Do any of you write poetry?

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?
 

Last edited:
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.
 

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
 
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....
 
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

mLcjb8B.jpg


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);

3iJztsU.jpg
Click to expand...
Some things touch me so deeply, so profoundly...I'm at a loss for words.
 
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.
 
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.
 
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
 
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
 
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.😇
 
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.
 

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
 
[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.
 

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
 
AnnieA said:
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


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 sorr
Click to expand...
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.
 
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..♥
 
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...*
 
Thank you. I finally found my poetry book yesterday. I have stuff that's untitled and things clear back from the 80s.
 


Back
Top