wb :

I didn't write this. I saw it in a book sometime back and it hit me like a surprise grapple check with a size penalty. I wouldn't even call it a poem i guess, but that's all there was on the page.

Who follows with the swallows in the hollows of the sky?
It is I, it is I, it is I, it is I.

Labels: other

Labels: poetry

he sat, watching the children play
-long gone was the dolent day
on wings of wax, aflight in flames,
then smashed on a shoal of shames;
left night and wind, silent sisters,
where they walked but wisps and whispers-

alone and dimmed, without a ray
upon his seat of steel, he wrote
upon his paper, his pen he smote
he sat, watching the children play

he hesitated, in silence to pray
perhaps a song to sin and plight
perhaps a dirge to dark and night
-long gone was the dolent day

his honour but a roll of names
its flight a whim of wind and whiff
its flight a step off a cliff
on wings of wax, aflight in flames,

his dreams bedight and veiled in blames
besought a storm, which wept a well
besought a star, which shook and fell
then smashed on a shoal of shames;

and heart and soul two lonesome drifters
knew not where the river sped
knew not where the moonlight led
left night and wind, silent sisters,

in his house a hall of weepers
shades of love now pale and dim
shades of friends that stood with him
where they walked but wisps and whispers-

while he dreamed of death, despair, deceit-
the children played, and watched him sit.

Labels: poetry

They condescend to me, arrogant glares never meeting my eyes,
Glancing at the wares decorating tables, and they do not come
To buy any but whisper behind, relieving not my solitude
Hopeful, but still in an infinite wait
Waiting for shadows of those already past
And unmoving, the fading colours marking the story's end.

But ever so often, the young ones come
Budding bourgeosie smiles that disperse, somewhat, the solitude
Stemming from a fruitless knowing in a fruitless wait
The colour, laughter, fleeting moments go past
The monotony returns, perhaps never to end
And they know this, they do, it is reflected in our eyes

To sit day after day in a multicoloured solitude
A solemn stone in the crowd in a vauntless wait
Reminiscient, still living, forlorn images harvested from the past
And when the neon lights spark the sky, their dances end
So will mine, dancing and dying for the strobes that light my eyes
Glistening dully, like dead milk fish, a day that does not come

Preserved fruit, I am a window shopper, sitting down to my daily wait
Watching candy-coloured people walk past
Vibrant in their sugar-spun castles, meeting a dull, dull end
I know this, yet I devour, envy in my eyes
For mine is gone, behind the requiem that will always come
To sing upon a statue, the colours of my wares to theirs, impress upon this solitude

And yet again where and what past
Past present future tense it is all the same for the purgatory without end
In rainbows that fade to red, sun streaking eyelids and covered eyes
No relief, like Lazarus alive, it does not come
Upon a table, reclining in solitude
A statuette, never statuesque, in a never-ending wait

Who would bid me goodbye if this story should end
Walking past unnoticed, if I should no longer open my eyes
Would they break away, to reach and come from
Whence, to undo the shackles of a distant solitude
Wrenching free the years of rough plastic, this wait
Wholly new, leaving me a fragment, facets left of a long bygone past

No longer will I wait for those who do not come
Never again closing my eyes to leave me blind
To the end and beginnings I created of a past that is left behind.


Cheers!
-Bern

I wrote this two years ago, as part of my mentorship portfolio. It's about a pedlar, in Orchard, selling her wares but never buying them for herself.

Labels: poetry

a quiet one, she -
sitting by the back shade
dancing on a daydream.

-------------------------
I said of this - awaken, miss
she rose; a serpent on her breath
that thrilled through th'air on syllables
that between us died a dreamer's death

she loved the dance; the step, the gyre
she lived only to smoulder and spin
wouldst look at me I said, I said
ere she consume herself therein -
-------------------------

to't, no response
but a hint of song that
whistled by

her gaze on the ceiling
she spent her life
dancing on a candle wick

Labels: poetry

The wind comes to me, caresses me, ruffles my hair, soothes my restless heart.

tonight, he rides not with Norse fury, scremaing battle.
tonight, he wails not with the Banshees, lamenting loss.

No, tonight, he walks with me, with memory, down the old garden path.
Now he raises his voice, gusts over me, rakes my teary eyes.
harsh, sweet, gusts of memory.
Now he sweeps across me with a cleansing no sleep nor shower could give.

