as you can see my rhyming a prose is not what one might consider "poetry".
And, you can understand that reality in my rhyme often does escape me.
I'm headed back to the course to play another round and play my heart out
Hoping I see that old crow and, you can bet, my thanks to him I will shout!!!!


----------



## RB-TX (Apr 8, 2021)

Gaer said:


> Come on, Jerryold and Gary O', and anyone else who writes poetry.  Would you please post it here?  This is a perfect time to write poetry!  We would all love to read it!


When I was in third grade I wrote my first poem.  It wasn't much though. 
              I opened a window
              And in flew a cow
              I know she did it
              But I don't know how.

I told you it wasn't much.


----------



## Lara (Apr 8, 2021)

RB-TX...That's awesome for 3rd grade!!! Or even older.


----------



## ohioboy (Apr 8, 2021)

Lara said:
			
		

> Windsong
> 
> Soon I’m bound for the Crystal Coast
> Carolina’s Emerald Isle
> ...


Reminds me of "I shall arise now and go to Innisfree".


----------



## SetWave (Apr 8, 2021)

When the mood strikes I might wax poetic preferably in free verse.


----------



## win231 (Apr 8, 2021)

Yes, I do write poetry:

When things go wrong, as they usually will,
And your daily road seems all uphill,
When funds are low and debts are high,
When you try to smile but can only cry,
And you really feel you'd like to quit…
Don't come to me, I don't give a s--t.


----------



## ohioboy (Apr 8, 2021)

When a poem is written, it is really part of a person. If a person likes or dislikes it, it is the individual's perception. I write to help me cope with life, so I wrote this one to say to the literary critics, so what. Mind you, I have never been professionally analyzed to care about it though. That being said, to wit:

Analyze my Poetry

If you're analyzing my poetry,
It's of no consequence to me.
Blank verse, free verse, anapaest,
Too many forms, give it a rest!

Stress this word, unstress that word.
Too many rules, give it the bird!
Iambs, little lambs with fleece of snow,
Who really cares where the stress marks go.

Feminine rhyme, just for women.
Masculine rhyme, just for men.
Dactyls, teradactyls, trochees,
Eye rhyme, slant rhyme, if yous can sees.

Imagery, penned by a ghost.
Metrics, mix them in the Roast.
Rime Royal, simile, syntax,
All mixed in a box of cracker jacks!

Poetic license, I don't drive.
I leave the wheels to the wife.
Was Danny Deever ever hung?
Or was it merely cheek in toungue?

Blame my Pen as the poor poet.
Don't brand me, you can stow it.
So as for my pen to paper--
I'll dismiss the critics for later.

Fancy words, poetic diction.
Clashing words, internal friction.
Redundant meaning, explain the tone.
Can't understand, go eat a bone.

If you don't like the poems I write,
Go stuck your finger in the dyke.
Just a part of me to pass the time,
To get through life before I die!

I grip firm my poetic gun,
With a hair trigger just for fun.
So if you don't like my poetry---
I'll just shoot you--- metaphorically.


----------



## ohioboy (Apr 8, 2021)

Playing Rummy with a Hippo

I was challenged by a Hippo
To take a little dippo.
He said, "Let's have a little fun,
Try and beat me at some Rum".

How can a hippo play gin rummy?
He must think that I'm a dummy!
He can't even hold the cards to play.
I guess this will be my lucky day.

So I decided to take a dip
And outsmart this water hip.
I got whooped, game after game.
I started to think Mud was my name.

So I know this sounds preposterous,
Concerning a hippopotamus,
He was a card slicker of course--
Never play Rummy with a River Horse!


----------



## Gaer (Apr 8, 2021)

ohioboy said:


> Playing Rummy with a Hippo
> 
> I was challenged by a Hippo
> To take a little dippo.
> ...


Wow!  It would be interesting to look inside your mind!  hahaha!


