Poetry for killing time
- Thread starter atmas
- Start date
poppy1963
Born Yesterday
- Joined
- May 1, 2006
- Posts
- 20,941
gman23 said:
It DOES repeat itself...I have no quarrel with that...but sometimes...with variations...and these are good. A new dance undertaken..is the pathway to the future! Don't you agree? With knowledge...the way men think create the world around us daily new.
That is a quote from one of my favorite books...The Mists of Avalon. That is the wisdom of all time. By what men think.....we create the world around us daily new.
Night! Think on it.
Sean
We'll see.
- Joined
- Feb 17, 2005
- Posts
- 96,204
I used to live below the most inconsiderate fuck ever born. This always helped me deal:
The People Upstairs
The people upstairs all practise ballet
Their living room is a bowling alley
Their bedroom is full of conducted tours.
Their radio is louder than yours,
They celebrate week-ends all the week.
When they take a shower, your ceilings leak.
They try to get their parties to mix
By supplying their guests with Pogo sticks,
And when their fun at last abates,
They go to the bathroom on roller skates.
I might love the people upstairs more
If only they lived on another floor.
Ogden Nash
The People Upstairs
The people upstairs all practise ballet
Their living room is a bowling alley
Their bedroom is full of conducted tours.
Their radio is louder than yours,
They celebrate week-ends all the week.
When they take a shower, your ceilings leak.
They try to get their parties to mix
By supplying their guests with Pogo sticks,
And when their fun at last abates,
They go to the bathroom on roller skates.
I might love the people upstairs more
If only they lived on another floor.
Ogden Nash
atmas
Colna-go-go-go!
- Joined
- Dec 11, 2004
- Posts
- 14,324
I will not speakpoppy1963 said:sighs...
Poppy needs to stay in her castle...hole up in her Castle...lol
It's a mess everywhere else...
Where's my dragon??????
when I am feeling like a wall of bricks
that runs along the bottom of a hill
where water seeps.
Touching the wall
moss springs green and soft and moist
and silent as the forest after rain
before birds learned to sing.
No, I will not speak
when I would rather touch.
Songcatcher
Stud Muffin
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2002
- Posts
- 25,989
Being a time-waster is a big turn off.
AlotLikePsyche
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jul 9, 2005
- Posts
- 2,352
There's a spot on the back of my neck that loves you.
It's toward the left, just below my hairline.
I never noticed it before you found it there.
Now that you've been there it's more yours than mine.
It closes my eyes and calls my head back home.
It says your name again inside me.
It tells my ears, my hands, my thighs.
My eyes burn with wet that remembers.
There's a spot on the back of my neck that loves you.
It's toward the left, just below my hairline.
I never noticed it before you found it there.
Now that you've been there it's more yours than mine.
It closes my eyes and calls my head back home.
It says your name again inside me.
It tells my ears, my hands, my thighs.
My eyes burn with wet that remembers.
There's a spot on the back of my neck that loves you.
eagleyez
going up
- Joined
- Jan 11, 2003
- Posts
- 22,879
transported from the Poetry Board
In My Dream
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He tore his stinking shirt
On a railroad spike,
Handhewn fermenting lumber
Moaned in high seas,
Pale children coughed up the bile of their futures.
The famine vessell reeked of gruel
A sheen upon all horizons-
The troubles behind them
Dismay ahead.
O'failan had red hair, his daughter limp
With ghostface before the fire.
On Ellis Island they changed his name,
Bloody Micks poured chamberpots on horses
For distraction.
West to the sponsor,
Day labour in East Bay lumberyards,
The floor of Saint Jeromes craned
Teetering men reciting latin responses,
Rosary beads the talisman of wife-mothers
And too many kids for one station
Of the cross, glosssed in reds and steeped in the blues
Of stained glass rememberances,
The ship listing port side,
Rusted rail spike had him pinned
To uncertainty as the vast cooly town
Promised to dust him off,
His opium was no vision
His drink was no avail
His pickaxe became
His slab of bread.
In My Dream
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He tore his stinking shirt
On a railroad spike,
Handhewn fermenting lumber
Moaned in high seas,
Pale children coughed up the bile of their futures.
The famine vessell reeked of gruel
A sheen upon all horizons-
The troubles behind them
Dismay ahead.
O'failan had red hair, his daughter limp
With ghostface before the fire.
On Ellis Island they changed his name,
Bloody Micks poured chamberpots on horses
For distraction.
West to the sponsor,
Day labour in East Bay lumberyards,
The floor of Saint Jeromes craned
Teetering men reciting latin responses,
Rosary beads the talisman of wife-mothers
And too many kids for one station
Of the cross, glosssed in reds and steeped in the blues
Of stained glass rememberances,
The ship listing port side,
Rusted rail spike had him pinned
To uncertainty as the vast cooly town
Promised to dust him off,
His opium was no vision
His drink was no avail
His pickaxe became
His slab of bread.
