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Poetry
7 March 2013
1.35pm
Ron Nasty
"Where have you been?" "I'm not telling you..."
Apple rooftop
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17 December 2012
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This started life with a line from The Beatles. I should say that not all of my poems are autobiographical, though they often give that impression.

Fall (The Beautiful)

How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?

"I haven't ever been that satisfied,"
tell me, is that the way it's meant to go
when there's nobody says they know
just what it's like when finally you realise
that the best of the night
has somehow completely passed you by?

You've got to know goodbyes and wipe the tears,
for can you not now see
that all this sorrowing leads you nowhere?
Are you down a bit? Down and left?
Sometime maybe you were left alone?
All alone and caught between the thrill of despair
and the tender gnawing hunger
of a heart cut to the bone?

How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?

You're a sometime lover of a shattered reflection,
a party reveler who lives for late night dejection.
And you've a worrying knowing gnawing
that somehow you're still sort of viewed
as the discontent malcontent,
no longer in control since you're not complete
when the only thing swinging
from your all too lonesome elbow
is the carved bone handle of your broken umbrella.

How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?

You're twisting and turning the sheets
when all by yourself
because you've lost yourself in the fear
that you've been left upon the shelf.
But you're still lost in the wonder,
the rapture of it all,
as quietly you're waiting in discomfort
for your delicate fall
into the knowledge that you've finally become that someone
who lost themself on the approach
to being very nearly beautiful.

"I only said we were bigger than Rod... and now there's all this!" Ron Nasty
7 March 2013
1.59pm
Into the Sky with Diamonds
New York
Apple rooftop
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10 August 2011
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Great!

Maybe put these poems to music – there are enough musicians on this Forum!

"Into the Sky with Diamonds" (the Beatles and the Race to the Moon – a history)
7 March 2013
2.32pm
Gerell
Philippines, the country which no Beatle would dare to perform again.
Candlestick Park
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27 December 2012
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My dad said I could write songs because I have the lyrics, but when I make the melody, I tend to "borrow" some stuff from the Beatles. a-hard-days-night-ringo-14

"And in the End the Love you take is equal to the Love you make"
"When I was a robber *Piano Chord* in Boston Place"
"Let's hope this turns out pretty darn good huh"
"Pete may be the best, but Ringo is the star"
Paul:"Don't be nervous John"
John:"I 'm not"
7 March 2013
3.09pm
Ron Nasty
"Where have you been?" "I'm not telling you..."
Apple rooftop
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17 December 2012
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Into the Sky with Diamonds said
Maybe put these poems to music – there are enough musicians on this Forum!

Speaking for myself, the two I have put up so far are poems. I would not want them put to music. I do have lyrics, and some lyrics can work as poetry, but in my writing the approaches are different.

"I only said we were bigger than Rod... and now there's all this!" Ron Nasty
7 March 2013
5.55pm
Funny Paper
America
Apple rooftop
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1 November 2012
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.Damn -- I may have gotten some of the attributions of those haikus wrong.  I know I got one wrong.  I had transcribed them like 30 years ago, typed onto small sheets of paper using a Selectric electric typewriter, reading from notes I had transcribed from a book I had checked out of the Southeast Asian Languages library in a building on the campus of my university.  Apparently, the way I typed the author names is misleading, and now I can't tell which goes where.  I did, however, find recent confirmation of one of them:

 

The sparkler goes out
and with it -- the face
of the child.

(should have been Lorraine Ellis Harr)

 

(Which means that the following is probably not her, but should be Bob Boldman):

I hear her sew
I hear the rain
I turn back a page.

 

Faded flowers, wait in a jar, till the evening is complete... complete... complete... complete...
7 March 2013
7.33pm
Ben Ramon
Candlestick Park
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26 March 2012
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Working on a paper on Keats currently, and his ballad homage "La Belle Dame Sans Merci" is a particular favourite of mine, wonderfully haunting and despairing.

O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever-dew.
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too."

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful – a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild and manna-dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
'I love thee true.'