He slows, no longer blasts across my thirsting skin.
no, he breathes now with a resigned laughter, laughs and loves.
he dances, whirls about my body,
playfully drops a dead leaf at my feet.

The sun has long since gone down, leaving me with the false glow of man-made lights; but the wind has stayed with me all this while.

No longer is he the hot air of the sin high in the sky; now, he is the breath of warm dusk, old glow spilling across that parched plain of my skin.

Old wind, he carries on him a million songs,
all I know;
I sung them with him once,
and he, tonight, finds me again with memory.

I swung with him in the heat of the morning,
I lashed with him in the gale of the storming,
And now I laugh with him at the summer's mourning.

He rustles the boughs of rememberance,
plays with a leaf as it falls.

but he, has to go soon.
And so must I;

long will I long to waltz with him again,
though each new night, the dance is ne'er the same.

Labels: poetry

alas, you loved too little, loved too late
when you in youth decided to grow old
and let your books to you your life dictate

regret it now! regretfully behold
no passion's roots, no roses' blooms; instead
gaunt spines of autumn, plumed in red and gold

and winter's angry gale of cold and dead;
your studious slavish sacrific intent
to sell your heart, so you might raise your head

too late to rage for years now gone and went
too late to rue, oh you disconsolate
who spent his youth, and now with spirit spent

lament then not, who rode with pride and hate-
alas, you loved too little, loved too late.

Labels: poetry

i hear whistling -
a bird sits high and warbles.
Happiness?

-Terence.

P.s. D, your poem has a last line that seems an afterthought, a tack-on, when i think the idea was for emphasis. Perhaps you could try changing the last stanza to reflect this?

Labels: poetry

I dreamed, i thought, i saw
you die.

You were there, through
the looking glass,
looking back, looking lost.
i saw, and then you died.

You fell, slowly,
through syrup and honey -
landing in a deep pool of milk-white manna.
I dreamed, and then you drowned.

You thrashed, frantically
fast, and terribly.
My breath caught in your throat.
I thought, and then we died.

But it was just a dream,
just a dream,

Just a dream.

Labels: poetry

On earth, it is that Good shall be downtrodden,
While Evil holds his head up proudly high;
And Good, with pallid clothes and count'nance sodden
Can only watch the world and offer a sigh.
Is it that Good can bear no battle arms,
And Evil breaks his back upon his boot?
But men come good- they fall by Evil's charms,
Only when another plots, he lose his foot.
No, 'tis because the hearts of men are soft
That Evil stem the righteous flood of fire;
And where one shineth not, the dark shall loft
And cause the idle hearts of Good to tire.

A pity 'tis, to hear the lesser speak
When mind is worthy, but the heart is weak.

Labels: poetry

I was on the computer, playing a game
At half past seven, or so I swore-
Justice or crime, it was all the same,
Killing and killing and killing some more.

So I played and I played, 'till I found this guy
A crook in his castle, caught by a cop.
Weeping, he begged and he begged not to die
So I let him go free, and I heard a loud pop

And lo and behold! before I knew it
The bugger had gone and shot me in the back,
So I staggered back to that traitorous git
And gives it to him, without cutting no slack.

So he slumps to the floor and says he's sorry,
But I know in my heart he's going to die;
So I say to myself, "old chap, don't worry,
I know you've repented; good luck and goodbye."

I walk through the door that suddenly opened,
Still bleeding from that gunshot that hurt me so dear,
Even as behind me the secret stronghold burned,
I knew that my end drew steadily near.

And as I walk into the corridor,
My vision blackens and threatens to fail;
And finally fading, I slump on the door
And rest my tired arm on the handrail.

When suddenly a rectangle comes into view,
And shows me enlightenment bit by bit-
Things like "Save game?" and "Continue?",
"Load Game?" or "New Game?" and finally "Quit?"

I clicked on "Quit", as I knew it was getting late
And I had to get back to work tomorrow,
But as for my character's electronic fate
I suppose only its fellow electronics know.

But in those many moments, I felt genuine hate
And fear, and betrayal, and some bit of joy
In knowing that some false predetermined fate
Had been carried out again by another teenage boy.

Did the villain feel fear? Or was he unfeeling?
My own processor could not work out that puzzle
And I thought that my useless but ethical thinking
Was leading me down some philosophical muzzle.

Still, I ask the computer if it knows of emotions,
And it answers me with a whirr-click-beep.
So I chide myself for such foolish notions,
As, "Do robots dream of electric sheep?"

