twelveoone
ground zero
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you sure it wasn't anonamouse, he's a bit of a wise-ass you knowannaswirls said:
CHALLENGE: what they found in my attic....
- Thread starter annaswirls
- Start date
BooMerengue
Literotica Guru
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*wavin...
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annaswirls
Pointy?
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twelveoone said:
yes you are probably right, if he doesn't claim it, I just might
annaswirls
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deleted per Boo's request
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G
Guest
Guest
I took my poetry down due to having an erratic moment. And I haven't submitted any poetry for about two months, but would like to be in on this. So, count me as another. It sounds like fun!
annaswirls
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saldne said:
Great!
You are not alone in wiping your poetry from here, some people you still see with hundreds of poems even cleared their boards at one point or another. Come on back when you feel like you want to, and thanks for playing!
~J
annaswirls
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HEY!
Send me as many lines as you want, damn it! It is afterall YOUR poem
and your attic
My apologies for the control freak in me um, well, getting out of control I guess.
Send me as many lines as you want, damn it! It is afterall YOUR poem
and your attic My apologies for the control freak in me um, well, getting out of control I guess.
G
Guest
Guest
annaswirls said:HEY!
Send me as many lines as you want, damn it! It is afterall YOUR poem
Thank God! I was working on it last night, fighting to keep to 16 lines, and it looked terrible.
This is great! I'm glad you changed the rules!! Fun, fun, fun!!
annaswirls
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Hope everyone had a nice weekend--
Just a reminder, this challenge is going up on the boards on June 1. Looking forward to unveiling the poems people sent.
I think we have 5-6 already in.
J
Just a reminder, this challenge is going up on the boards on June 1. Looking forward to unveiling the poems people sent.
I think we have 5-6 already in.
J
G
Guest
Guest
I believe you received mine, and sent a message back, but my box was full at the time. I got an email sent to me from the site saying you were trying to contact me.
Is everything okay?
Edit: another thing- I guess I can't edit the poem again before I submit, huh?
Is everything okay?
Edit: another thing- I guess I can't edit the poem again before I submit, huh?
annaswirls
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saldne said:I believe you received mine, and sent a message back, but my box was full at the time. I got an email sent to me from the site saying you were trying to contact me.
Is everything okay?
Edit: another thing- I guess I can't edit the poem again before I submit, huh?
ah why not, just send er again! I sent you a "got it" pm, then left for PA... everything is good to go.
except I have to write an attic poem errrr I make these challenges and then have to take them!
G
Guest
Guest
annaswirls said:ah why not, just send er again! I sent you a "got it" pm, then left for PA... everything is good to go.
except I have to write an attic poem errrr I make these challenges and then have to take them!
Yeah, you do have to write an attic poem, don't you?
(probably done by now- it is the 1st tomorrow.)
I like your work, and many others. I just prefer not to comment or vote anymore, but will for the challenge as asked. I think the same reason would be why others took their poetry down. I don't know- maybe I'll put them back up again, and continue. Who knows!
I think I'm gonna leave the attic poem "as is". I've been thinking about it...ahhh...I'll explain more when it's posted here. I wouldn't want people to know yet. I like the guessing game. It'll be a lot of fun.
champagne1982
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Are we there YET?
annaswirls
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champagne1982 said:
ooh can we wait until morning? I have just been summoned to bed.
maybe I will slide back over....
or maybe into sleep
got mine done, I swear that is not an excuse to wait!
annaswirls
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Round #1
(more to come after breakfast with the bad boys)
Attic Poems
What words he must have spoken
to have left such strong enchantment
on the girl the woman was.
What love her heart must have sang
as the melody of his emotion rang out
and touched the woman she'd become.
A birthday wish, a lover's verse
all tied in ribbon, hidden
in a silken purse he must have given.
Let me bring these shades forward
to show them what happiness waits
outside these pages.
~
"Grammy M"
I stumbled upon Grandma's diary, and poetry
Mama hid in the attic for reasons unknown,
but I'm an adult, her granddaughter,
and should've known before she died
from the fading beat of a heart
that loved so much, forgave too much,
wanting to save the world; those in need,
sacrificed herself; the toll at her expense,
and I felt sorry when I saw the stress on her face
many times with drawn blue eyes, and wrinkled,
liver spot hands that trembled when asked
to pass the catsup at dinnertime,
picked gray hair out of my teeth
that fell in the food she baked, I ate,
silly memories I'll never forget, and don't regret
reading how filthy her mouth was, where it's been,
the multiple men 'cause now I know why
I am who I am, thanks to Grammy M.
