Winter went away for just a little while
As spring gave a wink and a lopsided smile
It said, "I'm here to tease youÂ…with games that I play"
As the frosty cold winter came back the next day
colorbook
Minutes after he began the skin grafting procedure he discovered that the deeper layer of skin was in remarkably good condition and canceled the operation. So, she ought to heal more quickly and thoroughly than I'd expected at first.
Strange days lead to strange eves,
awakened by dreams of Byzantium,
and the soft voices of the poets of old.
Stones sing with the sunrise and the birds,
and Sirens sweet tempt with words
so dangerous and wise. My eyes
must deceive me, is that light?
Spring arrives and breaks the night.
The FCC
should cross a sea
and add a UK
and perhaps an eD.?
Cav
Strange Days is a wonderful poem.
Bury me with roses
in ebony, not pine.
The roses shall remind me
of the days when you were mine.
The ebony will be the night
that I first kissed your eyes,
the roses' petals are your touch
beneath those starry skies.
In death we'll be united
as living we once were,
so bury me with roses
that I may rest with her.
That's frankly brilliant, Cav.
Cav, very nice and melancholy.
Moon turn off thy lunar beams
Lathe me not with tender dreams
Cast off love's heavenly streams
I'm alone and chaste tonight
Dot not the heavens with stars
Place clouds 'tween Venus and Mars
Forbear memory that chars
I'm alone and chaste tonight
Edgar
Edgar, I will loan you my Maddy who gives sweet doggy kisses so you won't be alone tonight, but still chaste. :wink:
BBB
It was just a poem. I got my honey to keep me warm.
I loved it, Edgar; it hit the spot.
Love, let's not wake so early in the day,
But lie a while with old expectancy:
The blazing morning hurries, but we need
Not follow its example. Let's delay
Our waking to this real world for a while;
Closing our eyes, we'll lie chaste in our dreams.
Real life is helpless in our centred bed:
It can't break through the aegis of our thoughts,
Nor can it harshly tell us what to do,
Nor get some pragmatism in our head
That shouts 'Arise, you foolish lovers, see
Edgar and Drom, great poetry.
Thy sea of raging waves
Wind blown sea of just
Doth take thee heavenward
Thy soul hath turned to dust
Withered candle flame alight
My vigil opens to thy care
As sorrow haunts me in the night
Thy chains of pain forbear
Behold within sweet foggy mist
Thy face forgotten as the tide
Acclaiming thee I sorely miss
Forsaken tears doth thee abide
I like that a lot, Colorbook; to me, it seems like a very Brontëish poem with your own poetic identity added into the mix.
In tense live we,
past or pre,
without sense,
Whee!
Abide thee
the ride.
I'm applauding to everyone in this thread. I'm trying not to miss any poem because other people's poems are always a thought provoking material for me.
Here's another poem of mine:
I'm huddled up with my knees to my chest
Rocking back and forth to an unknown beat
I turned my back to the world today
To get over it, to admit defeat
I try then fail to lock feelings away
They keep on making me helpless and weak
The joy and pain of emotions are sweet
When the bloom of despair is not at its peak
I'm still drawn to your flame like a small silly moth
Atop my knees there is now my face
All your words mean something only to me
Everybody knows I'm a head hopeless case
All I want is to hide but I can't decide how
Crystal clear paths; yours, theirs, mine
I was probably meant to watch you all live
If I don't need to exist, fine
I get such a good feeling from the poems and people of this thread. Please keep it going forever.
Edgar, you know I like this thread too. Since posting here, my poetry has developed and grown, just by practicing spontaneity. I enjoy reading everyone's poems as they offer different ideas and feelings; which in turn, tend to give me inspiration to continue writing more.
I believe this kind of writing developes writing skill no matter the medium. It helps me, for instance, keep to a bare bones style of prose. I used to emulate the florid authors and the ones who use up every word in the encyclopedia, until I discovered my own voice did not require whistles and bells. I am minded of Erskine Caldwell, who read a dictionary from cover to cover once each year. But, first, he crossed out the words of more than two syllables. I am not that extreme, but I do see his point of view.
