Poetry/lyrics!

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So...I couldn't find a topic for poetry. No better reason for starting one then

This is a topic where everyone can post their poetry/song lyrics, and where we can also discuss them, and comment on others' pieces.

I'll go first with a couple of mine:

Girl

I live in their shadow
the Golden Girls
Few recognize my beauty, my strength

Only the top will do
give you a place in the sun
and you run

I will never win your respect
I am the condolence prize
And I know I'm not perfect
my defect
I am silver

If love is blind
why do I find
people find their beauty one of a kind
My qualities, my pride
hidden behind
their shimmering smiles.

ⓒ Micki


Ode to a boy

My life as a walking contradiction did not end
as you entered my heart
You only made my agony less forgivable

Even Aphrodite would burn
burn me in the furnace of her passion

In my dreams I had met you a thousand times
but you were always a different shape
I cannot recognize
the savior love sent me

Without you, I couldn't have written this piece
you bring me the turmoil
that I need to find peace

ⓒ Micki

First off i am saying that this poem is not mine. I read it once in a book,liked it, and just found it again.



One foot in and one foot out
Is what Asperger’s is all about
Sometimes I think why me,
Other times I think it’s the best way to be.
A little different from the rest
Makes you think you are the best.
Nobody quite understanding
A hard life, which is very demanding
I look like any other child
But the little things just make me wild
--Vanessa Royal

Sorry, it's kind of long and depressing, but it's the only one I have handy..lol

Opus

I. What has happened to this place?
No Life...
No Love...
Just a sudden darkness
And a great black void
Inside of me
Inside of everything
It fills me up to emptiness
And leaves me cold and shaken

II. What have we lost,
to create this vast hollow?
What useless things,
What feckless knowledge
Did we gain in trade?
The death of imagination
Our disenchantment
Was the ultimate price to pay
And we've paid it so willingly


III.What are we waiting for,
While we teater ominously on the edge of insanity?
I feel the world slipping away from me.
Though I do not miss it much,
I hang on still,
For fear of the nothingness that awaits,
Crouching in the shadows,
To strike us down
And this invisible hand that crushes my heart
Is of my own making

IV. Is the thread that ties me to this plane,
So worn,
So thin,
That it would snap
And cast me out into unreality,
Impossibilities?
That i would cut it myself
In one heart beat
To escape the monotony
The colourlessness
In search of something better
Something more worthwhile

V. How I long for the unreal
How unhealthy that might seem to some
But the magic that once blessed this place
Is long gone
And it's almost impossible to bear
I would give up my illusions
For something real
and tangible
If it meant the world had changed
But nothing now compares
And my fleating daydreams
Keep me grounded
Keep me burning


VI. So I mourn today
And i fill the void with fantasy
And I hope for this place
With everything left to me
That one day, what can't possibly be
Will be
And what was,
Will never be again.........

- Nights_Like_These

I am sitting in a chair
looking out the window
the glass is a boundary for what is outside
just as the mind percieves
the boundary of what is within

The wind stirs branches outside
leaves swaying in the breezes
as thoughts whisp around in my mind
flowing from pools of an beginning
streaming for a moment before dissipating

The color of the trees
against the sky
paint a picture
an essence
provoking a response within
as emotions paint the colors
an intertwining of feelings with thoughts

life is a picture in time
a steady supply of stimulus
the mind's interpretation
of movement and changes
within or without

a picture with no beginning
emerging from the fog of memory
to the time present
painting the brightest picure
currently residing

As this present fades
another takes its place
the fine details fade
as an old painting looses its edge
the season changes
memories as a trail once passed through
to the ones we are heading to

Cut out leaves rain from the tissue paper sky,
Red gold silver, afternoon mire,
The trees withstand, like centuries hollow,
Wisdom’s silent witnesses,
Inhuman sorrow.

It’s raining dust.

Dead bodies are concealed up there,
Motes of eyes, skin, and hair,
Captured by sparks of ephemeral light,
As the shadows turn cold and day becomes night.

