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  • Nettil

    April 22, 2019 at 8:20 pm

    Here is a poem I made about imagination. I hope you guys like it.

    Imagination.pdf (27.7 KB)

    • Remus

      April 22, 2019 at 8:31 pm

      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!

  • Nettil

    April 22, 2019 at 8:52 pm

    Sure thing.



    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.




    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


    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

  • Nettil

    May 4, 2019 at 9:50 pm

    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 :droplet:, Earth​:earth_americas:, and Wind :wind_face:,

    May Magiq guide me from within,

    To help reveal from deep inside my mind,

    The unseen object I cannot yet find.

  • Flickerwisp

    May 8, 2019 at 8:20 pm

    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

  • chrysverity

    June 25, 2019 at 5:34 am

    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.

  • Charlemagne

    August 3, 2019 at 12:23 pm

    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.


    a room

    reeking of smoke

    alcohol bottles litter the room

    and people relaxing about

    a bar?


    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.

  • Fury

    August 3, 2019 at 3:39 pm

    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

  • Rimor

    August 22, 2019 at 9:11 am


    I just found this amazing poem and thought this would be a good place to share it

  • lesleydominic

    August 23, 2019 at 11:24 pm

    I love all the beautiful pieces here!


    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 :chipmunk:

    “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”

    • Fury

      August 24, 2019 at 3:11 pm

      That’s awesome. I love the semi comedic semi horror vibe from it!

      • lesleydominic

        August 27, 2019 at 3:27 am

        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!

  • BairnSidhe

    August 28, 2019 at 6:39 pm

    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.

  • BairnSidhe

    August 28, 2019 at 7:29 pm

    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

  • BairnSidhe

    September 20, 2019 at 8:30 pm

    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?”


    His legs folded



    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


  • boxofbees

    September 20, 2019 at 10:18 pm

    ah i didn’t know we had a place like this! I wrote a lil warm-up blurb this morning that I like! :smile:

    “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.”

  • sheri-brokaw

    February 16, 2020 at 10:51 pm

    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.

  • VictorianFlorist

    February 27, 2020 at 2:24 am

    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,


    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,


    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,


    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.


    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.


    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,



    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.

  • Belladonna

    March 11, 2020 at 11:11 pm

    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.

  • oraclesage

    March 12, 2020 at 6:43 pm

    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

    • VictorianFlorist

      March 13, 2020 at 5:30 am

      That’s a splendid Villanelle!

      • oraclesage

        March 13, 2020 at 5:48 am

        Thank you, Vic :blush:

  • Sellalellen

    March 13, 2020 at 10:11 am

    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

  • hannah-amacker

    July 28, 2020 at 7:48 pm

    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,


    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.

  • OneDeepABN

    May 29, 2021 at 5:08 am

    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.

  • OneDeepABN

    May 29, 2021 at 5:11 am

    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 :joy::joy:


    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.

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