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The Poetry Thread

Started by Solomon Zorn, September 15, 2013, 02:32:56 AM

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Solitary

#120
So many poets that are so good, but still I haven't understood. Little lies, and big bad truths. The dripping of tears, from many fears, all for nothing in my ears. Once upon a morning clearly, while I wondered dumb and teary. I saw the light, and took a flight, into heavenly bliss, of sleeps wonderful kiss from poetry's might. Seriously, good poetry guys! Solitary   
There is nothing more frightful than ignorance in action.

Brian37

"We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus -- and nonbelievers." Obama
Poetry By Brian37 Like my poetry on Facebook Under BrianJames Rational Poet and also at twitter under Brianrrs37

Solitary

 :biggrin2: That was nice. Thanks!
There is nothing more frightful than ignorance in action.

Shiranu

Slightly off topic: I think I was a bit hasty on my seawall haiku... it's now facing back to back hurricanes. Probably won't be holding the sea back now :P.
"A little science distances you from God, but a lot of science brings you nearer to Him." - Louis Pasteur

Nam

it's all just a story

I don't know if I am stuck in forever
if this will be the breath that I shall
always breathe
as if encompassed upon all thoughts
or all conclusions
that I'll ever have in my life
from now on until the day I breathe
my last breath
that I will be stuck in this period
of time
this moment that seems to go on forever for me
that never ends
as each moment never ends
in the solitude of one-dimensions
like darkness
it consists and rests
but
is it really there in the end?
I don't know if I am stuck or I am just
jammed in a hole that has no in
or no out
just a middle
that's what it feels like to me
a middle
and it will never end
it will never
end
I feel






thoughts

period of inclusion that isn't included
a book that is left on the ground
and is picked up by a stranger
though the stranger isn't really a stranger
but your best friend
or a friend that you considered to
be your best friend or
one
of your best friends at one
point/moment in your life
or is that one moment in time?
quagmire of sorts I feel
but
it still hinges there
as if it won't ever let
go
and you ponder
and you
ponder
and nothing comes to you
because the book is blank
but only to you
when your friend picks it
up
it tells a story
a story that you just can't seem
to finish
and you just can't remember
if it
ever had a beginning and you ask
yourself
do beginnings have endings?
and if they do
why isn't there an ending to your beginning?

he (or whoever) picks up the book
that seems to have been discarded on a lonely road
there are many people on that road
you just can't see them
and they can't see you
for they
only exist in their own realities
as you
only exist in your own reality
the reality that there is an ending
and that you are already there
and there is joy
or
sadness
but either way it is joy
because it's the ending

he picks up the book
and he opens it up and reads it
and it is about love
as they all are - love I mean
they are all about love
some type of love
some type of disgust from love
and the stories all seem to be the same
they really are the same
but different in ways
some are lost stories
some
are found stories
some are just stories
and they mean nothing
not even to the person who wrote it
or to the person it is for
it is just there for comfort
it is just there
and there is no letting go
you just wish to let go
but you just can't seem to let
go
though you wish to
and you repeat the action
until your fingers let loose
and there is nothing
left
not even your brain
just your heart
and it beats too slow
always too slow

he reads this book and
he sees it is about a girl
a girl that is unknown to the
person
who wrote the book
but known to the person
who is reading
the book as well
and why?
because they are friends
or used to be
or still are
and they just don't know
it
or maybe it's a past
a content past
of solitude
that leaves one nude
from everyday life
he knows her
and he knows who wrote the
book
at least he pretends he does
at least the writer pretends
that he does
as well
quagmire - comes back to that
forthcoming and un-ending
pretending and contemplating
it's all just run a-rounds
but the birds are all
who are running a-round

he reads the book
as if
in some manner
he wrote it himself
and he cries tears
but he doesn't know why he is crying these tears
he wishes to know why
but he doesn't
maybe it's sorrow
maybe he felt the same way about this girl
and just didn't know the words
to tell her
like the words written in this unknown book
filled page to page
about a girl
a girl first seen through the eyes of a loving
but a violent
yes a violent soul
why violent?
that's how some souls are: violent
but she calmed it down
and made this writer see peace
that he never knew existed
but there are no names
in this book
no names mentioned
so
how does the reader
who could be the writer
but just
as well be the reader
know
deep down who this is written about?
do the words entwine themselves into her image?
are they in her image?
he wonders this himself
(the reader of course
the writer
knows who it is about
but though he sees nothing written in the book
he sees her
as if she had never left his eyes
as if she travelled into his dreams
and told him
to love her
and told him
to hate her
and told him
to give up on her
and told him
to love her
and told him
that years have passed
though they only
seem
like mere seconds
and she wants to love him
but it would be false
and he thinks this for her
because after all
she is just his imagination
since she is just a dream
a figment
of his own reality
but
he sees her)
the image of her is there
in the dog-ears
in the crackle of his throat
and the reader can
read this
the reader can hear this
the reader knows
who the writer is
he met him in a lifetime that
has passed
and he does know the girl
and her name
is in in his brain
but he just can't remember
or maybe he chooses to not remember
for the sake of the writer

