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Poetry (post yours, if you wish)

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Poetry is a way to let our positive and negative feelings out, our ideals and such. In a structured way, the flow of words makes poetry an easy way to express ourselves without worrying somewone will read that and judge us.

It gives us freedom, knowing that only we understand what's there. Only we have the real interpretation, but not the only true one. A poem belongs to everyone, not just to the writer. We all read poems and feel a certain way about them, even if that is not what it really says. It's still true to us.

When writing a poem, no one will tell us "you can't use that word" or "that word isn't appropriate" or "you can't use curses". We decide everything, yet we are controlled by it.

 

I invite you to read, criticize, comment and expose your poems here.

 

I'll begin with some of mine:

 

 

 

 

Forever Once

 

I once lived a hollow love,

The only thing inside was me

And that just made it emptier.

I once flew away from here,

It was only to find out

That I was falling in a well.

There was a colour in my heart,

Painted over a cold grey stone

Made out of your lies.

 

I once lived a hollow love,

The only thing inside was me

And that just made it emptier.

I was hoping everything,

I was waiting for you,

And that was hoping for nothing.

I know that I’m unfair,

That’s my scar burning away

And know I don’t regret it.

 

I once lived a hollow love,

The only thing inside was me

And that just made it emptier.

I moved past your fields

Of green and blue and life,

To feel the pain that shines.

You once lifted my love,

But now you breed my hate

Because I was inside you.

 

Now, I hope you know

That I’ll be forever free.

The chain you leashed on me

Is now completely shattered

And I forever free.

 

Filipe Dumas, 17th November 2008

 

 

 

 

A Tree's Poem

 

 

Your wind swallows our life,

Your wind takes our children,

Your wind takes our pets,

Your wind kills everything.

 

Your hands mutilate our life,

Your hands are our pain.

 

Your wind swallows our faces,

Your wind takes our arms,

Your wind takes our feet,

Your wind kills everything.

 

Your hands mutilate our life,

Your hands are our pain.

 

Your wind swallows our green,

Your wind takes our breath,

Your wind takes our lovers,

Your wind kills everything.

 

Your hands mutilate our life,

Your hands are our pain,

And our pain is your death.

 

 

Filipe Dumas, 24th September 2008

 

 

 

 

Bats In Silence

 

We want more than there is,

The reason is a mirror of sounds.

We're not a unit anymore.

 

Across the world's landscapes

Broken pieces of a perfect jar,

We're shattered in millions.

 

If we suffer we will not cry:

The witches have no more potions,

We will fly in the night.

 

There's a feeling of doom in us,

Hope has faded from our eyes,

Our souls cannot go back.

 

We have constructed this Hell

On this Lord given land of Heaven,

There was a lady after all...

 

Forbidden thinking saves our death,

Its lovers are dying in hunger

And no one will ever care.

 

Filipe Dumas, 29th October 2008

 

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Arcadia

 

As these mystical numbers drain from the heavens like diamond dust

I find myself swimming in a sad slowing stream of rusted blood coins.

 

I'm searching for the source of the river of truth,

cascading from the mirrored walls of this crystal catalyst

to rest in the catacombed tombs

where shadows play hopscotch under dirty archways,

leading to the hidden rooms of the earthbound soul.

And you better hope they scratch a 6,6,6,

as the doors embossed in 7s

and Osirus' severed head

have caved in under the sheer weight of

glittering gold and moulting dove feathers,

billowing the stench of death

through the stale incense smoke.

And here we'll drift in our barren winter's tale,

where no madrigal songs can save us,

and no water-bound hand will emerge from a lake

to offer us peace at the point of our hate.

So bring out the masques and let the carnival begin:

A God given army of bastard Angels and Priests,

as I dance, pale companion,

through the thread of the fates,

 

...and

 

.........I

 

............trip,

 

third eye to eye with a skull, on a tomb of lead.

"I'm in Arcadia too", I scratched into its head.

 

EDIT: And here's someone else's poetry, to make it a general poetry thread:

 

Saul Williams:

 

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=LSR7H580e5U

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=J5cOJjlyh7w

Edited by Static Shadows

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Eh, I just posted this in the 'Top of my head' category, but it's more of a compilations of things I thought and wrote down throughout the day. It wasn't half-assed anyway.

 

Me, The Werewolf

 

Eyes falling out of a werewolf's head,

His werewolf friends often say he's half-dead,

He squints at the light of each new day,

And as love approaches he walks away.