----------



## ohioboy (Apr 8, 2021)

Gaer said:


> Wow!  It would be interesting to look inside your mind!  hahaha!


I don't like to brag, but I'm the greatest nitwit that ever lived, nyuk nyuk.


----------



## grahamg (Apr 8, 2021)

win231 said:


> Yes, I do write poetry:
> 
> When things go wrong, as they usually will,
> And your daily road seems all uphill,
> ...


"Your compassion overwhelms us all obviously, well done"!
(P.S. I've heard others claiming the same thing who were equally " good eggs"  ).


----------



## ohioboy (Apr 9, 2021)

Gaer said:


> Here is one I wrote last night.  It's prose, I guess.  rhymes, you know.
> 
> Do men still breathe the wild air?
> 
> ...



Your poem here reminds me of this one, Abraham Lincoln's favorite poem.

https://www.bartleby.com/library/song/60.html


----------



## Gaer (Apr 9, 2021)

ohioboy said:


> Your poem here reminds me of this one, Abraham Lincoln's favorite poem.
> 
> https://www.bartleby.com/library/song/60.html


Well, That's quite an honor.  I've never heard of Willian Knox, but i thank you for the comparison.


----------



## ohioboy (Apr 9, 2021)

Gaer said:


> Well, That's quite an honor.  I've never heard of Willian Knox, but i thank you for the comparison.



I saw that first stanza on a headstone once. This was before computer days. I searched for it in the library, it has stuck with me since.


----------



## debodun (Apr 9, 2021)

There was an old man from Bermuda
Who people though kinda lewda.
He'd walk on the beach
In order to teach
How to get away with being nuda.


----------



## OneEyedDiva (Apr 9, 2021)

I've written a couple of words for songs that have yet to be recorded. I may have written poetry too a very long time ago.


----------



## RB-TX (Apr 10, 2021)

Gaer said:


> Come on, Jerryold and Gary O', and anyone else who writes poetry.  Would you please post it here?  This is a perfect time to write poetry!  We would all love to read it!



A long time ago, I'd say the early to middle 1970s, my Dad wrote us a letter. He had a fig tree, or maybe several fig trees, I don't know, but apparently, they were producing. Everything in his letter was about what they were doing with figs, and he wrote at least two full pages about figs; little or nothing else.

In response to his letter, I wrote the following poem and sent it to him. He never mentioned the poem, nor did he ever write about figs again. I don't think he appreciated it.


*                      FIGS*

I just got this rig that is designed to dig
And from the way it is made, I think it's a spade.

And for a reason to dig, I planted a fig.
I am sick in the head or my brain may be dead.

For what use is a fig whether little or big?
They aren't fit to eat - they are nothing like meat.

The only use for a fig are - to make a fig bar
I don't know how but can you feed figs to a cow?

No, cows won't eat figs unless they are pigs
And a pig of a cow's not a cow anyhow.

Woe upon me - I am standing in figs up to my knee.
But I wonder about wigs, can I make them from figs?

I guess I could learn if I had enough yearn
To eat figs that are fried, though I ani't never tried.

I won't eat stewed figs or boiled - clean figs or soiled
Or figs that are pickled in brine.

So, all I can say is this day is fine
Cause those figs are yours and not mine.


----------



## charry (Apr 10, 2021)

Yes I try and write some poetry, but when stuck , look online for help, 
This is one of mine ........



I Am There For Him.....



His independence

taken by stroke;

he fights back

and I am there for him.



Near, aware,

anticipating his needs,

but reaching out

only as he calls.



Standing silently by

as he struggles

to regain all

that he has lost



Recognizing little steps,

slow walks, independent moves;

as days, months, and years pass,

on its own objective schedule.



I am the well spouse;

aware of his needs

while minding those

of my own.



Plans for tomorrow

are always ever-changing.

We concentrate on

today’s Aim Only .....


----------



## ohioboy (Apr 10, 2021)

What is Love?

