-
A Place to Post Poems
Exactly what it sounds like
-
26 Replies
-
Here is a poem I made about imagination. I hope you guys like it.
Imagination.pdf (27.7 KB)
-
Hey, @Nettil, the poem looks great! However, some folks have issues accessing attachments. Would you be able to just post the text of the poem on the forum instead of a download link? It’s generally just easier for the rest of the forum!
-
-
Sure thing.
Imagination
Imagination
Is a truly amazing thing,
It is a source of constant inspiration ,
With which great change we may bring
It fuels the flames of our desire,
It leads us to innovation and creation,
And brings us ever higher.
Create.
Believe.
Dream.
It creations can give one happiness
Or give them fear
Give one sadness
Or ease their tears
In these wondrous, ever changing, rearranging lands
Comprised of your imagination
You hold all the power in your metaphorical hands
For you are sole master of this never ending nation
Fearlessly Create.
Always Believe.
Infinitely Dream.
Here you can do anything
In this world you take the Helm
You can be
A superhero.
An adventurer.
A warrior.
Or even a King
Nothing is impossible in this invisible realm
As long as you believe
In this intangible space of infinite possibility,
There is almost no limit to what you can achieve.
So remember to fearlessly Create,
Make something totally you
For only we can shape our Fate
And always Believe,
We can make our own choices
So make something new
So advocate, raise your voices
Cause we are not machine
Dream.
For our imagination exists
As a place deep within our minds,
Where our creativity always persists
A incredible place never truly seen.
The origin of creativity,
A place where life experiences,fiction, every thought combines,
To create a brand new reality
In which all our hopes and dreams reside
And with the power of imagination
Destiny is yours to decide
-
A Rhyme to find lost things in no time
This is quite a simple rhyme,
To recover things lost in quick time,
Recite what is written four times twice
And to discover the missing device,
Just follow the line of shifting light,
To uncover that which is hidden from sight,
By Fire:fire:, Water
, Earth:earth_americas:, and Wind ,May Magiq guide me from within,
To help reveal from deep inside my mind,
The unseen object I cannot yet find.
-
Have you ever watched a marble being made
It’s amazing how much work some people put into them
Each its own little universe, delicately crafted and polished
Something to be cherished for a lifetime
Have you ever watched a memory being made
-
The Monarch Papers: A Closed Case
I am connected to a case that’s closed;
it’s sown its seeds so deeply into my
imagination: memory, transposed.
My memory, quite often, is foreclosed.
But even still, I feel the need to try:
I am connected to a case that’s closed.
Though we might feel we’ve lost what’s decomposed,
through fragments and remainders we supply
imagination: memory, transposed.
Since art is revolution when composed,
creators, we (of course) all know just why
I am connected to a case that’s closed.
As years go by and show how we’re enclosed,
futility tests what we’re granted by
imagination: memory, transposed.
Such existential dread is fierce opposed
by wonder, beauty, grace, before we die.
I am connected to a case that’s closed;
Imagination. Memory, transposed.
-
I don’t know if I agree with this poem anymore but it’s one of my early ones and at least at one time I was happy with it.
Ashtray
a room
reeking of smoke
alcohol bottles litter the room
and people relaxing about
a bar?
NO!
this is my mom’s apartment,
Where I smell like an ashtray when I leave
my brother complains endlessly
but does not see her tears.
she cries and he see’s nothing
he only raves about the “ashtray” he stays in
if only he would open his eyes
and sift through the ashes
to find our mother waiting for him to understand
that this is her hiding place
her place to be herself
and hopefully not be judged by those she loves
it is
our moms home.
-
Just have to say this is an amazing thread.
Here’s one I wrote quite a few years ago.
The flight of the soul:
The blackest night
Begins from the brightest day
I know I have my heart to thank
That my mind cant think of the words to say
Oh what a shame
There will be some price to pay
From the deepest depths and the highest heights
Should you learn that I died that night
Let my soul take flight
If only to find that I should fight
With loves great might
In brightest day and blackest night
Just to keep you in sight
-
I just found this amazing poem and thought this would be a good place to share it
-
I love all the beautiful pieces here!
However…
I just stumbled across a 5-minute poem I wrote last year for my Uni’s newspaper when they needed more content for an article about the campus’ squirrel population
“With beady eyes and fluffy tails they climb among the oaks
Tree rat, squirrel, sciuridae, they throw their nuts at folks
As students pass from class to home, the squirrels are always there
While cute they seem, their aim is true, so of acorns beware”
-
That’s awesome. I love the semi comedic semi horror vibe from it!
