poems are good
poems are fun
this one doesn’t really rhyme all that good
but i think the syllables count well
that is the main thing
YES!!!
Anyone else remember when poetry didn’t scan like a faulty radar or “rime” ike a warm frosty morning?
Uh…here’s one I wrote in math last year.
Skeletons Always Smile
Look at this once-human,
See how he stands.
Why does he look so into my soul,
And how does he comprehend?
The flesh has long since
Dissolved off his bones,
But look at his expression still-
Is death not so unpleasant, that he still smiles so?
Perhaps in life this man was such
As would jest and smile all day,
But perhaps the opposite was true-
A pessimistic grouch, maybe.
It matters not now, his skeleton’s exposed
For all the world to see-
The emotions that he hid in life,
Are now and forever laid clean.
The smile I see on the skeleton’s face
And the eye sockets empty and full
Look into me, teach me a lesson,
Of which I’ll relate to you:
On the outside, we may all be fake,
But our insides never lie-
We all wear a smile on our skeletons
Will you expose it now-
Or will it have to wait till you die?
FLEES
addom had um
For you to understand me, you have to be me
For me to understand you, I have to be you
But for us to love each other, we have to be together.
HAhaha that Poem I entered earlier was put in a poetry contest and is in the finals! lol
onelesscar that is a dam good poem!
Goodluck with it man!
i feel like reviving this thread…
we had to read the poem “Howl” by allen ginsberg today, and then for homework we had to write our own.
so i did.
here it is:
Howl
Original by Jack Kerouac, Adaptation by Matt Aaron
Dedicated to whoever finds meaning in these following words
I saw the best and strongest destroyed before my eyes, gore and guts splattered along streets in some foreign land far away from the masses, few truly know, many care.
IN my mind existed only apathy for the ‘patriots’ who of most are cowards, sitting on their couches receiving muted horrors through the faceless masks of the likes of CNN through coded messages from satellites, never truly there.
With every new report of death or weapon or wound, of squads of men giving without knowing, fighting for materials of unknown use, of all who lose through collateral damages, mentally, physically, out serving for no other reason than to serve.
Criticism, undeserved from all angles, up, down, left, right, in front, behind, searching for approval of someone, anyone, all who would side with their cause which they know nothing of or about, that they perform for no other reason than that it is their job.
Apathy for nothing, all is for naught, living in a world in which material wealth is the lifeblood of all, no shared thoughts, only those bought in transaction, through mechanized close of so-called people, distant, out of focus, unsure of their reality. Boxed in metal and plastic, without means of escape or progression upwards and outwards, sinking into a pit of poverty, despair, loneliness, looking for a bottom to be smashed upon, never coming into view for it is bottomless, further and further and further, miles past the point most call rock bottom with no lifeline or ledge with which to ease the suffering, no rope or hope or help.
Driven to look to where most deny existence, in the deepest depths of the maw, driven to reach to the shining salvation of oblivion, or peace of rest, of release. Once this shining rope has been grabbed, there is always certain scissors, gilded in the gold and diamonds and precious stones and metals all melted and purified, fallen from the gaping pocket of the richest rich, nothing but pocket change to their owners but all precious to those lower in the pit, which reach from the gleaming wonderful hope and snip the rope, plunging the climber back into the depths of the black jaws of the pit from whence he came.
When the gore and guts on the streets sit in the blazing sunlight over a burning sandy desert, I wonder, why help those who do not willing want it? There are many of the same hopeless, the loveless, with lack of livelihood or means to truly live that the giant bars of precious metals crushing others could be used to counterbalance the scales of others that are so off balance. With these drying organs and blood and brains on foreign lands, I wonder. Are the souls released from these mortal shells of bodies wasted on this purpose we are all led to believe is for the better? Souls, as they are squandered, lost, and spent like a currency on a candy bar of oil and profit and sand.
As larger happenings pass by the shield of censorship, minds remain ignorant, trained to look only ahead, doomed to repeat the course of what they are ignorant to have ever occurred, repeating, repeating, repeating…
When there is a mind resistant to techniques of thinking of only profit and future, it is beat down, struck, bones broken and shaped to desired shape, defects removed, forced to conform to a container that does not fit, forced through presses and machinery of an average, everyday existence, linear, smooth-running, like the cattle to slaughter, to be mauled for the betterment of all, for the better food, greater cause, to be sacrificed to progress further into the age where we separate from each other, ourselves, our individual identities, into a greater, higher conscience where we know all and see all and hear all and feel all, but which we know none of a human side and all of the logical, less magical where there is no wonder, no awe, no greatness, because we know all and see all.