 

Coward, he chastes, coward and fool!

Inside he howls because life is so cruel!

The mighty werewolf, once so immune,

Goes for a mope, alone in his tomb.

 

He has but one thought that he cannot heave,

Why did he fall for a simple young Eve?

A humble young wolf should be happy and proud,

But now the tomb's silence is ever so loud.

 

Red-eyed he is, and sore-eyed he feels,

Not quite come over, he falls but just kneels.

He prays and he prays, for the sickness to fly,

Werewolves live on! Werewolves don't die!

 

Lee Morrison, November 26 2008

 

Filipe, I like your first one best. This is just my interpretation, but it seems to me like it's about a baby in a mother's womb...the baby feels it's mother doesn't care about it(like the common belief that babies can feel trauma and feelings occuring outside the womb)? Or perhaps the mother is taking drugs or alcohol while pregnant...that's how I see it anyway.

Edited by New Born Lee

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I've started writing poetry again but don't really like posting it anywhere. Everyone else (even on here) who writes it seems to do some really deep and intelligent stuff whereas I just don't stick to any conventions and write about stupid things :(

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I've started writing poetry again but don't really like posting it anywhere. Everyone else (even on here) who writes it seems to do some really deep and intelligent stuff whereas I just don't stick to any conventions and write about stupid things :(

 

Huh, I never got that idea from the board at all... I try to make my poetry sound mature sometimes but when I write from the heart it's always something like a crush or some kind of emo phase which is typical of my hormonal teenagerness. And it's true that I look back at some poems and think they're awful and silly, but I keep them stored as a mark of how I've matured. I bet you write stuff which you think is silly, but people might relate to it! :)

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I've started writing poetry again but don't really like posting it anywhere. Everyone else (even on here) who writes it seems to do some really deep and intelligent stuff whereas I just don't stick to any conventions and write about stupid things :(

 

Huh, I never got that idea from the board at all... I try to make my poetry sound mature sometimes but when I write from the heart it's always something like a crush or some kind of emo phase which is typical of my hormonal teenagerness. And it's true that I look back at some poems and think they're awful and silly, but I keep them stored as a mark of how I've matured. I bet you write stuff which you think is silly, but people might relate to it! :)

 

I've been writing for a year and a half now, and I believe I've evolved a lot since then. My early poems in English were crap, but people would always looked at them and say how amazing they were. With practice, I became a lot more fluent in English poetry. Looking back at some poems I wrote, they all seem so simple, "silly", over-emotional,...

But that's just our Nature: always trying to do better. When you do a better one and look at the others, you'll always think you've only written disasters. And I don't really like the way my poetry sounds, or sounded. Most of them very song-like.

For example, this one I wrote a month ago:

 

 

 

Souls Made Of Wool

 

Why is it so hard

For the sheep

Not to follow the shepherd?

 

Why is it so hard

For the sheep

Not to run from the wolves?

 

Why is it so hard

For the sheep

Not to follow the shepherd?

 

Why is it so hard

For the sheep

Not to run from the wolves?

 

They throw fire on them

Because wool burns well,

They throw fire on them,

Conformism will sell.

 

Why is it so hard

For the sheep

Not to follow the shepherd?

 

Why is it so hard

For the sheep

Not to rebel on them?

 

Why is it so hard

For the sheep

Not to follow the shepherd?

 

Why is it so hard

For the sheep

Not to rebel on them?

 

Why is it so hard

For the sheep

Not to run from the wolves?

 

Why is it so hard

For the sheep

Not to run from the wolves?

 

They throw fire on them

Because wool burns well,

They throw fire on them,

Conformism will sell.

 

They throw fire on them

Because wool burns well,

They throw fire on them,

Conformism will sell.

 

Why is it so hard

For the sheep

Not to follow the shepherd?

 

Why is it so hard

For the sheep

Not to run from the wolves?

 

Why is it so hard

For the sheep

Not to rebel on them?

 

Why is it so hard

For the sheep?

 

 

Filipe Dumas, 14th October 2008

 

 

 

At the time, I thought it was great, and still do, for the meaning and as a song, but when read like a poem it sounds repetitive and boring.

 

Eh, I just posted this in the 'Top of my head' category, but it's more of a compilations of things I thought and wrote down throughout the day. It wasn't half-assed anyway.