Ask me how to split an atom.
Ask me how a quasar forms.
I can explain magnetic waves.
I can tell you how a Star is born.

I can explain thermodynamics.
I can explain co-valent bonds.
I can age rocks with a simple touch.
I can transplant two hearts at once.

I can explain radiation belts.
I can formulate a theory of time.
I can explain specific gravity,
I can explain the speed of light.

Ask me how to carbon date.
Ask me to explain fusion.
Ask me how to code DNA.
Ask me to explain fission.

I've the greatest mind of all time.
So ask me much much more than this.
Ask me when will Christ return---
Just don't ask me what Love is?


----------



## grahamg (Apr 10, 2021)

ohioboy said:


> What is Love?
> 
> Ask me how to split an atom.
> Ask me how a quasar forms.
> ...


Quite brilliant!!!!!!!?


----------



## ohioboy (Apr 10, 2021)

Thank you so very much grahamg, that is very flattering!


----------



## Rosemarie (Apr 10, 2021)

Tiger is a tom cat,
He wanders far and wide.
No matter what the weather's like,
He will not stay inside.


----------



## ohioboy (Apr 12, 2021)

Unprolific Pen

My pen is not prolific,
My hand disdains progression.
My "Canon" is a derringer--
Diagnosis-- Mad depression.

Doctor death examines me,
Disects my brain with scissors.
Severs all my motor nerves
With demon skilled precision.

Book shelves filled with uncut pulp.
Poems, Prose, not by my hand.
Just well read science of the mind--
"Mental madness"--"The neurotic man".

"Poetic license" driven mad,
From midnight dark to darker noon.
Alone, confined, death's prisoner
In a locked one corner room.

Mr. Raven, our minds converge.
We two are kin Master Poe.
No cheer, no comfort, no escape--
Just dark despair, gloom, forbade.


----------



## Jim W. (Apr 12, 2021)

Gaer said:


> Come on, Jerryold and Gary O', and anyone else who writes poetry.  Would you please post it here?  This is a perfect time to write poetry!  We would all love to read it!



There once was a man from Nantucket.....


----------



## Lara (Apr 19, 2021)

Very clever @ohioboy  I took this quite seriously at first. You nailed the doom and gloom and then the last verse, when you come clean with your intention of developing your own dark character inspired by the "Master Poe", came off as a fun twist in camaraderie with the master of darkness. Well done.


----------



## ohioboy (Apr 19, 2021)

Lara said:


> Very clever @ohioboy  I took this quite seriously at first. You nailed the doom and gloom and then the last verse, when you come clean with your intention of developing your own dark character inspired by the "Master Poe", came off as a fun twist in camaraderie with the master of darkness. Well done.


Thanks Laura, the last word should be-forbode-not forbade.


----------



## ohioboy (May 11, 2021)

Bojacks

The children, eyes wide open
Listen to the tale of Bojacks.
A timid little forest rascal
Who scampers about the lakes.

He will dash across an open field
So fast as to cease the wind.
Then circle 'round and start anew
From tree to tree, glen to glen.

He's just having fun he is,
To pass his joy filled day.
In his very own innocent world,
Life is to run and play.

You can never set your watch to him,
He's timeless and fancy free.
He stops to verse with no one else--
He's quite invisible you see.

Still you can hear him running past,
Time to keep, not here, not there.
Squeaking, chirping his happy sounds,
Riding the currents of happy air.

I'm still not sure what Bojacks is?
An elf, a troll, a leprechaun?
Real or imagined, all this aside--
He's a child's heart when the day is done!


----------



## Gary O' (Jul 19, 2021)

Gary O' said:


> Well, I've got just the one, and I've posted it too many times, but, since this is the poetry thread...... looks like I'll be posting it again;
> 
> (a little story goes with it)
> 
> *I’ll Never Forget My First Friend*


OK, I gotta come clean.