~
What My Grandson Found.
His dream swirl words ,
there amid chaotic clutter,
words he never spoke
to my mother, his daughter
or grandma .
Alien jottings from
another place,
not his knee
where I sat eating candy,
from darker places,
places of torment
in the hope of understanding.
Scripted pages
he never showed,
rhythms he never spoke,
to us .
I saw these things
peek from squinted eyes,
his bashful demons
unguarded and lonely ,
misunderstood .
The frown on his brow
that screamed worry ,
the draining of the smile
that whispered tears.
Books in cartons,or piled like minarets,
where his soul sought solace
between pages of
sanskrit scribbles
and emerged to encourage
his written confessions.
Perhaps his great fear realized,
his innermost self
relegated to forbidden realms,
an indiscretion
to be forgotten.
None of this was there as I knelt
by his shoulder,
kissed his waxen face
and missed the smell of licorice
in the air.
~
Sons of Heros
Pages in the afterglow
folded into the corner of
faded photos mingle
with stale dim loft.
Crumbled borders bare
the face of yesterday.
Voice sadly buried
with collection of debris
bound in yellow ribbons,
surrounded by his
purple heart...
An unsung hero
wipes away the bitter
sighs with the dust
and shudders in silence..
~
In the Attic
Leaves have fallen
many times over,
covering the forest floor
the way the loose pages
have spilled from
Pop-Pop's binders.
Picking them up, I
realize they're not the
random bits of this
and that I had thought
they were when we
played our games among
the totes and chests and
Nana's stacked Avon boxes
under the slanted roof of
their old home.
Children handle things in
play without a care as
to what they are, only
what they need to be.
So umbrellas are guns or
swords, while the simplest of
bathrobes are fit for a
king, and the papers we used
for deeds and orders and
wills and secret spy stuff (or
the occasional love letter if the
girls were playing that day) have
their own reality as well.
Imagine the smile in
eyes as well as heart on
finding out that Pop-Pop's papers
were all that we'd thought they
were and
more.
(more to come after breakfast with the bad boys)
Attic Poems
What words he must have spoken
to have left such strong enchantment
on the girl the woman was.
What love her heart must have sang
as the melody of his emotion rang out
and touched the woman she'd become.
A birthday wish, a lover's verse
all tied in ribbon, hidden
in a silken purse he must have given.
Let me bring these shades forward
to show them what happiness waits
outside these pages.
~
"Grammy M"
I stumbled upon Grandma's diary, and poetry
Mama hid in the attic for reasons unknown,
but I'm an adult, her granddaughter,
and should've known before she died
from the fading beat of a heart
that loved so much, forgave too much,
wanting to save the world; those in need,
sacrificed herself; the toll at her expense,
and I felt sorry when I saw the stress on her face
many times with drawn blue eyes, and wrinkled,
liver spot hands that trembled when asked
to pass the catsup at dinnertime,
picked gray hair out of my teeth
that fell in the food she baked, I ate,
silly memories I'll never forget, and don't regret
reading how filthy her mouth was, where it's been,
the multiple men 'cause now I know why
I am who I am, thanks to Grammy M.
~
What My Grandson Found.
His dream swirl words ,
there amid chaotic clutter,
words he never spoke
to my mother, his daughter
or grandma .
Alien jottings from
another place,
not his knee
where I sat eating candy,
from darker places,
places of torment
in the hope of understanding.
Scripted pages
he never showed,
rhythms he never spoke,
to us .
I saw these things
peek from squinted eyes,
his bashful demons
unguarded and lonely ,
misunderstood .
The frown on his brow
that screamed worry ,
the draining of the smile
that whispered tears.
Books in cartons,or piled like minarets,
where his soul sought solace
between pages of
sanskrit scribbles
and emerged to encourage
his written confessions.
Perhaps his great fear realized,
his innermost self
relegated to forbidden realms,
an indiscretion
to be forgotten.
None of this was there as I knelt
by his shoulder,
kissed his waxen face
and missed the smell of licorice
in the air.
~
Sons of Heros
Pages in the afterglow
folded into the corner of
faded photos mingle
with stale dim loft.
Crumbled borders bare
the face of yesterday.
Voice sadly buried
with collection of debris
bound in yellow ribbons,
surrounded by his
purple heart...
An unsung hero
wipes away the bitter
sighs with the dust
and shudders in silence..
~
In the Attic
Leaves have fallen
many times over,
covering the forest floor
the way the loose pages
have spilled from
Pop-Pop's binders.
