posted
I've been feeling a wee bit inshpired lately 'n have jotted down a good deal of poetry. Like most writers, I dun really like what I put down on paper, and I reckon I therefore feel the need t'hear other people's opinions. So, if you'll lend me a few minutes of your time... Enjoy (I pray...)
The Free Thinking Jailer __________________________ ...And in the darkness gleams a light He sits awake While everyone lies sleeping
No use for words yet he doth speak But no one hears Their minds are all off dreaming
He gives a roar and they awake He shares his flame And now there is some thinking
And in the darkness there's no light All's been explained Now when minds should be teeming
They sit together in the dark Awake for dreams Have long since lost their meaning
With his free thought he brought them down Into his prison Rife with non believing
No dreamers dream no thinkers think We're all the same Perhaps right but still dying
The darkness needs a light by which It can breed dark And light needs dark for breathing
So now they sit and suffocate They die out slow They feel their safe minds leaving ________________________
The syllable work on this next one isn't the best, and neither is the poem, but I saw a single tree in the forest near my house that still has all it's red leaves on it, and I just had to write about it...
Wait 'til Spring ________________________ Shrouded in blood A lone man stands His comrades behind him Lay dead in the sand
The winds of war came Replacing the beauty With a calm grayness Death doing his duty
The hard times rise And fall through the air Nothing will tame them They know only despair
Vast emptiness replaces And fills the void it creates A grim sight to the eye As nocturne percolates
Darkness comes early And brings with it the cold The man shivers and trembles His clothes tattered and old
An arm long since fallen Litters the ground below A casualty of the battle Felled by a blow
Amidst his blood and limbs This man stands tall Holding his dignity As he outlives the fall
The battle's eternal For him it's routine And it's all he can do To stay alive 'til spring _______________________
Again, this next one has a little trouble syllabilically, but I actually like it as a whole poem, probably because it's something I went through in my life (I have quite the ego, as you shall see), and I think I convey what I feel/felt pretty well here.
Sooperyooman? ________________________ If it struck his fancy, You could bet he'd be the best He'd work 'til he was number one Never settling for less
If you drank 20 bottles He'd drink 22 It wasn't what it'd do to him 'twas about beating you
If they said you were the fastest He'd come beat you in the race If it was physically possible He'd have that tip-top place
You can do anything you put your mind to, That's what he'd heard them say Who knew they'd been taken literally Upon that fateful day
He'd been called 'something else' 'superhuman' and 'a god' Believed it after awhile... Then accepted it with a nod
He was the best at everything That was worth being anything at He was flying high in his little world Friends with no one but his cat
No one worth being friends with Woudn't deign to mingle beneath His dignity broke for none His pride would never bequeath
It was a safe life there for him Above and beyond all the rest In his glass house where he couldn't be touched A place with the address of BEST
Emotions were a foreign thing Love regarded with disdain Such things were for the petty Grasping the frail for personal gain
He'd give but he could never take And therefore could not give He lived life on a one way street The selfish way to live
They had nothing for him there In that world way down below He thought he was the giver To descend and to bestow
But he was bestowing nothing Only drinking recognition From the ones he bred his hatred to The rungs on his great mission
To transcend the human state of mind And be of entire something else That 'twas his sole goal in life To destroy himself
For superhuman as he'd become There was one thing he was not And that was just plain human The part that he'd let rot
So he was super, but super what? Just a word and nothing more Made himself better than all of us And that made him worse, at the core
A life unfelt is a life unlived And that's the life he tried to have Now he laments his wasted days As he explores the beaten path ________________________________
Okay, I'll letcha go. I thank you for reading whatever of it all you read. Comments and critique of any kind are welcome, especially that of the constructive sort.
I bid y'all g'day.
Posts: 80 | Registered: May 2003
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1) Post to the "Orginal Potry" thread; it was the first and is still the best poetry thread on Hatrack.
2) Cut your poems in half. Every one of 'em. Make it a personal goal to reduce the number of lines in each and every one of your poems -- and treat ADDING a line like it was something that only diseased idiots would do. This will force you to edit ruthlessly.
Posts: 37449 | Registered: May 1999
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posted
It would also force me to draw blood from the poem, and poems can't drink orange juice and get it all back in a day or two. I don't want to hack limbs off m'babies. I understand what you're saying, though, and yes, I often do edit quite a few lines out of my poems because they are superflous or redundant or jess plain ungood.
Posts: 80 | Registered: May 2003
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