 

Me, The Werewolf

 

Eyes falling out of a werewolf's head,

His werewolf friends often say he's half-dead,

He squints at the light of each new day,

And as love approaches he walks away.

 

Coward, he chastes, coward and fool!

Inside he howls because life is so cruel!

The mighty werewolf, once so immune,

Goes for a mope, alone in his tomb.

 

He has but one thought that he cannot heave,

Why did he fall for a simple young Eve?

A humble young wolf should be happy and proud,

But now the tomb's silence is ever so loud.

 

Red-eyed he is, and sore-eyed he feels,

Not quite come over, he falls but just kneels.

He prays and he prays, for the sickness to fly,

Werewolves live on! Werewolves don't die!

 

Lee Morrison, November 26 2008

 

Filipe, I like your first one best. This is just my interpretation, but it seems to me like it's about a baby in a mother's womb...the baby feels it's mother doesn't care about it(like the common belief that babies can feel trauma and feelings occuring outside the womb)? Or perhaps the mother is taking drugs or alcohol while pregnant...that's how I see it anyway.

 

I like your poem, sounded very gothic-ish and with an old English reading voice it's beautiful. It seems to me that it is about someone who doesn't feel very inserted in their ambient.

 

About my poem, I wrote it thinking of an old love of mine. I felt so inside of her, inside the love. But your interpretation seems to make sense, and it's valid.

Edited by FilipeDumas

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I'm very bored and decided to write what my poem meant! Just for self interest (or vanity). Or maybe i've been doing English Lit at uni for so long that I see analysis and meaning as being somehow an essential part of it all. :LOL:

 

Don't worry I don't expect anyone to read this:

 

 

The opening two lines refer to our financial system based on "mystical numbers" - hedge funds and loans which are not really there - and "blood coins" is a reference to our western countries gaining their wealth through the exploitation of third world countries. I also wanted to try and work the religious imagery of "mystical" and "heavens", as ideas of religious superiority have often been part of the justification of this opression throughout history (whether or not Bush's own extremely overtly religious government links in with this or not, I wouldn't like to say). Likening this stream of money to a river, I "search for the source" of it.

 

"crystal catalyst" - crystals are noted for their symmetry and structural patterns so I am using this as imagery for our finely balanced financial system - and mirrored as we can see our society and ourselves reflected in this system and can learn much by examining it's source.

 

The 'source' itself here lies in mazelike/disorderly tombs, where shadowy unelected figures play children's games with our future among the tombs of the opressed dead, and "hope" and "scratch" link hopscotch (as it literally means 'hop-scratch') to the images that follow, which are religious. - Religion as a dangerous childish game.

 

"6,6,6," - A call for an alternative (heretical system) as tried and tested 'lucky' numbers (systems of chance) have failed. Numbers linking back to the idea of finance.

 

"Osirus' severed head" - Osirus was the first (literal) 'son/sun of god' of a dualist (light vs dark) religious system - he was also born of a virgin on december 25, killed by evil and resurrected to bring light and justice to the world. As he was dismembered after his death I took the idea that his severed head could be put onto every dualist religious figurehead that followed! These religions, however, are buried under their own wealth and the dove (symbol of peace) is dying, or rotten through altogether "billowing death through the stale insense smoke" - refering to this modern 'holy crusade' war.

 

"Barren winter's tale" - reference to the Shakespeare play, where such ideas of the destruction of religious conflict and oppressive patriarchal are explored.

 

"no madrigal songs can save us" - reference to a lline in Shakespeare's contemporary (and main influence) Christopher Marlowe's poem 'the passionate shepherd to his love' - a poem where the idea of a natural pastoral arcadia are purposefully compared unrealistically to courtly/aristocratic materialistic ideals. I'm therefore rejecting materialism.

 

"no water bound hand..." - reference to the myth of King Arthur returning to save us. - we cannot look to mythical pasts for hope.

 

"let the carnival begin" - let the anarchic 'carnivalesque' begin (often used in medieval festive cycles) - where social norms are mocked - here "bastard angels and priests" -

 

"pale companion" - comparing myself to Shakespeare's malcontents (often refered to as such - e.g. Hamlet).

 

"thread of the fates" - the Greek fates were women who wove a tapestry of the present and determined our future

 

"I'm in Arcadia too" - 'et in Arcadia ego' - death in Arcadia - was a common Renaissance theme expressing fear and disatisfaction in an oppressive, suspicion torn society. - We have not moved on.

 

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zomg poetry. :LOL: I haven't written anything in a while...