More.

NOTES FROM AN OBSERVER

I am not, as some claim,
A local resident. Many provinces
Less obscure than this, in this game,
Require my attention.

You have been, to put it mildly,
Less than kind to my last representative.
Your proclivities vary wildly
From being rather clever, as a species,
To behaving with incredible stupidity.
You cannot even properly dispose of your own feces.
Your planet was unusually abundant
In everything to help you do well,
But your slavery to your own fertility
Is rapidly sending it to hell.
In one respect, you have improved.
A larger part of your population
Has realized I am not behooved
You spend your time to kiss my ass.
But, otherwise, you stay benighted.
Your appetite for cruelty is undiminished.
Your greed, taste for blood...I'm undelighted.


DISSECTION

What hookwords must I fashion
To jam into the guts of my mind
And so, with straining tendons
Pull out the flowers and
The black slime creatures
So I may examine my own biology?
These soft machines are tenacious,
Secretive, clever as chameleons
And elusive as eels. What would I see
If I could lay them out in white enamel trays?
And, more to the point, what would do
The looking? I suspect, along with Plato,
I am mere shadows that race through
The soft pulses of the machineries
Of the dynamics of my energies,
Like a seagull zooming inbetween
The valleys of a rolling sea.


EAR TO THE WORLD

The morning radio
Gossips endlessly like the buzz of flies,
A mad old guest picking its nose
And at sporadic intervals,
Bursting into abysmal bits of melody.
The world's mind funnels into
This omnivorous duct,
Busy experts tart up the nonsense
To be excreted into homes
Throughout the world.
At discrete intervals
Keys are offered
To sex or money
Or the exultant defeat
Of constipation.


THE END OF THE AFFAIR

The net that hooks
One to one
Bleeds when severed.
From broken threads
Small needle screams
Puncture hope,
Call death cracks
To multiply, race to fracture
Flat facades
To powdered fogs
Of blinded indecision.
Lay we now
In crumbled rubble.
One reprieved eye
Calls out for
A shaft of sun
To splash warmth
Across dismembered fields.


CAPABILITY

If I am talented,
It is to choose
That activity
Guaranteed to lose.

Each week I patronize the shop
Where the lottery is sold.
Hopes bought at small cash pop
Fatally mature to fairy gold.

The girls on which I glue my eye
Display ultimate appeals.
If I respond, and not ask why,
I always catch the short end deals.

Cash, for me proves most evasive.
Outlay is fleeter than incomes.
Salesmen are eternally persuasive.
Nothing wealthy this way comes.

Only God can make a tree,
So, I'm stuck with poetry.

I love your poems Sand. I especially liked the last one, I liked the lines

Hopes bought at small cash pop
Fatally mature to fairy gold.

and

Only God can make a tree,
So, I'm stuck with poetry.

Glad you liked them. Here are a few more. I have hundreds.

DESTINATION

There is cold
In the country of the old.
Heat of life,
Heat of love,
Heat of curiosity
Has drained away.
From its terrain,
Stony as a terminal moraine,
Sprouts pain,
Sprouts anxiety,
Sprouts isolation.
Desolation fills the atmosphere.
It blurs perception,
It blurs tactility,
It blurs memory.
Lonely, confused and feeble,
Old creatures creep in insecurity,
Stumbling on the roots and vines
Of bodily infirmity,
Await with temerity,
Await with resignation
The final mating
With the monolithic dominator
Whose acid flames
Burn away the self,
Dissolve and dissipate the substance,
Reduce to bland simplicity
The intricate design
Of individuality.



WINTER POPULATION

Broom in hand
The snowman stands
Top hat on top
Black button eyes
Staring under stormy skies
Like a frozen traffic cop.
Down, down the starflake snowflesh flies
Filling gullies, capping walls
As if the drift would never stop.

