Post by snowkitty on Apr 18, 2007 17:46:24 GMT -5
Right...I just picked up some of my poems here and there, flipped through my notebooks, so I could have something to show y'all.
Untitled (This was meant to fit the first twenty digits of pi into words.)
But a cold, a clear goldesque
(as silver rings the sight)
Envision ornaments, refresh;
Ornaments, sit, as lit
memories fall.
On A Haiku (Same as the first one.)
See a line, a group, authority.
My vision, shows the haiku.
Standard syllables; divided syllables.
See it? The syllable song.
Can You Hate? (Speaking out against the war in Iraq, and the impression it is making on my generation.)
Can you hear the gunshots
as the war continues on?
Can you see the faces
of the children's fathers gone?
Can you see me floating
on the cold and violent sea?
Can you see our brothers
as they fight just to be free?
Can you stand the politics
that try to prove, in fact,
America's depending on
every heartless act?
Can you listen to the lies
and give all you can give,
just to prove the Iraqis
do not deserve to live?
Can you live?
Can you wait?
Can you fight?
Can you hate?
Music Is A Kiss (Just getting thoughts on out paper. It came to me like a song.)
They don't understand what I do,
why I love what I do.
Music is a part of me,
a part of "what" and "who".
Every time I hear a song,
I have to know the beat.
Every fiddler, every singer,
every rapper off the street.
With every laugh in the wind,
and every sound you make,
with every tapping of footsteps,
and every breath that you take,
I feel it - feel the beat,
and find a perfect song,
that pours out from my soul,
plagues me all day long.
Until, just to please my mind,
I write it out, like this.
Music is affection.
Music is a kiss.
No One Knows (Aw.)
Two flowers in a garden:
a violet and a rose;
and two friends holding hands
with names that no one knows.
Every day they meet and play
and afternoons will waste away
but one mother will come and say,
"Honey, it's time to go."
And all that time a loyal friend
will wait next to that hospital bed
until it's time for the end
and they hold hands, just so.
Two flowers in a garden:
a violet and a rose;
and one friend knelt o'er a grave
with a name that no one knows.
True Dreams (I honestly don't know where this came from.)
Dream a dream, and see what you see
and look through the haze, fix upon me
and reach out with your fingertips
so I may touch upon those lips.
And wait, because I cannot stare
to gaze upon a face so fair,
and tread upon a dream so pure
that I may shed a lonely tear.
Still, drifting away from the earth -
beautiful, the nature's birth;
look, and see, and judge, and deem,
but forget not to dream a dream.
Difference
She is beautiful, he said, she is beautiful.
The others only laughed.
She is graceful, he said, she is graceful.
The others paid no attention.
I love her, he said, I love her.
And the others, they cried.
---
He is handsome, she said, he is handsome.
The others didn’t listen.
He is smart, she said, he is smart.
The others only smiled.
I love him, she said, I love him.
And the others, they sighed.
The Fox In The Snow (This started out as a poem about the sky and the trees...and ended up as a poem about death.
)
Jaunty branches clenched in frost,
against the frigid dawn,
spread silk sheets of little cost,
white against the lawn.
Silver velvet twigs droop down,
tired from winter's reign,
clustered o'er, like a frown,
a young fox in pain.
Once-satin coat of red,
now asunder grey as steel.
Eyes are cold, flat and dead -
the short end of the deal.
Nearly lifeless, breathing fast,
the fox begins to cry,
For it knows that it won't last -
its time has come to die.
On A Winter's Day
Here abundant are the flowers,
things to see to pass the hours.
The fruit of Spring my soul devours,
but this season ne'er is ours.
Passing by, the loving Spring
leaves me for another thing -
alight on wing, the Summer king,
to me of sun and silver sings.
Shortly cloudless days retract;
no longer foliage remains intact.
As the Autumn chill distracts,
Winter plans her cool attack.
Grey days streaked with peach
help me reach my strongest speech.