 

Here's some old crap that I'd write. Most of the subject matter is really, really simple. :happy:

 

abccba deffed gg

 

finals

 

go to class

you are 10 minutes late

hurry up and eat breakfast

hold on--don't go too fast

now, go put down your plate

and your glass

 

oh, take these

you will need them, I bet

good luck on your final tests

look at you, you are a mess

oh yeah, and don't forget

your car keys

 

make sure you don't get caught

and if he asks, "I just studied a lot"

 

-----------------------------------

 

some people

 

some people

are too hypocritical

some people

love to be adored

 

some people

are too sentimental

some people

hate it when they're bored

 

some people

like to bask in spotlight

some people

always shy away

 

some people

wear their clothes too tight

some people

sing and dance all day

 

some people

are lazy and ignorant

some people

like to drink green tea

 

some people

are harmless and innocent

some people

are just like me

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I like your poem, sounded very gothic-ish and with an old English reading voice it's beautiful. It seems to me that it is about someone who doesn't feel very inserted in their ambient.

 

About my poem, I wrote it thinking of an old love of mine. I felt so inside of her, inside the love. But your interpretation seems to make sense, and it's valid.

 

Thank you! :)

The poem I wrote is quite personal. It's how I've been feeling for these past few weeks- I've been sick with a variety of things, conjunctivitis in particular. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and was shocked, because I looked awful ("half-dead" as my friends told me), I described it as a "monster." The monster became a werewolf. My appearance has lowered my self-esteem since I feel people can't look at me- I especially can't speak to the person I fancy. I gave the poem a positive, optimistic twist at the end to cheer myself up.

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ooh lemme give this a go!

 

 

 

"rain or shine"

 

praying to the new red sun

to relieve us of all the heat

sun gods emerge

along with a feathered man

the true god of all the rain

 

he raised his hand the couds turn dark

a drop becomes a new downpour

the dying plants

have revived and emerged

and then they drown to the water

 

all we wanted is just a little rain

didnt ask for such a total flood

but its too late

all the gods have spoken to us

now the world shall become completely blue

 

people drowning next to me (so helpless)

and gather on all the rooftops

but im o.k. because

i built myself a boat

and i'll wait for the rains to stop

 

rain or shine doesn't matter to me

i will float along and let it be

i will prey for the sun to return again

and this world has been flooded all over again

 

if you should sink then i'll pull you aboard

me and this girl that i have just known

sitting together waiting for all the rains to stop

and finally the sun smiles once again

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I'm very bored and decided to write what my poem meant! Just for self interest (or vanity). Or maybe i've been doing English Lit at uni for so long that I see analysis and meaning as being somehow an essential part of it all. :LOL:

 

Don't worry I don't expect anyone to read this:

 

 

The opening two lines refer to our financial system based on "mystical numbers" - hedge funds and loans which are not really there - and "blood coins" is a reference to our western countries gaining their wealth through the exploitation of third world countries. I also wanted to try and work the religious imagery of "mystical" and "heavens", as ideas of religious superiority have often been part of the justification of this opression throughout history (whether or not Bush's own extremely overtly religious government links in with this or not, I wouldn't like to say). Likening this stream of money to a river, I "search for the source" of it.

 

"crystal catalyst" - crystals are noted for their symmetry and structural patterns so I am using this as imagery for our finely balanced financial system - and mirrored as we can see our society and ourselves reflected in this system and can learn much by examining it's source.

 

The 'source' itself here lies in mazelike/disorderly tombs, where shadowy unelected figures play children's games with our future among the tombs of the opressed dead, and "hope" and "scratch" link hopscotch (as it literally means 'hop-scratch') to the images that follow, which are religious. - Religion as a dangerous childish game.

 

"6,6,6," - A call for an alternative (heretical system) as tried and tested 'lucky' numbers (systems of chance) have failed. Numbers linking back to the idea of finance.

 

"Osirus' severed head" - Osirus was the first (literal) 'son/sun of god' of a dualist (light vs dark) religious system - he was also born of a virgin on december 25, killed by evil and resurrected to bring light and justice to the world. As he was dismembered after his death I took the idea that his severed head could be put onto every dualist religious figurehead that followed! These religions, however, are buried under their own wealth and the dove (symbol of peace) is dying, or rotten through altogether "billowing death through the stale insense smoke" - refering to this modern 'holy crusade' war.