But stop it does in whitely quiet
'Til the kids come out in riot
Rolling snow to triple balls
So soon a thousand snowman faces
Grin and stare from snowman places.


THE MAJESTY OF DEATH

The majesty of death
Cannot reign without love.
All power draws its strings
From the intimates of common things
That cross and tie our lives
From day to day, one to another;
The touch, the look, the joy
Of living in a world to share
In happiness and misery.
Time blooms with wondrous insights
That intensify when held in hands
Together.
To feel and know each other=s universe
Weaves a web of mutuality that
When ripped by death
Leaves threads
Swinging in a midnight wind.



SOUND ABOUNDS

The noise of boys
Enjoys a royal lack of poise
Whereas the glittered twitter
Girls emit has, one must admit
That bit of wit to generate
Pandemic snit, sometimes fit
And sometimes merely bitter litter,
Ploys of misdirected verbal toys.

The howls of owls, mostly vowels
Contrasts with fowl's chicken clucks
And quacks of ducks, like the clacks
Of hockey pucks, well fortified
With consonants, much like cries
Of shifting continents which pop,
Also roar and thunder as land masses
Stumble , blunder, lifting mountains,
Squashing plains, generating hurricanes
Like a monster cosmic sneeze
To seize the trees and knock people
To their knees, soaking oaks
In windy pokes, quaking blokes
To their bowels so they rush
Inside to hide and wipe their faces
Dry with towels.

When eating leeks one should take peeks
At what squeaks and swiftly sneaks from baseboard holes -
Most likely mice or things not nice
Like moles and voles that move in shoals
To seek their goals - say, dried out rolls
That, left in bowls, stale, to look like
Crumpled poles or, perhaps, like parrot beaks.

Therefore, when sound gets out of bounds,
It=s good advice to stuff your ears
With sticky rice, or perhaps it might suffice
To use a slice of worn out shoes that might bemuse
A crowd of peers, inspire jeers and sidelong leers
Whose social force would scare a horse.
But never mind, if they're not kind you can, of course,
Bury them in lemon rinds or other kinds
Of fruity skins collected out of garbage bins -
Which might result in raucous dins
Or other awful unlawful sounds.


THE PALETTE OF THE POET

There are certain colors
Very popular,
Like a child's strong reds,
Deep blues, elemental hues,
Strong shades of love, desire.
Sometimes young poets
Get stuck
On the sharp barb of "fuc k".
A strong splash of hate
Can be the tool
To concentrate the feel
Of language into steel.
But, too soon,
The disgrace
Dulls down to commonplace.
It requires more care
To ensnare the muted tones
Of subtlety, of evanescent
Momentary fancies
That float by like puffs of steam
Or thoughts from a recent dream.
Frightened mice
That dart in and away,
And are as difficult to catch
And snare in firm phrases;
Something that amazes
Even the one
Who fixes this phenomenon
Like a captured sun.

I've written hundreds as well, although mine seem mostly amateur compared to yours. I'm hoping my poetry will ripen with age. This is my latest one - written the day before yesterday:


MORE

Cut out leaves rain from the tissue paper sky,
Red gold silver, afternoon mire,
The trees withstand, like centuries hollow,
Wisdom’s silent witnesses,
Inhuman sorrow.

It’s raining dust.

Dead bodies are concealed up there,
Motes of eyes, skin, and hair,
Captured by sparks of ephemeral light,
As the shadows turn cold and day becomes night.

More.

You already posted that one

Very nice imagery. I have no idea what a professional poet is. I just knock them out quickly when the mood hits me. And I read a lot of it. There's no money in it.

Did I? I must've been tired.

PAINTING THESE WALLS WHITE

She paints the walls,
Her white smeared brush, up and down,
Trapped in a dark house,
Miserable obsession,
Making these stained walls white.

She is me,
I want to be free of this,
But even if I could,
Tear it out, throw it away,
It is me, and I would be someone else
Murder.