This little story is true;



*I’ll Never Forget My First Friend





*


I was three.
He was a few months.
Neither of us had much to play with….but each other.
We never lacked.
He’d look up at me with complete unwavering trust.
Trying to read my face.
Ears perked up when I spoke.
Wherever I went, he followed.
He rapidly grew, and soon we were face high to each other.
We’d roam the patch of woods up the hill from our place, him guarding my every step, sometimes blocking my way when I got too close to the cliff edge. I didn’t know it at the time.
I’d take my naps nestled into his chest.
He’d lie there, never moving a muscle.

As I grew to boyhood, he remained a part of me, my shadow.
We’d wrestle….he’d let me win.

We’d hunt.

We’d fish.

Not that he took part.
He was no hunting dog.
Just my companion.
We’d share lunch.
He’d listen to my every word, as we sat on the creek bank.

Years passed.
I got very busy, but not so busy that we wouldn’t still roam the woods every so often, even though he had a bit of a time keeping up.

The day came when he just didn’t get up.
I was sixteen.
Mom told me to take him in to the vet.
‘He’ll be able to fix him up.’

I gathered him up and laid him in the passenger’s seat of the pickup, right beside me, and we had one of our conversations while I drove the twenty miles.
It had been awhile.
Too long actually.


I sat on the stool beside the exam table, while the vet did his thing.
Once again my best friend and I were face high to each other.
The vet was talking with my mom.
He handed me the phone.
It was time.
He had to be put to sleep.

OK, I brought him in to get fixed up, and now he’s going to be put down….just like that.



I was told I had to leave the room.

Like hell.

The vet did…..something. I don’t recall.

I held my best friend’s face with both hands.


His ears perked up as we had what would be our last conversation, telling him the reality.
Then I just cradled his head, holding it to my chest, not moving a muscle until, feeling his last breath against my heart, he went to sleep.

Even though the wipers were going, I had a hard time seeing through the rain drops on the way back home.


……..I’ll never forget my first friend

*This little story is true, 'cept for these last few words;*
_
The vet did…..something. I don’t recall.

I held my best friend’s face with both hands.


His ears perked up as we had what would be our last conversation, telling him the reality.
Then I just cradled his head, holding it to my chest, not moving a muscle until, feeling his last breath against my heart, he went to sleep._

*Heh, I embellished that a bit.*
Didn't stay
Left my first friend there
Drove home empty
Just the smell of his diseased hind end emanating from passenger seat.

I write;
So, I created a touching scene

But that's not in my manuscript for my book, so can't be here either.

And, well, its not true
Can't rest with that

As a professed writer, I must at least put (to quote Jack Nicholson in *Something's gotta Give*)  'a version of the truth' to ink and paper, unless I want to write a novel

OK, time for a nap

it'll come easier


----------



## Ladybj (Jul 20, 2021)

Yes.  I wrote a poem titled Never Give Up.  It got published in a book.. which was many years ago.  Sadly, not able to locate the book.


----------



## grahamg (Aug 1, 2021)

The Meaning Of Love

To love is to share life together,
to build special plans just for two,
to work side by side,
and then smile with pride,
as one by one, dreams all come true.

To love is to help and encourage
with smiles and sincere words of praise,
to take time to share,
to listen and care
in tender, affectionate ways.

To love is to have someone special,
one on whom you can always depend
to be there through the years,
sharing laughter and tears,
as a partner, a lover, a friend.

To love is to make special memories
of moments you love to recall,
of all the good things
that sharing life brings.
Love is the greatest of all.

I've learned the full meaning
of sharing and caring
and having my dreams all come true;
I've learned the full meaning
of being in love
by being and loving with you.

Krina Shah


----------



## peppermint (Aug 2, 2021)

grahamg said:


> The Meaning Of Love
> 
> To love is to share life together,
> to build special plans just for two,
> ...


----------



## peppermint (Aug 2, 2021)

Krina Shah....Beautiful....