Though my life the cold will leech,
to me the snow a lesson teach.
Untitled (This was meant to fit the first twenty digits of pi into words.)
But a cold, a clear goldesque
(as silver rings the sight)
Envision ornaments, refresh;
Ornaments, sit, as lit
memories fall.
On A Haiku (Same as the first one.)
See a line, a group, authority.
My vision, shows the haiku.
Standard syllables; divided syllables.
See it? The syllable song.
Can You Hate? (Speaking out against the war in Iraq, and the impression it is making on my generation.)
Can you hear the gunshots
as the war continues on?
Can you see the faces
of the children's fathers gone?
Can you see me floating
on the cold and violent sea?
Can you see our brothers
as they fight just to be free?
Can you stand the politics
that try to prove, in fact,
America's depending on
every heartless act?
Can you listen to the lies
and give all you can give,
just to prove the Iraqis
do not deserve to live?
Can you live?
Can you wait?
Can you fight?
Can you hate?
Music Is A Kiss (Just getting thoughts on out paper. It came to me like a song.)
They don't understand what I do,
why I love what I do.
Music is a part of me,
a part of "what" and "who".
Every time I hear a song,
I have to know the beat.
Every fiddler, every singer,
every rapper off the street.
With every laugh in the wind,
and every sound you make,
with every tapping of footsteps,
and every breath that you take,
I feel it - feel the beat,
and find a perfect song,
that pours out from my soul,
plagues me all day long.
Until, just to please my mind,
I write it out, like this.
Music is affection.
Music is a kiss.
No One Knows (Aw.)
Two flowers in a garden:
a violet and a rose;
and two friends holding hands
with names that no one knows.
Every day they meet and play
and afternoons will waste away
but one mother will come and say,
"Honey, it's time to go."
And all that time a loyal friend
will wait next to that hospital bed
until it's time for the end
and they hold hands, just so.
Two flowers in a garden:
a violet and a rose;
and one friend knelt o'er a grave
with a name that no one knows.
True Dreams (I honestly don't know where this came from.)
Dream a dream, and see what you see
and look through the haze, fix upon me
and reach out with your fingertips
so I may touch upon those lips.
And wait, because I cannot stare
to gaze upon a face so fair,
and tread upon a dream so pure
that I may shed a lonely tear.
Still, drifting away from the earth -
beautiful, the nature's birth;
look, and see, and judge, and deem,
but forget not to dream a dream.
Difference
She is beautiful, he said, she is beautiful.
The others only laughed.
She is graceful, he said, she is graceful.
The others paid no attention.
I love her, he said, I love her.
And the others, they cried.
---
He is handsome, she said, he is handsome.
The others didn’t listen.
He is smart, she said, he is smart.
The others only smiled.
I love him, she said, I love him.
And the others, they sighed.
The Fox In The Snow (This started out as a poem about the sky and the trees...and ended up as a poem about death.
)Jaunty branches clenched in frost,
against the frigid dawn,
spread silk sheets of little cost,
white against the lawn.
Silver velvet twigs droop down,
tired from winter's reign,
clustered o'er, like a frown,
a young fox in pain.
Once-satin coat of red,
now asunder grey as steel.
Eyes are cold, flat and dead -
the short end of the deal.
Nearly lifeless, breathing fast,
the fox begins to cry,
For it knows that it won't last -
its time has come to die.
On A Winter's Day
Here abundant are the flowers,
things to see to pass the hours.
The fruit of Spring my soul devours,
but this season ne'er is ours.
Passing by, the loving Spring
leaves me for another thing -
alight on wing, the Summer king,
to me of sun and silver sings.
Shortly cloudless days retract;
no longer foliage remains intact.
As the Autumn chill distracts,
Winter plans her cool attack.
Grey days streaked with peach
help me reach my strongest speech.
Though my life the cold will leech,
to me the snow a lesson teach.
That means a lot coming from a poet such as yourself.