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sigh'd full sore;
And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dream'd – ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill's side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all:
They cried, 'La belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

 

SHUT UP - Paulie's talkin'
7 March 2013
9.33pm
vonbontee
Inside a Letterbox
Apple rooftop
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You can't believe
Everything you read
Not even this

The following people thank vonbontee for this post:

Bulldog
I just want to play. I’d like to think I could work opposite Sinatra, B.B. King, the Beatles, or a polka band... - Jazz musician Rahsaan Roland Kirk, 1967
7 March 2013
10.50pm
Egroeg Evoli
Across the universe
Apple rooftop
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6 December 2012
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Gerell said
I remember posting on this thread =o. Anyways, I wrote a couple of poems to audition for my school's paper (it's been a long time) here are what I've come up with. They are actually posted on-line on another website. You can either click the links or check the spoiler below.

http://expertscolumn.com/content/sonnets

http://expertscolumn.com/conte…..ting-poems

http://expertscolumn.com/conte…..tles-poems

Some of them are partially inspired by the Beatles.

Sonnet One

And the world is going Helter Skelter
Slowly and slowly gaping to its brink
Aggravated and fueled by anger
Man is blinded and unable to think
There’s nothing in this world I can admire
This is reckoned by the wages of war
The world is barren, consumed by the fire
It’s absurd to see how deranged they are
All of my riches were stolen from me
I have nothing left not even a friend
I’ve had enough and this is what I see
T’is stuck on its tracks and doomed to a dead end
I have no friend, but I have you my love
I’ll see you soon in the skies above.

Sonnet Two

The last few days of summer are numbered
I’ve thought of some ways to enjoy
And so all my friends I have mustered
I said “Let us go to the beach ahoy!”
But sadly they did not approve of it
Now I don’t know who my friends really are
Do they go to my house just to eat?
I can’t believe we’ve gotten this far
And with one simple fight it would all end
I tried to talk to them with all my might
But they refused and I need a new friend
Now what will I do to set things right?
I’ve found a way and people say it’s odd
I have found the best of friends in our God.
 

Sonnet Three

In the beginning I misunderstood
I thought I could live without you near me
But now I see my life is no good
For being alone is no victory
I am longing to see your radiant face
And to hear the music that your lips make
It turns me on, makes my heart want to race
I won’t mind if I put my life in stake
I just want to be here with you again
You’re everything I need, my provision
A glance of you will take me to heaven
It has given me this precognition
I will be going for a visit soon
And once I’m there I’ll leave in a blue moon.

 

English Fetish
I can’t believe I am using English
Even Though I am not a real British
I am now in this rather odd skirmish
Where my nose looks like a bleeding radish.

The words coming out from my mouth
Makes the smartest man change his rote
Well, your pride I can mitigate
Touche’ just try to imitate

Can’t stop my contrafibularity
I just used it for the hilarity
The word doesn’t actually exist
I just used it so my laughter won’t cease
Fibula is to humerus,
So that’s what it makes it humourous
And I just used a punny pun
The word that you have just come upun.

Nail Cutter

The greatest tool invented my man kind
Was the dermatological cutter
Or the cutter if you’re English Blind
The highfalutin words give me laughter

What is this poem all about?
T’is the substitute for the mouth
This poem is not worthless
In fact, the humour is priceless

Who asked me to write a poem like this?
If I said it my life would be at risk
This dark peculiar man you can’t miss
He gives my poems a few tsk tsk tsk

Let’s go back to the nail cutter
The ultimate grooming machine
Did I say that it gives laughter?
By the way the poem was mine

Did I waste your time?

Time

Have you pondered with your Time?
And think of what it gives you
Your time is not worth a dime
Because it is always new

Your time is very important
So be sure to be hesitant
So if you’re already hasting
Just be sure not to be wasting

This poem is a simple test
If you have read it at this point
Then I think you are in unrest
Find peace if it’s me you have joint

I beg you to stop reading this
Go find something that is worthwhile
There are lots of things you will miss
For this poem is as long as the Nile

I pity your decision to go here
For these are the words you should adhere
This poem has given you a simple thought
In which for some time can never be bought.
 

