Spontaneous Poems

War is over when you're dead
Someone else sleeps in your bed
Time will never mean a thing
Because you're not a mortal being

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Hamlet's Hesitation

In sandals made of violets
she walks among the dead
trampling the measured madness
of war with the insanity of Ophelia
driven to suicide by a world
unhinged by mindless bloodshed
Pity the nation that kills to posess
without posessing
Hamlet's hesitation

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but if the wind that blows
rolls around all night
in the trees and holes
as the owl takes flight
will you sleep
at your ease with me

there we can warm our toes
we can hug for love
when the moonlight shows
its what we dreamed of
counting sheep
be at ease with me

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Passed an old man
on the trail today
seemed as we were headed
both the same way
on the trail today
said 'slo down mister'
'you're athrowin up a twister'
on the trail today
said slo down for soon
yu'll arrive at that there toomb
an find there's a plenty a room
cause ever un else 's takin time
cause they dun't know what tha il find
at the end o tis here line
takin tyme to mak thar mind
huntin thar own sine
on ta trail taday

Dug

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n i appreciate it dug.
i feel my inspiration lag of late but mostly its preoccupation wit de udder stuf

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edgarblythe wrote:

n i appreciate it dug.
i feel my inspiration lag of late but mostly its preoccupation wit de udder stuf

I didn't know you were a dairy man Wink

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Hey everyone! I've missed you all in this thread over the last few days (of my holiday,) but it's wonderful to come back and read what you've written since I've been gone. One of the things that I have noticed, at home and abroad, is that, everywhere, a considerable number of people are thirsting for not fame for fifteen minutes, but fame for fifteen seconds.

'Famous for fifteen seconds'

In a field of cameras and prosthetic light
Outside a room, would-bes are carrying
On thinking who they could be, what they might
Do if the blinded world could see

What they deserve, their true potential. They
See all their lives pass by them in that hall:
----Singing as Toad in last year's musical
----Wind in the Willows, which showed twice in May.

(Everyone loved it, even Uncle John,
The one who's hard to please.) If this were not
A certain sign of destined stardom, pray
What counts as one? They knew they would be hot

Business; their efforts would pay off--
Their skiving school for three days whilst they looked
Around for tiny skirts and tarty tops,
Which left no pride at all. And they'd be booked

To sing at all the top awards; be seen
In clubs, on billboards, everywhere you go;
Be laughing wildly at what they'd once been.
And so, they're called up one by one to show

The hasty judges what they've truly 'got.'
They warble, are rejected, and are shown
The worthlessness of promises that say
They'll give, to all, the talent they have not.

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come down from there,
my thick headed friend!
it's not worth
a bus ride fare

to be judged at the end
not by three silly goats
but by three million more
making silly jokes.

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I like it, Sarius; I agree completely with what you're saying. I wonder why so many people want fame, and why people love to laugh at other people's misgivings, when they couldn't take it themselves...

This one is called 'Teenage Kicks.'

NB: About eight years ago, a bizarre and ruthless fifteen-year-old girl, incessantly sent--for no reason--her ridiculously factually-incorrect stories to the person closest to me, because they thought that my friend could get Boyzone passes for them, or something. They showed the sexual knowledge of a six-year-old, although they were sordid and usually involved fellatio in a disabled toilet.

She forwarded your stories to me:
They were your escapism, your breakout--
To me, they were your tunnelling down
Through some predictable ground,
Closing your eyes when dreaming.

They had all the trimmings
Of a 'happily ever after' story
That your mother never read to you.
I've no doubt you saw them on video.
It was the TV that bred you
Through long, afternoon-dull hours.

You take some boy
Who lies, and pretends to sing,
And in him you place everything,
As though he were some modern God that you
Lusted to serve. You moulded this boy to
The hollow of your yearnings: he'd be sweet,

And so would want to marry you, have children;
While the prime of his life away with you--
And no other screaming fan who contradicted you--;
And he would want to f__k you all the time--
Although you hardly know what that word means--;
And he would affirm, in his 'bold' manliness

That time and disabled toilets wait for no man.
I took some half-amusement
In knowing that your dream and you'd consider
Your 'tasks' in there more important than those
Of some crippled man, desperately holding on, querying your sounds.
But that was where my laughter stopped. I thought

Each total ignorance to be a gunshot;
Your knowledge weak as small card-pyramids
Your father made from ennui. Each line rang
Like a child forced to write pornography:
Because that's what you were; you were a child.
And everything had told you to grow up,

Grow breasts and flaunt them; grow children
Like potted plants in that sexed boy's small shed.
And when I think of that, all laughter's trapped
Inside the snare of my closed throat. I saw
You crave to be taken advantage of,
And someone would, and you would never see
The difference between that and love. Meanwhile, your

Folks would do nothing, but watch more T.V.

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LOL! Boyzone....how is Ronan's solo career going now?

Pop pap pish posh
I feel the need to wash
my hands of sickly sweet
but boy they sure look neat
don't they say the groupies
barely out of poopie diapers
get them all a set of wipers
to clean the blinders on their eyes

Not nearly as moving as drom's piece, but it's on the fly, as always. Smile

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Boys are magic to these girls, they hold
The future in their thin skin, gold
Down upon their lips still - girls do not know
Are they the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?
Don't see the ugly in these girls' dreams.
It's an expression of yearning.
They have foul language to express their whims
But soon they'll be learning,
And lose the dreams and reap the harvest of reality
Boys turn to men and that is their banality.

One gin too many, I think!

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Those last few poems are great. Welcome to new posters.

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edgarblythe wrote:

Welcome to new posters.

I presume you meant the newbie. Thanks. Smile

How often does one write
poems that he thinks are quite
crappy and boring?
Much to everyone's dismay,
why, only here in A2K!

I don't know the rules
about rhyming and patterns.
Words just flow, yes they do
and I'm quite concerned.

Grateful I will be
to anyone who'd guide me
instead of rambling thus far
or pretending I'm yoda.

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spontaneous don't necessarily have to follow any rules, unless we want them to.

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Welcome everyone who's new in here. Smile

I barely made it through today
again.
The days are all the same.
A thought I cannot turn away:
Is it my fault? Is it your aim?

I'm tired of this feeling-
pain.
It chilled me to the bone.
I haven't seen your sun for weeks,
Too long, too far from home.

I know you are right there,
somewhere.
My tears now glow and sound.
I want to burst out crying loud
Falling to the ground.

Where do we go from here?
Nowhere..
I still believe in love.
For those who don't: Through all the time
you'll never rise above.

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Heh. Thanks Olly. Smile

edgarblythe, I guess that's the beauty of this lovely thread here.

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Great poems everyone and welcome to all new poets on this thread.

Words of time
A fleeting rhyme
Keep your step
Towards being adept
Feel what's inside
And then don't hide
The words complete
Inside you speak

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So last night, I was walking to the A when this woman went by, she had her glasses on her head. This came out. I wrote it in my Palm. I went to bed early but woke up just now with the final lines in my head. It's four am. I'm going back to sleep now.

Moments

A few moments
before
the first plane
she put her glasses
on the top of her head.
After
the second plane
she spent some
more moments
with her boss Paul
looking for them
till he saw them
there in her hair
and they both laughed
the smoke
the heat
rising.

Later,
before
they went to the windows,
she laid her glasses on her desk.

The blue, blue sky was blurry
she thought

she'd laid her glasses on her desk

folded

as if
she would be back for them
in a few moments.

Joe

Spontaneous Poems

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