NationStates Jolt Archive

Yes, that wonderful time again, with thanks to Ladamesansmerci.

Fields of Green

On fields that once were green
Two armies not yet seen
Lie sleeping in their trenches

While grieving mothers
And pining lovers
Sit crying on their benches

They sat and thought
Of nigh and naught
Of all the things that troubled ‘em

That time of innocence
Oh what a pittance
And how the captain conned ‘em

Come join us now!
Put down that plow!
Yelled out the Captain’s fall

To help those French fous
And our brit boys too
To heed the Belgian call

While sleeping in those trenches
Overcome by mindless stenches
The time had come to pass

These greenhorn men
Not eight years past ten
Would charge straight o’er the grass

Go on my boys!
Charge on My Boys!
Have your brothers died in Vain?

Or did they die
A glorious high
On this once grand grassy plain?

The whistlers’ blow o’er
The guns they roar
And they go over the top

To fight the Huns
Back to their mums
Fight them till they drop!

You jump the rim
Above the din
You hear the Sarge “Keep Going!”

But then, a flash
A sudden blast
And time sat simply slowing

Laying there, deep in mud
Relief at such a horrible dud
But with a growing knowing

Of people not liked
With a helmet spike
Have taken your legs an’ ran with ‘em

That no only them
But the service men
Have taken your life an’ run with it

Of all this pain
For that much gain
All that you are fighting for

Was simply a ruse
Covered up in a Bluse
That some things aren’t worth dying for.

Comments? That is my favorite right now, I dabble in haikus and other forms of japanese poetry.

apparantly jolt cant handle more than one poem in a post.

this is about one of my teachers who died friday night. (he always answered his phone "cell block 38" in ref to his room number)

Cell Block 38

The newspaper read
The old feared
Warden
is dead And his job is
now up for grabs
For right next to the obituary
Sat an advertisement
“Seeking qualified
warden
one of infinite experience
and gravitas to boot.”
A mere eleven words trying
In vain, one should say
To capture the job of the warden.
To explain the respect and
Maybe fear?
Of all in his care
The rigors and tryings of
The Warden
And his quiet little cell block
Nestled in the corner
Of one Cell Block
Numbered 38
Quietly running on without
Its lovable respected
Warden
Whose walls shall never
Hear again his calls
Whose floors shall not experience his feet
And whose inhabitants
Are worse off
Then when they started.[/QUOTE]

Awww, they're wonderful, Fleck. They're both so sad too. :(

Most of my work is posted on the link in my sig, but this poem is my favourite:

Star


Little girl, strum your guitar;
Little girl, stare off afar.
You are the world’s superstar;
Your soul, no one can mar.
You don’t need a fancy car,
To see the world is so bizarre.

Little girl, cover your scar;
Little girl, go away far,
Away from society’s bar,
Away from it’s toxic cigar,
Become what you really are—
Heaven’s beloved lost star.

Awww, they're wonderful, Fleck. They're both so sad too. :(

Most of my work is posted on the link in my sig, but this poem is my favourite:

Star


Little girl, strum your guitar;
Little girl, stare off afar.
You are the world’s superstar;
Your soul, no one can mar.
You don’t need a fancy car,
To see the world is so bizarre.

Little girl, cover your scar;
Little girl, go away far,
Away from society’s bar,
Away from it’s toxic cigar,
Become what you really are—
Heaven’s beloved lost star.

Thanks! *blush*

That is very deep, and I like the rhyme. Why is rhyme out of favor nowadays?

"I did not know that we had ever quarreled."
Who: Henry David Thoreau, On being urged to make his peace with God.


The footsteps of those who have gone away
A Villanelle

The footsteps of those who have gone away
Echo and echo into the still night
The likes of which will never see dawn’s day

Be walking alone or walking astray
Never hearing the watchman call his plight
The footsteps of those who have gone away

Looking for those who could never say nay
Never given the chance to give one’s slight
The likes of which will never see dawn’s day

Like a silent ship floating in the cay
Whose wings of square cloth let her take quick flight
The footsteps of those who have gone away

Or a man in a trench who prays to say
“Nearer my God, get me through this damn night”
The likes of which will never see dawn’s day

As the sun rises over clouds today
See the warmth creep over the daunting height
The footsteps of those who have gone away
The likes of which will never see dawn’s day

Zebra's
Illustrious
Legs
Are
Mechanical

hollow

a sedoka

leaves fall around rocks
a creek rustles the grasses
trees stand quiet and regal
a man walks the path
hollow footsteps on stone road
empty world, the man no more

untitled

a katauta

please sir, watch your step
these hallowed halls no longer
bear witness to holiness.

same topic. i wrote all of them in a span of 30 mins sunday night.