 

"Barren winter's tale" - reference to the Shakespeare play, where such ideas of the destruction of religious conflict and oppressive patriarchal are explored.

 

"no madrigal songs can save us" - reference to a lline in Shakespeare's contemporary (and main influence) Christopher Marlowe's poem 'the passionate shepherd to his love' - a poem where the idea of a natural pastoral arcadia are purposefully compared unrealistically to courtly/aristocratic materialistic ideals. I'm therefore rejecting materialism.

 

"no water bound hand..." - reference to the myth of King Arthur returning to save us. - we cannot look to mythical pasts for hope.

 

"let the carnival begin" - let the anarchic 'carnivalesque' begin (often used in medieval festive cycles) - where social norms are mocked - here "bastard angels and priests" -

 

"pale companion" - comparing myself to Shakespeare's malcontents (often refered to as such - e.g. Hamlet).

 

"thread of the fates" - the Greek fates were women who wove a tapestry of the present and determined our future

 

"I'm in Arcadia too" - 'et in Arcadia ego' - death in Arcadia - was a common Renaissance theme expressing fear and disatisfaction in an oppressive, suspicion torn society. - We have not moved on.

 

I actually read it, as it deserves such attention. I usually don't explain my poems, I think that only two, to a friend. I usually don't use any references to other persons, as you did, but that's my choice. I like to abstract from everything.

 

Thank you! :)

The poem I wrote is quite personal. It's how I've been feeling for these past few weeks- I've been sick with a variety of things, conjunctivitis in particular. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and was shocked, because I looked awful ("half-dead" as my friends told me), I described it as a "monster." The monster became a werewolf. My appearance has lowered my self-esteem since I feel people can't look at me- I especially can't speak to the person I fancy. I gave the poem a positive, optimistic twist at the end to cheer myself up.

 

Yes, art has such an effect on us. It gets us to a higher level. Congratulations on being who you are, I think it beats your outside appearance.

 

 

Here's another poem I wrote. This one's inspired in a song by David Bowie, "I'm Afraid Of Americans", from the 1997 album Earthlings. I wrote it while looking at some statues and a church that I was walking by, which inspired me to some metaphors.

 

Genetic Slavery

 

The world is a horrible place

With its horrible statues

Looking at us with its eyes,

Its horrible eyes.

 

There's anger and perplexion

On our musical faces,

There's a smirk behind a smile

Making us fear everything.

 

Graveyards and churches

In a morbid kind of grey,

They're still but alive,

Gazing down on us like preys.

 

Our hands in our pockets,

Hiding from ourselves,

It's the prehistoric and dogmatic

Fear of masturbating our souls.

 

I'm a slave of the world.

I'm a slave of the world.

I'm a slave of an illusion.

I'm a slave of my sex.

I'm a slave of my face.

I'm a slave of the world.

I'm a slave of the world.

 

 

Filipe Dumas, 3rd November 2008

Edited by FilipeDumas

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i wrote this one back in 2006

when things seemd at their worst

but i think it can relate today as well

 

 

"she weeps for planet earth"

 

soldiers at attention

with bayonets at arms

marching towards to destruction

war and peace is around

but doesnt seem to stop

just letting you know

that she weeps for the planet earth

 

resources have run dry

with no way to be real

that theres other means

to fuel earth

greed will be the downfall

of existance on earth

just letting you know

that she weeps for the planet earth

hold her hand and join her in utopia

 

murder is everywhere nowadays

motives that seem trivial to us

its because they seem so different?

and so they all must die?

with no end of war in years to come

it is just a matter of all the time

they just let young soldiers die for them

brings a tear to her eyes

and she will arive at last

due to the sadness on the earth

and bring in peace at last

it will be the end

be the end of this

it will be the end

be the end of all of this

 

all the inhabitants of our earth

will become one and realize

that were are indeed all the same kind

we all are human beings

and when we see the truth

a flood will blanket the earth

and then we will be all gone

it will be the end

be the end of the planet earth

it will be the end of the planet earth

 

it is for the best

for everyone to die

so she can bring peace back to the earth

 

we will re-emerge from the now blue planet

and find the ones we loved once again

now we can rebuild the planet

 

it's the rebirth of the planet earth

and hate will be a thing of the past

 

it's the rebirth

the rebirth of the planet earth

and then she will be gone just like that

saying i will return here once again

 

planet earth went through a fifth judgement day

and it will happen here just one more time

but on the next time

this time it will

be the end

Edited by airstation86

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i wrote this one back in 2006

when things seemd at their worst

but i think it can relate today as well

 