I use to write poems.....My life changed since I am old......I love now to read poems....Thank you for caring ......My husband and I married when we were 20 years old.....Still standing!!!!   Our two kids are married and have children...


----------



## grahamg (Aug 4, 2021)

Another very good one (posted by the same man who found the previous one):

"I loved you first: but afterwards your love"
By Christina Rossetti

Poca favilla gran fiamma seconda. – Dante

Ogni altra cosa, ogni pensier va fore,
E sol ivi con voi rimansi amore. – Petrarca

I loved you first: but afterwards your love
Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song
As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove.
Which owes the other most? my love was long,
And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong;
I loved and guessed at you, you construed me
And loved me for what might or might not be –
Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong.
For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine;’
With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done,
For one is both and both are one in love:
Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine;’
Both have the strength and both the length thereof,
Both of us, of the love which makes us one.


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## ohioboy (Aug 4, 2021)

I like Christina Rossetti too.


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## palides2021 (Oct 18, 2021)

Gary O' said:


> OK, I gotta come clean.
> 
> This little story is true;
> 
> ...


This was a heart-wrenching poem! It told a story and the love of a boy for his best friend. Well done!


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## palides2021 (Oct 18, 2021)

Here's a poem I wrote during the summer. I like to write poetry during my spare time. I have not published this one, so sharing it 
here. It's not a rhyming poem. 

Nature’s Call

I love to stroll through the grass
Gazing at the pink hydrangea bush,
Seeing the roses with their elegant red smiles,
Listening to the birds tilt a salute my way.
I know they’re talking to each other
“Here she comes. Watch this human. Maybe
She’ll pour water in the fountain for us again.”
I can sense the urgency in their chirps
As I pass by.
It feels as if they’re competing
To see who will be the loudest.

I love seeing the bobtail rabbit with its brown fur,
“There’s no need to keep still as I pass by, little rabbit.”
I am still, too, as I watch your furry body bound away,
And just the other day, the groundhog paid a visit,
His gray, pudgy body eagerly devouring the grass
Before he sensed me. He stood up, looking my way
Then waddled back into his hiding hole until I moved on.

I love seeing the delicate bodies of the brown deer
As they graze the land. They also know the ebb and flow
Of nature’s call and sprint away when seen.
The gray squirrels are busy being everywhere and nowhere.
The bees buzz around the clover. I know you’re hiding
The honey somewhere. Butterflies flutter by gracefully.

I love seeing the zucchini’s leaves waving in the breeze,
Large green elephant ears with thin stalks
Like a protective mother hiding her bounty, with
Tiny fuzzy thorns that keep the deer away.
The sturdy brick garden bed has kept its promise,
The tomato plants sprout like beanstalks
Reaching hungrily for the sun that sits high in the sky
Keeping company with the cucumber’s yellow flowers.

Like a mother, I nourish all the
Vegetables, apples, and pears, and
The blackberries, figs, and grapes. I water them
Every day so that they keep growing happily,
So that they feel loved and cared for, so that
I can keep smiling back at them each day.
So that love wins the day.

Aug. 2021


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## Alizerine (Oct 19, 2021)

Gaer said:


> Come on, Jerryold and Gary O', and anyone else who writes poetry.  Would you please post it here?  This is a perfect time to write poetry!  We would all love to read it!


*Who Can I Tell*

Who can I tell?
Or is it whom can I tell?
Or is it who may I tell?

Is it I can tell you 
but I may not?

Or is it I may tell you?
But I can not.


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## Alizerine (Oct 19, 2021)

Gary O' said:


> Well, I've got just the one, and I've posted it too many times, but, since this is the poetry thread...... looks like I'll be posting it again;
> 
> (a little story goes with it)
> 
> ...


What a beautiful tribute. Thank you.


