Ladies and gentlemen... the WrongPlanet writing showcase
Tiger, You Just Hit the Jackpot (3-25-07)
and in my mind you're all i need
you keep me high and my mind like a dream
from your lips to mine can make my day
even when treated bad from everyone in every way
and the nights are never lonely when you're around
my head in clouds and my feet off the ground
i always sleep like a baby with you
even stupid tv goes from bad to good
your smell makes me lose control
but what i love most is you're beautiful and natural
Wrote this for extra credit in english. Well I had a little bit of a poem and I based this off of it.
A blister on the sun burst
And bled from the torn sky
Ashes of a half-worn love
Drifted from on high
And though the sea may hold me above
As holding ashes which sink away.
Do I, for all I dare to hope
Feel the words I pray
Words carried by the breakers
Break upon the shore
As sounds my name in music
A torrential roar
Sounds of childrens laughter
I heard within the storm
Even as the clouds are torn
From horizon east to western ledge
A light behind dark curtains form.
The end of hope I hope to see
For when our hope becomes itself
Hope shall from its doubt be free
Truth as hope shall cease to be
And truth shall simply be.
I found not what I came to find
I came and found much more
I found a place with in my mind
Not the things I came here for
I came not for my reason at all
For my hope was here to stand
But instead I came to fall.
As I forget the place I left
Though home is far from me
I shall remember and be blessed
And I shall cross the sea.
Last edited by Juggernaut on 02 May 2007, 11:04 pm, edited 1 time in total.
The following is a variation on the imagery and mood of the previous poem combined with imagery from the book of Revelation. It was orginally meant as a song for my guitar, though I have since forgotten the tune--I can't seem to find a tune to fit it, so I'm just leaving it as poetry. I don't think this one is as good or as poetic as the previous one, it is not as polished, but I like it because it is a bit more uplifting and relates in a spiritual and Biblical sense much more.
the ashes fell upon the sea
I sank deeper still
as the waves wash over me
Let the tide take me out
take me out to sea
let me watch the fire on high
the burning of the sky
and it shall burn away
burn away
like a scroll roll away
the voices of the lost cry out
to the darkness of the deep
and the light comes out
and they shall find sleep
with a voice like the sound of rushing water
he spoke words of many colors
do not fear
the end of the world
Empty dark spaces beyond
beyond the deep
many decades away
I shall sleep
the end of time
is not the end of mind
it is the place where you will know
what you came to find
and somewhere in the comfort of the that eternal place
you will find your face
RaoulDuke,
I am an old lady who has wandered out of the old folk's home to come here and tell you this:
I loved your story "Jesus Christ is a Barber in Brooklyn". I will wander home now because I know you kids don't like old folks hanging around smelling up your place with our ancient peculiar odors. You have talent. Keep writing.
artsyfreak918
Tufted Titmouse
Joined: 6 May 2007
Gender: Female
Posts: 42
Location: Somewhere, Illinois
postpaleo
Veteran
Joined: 21 Feb 2007
Age: 73
Gender: Male
Posts: 3,134
Location: North Mirage, Pennsyltucky
Dangle
ear dangle chain, hears barred
reflected grace, faded pictures scarred
chords wailed
of feelings flailed
lightning dimmed
through amber skin
voice retched
of strokes that fetched
thunder kept
was never met
sleep that came
dreams end, the same
reflected grace, faded pictures scarred
ear dangle chain, hears barred
_________________
Just enjoy what you do, as best you can, and let the dog out once in a while.
postpaleo
Veteran
Joined: 21 Feb 2007
Age: 73
Gender: Male
Posts: 3,134
Location: North Mirage, Pennsyltucky
I'll share a poem.
The Valentine
Two hands embraced in candlelight
And silent everything in between them.
Two eyes, two lips, one voiceless offering.
Promise and suggestion
Slipped into the night and drifted;
Silent ghosts tinkling with wine and laughter
Dancing in a sea of stars
To the sound of the car radio.
The silver goddess smiled down and
Breathed winter whiteness over the silent world.
Wandering under the bare branches,
Frost flower carpets under a maiden's feet,
Soft syllables half formed fell dying
With the taste of cherry lip gloss
From her drunken mouth,
And he bowed before the grace
Of sweet Diana.
postpaleo
Veteran
Joined: 21 Feb 2007
Age: 73
Gender: Male
Posts: 3,134
Location: North Mirage, Pennsyltucky
I did one very similar, at least it was to me. Your's feels more to the point. Mine still feels abstract. Is that a known style? This isn't trying upstage you please don't take it that way. I find it very hard to know, in mine, what the reader takes away with them from it. Still having a horrible time with commas and periods to try and get my flow right. A simple letter added to a word can be grueling.
Covered Bridge
names traced in air.
She was heavy and I was thin.
bridge, mud, cows, barbed in.
water sights, entered and out.
night sounds, engulfed and in.
words written and secrets spoken,
of creeks and groans, we hint.
time was distance, lives entwined.
recognize, under cover bridge.
moon glowed life, with traces in.
_________________
Just enjoy what you do, as best you can, and let the dog out once in a while.
That poem's really great, postpaleo. I really like it. I can picture it, and I really like the words you've chosen, and the way you've put them together. The meter is very regular and contemplative. The sound of the words together like that creates a really good atmosphere.