-
Thanks, having acorns hit you on the head after a 20-30 foot fall is definitely equal parts funny and horrifying so it seemed apt!
-
-
-
Know Thy Selves
There are more things in Heaven
And in Earth, than Horatio can dream.
There are more things in Horatio
Than Heaven and Earth can know.
There are masks, infinite like mirrors
Face to face, forever reflecting the self
We see in others, reaching for the ones
Who are also shaped as God.
Every person we meet
Meets a different one of us
A different facet of the Divine
Shines from every light that falls
To Thine Own Self Be True
States the wisest Bard
But Truth comes of Knowing
And Knowledge comes of Truth
To know any creation on this earth
Is a journey of a lifetime’s length
Take council then, good travelers,
If wisdom it is you truly seek
Embrace the plurality of nature
The singular they within every human’s skin
Know that you are Legion,
And go forth to know thy selves.
-
Words Like Water
I speak with words like water
A babble-brook of sound
Rivers may roar and so I
Cry with white rapid speech
I speak with words like water
Damned and dammed behind
The lock of lips tied by anger
A dike sealed by fable fingers
I speak with words like water
Rusty tap ekes out a measure
Falling on parched hearts
Too little, too late to start
I speak with words like water
A geyser, a fount, a great cascade
The diluvian torrent of ideas
Wrenched free by ageless pressures
I speak with words like water
Seeking the path of least resistance
Seeping through imperfect foundations
Changing through stubborn flow
-
The Existential Catumpillar
Outside my school,
Smokes lollipops and
Eats candy buttons,
And big thoughts,
He asks us
Deep fun questions
As we pass
“How much wood could a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck were given the basic respect due a living being?”
Sometimes, we
Will try to answer
And we’re usually
Completely wrong,
But he wants us
To try anyway.
“Is it nobler to be, or not to be, or to be a busy little bee, or to be-bop?”
Sometimes, we
Laugh at the
Silly Catumpillar.
He says
That’s okay.
Laughter is good.
“What is the sound of a tree falling in the forest if no-one can hear the bears pooping?”
Sometimes, we
Learn the things
The teachers can’t
Teach us, and
we didn’t know
we didn’t know.
“Imagine if gender were a strict binary, only two options, no other choices or chance to change your mind.”
“But it is,” says one boy.
“Good job on that imagination,” says the Catumpillar.
We all know
The Catumpillar
And we all know
That he is wise and good.
We need him
For comfort and joy
“What would you do, if you couldn’t fail and you couldn’t succeed, and mediocrity was socially acceptable?”
Sitting,
His legs folded
Cris-cross
Applesauce
Two spoons in a bowl.
His butt firmly resting
A yard and five inches
Off the ground.
At night, I hum
And know he hears
My answers to his
Ice-Cream Koans
“Do woodchucks actually want to chuck wood? I mean, have we ever asked them?”
“It is noblest to put the bop in the bop shoo bop shoo bop. Then someone’s baby can fall in love with them.”
“I’d assume it’s the same as the sound of one idiot shutting up, since I’ve never heard either.”
I don’t always
Have answers
For the Catumpillar.
I think that’s okay
Too.
-
ah i didn’t know we had a place like this! I wrote a lil warm-up blurb this morning that I like!
“As she brushes past the curtains
With an abnormal practiced grace,
Her frigid breath and outstretched arms
Creep closer to my face.
With a voice of liquid silver
She urges me to come;
Takes my hand, pulls me to stand
As we begin to run
Up through the open window,
Past the rusted garden gate,
Side by side, hands entwined
Through empty streets we race.”
-
I attended a conference about a year ago, where Andrea Hejlskov said “Storytelling is battle magic”. Her words stayed with me and I think people here will understand why. When I wrote this months ago, I’d never heard of the AG books. Maybe I’ll write a stanza for them someday. When the time is right, the words shall be. Until then, in gratitude for the world CJB lets us participate in…
Storytelling is battle magic.
A spell for hope
from a Princess who grew up to be a General
transformed defeat into persistence
and led the Rebellion.
Storytelling is battle magic.
A spell for determination
from a pair of hobbits who went never wanted the burden
transformed despair into one more step onward
and defeated a great evil.
Storytelling is battle magic.
A spell for friendship
from a trio of children who fought against the Dark Lord
transformed loss into courage
and together, they won.
Storytelling is battle magic.