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## grahamg (Oct 19, 2021)

Alizerine said:


> *Who Can I Tell*
> Who can I tell?
> Or is it whom can I tell?
> Or is it who may I tell?
> ...


Brilliant in its simplicity, (I believe my mother would have approved!).


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## Alligatorob (Oct 19, 2021)

Gaer said:


> Do any of you write poetry?


It appear so, but I ain't one of em.


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## grahamg (Oct 19, 2021)

Alligatorob said:


> It appear so, but I ain't one of em.


Complete poetry numpty then, like myself!!!!


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## Alligatorob (Oct 20, 2021)

grahamg said:


> Complete poetry numpty then


Probably, though I am not sure what a numpty is.  I suspect Shakespeare wasn't one...


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## charry (Oct 20, 2021)




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## charry (Oct 20, 2021)

Dementia

Sit for a while and close your eyes
Maybe think of days gone by
When you shared your lives together
Some   days you’d laugh or cry
But today things have changed  a little
Dementia has entered your lives
A condition alien to you both
Where anger and worry thrives
But try if you will to face those Demons
Who seem to have taken control
Of a loved one very close to you
Though no change in their heart and soul
For nobody knows what is there in their mind
Their feelings they find hard to explain
So how can you help them to cope with life
Many ideas go round in your brain
Patience and understanding takes a key role
Compassion can also play a part
As sympathy solves very little
But love returned straight from the heart
A fond caress when passing the chair
And many a warm comforting embrace
The tell-tale sign of acceptance
The welcoming smile on their face
Words like these are written for comfort
To those who constantly care
To demonstrate fully the answer
Those loved ones are definitely still here.


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## feywon (Oct 20, 2021)

GRANDMA ROCKS

This grandma rocks:
House in the country but still a science geek
with the books and streaming documentaries.
Yet also keeps play-doh, paper and crayons
to occupy little hands that visit.
Her dogs and cats kid friendly companions.

This grandma rocks:
Smiling as the kid waters wildflowers
or talks to dragonflies, trees and flowers.
After all, he comes by that honestly,
his pagan Grandma does it too.
And at night she points out planets amongst stars.

This grandma rocks:
She blogs and throws herself down
both fun and research rabbit holes online.
She splits firewood and dances around the house.
Lift her headphones from her ears
and you‘re as likely to hear Pink as the Stones.

Hell, yeah…this grandma rocks. 

©efbarmore 7/19/15


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## grahamg (Oct 20, 2021)

Alligatorob said:


> Probably, though I am not sure what a numpty is.  I suspect Shakespeare wasn't one...


The "Brownlee" brothers used the word, or rather Alistair the eldest did to describe his brother Jonny when he'd used to wrong tactics in a world championship "Triathlon" event, (the two of them having dominated the sport around the time of the London Olympics in 2012).

So "numpty" means someone who isn't acting in a very bright or intelligent way, (or has no idea how to do something like write poetry!).


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## jerry old (Oct 20, 2021)

brain on strike-removed


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## palides2021 (Oct 20, 2021)

charry said:


> Dementia
> 
> Sit for a while and close your eyes
> Maybe think of days gone by
> ...


Wow! You captured the essence of dementia and all its little details! Loved it!


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## fmdog44 (Oct 21, 2021)

I have always admired Shakesbeer.


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## grahamg (Oct 21, 2021)

fmdog44 said:


> I have always admired Shakesbeer.


Sheer poetry in one line!
(sure the great bard would have approved  )


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## charry (Oct 22, 2021)

palides2021 said:


> Wow! You captured the essence of dementia and all its little details! Loved it!


Thankyou x


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## palides2021 (Nov 6, 2021)

​As Christmas is around the corner, I thought I'd share a poem I wrote couple years ago and never shared. This one is supposed to look like a bass (when I copied and pasted, it didn't look quite like that.) It was inspired by my experience playing at a Christmas concert. 


The stage

is ready.

The stands and chairs

sit in their places.