Labels: poetry

Over-priced iPods
Making millions from many
Apple is in bloom.

Labels: poetry

a ripple
fills
the whole pond

Labels: poetry

another day in that same old park
stretched out upon the stone bench,
counting the stars with tearful eyes,

looking at the trees
the bare branches of winter,

wishing the night would creep a little faster,
steal his way past the curtains of dusk
and cast his cloak over sleepy sunsets

when i heard a little whistle
coming down the lonely path

there she was;

and she sang,
'i look up when i walk
so the tears won't fall,'

and went away, whistling that old song
even as the curtain drew
leaving me
a muted audience in an empty theatre
the lights dimmed to darkness.

but i was there the next day.
the stone bench stood fast
the trees whispered in the wind
the stars held their silent vigil

while i looked up at the sky,
wondering where beyond the blue
lay happiness

and i wished that dusk would tread a little slower,
wished that night would take a little longer,

so that i might catch that wandering whistle

one last time

Labels: poetry

and i sit in the school library-
all the books around me,
all the people i can see,
but not a soul who speaks as though it were free.

a muffled murmur echoes within its walls-
words and whispers, answering silent calls
and yet within these vaunted halls
not a single soul speaks as though it were free.

a barely palpable tingling of my ears-
not silence, all alone with all my fears;
not loudness, engulfing all it hears;
just souls softly swooning, none of them free.

and i tried my best to break from that spell=
to free my comrades, ring liberty's bell
but alas, twas but a raindrop in a well;
and those souls still silently clamor to be free.

so did i join them in self-imposed slavery;
gently struggling, never to be free.

Labels: poetry

Let's start a collaborative poem! Below is the first stanza, add on to the poem and title the posts The Golden Box.

i once spied a golden box
beside the lonely trail;
amongst the grasses' swaying locks,
rustling in the autumn dale.

Labels: poetry

Recommended reading!

It's a singularly powerful work, and reading it is made easier with this site. "Werther" is a collection of letters sent by the main character to the reader, and this site will send you an e-mail in the order of the book. Be sure to enter your real name, as Werther will often address you in his letters.

Site is here:

http://www.the-sorrows-of-young-werther.com/index2.html

Anyone aspiring to write descriptive prose should read this at least once.

Labels: other

Seriously, for the longest time, i've been trying to figure out what 'yesitsapun' is supposed to mean..

Enlightenment?

-sits under bo tree-

Labels: other

Gotta love that poetic form.

Roses are #FF0000, violets are #0000FF;
4|| m1 b453 4R3 b3|0N9 70 j00!

Roses are red, violets are blue;
In Soviet Russia, poem writes you!

Roses are red, violets are blue;
I forgot what comes next, and Poland too!

Roses are red, violets are blue;
Being a ninja, I have just killed you!

Violets are blue, Roses are red;
But I like the colour of babies dead!

Roses are red, violets are blue;
I didn't expect the Spaniards too!

Röses äre red, viölets äre blüe;
My fävöürite bänd is Mötley Crüe!

Labels: poetry

The silence, it only needs to remain
Unsaid, amber-yellow streetlamps, broken by red
Green fairy lights, dancing on your skin, an ice-ring
Murderous kiss, with no where left to run to. Nothing
Left, but small red numbers, ticking your fare,
Minutes, cents, ten cents a minute, half a minute
But you don't care (just watch the road, mister). Nothing
Left, but half-drowned static muted wires, same radio stations,
Your life, in one single chair. Cigarettes, side pockets, stealing
Five seconds to breathe. You've seen them all, once, twice, even
More, watched them trash breathe slide over each other drunken in
The back seats, watched the women cry, weeping on a shoulder
Glued to crumbling dead leather and dead jade chains. What about you,
Little angel? Sing your Hosannas and pray pray pray but
Your priests and gods don't hear you anymore, above the din of
Chinese pop, love lost, love found, sex on the back seat. But
After the perfume stops smelling like a funeral (your funeral),
Rub the salt from the deltas around your eyes
Ask yourself who you go home to, even the night
Stops, for worker ants like you.


// I don't like Christmas, but I like taxi drivers. Sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of rye, I still think just one planet's sufficient...

// Incidentally, off to Bangkok (NO STUPID FREUDIAN JOKES, PLSKTHXBAI), 14th to 19th ish, any souvenirs for y'all? Would gladly appreciate hawt swiss boys if any of you can bring back any.

Labels: poetry