This revolution of evil separation approaches, in which we separate from ourselves. In which we lose all humanity in our being. In which we have no racism or sexism or quarrel at all, and in which we lose all that makes us human.
In this way the racism and sexism and feud will continue, for we will be against difference, against the different, against all which is strange to us, the proud, the people who really live, who live and thrive an prosper not for a government or material wealth, but for themselves and the wonder of the world and the GREATEST good, the good of living as one sees fit.
We shun and seclude and separate already, we remove the different, those who wish to share the true meaning of living, of what it is to live and to love and to die, as a part of the cycle as it was meant to be, peaceful, thoughtful, human.
And for the tragedies caused by this attempt at an evil evolution, I howl. I howl for the lost and the outcast who have nothing, so as I hope that my howl for them will somehow be heard and received and understood and turned into something that they may cherish and use to pull themselves from the gutters and ghettos and shantytowns, to live the way we were meant to live. Whether or not we are prepared, as the day of change draws nearer, all I can do is sit, and hope, and howl, and howl, and howl…
I like it, doesn’t really remind me much of Howl though other than being political and the first line is similar…but I like it. by the way,
Original by Allen Ginsberg, not Jack Kerouac (:
I have a new one too! Enjoy!
Memoirs of a First Grader
Kids in elementary school,
6 or 7 year olds,
don’t understand the world.
They don’t get the universe,
the galaxy, the solar system.
All they do is fly past Mercury,
towards Venus, way past Earth.
Some stop at Mars, but others
(the lucky few)
keep going—on, and on.
These children
fly to Jupiter, explore
Saturn’s rings, take in all Neptune
has to offer before finally landing back
in the house on Earth, reluctantly of course.
The dreamers who make it all the way to Pluto
are the ones we consider “far fetched” or “out there”
but in the end, those with the 6 year old left inside
are the lucky ones.
While hundreds of dreams reach Neptune,
An extremely select few
will ever reach Pluto,
landing on it gently
so as not to throw it out of orbit.
99% of people grow out of such childish
habits as flying around the solar system,
most accept the cold, hard facts of physics.
However, a lucky few always disregard facts
and never understand the solar system, the
universe, or the galaxy. These are the people
who will die a 6 year old, despite 90 years
of living. These are the people
we should strive to be.
i found that out JUST after the ten minute edit deadline.
Laura is going to love this thread and I hope she posts some of her happier poems I don’t like the sad ones… anyway I’ll post one of mine… hope Laura doesn’t mind me posting this here, I wrote it to her I don’ remeber when i think it was right around our 6th month anniversary (correct me if I’m wrong)
I close my eyes,
And I see you here,
I open them and you disappear.
I close my eyes,
And I hear your voice,
I open them and again you're gone.
I close my eyes,
And I feel your warm embrace,
I open them and I'm cold once more.
I close my eyes,
And I feel I am home,
I open them and am lost,
Somewhere,
That I cannot find.
I long for the time,
When I can open my eyes,
And you are still there.
Until then,
I close my eyes.
I have a lot more poems like that and a few slightly depressing ones but I can’t find them right now…
“The cat sat on the mat”
Congratulations, Mr. Hopkins, yours is the first poem to have a negative score on the Pritchard scale. We’re not laughing at you. We’re laughing near you. I don’t mind that your poem had a simple theme. Sometimes the most beautiful poetry can be about simple things, like a cat or a flower or rain. Poetry can come from anything with the stuff of revelation in it. Just don’t let your poems be ordinary.
here are a couple haiku that i wrote a while back… i don’t think that they’re very good… anyway…
holding your hand,
clouds around us closing in
mud on our bare feet
they can’t stop us now.
we’re two boys in love, they stare.
they can’t stop us now.
water drops on a grass blade,
wind blowing through the chimes,
sunlight in your eye.
and this one…
wouldn’t it be wonderfull, the perfect thing, to smile with everyone else?
Ok here is mine.
I sit and I cry,
now I ask god to kill me,
the night will go on…
I pick up a knife,
I cut deep into my arm,
now I have relief.
No offense but if you’re going for the emo style of poetry, that one is waaaay too bland and unoriginal. Of course I usually don’t like that kind of poetry anyway.
i disagree. the first part is amazing. anyone who has faced any kind of discrimination can connect with it. i think it’s very powerfull
I am not really emo I wrote it last year, but if you don’t like it you don’t got to read it. I have’t taken offence to what you said just so you know
It may be powerful, but it’s still unoriginal. I see people write those exact type of lines in poetry all the time, and I would just like to see something that expreses the same amount of power but with more creative wording.