 

"she weeps for planet earth"

 

soldiers at attention

with bayonets at arms

marching towards to destruction

war and peace is around

but doesnt seem to stop

just letting you know

that she weeps for the planet earth

 

resources have run dry

with no way to be real

that theres other means

to fuel earth

greed will be the downfall

of existance on earth

just letting you know

that she weeps for the planet earth

hold her hand and join her in utopia

 

murder is everywhere nowadays

motives that seem trivial to us

its because they seem so different?

and so they all must die?

with no end of war in years to come

it is just a matter of all the time

they just let young soldiers die for them

brings a tear to her eyes

and she will arive at last

due to the sadness on the earth

and bring in peace at last

it will be the end

be the end of this

it will be the end

be the end of all of this

 

all the inhabitants of our earth

will become one and realize

that were are indeed all the same kind

we all are human beings

and when we see the truth

a flood will blanket the earth

and then we will be all gone

it will be the end

be the end of the planet earth

it will be the end of the planet earth

 

it is for the best

for everyone to die

so she can bring peace back to the earth

 

we will re-emerge from the now blue planet

and find the ones we loved once again

now we can rebuild the planet

 

it's the rebirth of the planet earth

and hate will be a thing of the past

 

it's the rebirth

the rebirth of the planet earth

and then she will be gone just like that

saying i will return here once again

 

planet earth went through a fifth judgement day

and it will happen here just one more time

but on the next time

this time it will

be the end

 

The poem eas very confusing to me. Maybe because of the lack of punctuation. But I think I got an interpretation out of it. ^^

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#1

 

And we fell into a kiss;

Lasting beyond a breath

With day for night, night for day –

We fell into that kiss

As fever danced into sunshine.

 

#2

 

The centre of the screen reveals the lie;

A corruption, blurred by faceless voices

What is there shall but wither and die –

They are all but hidden by sterile noise

Captured in art by pale and lonely little boys.

Inside the eyes there lies the twisted truth

A fabric from which we hang our own noose.

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Ooh, I just found out about a poetry competition coming up nearby...don't know what countries it's open to (just NI or what...) but the top prize is £3000 as well as smaller prizes for 2nd, 3rd and highly commendable pieces. The subject is 'doubt'. I'm gonna enter, no harm in trying...I wonder if you can enter several times...?

 

I may create some and you people could judge which ones are best, if you could be so kind. :)

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I wrote a poem today. Why? Because I was feeling irritated and lovesick, of course. Same goes with most of my poems these days. I'm rather predictable.

 

But I found out after composing it that it really does seem a very doubtful poem- doubt was what I was feeling but I didn't realise it. So I'd really like it if some people gave me feedback on this poem, to be honest it would be an honor to win at the competition and the money isn't bad either!

 

Doubt (tentative title)

 

Unpassed,

A land of retribution or foresight,

Surest signs or further unlikelyhood,

Questions not worth questioning.

 

A warped vision,

Accentuated by falling drops,

Not on my face for I refuse to cry,

Deeper, penetrative, unlike me.

 

A white wall,

Drawn upon an unbeautiful thing.

Eyes that would rather be covered with hair.

I am not nothing but I am not anything.

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Green Green Grass of home

 

Joan Baez

 

The old hometown looks the same

As I step down from the train

And there to meet me is my Mama and my Papa

Down the road I look and there runs Mary

Hair of gold and lips like cherries

It's good to touch the green green grass of home

 

The old house is still standing

Tho' the paint is cracked and dry

And there's the old oak tree that I used to play on

Down the lane I walk with my sweet Mary

Hair of gold and lips like cherries

It's good to touch the green green grass of home

 

Yes, they'll all come to meet me

Arms reaching, smiling sweetly

It's good to touch the green green grass of home

 

Then I awake and look around me

To the cold grey walls that surround me

And then I realize that I was only dreaming

There's the guard and sad old Padre

Arm in arm we'll walk at daybreak

Again I'll touch the green green grass of home

 

Yes, we'll all be together

In the shade of the old oak tree

When we meet beneath the green green grass of home

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Green Green Grass of home

 

Joan Baez

 

The old hometown looks the same

As I step down from the train....