Black trees, black bushes,

sprout from the stage.

Long black robes,

Black ties, white shirts

Everyone sits

Rustling

papers.

Rumblings

Bass lady.

Quiet.

Lights.

Sweat on brow. A cough.

Another cough. The principal violinist arrives.

She bows and the audience claps. She lifts her violin and

looks at the oboist, nose upturned. Cacophony. The string players

tune their instruments. The violinists place their violins under their arms.

Lights out. The audience in black, clothed in secrecy. The conductor arrives,

elegantly dressed and groomed. The audience claps. Everyone on stage rises

except the bass lady. She’s already standing. The conductor bows to the audience,

his face glows from the stage lights. He turns and faces the orchestra. Everyone

sits back down, except the bass lady. He taps the stand with his bow and lifts his

arms. A stream of red streaks flash on stage. The orchestra members throw on

funny hats that were hiding underneath their seats. Red Santa-Clause hats.

Green Christmas tree hats. Red hats with silver bells. Simple Antlers

on heads. Upside-down Santa-Clause-in-Chimney hats.

Everyone laughs. The conductor waves his arms. The music

rushes in as _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ flies by. _I’m Dreaming 

of a White Christmas, _just like the ones I used to know. _Carol of the Bells,

_Christmas is here, to young and old. _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas._ Hang

a shining star upon the highest bough. People sing along. Warmth creeps up the legs, up

the spine, up the heart. Intermission. The auditorium empties. Shuffling of feet fade from the

stage. The stage empties. Quiet once more. The bell rings loudly. Shuffling of feet back on

stage. Rustling papers. Tuning of instruments. Christmas songs sprout their wings once more.

The audience cheers. Flushed faces singing along. Only things missing are _Silent Night_, eggnog, and mistletoe. The music ends. The conductor bows to the audience and leaves. Clap, clap, clap. One last song. _Please._ Encore. The conductor lifts his arms once more. _Silent Night, Holy Night_, all is calm, all is bright. This is what Christmas is about. Flushed tear-stained faces crooning softly along. The music ends. The conductor’s arms come down._ Silence_

Thunder shakes the auditorium.​


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## jerry old (Nov 6, 2021)

See,


palides2021 said:


> ​As Christmas is around the corner, I thought I'd share a poem I wrote couple years ago and never shared. This one is supposed to look like a bass (when I copied and pasted, it didn't look quite like that.) It was inspired by my experience playing at a Christmas c


see, see, the single line, see the single thought, let the mind roll around the words,
now (You have them thinking) the lines together making the whole...
Their alert, so let it end with the single line that makes all the lines join together making the whole
see the thunder in the words

Yes, it does look like a bass


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## Gaer (Nov 6, 2021)

To the Weakened souls:

Bring the gods to guard movements of the wept souls.
Do you need the arms of Angels round thee?
Now we hear with pleas of beg, pleas of want, pleas of need.

Mighty arms shall shield, yet with softest wisps of love.
Heed, as tender voices caress thy hear.
Words of love crest o'er thy stead.
Gods attend from Heaven's loft.
from places held for sacred souls.
You need their words to hold to heart.
to cherish as you plan the deeds.

No trembling child shall moan in fear
lest Angels hold thy hand.
Calm the minds of man in rest.
Create the love in hearts to spread o'er man.
Spread the seeds of life again.  Love seeds.
and music.
Music turns the seeds to bloom.

Copyright 2021 Cheryl Gaer Barlow


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## JaniceM (Feb 17, 2022)

deleted


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## Gaer (Mar 2, 2022)

palides2021 said:


> ​As Christmas is around the corner, I thought I'd share a poem I wrote couple years ago and never shared. This one is supposed to look like a bass (when I copied and pasted, it didn't look quite like that.) It was inspired by my experience playing at a Christmas concert.
> 
> 
> The stage
> ...


I was struck by the artistic way this was presented!


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