continued thoughts

the sun is the moon
the moon is the sun
the stars are children
and the earth seems to not even exist
not in the mindset of time
it as well is just a figment
a dream
and when the writer
wakes up
nothing will exist
as if he died in some way
or maybe he didn't die
but time died
and if time died
then she never existed
and the traveller never
persisted beyond the
boundaries of dog-ears
and friends that no one knew
or couldn't remember
and the writer wasn't born
he never had parents
or grandparents
or siblings
or even a pet
he just never existed
and he never fell in love
he never
no he never fell in love
with a girl he wrote about
in an empty book
and why is it still empty?
because still he can't see what he wrote
for her
he can't smell her hair
or see her smile
he can't taste her lips
though he never tasted them before
but the thought
is there
the thought is always there
he just wants
just wants
or pretends to want
or doesn't want
because he doesn't exist
or she doesn't exist
or nothing exists
did anything ever exist
he's not asking
nor wanting to know
so the reader doesn't need to answer
and the reader knows who the reader is
or does the reader know?
probably not
do they ever?

there are no words
there never were any words
just pictures
just photograph's
just time
that never ended
just a book stuck in the middle of nowhere
everything is stuck in the
middle of nowhere
just ask everyone who has ever loved
or thinks they have loved
or knows they have loved
or lost a love
or haven't lost a love
or wanted to lose a love
just ask
and they will tell you
that this writer isn't alone
even the reader has been there
or will be there
even she has been there
or hasn't and he pretends she has
or she has and she pretends she hasn't
and all three of them
like everyone else
in the entire world
don't really see the words
they
aren't there - nothing is there - nothing is here - nothing exists
it's all a faery-tale
and that is what the writer wants to believe
for if everything is a faery-tale
does the writer really have a broken heart?
and if he does
did he cause it or did the notion of her cause it?
he knows she didn't cause it
or doesn't want to believe she caused it
or thinks that maybe when she made him cry
that she meant to hurt him
and he never got over it
or maybe it was all always in his mind
and he always thought with
his mind
and he never thought with his heart
and he never listened to his soul
and thus
he lost her
from his own ignorance
from his own fear
from his own pitiful disguises
and she and the reader
just laughed at him
or he thought they did
or thinks they do
and paranoia is just an occurrence of subtlety
and the love is gone
he just doesn't know it
or can't fathom to know it
so he continues on loving her
though she doesn't love him
and probably had never loved him
for she was young and he was naive
or he was young and she was naive
and in the end
when there is an end
it's all just a story







David Garrett Arnold
April 30 2004

-Nam
Mad cow disease...it's not just for cows, or the mad!

Solitary

 :super: 
http://lit.genius.com/William-shakespeare-the-seven-ages-of-man-annotated

Quote

The Seven Ages of Man
William Shakespeare

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.

At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.

And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound.

Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
There is nothing more frightful than ignorance in action.

Mr.Obvious

And you were there

Sheltering underneath
a flickering vacancy sign
stands a lonely Kansas girl.
Red lips, red dress, ruby shoes.
Sad eyes speak: "No place like home."
I lose all instantaneously:
my heart, brain and courage.
"If we have to go down, we go down together!"
- Your mum, last night, requesting 69.

Atheist Mantis does not pray.

renasimplified

Someone told me I should post this poem on here... so here it is :)

My God, My God

There once was a girl, poisoned by life and left alone,
rescued by God, the God of men.
all she knew to do, between the cry, between the moan,
was dripped into her by men, by kin.
from a booth, of truth and hidden lies,
it said if she believed, she'd own the skies.
and far from fear, was hope of happiness,
So she happily believed, hit or miss.
but happiness never came, only mistakes and harm,
and each new problem brought another one.
happiness waited just out of reach,
as God sucked her dry like a leach.
She stood by a cliff, surrounded by God's men.
Yelling at her, "SIN SIN SIN!"
All at once she fell from the cliff,
she became weightless, no longer stiff,
She looked up as she fell from the lies,
she took up heart, and started to fly.


Solomon Zorn

#128
Quote from: Mr.Obvious on August 11, 2014, 12:54:37 PM
And you were there

Sheltering underneath
a flickering vacancy sign
stands a lonely Kansas girl.
Red lips, red dress, ruby shoes.
Sad eyes speak: "No place like home."
I lose all instantaneously:
my heart, brain and courage.
I like it. Simple and emotive. I can identify with the theme, because, as I understood it, it's a universal one.