Courage
For democracy
Would you live forever?
Rascals! You wait in fear of it
See the elephant
Courage; the resistance of fear

Hidden
Be seen and unseen
A true expert leaves no trace
Mysteriously
Subtle and insubstantial
Master of enemy’s fate

I don't know why people don't use rhymes anymore. The greatest works of literature are written in rhymed iambic pentametre like Paradise Lost and The Cantebury Tales. Personally, I find rhymes and rhythms effective in keeping my poetry in line so that the words don't fly everywhere and I can have a certain control over it.

More poetry:

Open Your Eyes

Open your eyes
To see the beauty that surrounds you
The rolling fields of green
The crushing waves of the ocean
The black beating wings of the crows
The crescent blue moon hanging in the air
Magic is everywhere.

Open your eyes
To see what you’ve done to it
Filled with monotonous square buildings
Jammed with little moving domes to isolate us
Packed with factories to produce more
Stuffed with toxic fumes for a cancerous generation
Darkness is everywhere.

Open your eyes
To see what mankind has become
Ultimatums floating around for personal gain
Paranoia crammed into every cell in our body
Alienation of ourselves on the faceless streets
Loss of identity, just to gain more convenience
Emptiness is everywhere.

Open your eyes
To see what we will become
Watch as we write our own death sentence
Watch as we try harder to kill our own kind
Watch as we make more weapons of mass destruction
Watch as we turn our Earth into a grave yard
Deaths is everywhere.

A nuclear holocaust will be everywhere.

I don't know why people don't use rhymes anymore. The greatest works of literature are written in rhymed iambic pentametre like Paradise Lost and The Cantebury Tales. Personally, I find rhymes and rhythms effective in keeping my poetry in line so that the words don't fly everywhere and I can have a certain control over it.

except for my occasional poem, i use rhyme. but most of my stuff is syllable driven (haikus, tankas, those other ones i wrote :) )

More poetry:

Open Your Eyes

Open your eyes
To see the beauty that surrounds you
The rolling fields of green
The crushing waves of the ocean
The black beating wings of the crows
The crescent blue moon hanging in the air
Magic is everywhere.

Open your eyes
To see what you’ve done to it
Filled with monotonous square buildings
Jammed with little moving domes to isolate us
Packed with factories to produce more
Stuffed with toxic fumes for a cancerous generation
Darkness is everywhere.

Open your eyes
To see what mankind has become
Ultimatums floating around for personal gain
Paranoia crammed into every cell in our body
Alienation of ourselves on the faceless streets
Loss of identity, just to gain more convenience
Emptiness is everywhere.

Open your eyes
To see what we will become
Watch as we write our own death sentence
Watch as we try harder to kill our own kind
Watch as we make more weapons of mass destruction
Watch as we turn our Earth into a grave yard
Deaths is everywhere.

A nuclear holocaust will be everywhere.

I loved it the first time I read and I still love it. Imagery is so powerful in poetry. :cool:

One of my favourite poems ever. I wish I was as talented as to come up with this.

Los pequeños detalles de la casa:
el hilo en el tapete abandonado,
la cerilla en el suelo,
la ceniza,
que pone en la baldosa su frágil contextura,
la uñita del pequeño recortada
al lado del zapato,
ponen gusto en los ojos que, sin dar importancia,
coleccionan imágenes de objetos que no sirven.

Se ama más a la madre por el hilo,
se acuerda uno del padre
por la cerilla y la ceniza,
y del niño por la uña y el zapato.

Los pequeños objetos que se barren,
que ya nadie recoge,
sumamente importantes, nos recuerdan
los pequeños disgustos de la vida
y los pobres placeres, tan pequeños.

