Any Poets Here?

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Hey folks! I am just curious to find out if there are any other poets here on WP. Roll Call....? And of course, say more if you like.

I used to be into writing poetry, but not anymore. Writing poetry back then was something that came naturally to me, but nowadays I have more difficulty with it.

I prefer short stories to poetry.

I used to write a lot. Even got a poem published. Now my creativity seems to have f****d off

Someone has commented on my post, saying that it reminded him/her of Wittgenstein and that it was poetic.
When I asked for clarification and remarked that Wittgenstein was a philosopher, he/she commented that they were short and practical.

I doubt that counts, though.

I write poems. But they're not dark and emo.
I could write serious poems, but when I start, I always find stupid rhymes, wordgames etc and my poem becomes a parody. So I write mostly parodies and absurds.

Sometimes I make serious poem in my mind, but I forget to write it down

I write double dactyls (click) sometimes to entertain close friends on special occasions.

Sure.

I cannot say where poetry is grown.
It comes not from blood nor flesh nor bone.
It is, perhaps an errant verbal weed
That takes root from thought and word, it's seed
Flies from atmospheric static quite erratic
And transcribes itself automatic,
Pops from reality and dream and thought
Like some wild bird in nerve-net caught,
Chirps and babbles out its lines
And flies away to leave behind designs.

Sure, i write some

"Wishing (You) Well"

I dropped a wish down the old well
with eyes that followed as it fell
to dark and murky depths below
where doubtful dreams and hopes may grow
but keeping to the local lore
i tossed also a quarter more
it shimmered in the dying light
then into darkness made it's flight
maybe just simple superstition
wasted coin, a poor petition
or fleeting comfort for the few
who frankly know naught else to do
when all else fails, you may yet try
but wave your pocket change goodbye

"Wings of Stone"

Falling from your lips
Like so many stone birds
Attempting to take flight
As such are your empty words
Falling on deaf ears
They drop and shatter on the floor
Even as you begin to speak
I'm turning, walking towards the door

"Inner Demons"

Retreating back inside the mind
careful or lost in labyrinth find
at best while you are wandering
behind you trail a guiding string
lest no way from complex maze
and meet you inner monster's gaze
a beast of rage, of guilt, of loss
borne then soon after in there tossed
behind you leave no open door
or reckon with the minotaur

I like your style - probably because my stuff runs somewhat along the same line. Here's my take on your demon poem.

DEMON INSIDE

There is, down deep inside of me,
The engineer who makes my engine go.
He pulls my pulleys, spins my gears to see
Me run, to manipulate me, fast and slow.
A dented topper rides astride his curly mop,
Baggy cloth coat, shoes split apart, open toed,
Cupid mouth, puffed cheeks, eyes that pop.
He’s Harpo Marx and it’s his bestowed
Energy which pulls my arms, my legs, my frame,
Sends me out on mysterious forays,
To seek odd things I cannot name,
To dance his unfathomable ballets.
He insanely pedals so my heart can thump
To squirt my blood from toes to hair
And kid the experts that my heart’s a pump.
He squashes bellows so I suck in air
And then, with spreading rubber grin
When I’m immersed in a silent group,
So quiet you could hear a pin,
Suddenly, he puts me in the soup.
His nature puts the coarse before the heart.
He strikes the activating button
And, uncontrollably, I fart.
When, on occasion, I act the glutton
In good company, to roundly squelch
My dignity, he deftly leaps to misuse
His agile skills to make me belch.
I dread to find myself bereft of tissues;
An opportunity he never fails to seize
With obvious unrepressed delight.
Invariably he induces a liquid sneeze.
I suppose there might come a night
When he steps forth in revelation,
In open friendliness, to say hello.
“I’m Geppetto”, he’ll confide, no hesitation.
“And you,” he’ll say, “must be Pinocchio.”

Weeeeell, I write it sometimes and then I hate going back to read it. I prefer my comic poetry, honestly. I wrote one for a college poetry writing class because I got fed up with all the tedious analysis. In so doing, I really made more of a point than I had in a lot of my more serious poems. These days, I favor a limerick... with the proper meter. I hate a sucky limerick, a forced rhyme. So now I'm just enough of a poet to roll my eyes at bad poetry. I don't mean the stuff here, which is actual poetry, but the kind that my kids always seem to bring home on a craft project, the kind that their teachers printed out and gave them to use. Such poems are usually unnecessarily precious, maudlin, or corny, and have forced rhyme. That's one thing my poetry teacher was right about... if you have to rearrange as sentence so that it no longer reads as natural just to make it rhyme, it diminishes the results. It's better not to rhyme at all. But I like Wordsworth who could pull of rhyme, meter, and meaning.

This is my satirical poem, to the best of my recollection. I read it aloud to the class and I'm glad I did. It gave me the experience of seeing their faces as they slowly caught on... some took a very long time indeed.

War...
Like a small dog laying in the sun
Like a toy train in the cold rain
Destructive, like a duck
Mutilating a piece of bread
Swimming in a bayou, kicking a turtle
in the head
Final, like a serial killer movie
The characters are dead, but
The movie just keeps on comin' back!
Senseless, like poetry interpretations
Or listening to opera in a language
you can't understand.
War...
Like a dead puppy - not much fun.
Like my brother - ugly.

This poem is full of hoak (I meant hoke)
The poet wrote it as a joke
It ought to be interpreted
90 years from now, when we're all dead.

And do you know, there was just a couple of people who didn't get it until the postscript. And these days, I do listen to a lot of music in a language I don't understand.

I used to be very fond of writing longer texts, but since my depression last year it takes a whole lot more effort than it used, so I've switched to poetry for a while. Whenever I'm overwhelmed by intense feelings I turn to writing poems. It's therapeutic to me.

I'd love to share a few with you all on WP, but unfortunately they're all in Danish, due to the fact that it's become a priority of mine to focus more on my mother's tongue.

Yup, me!

Here's a recent one;

"A new sentimentality stirs the world,
The clear light breath and smile
Sliding round the dripping ice,
The brown pebbles crack and sprout new life.

I am blinded by the morning, bright,
Leaning shine and glisten even to tears
Flickering in people's eyes.
I watch them with the awe and delight
Of the visitor, the observer."

I wrote a lot a couple of years ago, it seems to be coming back to me again now.

I write poems. I posted on called "The Almost Marriage." Here is one called "When Imagination Imagines"

When Imagination imagines-
Her frame she drapes in red.
Fine white pearls her neck circle
Like a ring- it's said.

Walks she then down Childhood's street-
Proceeding in high heels.
Crispy leaves the edges line
Like a rope- that reels.

Imagination- Childhood meets-
Beneath the tree of Destiny.
Ponder they- their secret bond-
Why existent it must be.

Arrive- they do- at Age's grave-
Lit by Feedom's moon.
Fireflies to them sing-
The autumn breeze joins soon.

I am a meerkat
Imagine that!
I am really quite the sophisti-kat
I run around and stick my tail in the air
I strut my stuff with flair
I'm flamboyant
I'm a star
People say that I am really cute
Oh right they are
I'm also really tiny
But I don't care
Because I know my friends are always there
We look out for each other
We're a team
Always together
Even in our dreams