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Poetry
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Post by
MyTie
A place to dump poetry. To boot things off, my first creation:
Maw of dark, greet and overwhelmed, a prize,
the Paladin. Who's heart arise the pure?
No longer abate the testing of death,
hero shine his last through the shadow gulf.
As in sacrifice, the candle unlit,
never a thought to the cost of council.
As rulers built for themselves a city,
not of fine linen, nor the long sought gold.
Ash is inheritance of the evils,
as the crimson hero, fallen, not fail.
Righteousness stays to the hearts of the taught,
sight to dark, just to heart, Paladins all.
Post by
MyTie
Where does the cow stand in awe?
Not amazed, but in fortuitous calm,
she grazes the days along steady thoughts,
never wondering, aspiring, fearing.
Oh that I could be as content as beast,
having exponentially less than me,
under my dictatorial control,
is freer than any could ever be.
Post by
gnomerdon
Why thouest maketh a wondrous drink
Forged at the highest of the mountaintops
Crystal clear, a bullet train leads the way
Filtered and perfected and into a glass
Coors. When it turns blue, it's as cold as the rocky mountains.
:l
Post by
ElhonnaDS
Why thouest maketh a wondrous drink
Forged at the highest of the mountaintops
Crystal clear, a bullet train leads the way
Filtered and perfected and into a glass
Coors. When it turns blue, it's as cold as the rocky mountains.
:l
Saving this one before you delete it.
Post by
HiVolt
Posted this one on my blog in October. It's an exercise in anagrams.
Palin-droning
Looters retool their trade
With morals on their molars,
And a psalm in their palms.
Buglers of faith burgle coin;
Subtly subletting liability
To prayers, not payers.
Shall a sire arise today?
No.
Servers, sever bonds.
Listen not to intels screamed.
Become not slaves to salves.
From pride be pried free!
Hate makes raw, the war
That mires the rime.
Post by
Sagramor
I'm not original enough to make my own, but since HiVolt already started having fun with anagrams, I'll post James Joyce's dirty masterpiece:
If you see Kay,
Tell him to-day.
'See you in tea'
Tell him from me.
Enjoy trying to figure it out.
Post by
gnomerdon
a young and strong chick
trapped in a shell so thick
peeps and peeps despite all odds
makes it's way into the fraud.
sleeping and eating
dining and snooping
it poops and poops
and it goes in a loop.....
i made sure it rhyme at the end.. yes. poetry. :)
Post by
Morec0
Roes are Red,
Violets are Purple,
I don't know what rhymes with purple,
Bacon.
Post by
MyTie
8 posts and we are down to pooping and bacon. Only here...
Post by
Magician22773
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'm a schizophrenic
And so am I
Post by
557473
This post was from a user who has deleted their account.
Post by
gamerunknown
I actually like facesmasher's poem. The contrast between the archaic language and the bullet train worked quite well, though I'm not sure why anyone would write an ode to Coors.
The content and structure of Palin-droning is more to my taste though :p
Oh, and wistfulness about cows aint too shabby either. I found this by
Doctor Seuss
recently, kinda disappointing.
Post by
pikeyboy
A poem I wrote a while ago, concerning rural Ireland in the recession. The formatting from word broke on copy and paste to here.
The Path Home.
The lads cutting the Pyracantha so the hurl will not stray
And crack a car window in passing.
No pay for them as they pick up the crisp packets in the hedge.
Chained.
Wild Cherries, bright as dawn in their leaves,
Shining. Defiant against the clouds. They show the way to the gate.
Where the cat sits waiting on the bin.
Autumn.
The food bowl. Hot water for the washing up? That’s the start of the day.
Fingers on the buttons, but the bellows won’t breathe.
Again.
Waiting. Feet tapping.
A snatch of a slide in the slip of a thought.
Feet on the gravel, the Hup! And the double stop.
Once upon a time.
The long road home to Spanish Point. The stagger to the field in Feakle. A last slow reel with Moya and Liam.
While we can still play.
Sitting on the roadside, somebody found a cigarette in their pocket, and shared it.
But summer’s gone.
The celery is frying. In with the onion, the garlic.
Water on for the pasta, and a fire laid.
Still the slíotar goes “tock” against the wall of the stands,
And the lads sweep up.
Eyes on the ground,
waiting for a snowdrop.
Post by
gnomerdon
A boy peeps out the door
Only to see the poor
He gazes on and on
But only he tags along
over and over he tries
till the truth comes out he lies
over and over he goes
never and ever he blows...
wth......
30 second poem, inspired while listening to this...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u69CkyLJUKU
Post by
Conflate
The flag waves proudly, dark blue-white,
From our great frigate's mast,
It shows the foe its frightful might,
Its cannons made of brass,
It flutters at the homeland strand,
Throughout winds to-and-fro,
And far away from Stormwind's land,
On far seas where storms blow.
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