I Me Mine

Well I used to get mad at my school
The teachers who taught me weren’t cool
Thought I was on a hill like a fool
But I Am The Walrus and I rule

My real name was Sergeant Pepper
But they call me Helter Skelter
I’m not a mod nor a mocker
To be honest, I’m a mocker

I live at Strawberry Fields
The place where nothing is real
A Taste Of Honey it yields
Tells me that its love I feel

It is Getting Better
I love you Forever
You may be a rocker
 But you ain’t a dancer

I love the Beatles
John Paul and George
Ringo giggles
Music surges

Number Nine?
I Me Mine
Two of Us
On Christmas

The poem has a descending metre, the last stanzas are gibberish.

My Music

So you see I don’t want to spoil the party
Everybody’s trying to be my baby
Their music had brought me out of Misery
It feels like walking through the road of Abbey.

And so Why don’t we do it in the road?
Turn off your mind relax and float downstream
It would lead to a Long and Winding Road
So listen to the colour of your dream

Their music is all that I seek
Listen to it Eight Days A Week
Hearing She Loves You makes me glad
Twist And Shout “I Want You so Bad”

There’s something in the way that makes us come together
I’ll get back to your side and forget the tears we’ve cried
Just Let it Be and get yourself a Ticket To Ride
Let us hear their music while it lasts forever

 

I love it!

Do you want to know a secret? Read my username backwards. ~ ~ ~ - - - . . . - - - ~ ~ ~ Also known as Egg-Rock, Egg-Roll, E-George, Eggy...

☮ & <3

7 March 2013
10.55pm
Egroeg Evoli
Across the universe
Apple rooftop
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Member Since:
6 December 2012
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mja6758 said
This started life with a line from The Beatles. I should say that not all of my poems are autobiographical, though they often give that impression.

Fall (The Beautiful)

How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?

"I haven't ever been that satisfied,"
tell me, is that the way it's meant to go
when there's nobody says they know
just what it's like when finally you realise
that the best of the night
has somehow completely passed you by?

You've got to know goodbyes and wipe the tears,
for can you not now see
that all this sorrowing leads you nowhere?
Are you down a bit? Down and left?
Sometime maybe you were left alone?
All alone and caught between the thrill of despair
and the tender gnawing hunger
of a heart cut to the bone?

How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?

You're a sometime lover of a shattered reflection,
a party reveler who lives for late night dejection.
And you've a worrying knowing gnawing
that somehow you're still sort of viewed
as the discontent malcontent,
no longer in control since you're not complete
when the only thing swinging
from your all too lonesome elbow
is the carved bone handle of your broken umbrella.

How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?

You're twisting and turning the sheets
when all by yourself
because you've lost yourself in the fear
that you've been left upon the shelf.
But you're still lost in the wonder,
the rapture of it all,
as quietly you're waiting in discomfort
for your delicate fall
into the knowledge that you've finally become that someone
who lost themself on the approach
to being very nearly beautiful.

Wow…

Mja, your poetry is amazing. Really amazing. This is a beautiful poem. Sad, but beautiful.

Do you want to know a secret? Read my username backwards. ~ ~ ~ - - - . . . - - - ~ ~ ~ Also known as Egg-Rock, Egg-Roll, E-George, Eggy...

☮ & <3

8 March 2013
1.06am
Ron Nasty
"Where have you been?" "I'm not telling you..."
Apple rooftop
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Member Since:
17 December 2012
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Egroeg Evoli said

Mja, your poetry is amazing. Really amazing.

Thank you so much for your kind words. It's just something I've always done, right back as far as. And thanks for telling me about how to get the single spacing. An old man whose pretty computer illiterate, and still a one-finger typist even after thirty years of typing! Anyway, another one – This began life as a stand-alone, but went on to spawn children, and I titled them all The "Phoenix" Cycle. This is the first of the cycle. If there is any interest I will go on to post the rest.