Picking them up, I
realize they're not the
random bits of this
and that I had thought
they were when we
played our games among
the totes and chests and
Nana's stacked Avon boxes
under the slanted roof of
their old home.
Children handle things in
play without a care as
to what they are, only
what they need to be.
So umbrellas are guns or
swords, while the simplest of
bathrobes are fit for a
king, and the papers we used
for deeds and orders and
wills and secret spy stuff (or
the occasional love letter if the
girls were playing that day) have
their own reality as well.
Imagine the smile in
eyes as well as heart on
finding out that Pop-Pop's papers
were all that we'd thought they
were and
more.
Last edited:
annaswirls
Pointy?
- Joined
- Dec 9, 2003
- Posts
- 7,204
Untitled
The column of the moon, speckled, though window of dust and rain and dust
again, lies spectral in circles on the yellowed bones of papers. Up rose
petals of dust in spirals of endings.
This is the way it ends, the procession of the seasons?
Soul sunken and mocked; hollowed and harrowed by lies of the howling Ghosts
wearing worded lace of Saccharin and Strychnine, bearing kisses of the adder,
words of basest metals, gravely leading.
This is the way it ends - for a poets pathetic reasons.
The volume of the moon through glass stained with dust, heavy and unjust
weighing the dust for moment frozen, then spiraling in desent even sadder
to settle on mysteries, the missing
ending of honor's way repaid with treasons.
~
When the newborns come
When the newborns come
we bring them to her first
to lower the blanket wrapped
package into skeletal arms.
Covered in paper skin and propped
with tapestry pillows, these arms
held lovers as if life depended upon not letting go,
arms muscled with the weight of children
thrown into the air, carried on hip.
Rings slide freely,
trapped behind swollen knuckles
of fingers that typed with relentless passion.
Steel and riverstones,
longing and loss
searching and searching.
We have heard stories,
how she laughed too loudly,
said too much.
She now smiles in silence
with tears trapped in deep grooves
that carry the words no one will hear.
I write this today
to tell children of children
how their foreheads were cleansed
by her last poems of joy
holding on to the living miracles
as if life depended upon not letting go.
~
Dusty Treasures
Hmm… one more dusty box. Buried treasures, junk or emptiness?
Strained cardboard squeals as the lid is raised and quickly tossed aside.
What’s this? Sheaves of yellowed paper, covered in pen-inked lines?
Seeking a sunbeam filled with dancing motes of dust, they read
of sorrow, joy, pain, love, cherished moments, and saddening loss.
A lifetimes worth of memories scribed on precious pages.
Wide eyed wonder as they saw Haley’s comet through Grandpa’s eyes.
Contagious giggles reading silly courting poems to Gram.
Who would have thought he’d write a poem about that old Chevy truck?
Now they understand the twinkle they’d see sometimes in the old man’s eyes.
Comprehend the wistful smile when he sat on the porch as the sun set.
Poetry painting the picture of Grandpa’s heart better than any Kodak could.
~
~
digital memories
faded photos
won’t be found in dusty drawers
when I’m no longer around
no negatives shall I leave behind
to whisper hidden ghostly secrets
In silence my fingers will trace
cold figurines not sold at a tag sale
so I’ll leave my screensaver
filled with each happy smile
that he gave me
the one who
rang my bell
~
His Face I leave Behind
Tender years wrap time
in dusty photos.
Simple snapshots painting laughter
thoughts swirling within
the comfort or your company.
Will they see your steady
arm holding mine so firm?
Will they know how much
you delighted my days
beaming in your presense?
Can your picture demand
their applause as did mine?
~
We have no attic here
Forced rhymes and gross misspellings.
It's Tuesday, we have time to get it out,
this food for silverfish
as ugly as the photographs
Toss them too
Do you think we will have to
Red Bag this freakin' mess
Its Tuesday, get it out,
we have no attic here
The column of the moon, speckled, though window of dust and rain and dust
again, lies spectral in circles on the yellowed bones of papers. Up rose
petals of dust in spirals of endings.
This is the way it ends, the procession of the seasons?
Soul sunken and mocked; hollowed and harrowed by lies of the howling Ghosts
wearing worded lace of Saccharin and Strychnine, bearing kisses of the adder,
words of basest metals, gravely leading.
This is the way it ends - for a poets pathetic reasons.
The volume of the moon through glass stained with dust, heavy and unjust
weighing the dust for moment frozen, then spiraling in desent even sadder
to settle on mysteries, the missing
ending of honor's way repaid with treasons.
~
When the newborns come
When the newborns come
we bring them to her first
to lower the blanket wrapped
package into skeletal arms.