Whomever you are, whatever you fight
may the magic of Inspiration lead you
transform hardship into wisdom
and rise.
-
I have written way too much poetry for my own good, here’s some of what I consider highlights. (Reverse chronological order, so the first is the most recent of the 6)
The Maid’s Sonnet
Though pleasing in her face, the mistress reeks,
Of fabric, and perfume, and devoured sweets.
From her shoe bound toes to her blush streaked cheeks,
Damasked in paisley, walking bright lit streets.
Her husband is similar, cleanshaven,
Composed, in slim black, suits buttoned tightly.
His shoes shine polished to rival heaven,
Though his love? True, as he tells her nightly.
Though an echo of that love, she is not.
Husband belied with kisses, her love,
It is for another, one whom she’s besot.
A gent called the gardener, hands in glove.
A secret kept as I tread round the house,
Dusting furniture, washing her day blouse.
Untitled #1
I lay upon the dirt,
The gentle earth beneath my shattered back.
A bed of moss around me,
In a quiet embrace.
As I lied there,
For moments,
Days,
Then weeks.
My lungs filled with rainwater,
My heart with moss,
My skin bloomed with flowers,
My eyes lifted by delicate stalks.
The slugs traced my wrinkles,
And the bees traced my meaning.
As I lied there,
Still,
In finality,
I became more alive,
Than I ever was.
Untitled #2
In the wake of all that we knew,
The moon split,
A gentle,
Silent crack,
Which could not reverb through the soft void.
She shattered,
Into rocks,
Dust,
And memories.
And we shattered,
On the quiet earth,
Staring into that dark sky,
Peppered with her brightness,
We dreamed.
We dreamed of all that was,
And will be,
And wasn’t,
And will never be.
With that final act,
We finally broke.
Spiral
In my essence,
I am the spiral.
A fractal,
Ever folding,
Ever falling.
Deeper than the eye can see.
I am of the web,
Yet the ever twisting tangles me.
I do not understand.
I cannot understand.
It is only in my foolishness,
My desire for clarity,
That I am lost.
I surrender to the spiral,
The unknowable tangle,
The divine radiance that is understanding that you know none more than less that which is held on the edge of a broken wing.
I can feel my weave tighten as I understand its meaning,
I can remember that the pattern is a silent master.
But I cannot pretend that I am not mad for it,
That it does not feel like unending changes and twisting and quiet breaks in a string too taught.
The spiral is within me.
Promisebound
A promise?
I made a promise?
To whom?
For what?
I cannot remember.
And so it never came to be.
A promise is alive.
A mewling creature,
Of blood, breath, and sin.
Tied in ropes of sinew.
I fed no such thing.
I offered no blood of the covenant.
And yet,
Rigid I remain,
Bound by lifeless,
Breathless promises.
Promises which were not born,
But etched into my being.
Carved into my flesh and my fiber.
Stamped onto my soul.
Promises fed my breath,
Long before I knew it was life.
And so I sit,
Stiff,
Attentive.
As I imagine a world where I am unblemished,
By the promises of my birth.
Cold Digits
I’ve got icicles in my teeth tonight,
A frosty smile.
Shivers down my spine and snowflakes in my fingers.
My teeth chatter,
Clacking shards of crystal wonder.
My Body shudders,
Pain and pleasure written in a filigree of ice.
My skin dances as my stomach leaps.
My heart pounds to a beat so amusing it makes laughter erupt from somewhere unfrozen.
I cry crystal tears.
I want to be beaten,
I want to be battered.
I want bruises to blossom against my skin.
I feel this chill,
And I crave more.
-
I took a poetry class last semester and learned that I really enjoy it so here is my favorite one…
Years Later (Inspired by Barry Moser’s “The Preacher”)
He was
A grave man. Somber
Manners. Thinning
Hair and frail.
That great Bible he threw
Around was his only weight.
Leaning this way or
That, it directed
His path. In the light
Of old streetlamps
He became.
-
Wrote this piece about myself and my best friend, also a writer and a brilliant Flinterforge in her own right.
“
Siamese Twins
There’s a power in the praxis,
the possibility of flirtation with fusion
when two people dance a line and love the axis
to achieve such a feat takes time, takes practice
no space for yourself, the silence of seclusion
there’s a power in the praxis
to undo such magics takes teeth, nails, and axes
ripping through skin or an optical illusion
when two people draw a line and love the axis
don’t do anything too quickly for fear of the blackness
whispering voices won’t speak of your abusion
there’s a power in the praxis
I have learned to look at other halves with rose-tinted glasses
wondering how quickly we will make it to our foregone conclusion
what happens when two people draw a line and love the axis
I could not have picked a better star as my periapsis
a better element to shine in the show of suffusion
there’s a power in the praxis
when two people dance a line and love the axis
“
-
That’s a splendid Villanelle!