It's hard to know what a reader will take away from a poem. I never know what people will get out of my poetry either.
postpaleo
Veteran
Joined: 21 Feb 2007
Age: 73
Gender: Male
Posts: 3,134
Location: North Mirage, Pennsyltucky
Frank Zappa said something along the lines of this. I do my music for me, if someone else likes it, then that's just more frosting on the cake. Lol, I see what he's saying but I want to at least guess what it is others see. It's like I would like a peek, so I can try to improve it. I'd rather have a critic then someone that makes me blush at something I still think is poor. Maybe I am in a way. I'm finding my earlier stuff to be, well poor and think I can do them better now. I'm trying to resist the urge, let them be as they are for looking back at it again. I don't know if this the right approach. There's an awful lot I don't know about this stuff. Maybe it is fair to redo them, only with what I see the intent to be in the first one, still leave it alone but do another with the same intent, just try to do it better. Hell I don't know, lol.
_________________
Just enjoy what you do, as best you can, and let the dog out once in a while.
Some poem I wrote 2002 to experiment with the English language...
atlantis
never-come-back
melodies
your heart lost
somewhere
under the sea
memories in blue
enchant your song
that follows
the waves with
mathematic force
dreamer at the shore
maybe
those are
tears from atlantis
in your hair
Here's a story I'm working on. God only knows where it will go. Title may be temporary.
Wing-nut
The froggy bottom of oak month livid and loathing as yesterday’s mother down on her knees in whodunit logo rhythm spiraled out of the faucet like a sinister storm with sixteen epicenters gasping for breath and screaming for Saigon noodles. I put up with it for as long as I could and then I took off with some fried chicken in a brown bag and a thermos full of lucky lady coffee sweetened with cactus flower honey imported from an underground desert purportedly below the streets of Cincinnati.
Arcadia bound I hitched my way in a variety of vehicles not worth mentioning except for the pumpkin scented Plymouth wagon shot full of holes on the driver’s side and perfectly suited for snoozing in between red lights. The driver was a piss ant naked from the waist up with a good set of teeth and miniature ears plugged up with cotton or so it appeared. I gave him the remnants of my fried chicken which by this time was smelling pretty raunchy though he didn’t seem to mind cause he was starving man and sick to death of hamburger. I got out ten miles short of my destination because he had to make a hard left and pigeon-toed it up the highway taking in the atmosphere as best I could without letting on that my infrared was on the blink and my wing nut had rolled down the embankment. My luck ran out years ago but I had a hunch I would find it again in arcadia. My endorphins were blooming.
Twitty Prist did not meet me at the door as planned but biggie matilda invited me in and gave me the lowdown. I was a day too late. Twitty took off yesterday abruptly right after the mail came without even saying toodleloo. Matilda was out on the balcony having a smoke with old lady Dick from the 2nd floor. “I heard the door slam and that was that no goodbye no see you later no thanks for everything no nothin and she went and took my suitcase that I never even got to use yet. My brand new red suitcase. What a nerve. What a nerve. What if I wanna go to Vegas or something. My daughter got me that suitcase for Christmas last year and I never even got a chance to use it. After all I done for that girl. Old lady Dick said her son Buddy saw her down in front of the bus station talkin to some weird lookin guy in a skirt. She was sittin on my suitcase and it looked like it was about to bust. She‘s got warrants yuh know.”
Matilda was the tallest woman I‘d ever seen. She had to duck when she went through a doorway. She was wearing a sleeveless lime green mumu smeared all over with big white orchids. Her armpit hair had collected a lot of foreign matter in a variety of hues and she had an odor about her that was hard to pin-point, pleasant and putrid at the same time. Her feet were bare and surprisingly well maintained, pale blue polish on the nails of her long slender toes. Her hands were a mess though, rough and wrinkled with short fat nail-bitten fingers, mitts, paws, anatomical atrocities. A diploma on the kitchen wall claimed she was a certified advanced rolfer. A photograph of a kind looking big bosomed gray haired woman hung next to it. “That‘s Ida,” she said, and then “Have yuh ever been rolfed?” I thought about it for a moment and said “No, I don’t think so.” She thought that was hilarious. “Aw, honey,” she said, “yud know. It isn’t somethin yud hafta think about.” And then she started clearing the table. “Come on,” she said, “climb up there. I’ll rolf yuh right now if yuh want.” She reminded me of Julia Child getting ready to prepare coq au vin. Reaching for a bottle of red wine. Salivating.
Why do you do me like you do me. It was a phrase I couldn’t get out of my head, it kept ringing in there with no particular rhythm or melody that I could nail down, just dancing letters rolling across my frontal lobe marquee fashion, sometimes flashing neon pink and green making me think of a jacket I wore when I was six years old running behind the mosquito truck in a fog of DDT. Talk about nostalgia. Even now as Matilda tried to coax me up on her table I couldn’t shake the words loose and feared they might become imbedded on a cellular level and I’d be stuck with them for life. Matilda was scraping dried egg yolk off the table with a practically nonexistent thumbnail and I was numb and spinning in an olfactory nightmare of insecticide and Evening in Paris. “What the hell,” I thought, “What do I have to lose.” But just then …………….
The door opened and in walked Twitty.