Poems

Not as lost

So darkly sweet
Sacrid lives left incomplete
Conjour me a pretense
Hence
The early worms barter with the hungry birds
No one would care, if they hadn't heard
Every bit bitter
Death rewards the humble quitter
Manifest her a destination
Creation
Lines of perception uncrossed
For some who are not as lost

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...uh the post is up there...

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I like movies,
How about you?

They will carry me to the field
Through the wreaths of mist
Moist on my face,
And the lamb will pause
For a thoughtful stare.
The soldiers, they will come.
They will lay me in the dark cold earth
And push the clods in upon my face.

-The Dead of the Night by John Marsden.

He paints the walls with his futile daydreams
Always catching someone elses' Hell
She comes and goes, while I stay for the screams
Dwindling away his childhood in a similar cell

Here we stand
Victims of your violent apathy
Feeding false affection, landing blows with your one free hand
While killing yourself so happily

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

William Henry Davies

For the lazy amongst us.

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"Critics are like eunuchs in a harem; they know how the Tatty 100 is done, they've seen it done every day, but they're unable to do it themselves." - Brendan Behan

Michael Longley is 70 today and he is probably my favourite contemporary Irish poet (along with Paul Durcan). Less famous but, I think, a lot more stylish than Seamus Heaney, for example.

This site is an excellent introduction to his work.

here is my poem

''Rooms'' by ManOf1000Faces A.K.A Spike

There were rooms never opened
the handle was never touched
only a chair rocks in the wind
a huge closet of puppets never used
but 1 day the puppets raised up to dance in the lonely rain
they made no sound just movements
they had names but nobody cared to think of them
but 1 old man walked by to see the house
the puppets were looking into the dead eyes
to see the light but the light was never seen again
the city cries red but white happened on Christmas
there only 5 men but tears only came out
it said on their gravestones
R.I.P the men of Tears

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no one else is dealing with your demons friend - tyler joseph.

My new poem:

I tried to "search once"
All I found was Spock
with his split fingers and his quirky logic
I was in Shock
I was pearching on a sconce
Or was that a conch shell?
Like the raven that I am
nevermore
pfft
little kids yelling into a oyster
that has no pearl
thats it
I am done searching
for Spock
He has no middle finger
and how the hell do I say
FU!!!?

Tragic



The tragedies keep coming in waves
The days go by like cinder
The lies keep coming in waves
They lay on the ground making my stomach thinner
The love lost and the hate won
The evil gains
The love one the hate two
The score is askew
The game is over
Before it ever began
My name is Lover
Before I can

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“The gladdest moment in human life, methinks, is a departure into unknown lands.” – Sir Richard Burton

The author of this writes like plant life gives him wet dreams. Good thing he's dead.

TREES



by: Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)

• • THINK that I shall never see
  • A poem lovely as a tree.
  • A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
  • Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
  • A tree that looks at God all day,
  • And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
  • A tree that may in Summer wear
  • A nest of robins in her hair;
  • Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
  • Who intimately lives with rain.

• • Poems are made by fools like me,
  • But only God can make a tree.

"Trees" was originally published in Trees and Other Poems. Joyce Kilmer. New York: George H. Doran Company, 1914.

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It reminds me of a toilet paper on the trees
- Paula

I am now inspired to try my own compostion.

Bow down
To the canine
The backwards God
Listen to his oratory
Jot down every syllable
For posterity
And fleas

• • THINK that I shall never see
  • A poem lovely as a tree.
  • A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
  • Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
  • A tree that looks at God all day,
  • And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
  • A tree that may in Summer wear
  • A nest of robins in her hair;
  • Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
  • Who intimately lives with rain.

• • Poems are made by fools like me,
  • But only God can make a tree

With no apologies to Joyce Kilmer

Britney Spears

THINK that I shall never see
A thing as lovely as Britney
My face and hungry mouth is prest
Against her well proportioned breast
A bod that God made so nice
Mrs. God put his head in a vice
Lady Clairol highlights in her hair
And pubes not touched by underwear
For her fame paparazzi came
To record her life of shame

Poems are made by fools like...hey!
Is that herpes or just acne?

Oh, what fun. I love how there's a Mrs. God.

Let me try:

Jake Gyllenhaal

I think that I shall never see
A hottie lovely as Jakey.
Building up his manly firm chest,
Knowing arrogantly he's best.
He acts his way into my heart
I buy his movies at Wal-Mart.
Beautiful hair and perfect butt
I'd sell my soul to get his nut.
We'll marry on Brokeback Mountain
And dance in a water fountain.

this is something that i wrote a long time ago..

The wind blows and you walk alone
on bitter cold streets
hearing people shout
as the sounds of the city
reach your ears
And it all seems a dream
or feels as if someone was looking at you
through a camera
peeking out at you from every corner
But the feeling fades
as the cold winter wind
blows upon your back
And you no longer think the world
is looking at you in wide eyed wonder
or with telescopic lenses following you down every lane
And you look up at the factories out in front of you
blowing smoke rings in the air
making the clouds dark and people
cough and die
And you look down streets
toward the ghettos
where you see old people and dark eyes
staring at you through broken colored glass
And you think of the Indians
out on the reservations
The starving people in Africa
Mexico, India and even America
The billions of bombs and the threat of life
overpopulation...
Then the dreams fade and realities return
as someone screams for help
behind your back

Dylan Moran

Think of a bee
You are its knees
You waft through me like a summer's breeze
Can I come round Tuesday please?

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Comment is free but facts are sacred

reaching for oblivion
consummate me
inner flame of chaos
at my heartpoint
my crux

devoured by eternity
standing ovation for the
immolated fool
a circle of eyes embedded
by chance and a grand plan
invested with spiraling struggling
faith and doubt

pleasure
plane of torment
plane of redemption
keep the seeker, throw away the seed
worlds grow like dreams

naught but aught to do
with a cycle present at all magnitudes
betrayed by roads older than gods
lead me to my perfect destruction

gilding the lotus
I perceive
purpose rising
in your blind curve

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#31 on SC's Top 100 Mofos list!!

Breath of division sanctified in boundless unity
endless configurations of an infinite whole
open new eyes in the overlap
speak with ageless tongue
serpent-swallowed self endowed
with language of the real
concurrence of symbol-seeker
seeker-symbol
returning on an axis of being
to do being as being does
be doing as doing becomes
and become this moment forever
thus thought unfolds

deathless

unspeakable terms of unending presence
birthing image
superimposed iconography
of an upper and lower limit

galvanize the mind
to an action without merit
subjective reception of a truth without name
only there
here outside the frame mundane

present witness notwithstanding
skies envelop these ashes
disperse reasons
make the child walk
and kings crawl

forcing the issue
I am no more
the question dulled
melts into quest core

wordless I am stricken
from the height of my grasping
undone, unbound
unknown

ticktock goes the clock
the sound will drive me mad
and the long arm's holding my lady

telling her she's been had

i'm going nowhere fast in a cattle car
while the warden makes a killing
the fix is in for company men

they gave calamity top billing

the mothers are feeding crocodiles
while watching a t.v. show
about desert hawks cooking grenades

but the kids are eating snow

the pope is in his bunker
while the prisoners scream "confess"
and the director's using stock footage

for the king's farewell address