-
Thank you, Vic
-
-
-
This is an old one, but I still like it. I don’t think I ever gave it a name.
I bought a camera once
A cheap thing, but mine
Blurry photos of my toys
I was joyful then
I used to se everything as beautiful
The scuffs on my shoes
A crack in the wall
I wanted to keep all of it
Share this beauty with the world
I bought a camera once
Felt the weight in my hand
Composed shots like an artist
I felt mature then
I used to be so careful
If I use the sunlight just so
If I focus on that one rock
People would know what I feel
Make them see with my eyes
I loved a camera once
I used to treasure it like it could capture souls
Now lies smothered in its case
I feel unworthy of its power
Inspiration is slower now
I used to see in bright colours
Bumblebees and tall grass
My eyes have faded now
Crickets and dry straw
I hear folks admire artists
“He was depressed.
His work makes my heart ache
Illness unearths talent”
I don’t think they know
Since I fell sick I haven’t seen joy
The marks on my shoes bring me shame
The crack on the wall wants to be hidden
I can’t see beauty anymore and I’m scared
I used to have an artist’s soul
I loved the world and wanted to share it
I want it back
I want to see in colour
Is it stuck with my camera?
Abandoned on the shelf with so many other hobbies
I don’t have the feelings to touch
Perhaps I can find it there
The camera awakes
Greets me with a click and a whirr
Feels so nice in my hands
False hope
I search through the lens
Like a seer-stone to find the beauty
Crickets and dry straw
My heart does not live there
My camera is empty
-
After I read the Monarch Papers a few months back, I felt a strong urge to write this. Especially after I saw all the butterflies and moths associated with the houses, and saw a 7th house. It may not be the greatest poem ever, that I know. It might just be a product of imagination not associated with the actual truth of the 7th house, or it might not. Only time tells, and Bernstein writes it.
To Creators of Kinds,
Beyond flora and fauna,
cosmos and time,
I will ascend
the ultimate climb.
Not bound to one single house,
given to the unnamed.
I am the seventh,
crowned on the seventeenth day.
Those that fear, there by hate.
Descendants of the unknown variable and line,
we have qualities that can’t be caged,
reasoned,
or rhymed.
We play in the place beyond the greatest of capable,
those with the clearest of sight,
sharpest of minds,
and even ones that seem greatly favorable.
Our toys and tools we use,
are made by unobtainable energy,
is dark to most,
but light and scattered,
and of very plenty.
Once you break out the prison that is your feeble mind,
we will wait,
and greet you in kind.
11. 11. 11.
-
Found this poem that I wrote a couple years ago in my memories on Facebook, and thought I’d share it here. I’ve written poetry like this for decades, since I was very young. Some people have a gift with words and wit, being able to quickly think of responses or words and speak them on the spot. I do this with writing, as is my forté. I hope this helps or inspires those who read. Enjoy;
If I died today.
If I died today,
Who would feel bereft?
Who would wish they’d heard the words,
That came with my last breath?
If I died today,
Who would feel the rift?
If I died today,
Would I be sorely missed?
If I died today,
How many smiles would there be?
Of all the lives I’ve touched,
How many have fond memories?
If I died today,
Would I still live on?
Or would I simply be forgotten,
Forsaken once I’m gone?
If I died today,
Did it all come out tight?
I sure hope it did…
Cause if I died today,
This is the last poem I’d write.
-
Here’s another…just because I found it, as well…lol, I won’t post them all, because I’d need my own section for all that
Gifts.
By: Yours Truly
I think it’s crazy,
How my mind razed me;
And my words through the pen,
To this paper are amazing.
No preparation or time,
To think out the rhymes;
And I can be proud if each line,
Cause these words on this paper are mine.
From heart and soul into ink,
They come without effort;
The more I have going against me,
Just makes em even better.
Mine’s a gift from the gods,
A poet’s forté;
It’s a gift that in darkness,
Can light up the way.
You’ve your gift too,
Rather burdened or not;
You’ll find it unexpectedly,
Whilst feeling like you’re lost.
Look upon my words,
And remember in time;
If you haven’t already,
You’ll find your gift soon,
As I have found mine.
, Earth:earth_americas:, and Wind 
,