 

This place is for your own poems, not random song lyrics. :rolleyes:

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This place is for your own poems, not random song lyrics. :rolleyes:

*Points to thread title*

Actually you can post any poetry, not just your own

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I've actually been very creative over the festive period and attempted to write some more. I still think my way of writing would be more suited to songwriting, if only I had more musical talent!

 

Victoria Follow Your Team.

 

When the sun is high and the grass is green

The pitch is lush and the people merry

Victoria walks among the throng

Chanting to their tribal songs.

 

And they keep on singing,

This year will be ours.

Victoria she quite agrees

This year, it has to happen eventually.

 

Victoria, keep on following your team.

You’re never too old for this black and amber scene.

And you’ll sing when we’re winning

Shout loud when we’re losing

 

But you’re always behind the sticks,

Fiercely loyal and proud.

 

Remember the time you jumped so high

You skimmed the terrace and skinned your knee.

But Victoria you rose to your feet and laughed through

The pain, keeping your eyes on the game.

 

And the crowd keep on chanting,

As her heartbeat’s speeding.

Victoria she’s following her team,

Still a big part of that black and amber scene.

 

The flags are flying and the atmosphere electric

As our winger flies over at the last possible minute.

And Victoria, now she’s celebrating,

Keeps on singing behind the sticks.

 

We said that this would be our year

Victoria she quite agrees.

 

This next one was me just trying to find an outlet for something I've been feeling bad about since I found it out. I guess for some it would seem quite spiteful but aren't many songs/poems?

 

Dumbshow.

 

You were the type who always giggled

Teasing with high pitched squeals

You subtracted numbers from your IQ

Just to impress the boys.

 

Scheming madam you knew exactly

What you were doing.

You played a game, played dumb for him.

But it was just an act you were starring in.

 

Thought you were a friend but

All that time you were counting the days

Until I left

You couldn’t wait to sink in your claws

 

And pretended just for me

Said you could never want him

But with a flick of your hair and

An eyelid flutter I knew.

 

Scheming madam you knew exactly

What you were doing.

You played a game, still playing dumb for him

And it’s still just an act you are starring in.

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I entered this into a school poetry competition in the category of poem+picture, and came 2nd.

 

It's called The Guitar but I'm sure that's pretty obvious ;)

 

theguitarsm.jpg

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Guest QueenOfNerds

I dreamt about you and now I am dying,

just when my heart lost the will to keep trying,

just at the point when I felt I was free.

 

You gave me a book you had written about me,

with all of the beautiful things that I could be,

then sent me to fight a whole army alone.

 

Your eyes scattered blue from the sun like the sky,

the wind breathed me in as it followed your sigh,

then I tried to speak, but instead woke up crying.

 

Now when I see that blue I am broken,

and without saying a word you have spoken,

and condemned me and sent me to hell.

 

--------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

There is a lot about this that grates on me, but I did actually just wake up from a dream about someone, and I felt like I needed to write it down.

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Doubt (tentative title)

 

Unpassed,

A land of retribution or foresight,

Surest signs or further unlikelyhood,

Questions not worth questioning.

 

A warped vision,

Accentuated by falling drops,

Not on my face for I refuse to cry,

Deeper, penetrative, unlike me.

 

A white wall,

Drawn upon an unbeautiful thing.

Eyes that would rather be covered with hair.

I am not nothing but I am not anything.

 

I really like it, you use beautiful language :) I especially like the last line. You should definitely enter it.

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I really like it, you use beautiful language :) I especially like the last line. You should definitely enter it.

 

Thank you, I think I will actually, after reading it again just there. :happy:

 

I can see why your poem did well in that competition, it's excellent. :D

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I've actually been very creative over the festive period and attempted to write some more....

Dumbshow.

 

You were the type who always giggled

Teasing with high pitched squeals

You subtracted numbers from your IQ

Just to impress the boys.

 

Scheming madam you knew exactly

What you were doing.

You played a game, played dumb for him.

But it was just an act you were starring in.

 

Thought you were a friend but

All that time you were counting the days

Until I left

You couldn’t wait to sink in your claws

 

And pretended just for me

Said you could never want him

But with a flick of your hair and

An eyelid flutter I knew.

 

Scheming madam you knew exactly

What you were doing.

You played a game, still playing dumb for him

And it’s still just an act you are starring in.

 

I don't have much to say on your first poem, but this second one...it's clearly very bitter. On first reading this, and I don't mean this in a bad way, but it sounded like a certain Paramore song, Misery Business...it has the same kind of attitude.

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