Covered in paper skin and propped
with tapestry pillows, these arms
held lovers as if life depended upon not letting go,
arms muscled with the weight of children
thrown into the air, carried on hip.
Rings slide freely,
trapped behind swollen knuckles
of fingers that typed with relentless passion.
Steel and riverstones,
longing and loss
searching and searching.
We have heard stories,
how she laughed too loudly,
said too much.
She now smiles in silence
with tears trapped in deep grooves
that carry the words no one will hear.
I write this today
to tell children of children
how their foreheads were cleansed
by her last poems of joy
holding on to the living miracles
as if life depended upon not letting go.
~
Dusty Treasures
Hmm… one more dusty box. Buried treasures, junk or emptiness?
Strained cardboard squeals as the lid is raised and quickly tossed aside.
What’s this? Sheaves of yellowed paper, covered in pen-inked lines?
Seeking a sunbeam filled with dancing motes of dust, they read
of sorrow, joy, pain, love, cherished moments, and saddening loss.
A lifetimes worth of memories scribed on precious pages.
Wide eyed wonder as they saw Haley’s comet through Grandpa’s eyes.
Contagious giggles reading silly courting poems to Gram.
Who would have thought he’d write a poem about that old Chevy truck?
Now they understand the twinkle they’d see sometimes in the old man’s eyes.
Comprehend the wistful smile when he sat on the porch as the sun set.
Poetry painting the picture of Grandpa’s heart better than any Kodak could.
~
~
digital memories
faded photos
won’t be found in dusty drawers
when I’m no longer around
no negatives shall I leave behind
to whisper hidden ghostly secrets
In silence my fingers will trace
cold figurines not sold at a tag sale
so I’ll leave my screensaver
filled with each happy smile
that he gave me
the one who
rang my bell
~
His Face I leave Behind
Tender years wrap time
in dusty photos.
Simple snapshots painting laughter
thoughts swirling within
the comfort or your company.
Will they see your steady
arm holding mine so firm?
Will they know how much
you delighted my days
beaming in your presense?
Can your picture demand
their applause as did mine?
~
We have no attic here
Forced rhymes and gross misspellings.
It's Tuesday, we have time to get it out,
this food for silverfish
as ugly as the photographs
Toss them too
Do you think we will have to
Red Bag this freakin' mess
Its Tuesday, get it out,
we have no attic here
Last edited:
annaswirls
Pointy?
- Joined
- Dec 9, 2003
- Posts
- 7,204
MY apologies if I have left a poem out, PLEASE let me know ASAP, my pm box is in need of cleaning, and one could have slipped by.
annaswirls
Pointy?
- Joined
- Dec 9, 2003
- Posts
- 7,204
I want badly to comment on these poems, but will wait until they come out on the New Poems list... and if they don't I will comment here. Some wonderful poems up there, thanks for playing!
Sandspike, those all sound like worthy conditions, and I look forward to reading about your attic
Sure it has some sand on the floor
Jennifer
Sandspike, those all sound like worthy conditions, and I look forward to reading about your attic
Sure it has some sand on the floor
Jennifer
G
Guest
Guest
I agree, Zanzibar! I really enjoyed reading them. It was a lot of fun to participate as well.
I commented on about 4 or 5, but have to rest my hands for now. I've got carpal tunnel in both, and I'm in tremendous pain.
Maybe I'll be back later. I'd like to comment on all.
I commented on about 4 or 5, but have to rest my hands for now. I've got carpal tunnel in both, and I'm in tremendous pain.
Maybe I'll be back later. I'd like to comment on all.
Zanzibar
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Mar 26, 2004
- Posts
- 242
I was totally shocked with getting a couple 2 votes...
that was a brutal wake up call, and I think a lot has to do with the way the formatting made the breaks show up - totally different than here.
I asked for that poem and a couple other of my works to get pulled off the board. We'll see what happens.
I also thought it was interesting many folks couldn't make it work in 12 lines. More then I expected. I considered that a big part of the challenge.
(Course, I ended up using longer lines too... will have to go back and see if I can prune quite a bit and get it down to just the essence. )
that was a brutal wake up call, and I think a lot has to do with the way the formatting made the breaks show up - totally different than here.
I asked for that poem and a couple other of my works to get pulled off the board. We'll see what happens.
I also thought it was interesting many folks couldn't make it work in 12 lines. More then I expected. I considered that a big part of the challenge.
(Course, I ended up using longer lines too... will have to go back and see if I can prune quite a bit and get it down to just the essence.
)
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