These narrow halls,
Closed doors,
No windows,
Scattered newspapers across the floor,
Life.

I kick the newspapers and they fall to disorder,
The floor is hard underneath,
The daunting sameness,
Claustrophobia,
Like the walls,
Like the ceiling.

She’s disappointed in me,
I won’t help her paint,
I can’t feign interest,
In a task I hate.

I’m blind,
Walking into these walls,
Smearing me with permanent paint marks,
Hurting me, bruising me,
I feel too,
Even though my bruises don’t show.

More than anything,
I want to leave,
And I want to stay,
Painting these walls white,
Perfecting this hall.

I’m in my mind,
And I want to get out.

Wonderfully horrible. I hope that's not you. You write good poetry. Stay inside yourself.

Gotta Head up to the Farm and Get to Work

Peaches and apples
Young trees to protect from the hungry deer
Innocent graceful ravagers of life

Water flows down
Drawn toward earth's center by gravity's greed
Over the banks of the irrigation ditch
Sand crystals rise
Lifted by lost lover's downseeking flow
Carving deep channels
Pictures of trees
Art without artist
Loving hands of inanimate desire
Touching the human heart.

Old poem (from 2002). I've quit writing poetry in foreign languages (it was just to learn English) but this one was actually printed in an anthology so I guess it's okay.


atlantis

never-come-back
melodies
your heart lost
somewhere
under the sea

memories in blue
enchant your song
that follows
the waves with
mathematic force

dreamer at the shore
maybe
those are
tears from atlantis
in your hair

Here's a few more.


PRESENT AT THE CREATION

What was it
Said, at the beginning,
"Let there be!"
And there was?

I doubt a hairy geriatric
With a forefinger poking
Into chaos.
But I get no satisfaction
Out of Science
Cataloging energies and particles
So that the universe ,
From prime power,
Opened like a flower.
It is, of course, nice to be aware
Of forms succeeding forms
So that the progress into currency
Clicks into sense.

But all that's offered
When I press for motivation
Is a shrug.
Nothing in the sky
can answer
"Why?"


FRAYED AT THE END

Along the way
One collects.
Sparsely,
If one has the wit to realize
The trip may be long
And pockets meanly shallow.

Youth and simple fascination
And an innate sense of order
Folds acquisitions into sense
Which fit most sensibly to stores.
But time overwhelms
Most economic husbandries
With plenitude.

Memories ferment and melt
To Pollock patterns.
Order and disorder meld.
Stars and tissue paper,
Unstrung pearls and graveled skins
Of tangerines long consumed.
Furniture no longer squats
In set configurations.
Curtains sag. Corners soften,
Faired by dust and crumbs
Into spider playgrounds
Where choruses of flies ensnared
Hum in symphony.

Dying must,
I belatedly perceive,
Be approached with caution.
Powers fade and disappear
In minute secret phases,
Like coins percolating
Through a pocket hole.

Distant objects blur.
The spines of books
No longer shout
What lies within.
Their colors smear
As by a moistened thumb
Into colored cacophones.
Sounds struggle through
A buzz and whistle static.
Anaesthetic numbness
Gloves my fingertips.
A ghostly dental shot
Has thickened up my mouth and tongue.


Soon I must be enwrapped
In white sterility
Within a chrome corral
Where hungry tubes
Will suck my openings
And pump intrusive stews
Bestowing to my life
A marginal extension.

Steaming from my center,
Like a lump of melting CO two,
Cold fear billows out
White clouds to lift me up
And off to nothingness.


YEAR'S END

Autumn explodes the maples
Into bloody reds, oranges, banana yellow;
The chromatic screams that gleam
In piebald patches as if a manic clothier
Had strewn his swatches all about
In frenetic fury, intent on matches
To the random patterns in his mind.
This colored agony communicates
The desperation of the vegetation
To exist, persist through the deadly whites
And charcoal blacks in which the winter traps
The dreams of summer flowers,
Luscious life's warm resplendent greens.