Here are some
Original spontaneous lunes, one of
My favorite forms

Lunes are short, three line
Poems with
Thirteen syllables

The first line of a
Lune has five
Next line three, then five

Lunes can also
Be created a three five
Three word vartiant

These are not great lunes
But I am
Having fun with them

Cinquains
Are another
Form that I like. As you
May notice, I like short forms of
Poems

Senryu are
Also nice but I
Hate natto

Counting
Morae is harder
So I stop

Poetry
Is for
People who can't
Convey their thoughts in
A normal, simple, useful way.
On the bright side
One day all
Poets will
Die.

Do you want my shitty emo poetry? Or something half-way decent?

Once upon a time, the end.

Go to sleep.

Whispers in the Bath
I slide the door open
And the whispers caress me with the steam
The glances start when I sit down
The stares start when I wash
The stares, looks, and whispers scatter
Like the people and steam
When I sit down in the bath

I had forgotten I wasn't in Nagano

Enkai
Kampai!
We stretch our hands upon the feast
And endless beer flows, carefully poured
Into cups held still and sure

Kampai!
Talk boils around, laughing and happy
And teachers who normally shy away
Are now suddenly fluent in English

Kampai!
Feelings come peeking out
The stoic Japanese faces I see everyday
Are now relaxed and full of life

Kampai!
Tomorrow, they will return to work
But right now, right here
This American sees the Japanese heart

Kampai!

Hiroshima II
The burnt remains of a uniform
The twisted wreckage of a home
Hair that has fallen out
Abnormal finger nails
The corroded remains of a tricycle
The blackened watch stopped forever at 8:15

I experience the horror of what happened

But a little girl
Unaware of the hallowed ground she runs on
Laughs with the delight of just being alive
I smile and slip my hand into my fiancée's
The ghosts are laid to rest, and I return to the present
No more Hiroshimas, no more suffering like this

I experience the hope of the future

This too is Hiroshima

A dollop of Daisy
A dollop of Daisy
Yeah.

Everything tastes better
Yeah.

Everything tastes better
with sodium and saturated fats
and stuff that rats don't even eat.

A fascist cream cheese
A fascist
A fascist
for those who must know..

Your bagel is democratic,
your spread is pure fascist.

Die you commercialist swine.
My body refuses your cheap
sweet
goodness.

I'll stick with butter.

All my poetry lately has been about some stupid boy who makes me want to bash my head against the wall repeatedly. All of it is bad, but here's some of the best one. This was written as he was just showing his true colours as an ass, and I was still willing to cut him some slack. I didn't have time to get the line breaks exactly write, so be imaginative:

Clapton plays the chords
of my discontent,
acoustic as
the hollow of your chest,
which I would
that I could
trace with my pink fingers
to find that
scar of yours.
&you have lined your eyes,
like I will,
when I mock you on
All Hallow's Eve.
& you are not afraid
to recline,
& show off clumsily pulled
socks, meeting black shoes.
& you are not ashamed
to speak for hours with me,
about things both
intellectual &
amusing.
But when I leave
to bleakly repeat lines
with people I do not care for,
you are lost.
Your black-lined eyes are finding
her blues,
& scouring her flimsy body
with that lusty hunger
only you could have.
Or, you are showing off
your proclaimed flamboyance,
with three scarves
'round your neck,
& your legs crossed
effeminantly.
& though you may occasionally
lift up head to
meet my gaze,
that is nothing beyond
what the mind may conjure.
But I do not care,
oh god, I do not,
do not care
for simple or
tangiable
pleasures,
only that you may be
with me,
strumming your guitar,
&speaking a tongue
only we understand.

Edit: apparently the line breaks refuse to show completely, so be really imaginative.

Not *technically* a poem, but the opening soliloquy of a play that I am writing for fun(as in, I'm not going to publish it or anything of the sort). So...

Ahem.

"We were slaves once, but no more.
We have cast the shackles of the oppressed,
And have taken the flame of freedom.
There are those among us whom wish for peace,
To bring forth the branch of olives.
They wish to stop the bloodshed,
They believe we through the safety of peace
Shall we remain free.
Nay, I say, nay!
For, once we we bring peace, we shall be weak!
The tyrants shall chain us once more,
Our new found freedom shall be lost!
I ask of you, rise! Heed my call!
Rise! Rise I say!
Only by the edge of the sword
Shall we maintain our freedom!
Only by the point of the spear
Shall we ensure the tyrrants shall never return!
Only by the blood of war
Shall we keep our enemies at bay!
Rise, Rise I say!
For through peace, we are slaves,
But through blood, and death, we are free!"