If God Exists, Why Does He Pretend Not to Exist?
Poetry and Proverbs of the Uneducated Hick

http://www.solomonzorn.com

Solomon Zorn

Quote from: renasimplified on August 14, 2014, 10:33:06 PM
Someone told me I should post this poem on here... so here it is :)

My God, My God

There once was a girl, poisoned by life and left alone,
rescued by God, the God of men.
all she knew to do, between the cry, between the moan,
was dripped into her by men, by kin.
from a booth, of truth and hidden lies,
it said if she believed, she'd own the skies.
and far from fear, was hope of happiness,
So she happily believed, hit or miss.
but happiness never came, only mistakes and harm,
and each new problem brought another one.
happiness waited just out of reach,
as God sucked her dry like a leach.
She stood by a cliff, surrounded by God's men.
Yelling at her, "SIN SIN SIN!"
All at once she fell from the cliff,
she became weightless, no longer stiff,
She looked up as she fell from the lies,
she took up heart, and started to fly.

Wow. What can I say? I had to reread it before it sunk in for me. Great poem.
If God Exists, Why Does He Pretend Not to Exist?
Poetry and Proverbs of the Uneducated Hick

http://www.solomonzorn.com

Solomon Zorn

OK. I just noticed that we are about a month away from the first anniversary of "The Poetry Thread."

I would like to challenge everyone to write a poem to post on September 15th. Something new. Just consider your audience, and try to be relevant to the forum.

And no, Brian, it doesn't have to rhyme. :blahblah:  :rotflmao: :naughty:
If God Exists, Why Does He Pretend Not to Exist?
Poetry and Proverbs of the Uneducated Hick

http://www.solomonzorn.com

Brian37

True Lies, By Brian37 (also posted at www.rationalresponders. com in my poetry thread link listed in my sig)



Tumble tumble

Down the stairs

Rat a tat tat

Only bad guys die



Blame the owner

When things go wrong

General Motors

Was held responsible



Instructor dead

A girl traumatized

Gun manufactures

Sell True Lies



They want our highways

And public roads

With no street lights

Or stop signs



A free for all

Is what they want

For shear profit

At all costs



"Controlled environment"

At a gun range

Yet it still happened

Because of "True Lies"



Liberals do not

To get rid of all guns

Just some sanity

Instead of "True Lies"



You don't need an Uzi

To shoot a deer

You don't need an assault riffle

To protect your house



The police do not need

Tanks or gear

This is the industry

Selling fear



This is about profit

And nothing more

About a lobby

That does not care.
"We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus -- and nonbelievers." Obama
Poetry By Brian37 Like my poetry on Facebook Under BrianJames Rational Poet and also at twitter under Brianrrs37

Savior2006

I heard my mother pray.
"Be my light in the dark."

And I came beside her to say.
"Be my darkness in the light."
It took science to do what people imagine God can do.
--ApostateLois

"The closer you are to God the further you are from the truth."
--St Giordano

Savior2006

The Shadow March

We are the ice people. Of the world of Grey.
We lived in darkness, said those of the Dey.
They came, riding the fireflies.
“We’ve told ourselves terrible lies.”

Dancing among them, a Great Light.
It was great, and white and bright.
But as it neared us, it stung.
Our crops it killed and left hung.

We begged them take the Light and go.

The people of the Light were confused
But it was slight; they were amused
At our concern, at our growing fright.
It proved that they were right.

We retreated and they approached
The light came closer, larger; and they coached
On how to make it not burn
We would know and we would turn.

First close your eye.
What the eye tells is a lie.
What it tells not is right.
Now step towards the light.

We did, and there was the burn.
And in time, we did turn.
We saw our buildings were boiling,
Our melting ice trees foiling.

And we begged them take the Light and go.

But they approached, faster
And the light circled after   
To our horror it grew and grew
We saw our village became a stew.

We begged them take the light and go.

But they approached and they were mad.
This was proof that we were bad.
And we quickened and quickened.
And the Great Light made us sickened.

But they approached faster and faster
And the light circled after
And we smoldered and fried
And hundreds of us died.

But they approached faster and faster
The people of the Light circled after.
Then we happened among the moonflies,
They too had told themselves lies.

There were other peoples with other Lights.
The retreating moonflies proved that they were right.
My name is Dancer: I spoke to the moonflies.
I said, “Let us tell each other lies.”

We rode the moonflies, and then we fled.
We were offered the sickened Light and instead
Began the shadow march away,
To a darker place to stay.


It took science to do what people imagine God can do.
--ApostateLois

"The closer you are to God the further you are from the truth."
--St Giordano

Deidre32

I posted this poem I wrote, recently on a site for deconverts...

All This Time

All this time
I spent chasing You
When I could've spent it
Chasing my dreams

All this time
I spent trusting in Your Word
When I could've spent it
Trusting my intuition

All this time
I spent in church
Waiting, praying, hoping
For You to show up

All this time
I spent on my knees
When I could've spent it
Dancing or swimming or something else

All this time
I spent feeling guilty
When I could've spent it
Planting a garden

All this time
I spent loving You
When I could've spent it
Loving myself
The only lasting beauty, is the beauty of the heart. - Rumi