The Wound That Never Heals

Looking just like a spectre at the feast,
she stumbled in to mourn those yet to leave.
Behind her darkened shroud she hid her eyes,
as with a careless shrug she cast away their alibis.
As she raised a toast to those left lost and lonely
the second hand suddenly started running slowly.
She then sat there at the bar and drank her fill,
still living with the wound that never heals.

Laying down her glass she made to stand,
her veil was whipped away by the ceiling fan.
Her startled eyes now revealed to those stood around,
in their shadows she sought all they thought they'd found.
There was much within their looks which turned aside,
they held much within they felt a nameless need to hide;
all trying their hardest to conceal how they think it feels
to be the only one living with the wound that never heals.

Looking like an angel dressed in black,
the doyennes of suburbia all stepped back.
She moved straight through their ranks as if a breeze,
asking each and every one for their beliefs.
Her hollow laughter reflected the dismay
she found in the false gods to whom they prayed.
She cursed all of the idols that they'd built
while living with the wound that never heals.

The cloak she wore lay dark across the night,
and there were those who recognised their plight,
those who saw the blood in pools about their feet,
and those who could still taste the ashes of defeat;
a world groaning 'neath the weight of those who feed,
their diets stuffed with jealousy, avarice and greed.
She's searching out the ones who know what's real,
while living with the wound that never heals.

The midnight mile she walked at ten-to-ten,
as a way was sought to jump their barbed-wire fence.
Searchlight flickers flashed across the ground,
exposing those whose hands and feet were bound.
They'd thought to change direction would prove easy,
not believing until they fell it just might not be.
Those cries still heard echoing 'cross the fields
belong to those living with the wound that never heals.

The shelter that was sought was slowly leaking:
Wooden walls around them, night-time breathing,
whispered words exchanged over a fire,
"I've thirty pieces of silver here with which to buy her."
A shaking head was glimpsed deep within the gloom
as some still felt their rose tattoo in bloom;
they're all looking for the way to pay outstanding bills
while living with the wound that never heals.

Alone she stood, a silhouette against the night,
waiting for those tricks that are held there in the quiet.
She feels the chill and pulls her cloak in close,
disguising all those fears she fears now lay exposed.
She says, "There are many souls lost here in the dark,
many yet to find a home in another's heart,
many who've forgotten how good life sometimes feels,
while still living with the wound that never heals."

Her words echoed deeply in the silence surrounding,
and those with the need were the ones who found them.
Comfort was drawn from all it was that they concealed
rather than what could be read in all they had revealed.
The flames of the fire grew, crackled and danced,
warmed the hands of those who'd thought to take the chance;
those who tried a different deck from which to deal
while living with the wound that never heals.

Silently she strode out into the night quite alone,
hoping there might be growth in the seed she'd sown.
She could offer only suggestions, paths they just might follow,
for they were the ones who had to live with their sorrow.
She knows that lives are lived each to their own,
all the way back to the beginnings from which we've grown,
knows there's not one of us can tell another how it feels
to be living with the wound that never heals.

 

"I only said we were bigger than Rod... and now there's all this!" Ron Nasty
8 March 2013
1.13am
Egroeg Evoli
Across the universe
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a-hard-days-night-ringo-8

*speechlessness*

Amazing. Please post more. :)

Do you want to know a secret? Read my username backwards. ~ ~ ~ - - - . . . - - - ~ ~ ~ Also known as Egg-Rock, Egg-Roll, E-George, Eggy...

☮ & <3

8 March 2013
1.32am
Ron Nasty
"Where have you been?" "I'm not telling you..."
Apple rooftop
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17 December 2012
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Thank you. I am partway through typing the 2nd part onto my laptop and will try to post it in the next hour. One finger typist syndrome. I will post the rest over the next day or two.

"I only said we were bigger than Rod... and now there's all this!" Ron Nasty
8 March 2013
1.37am
Egroeg Evoli
Across the universe
Apple rooftop
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6 December 2012
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mja6758 said
Thank you. I am partway through typing the 2nd part onto my laptop and will try to post it in the next hour. One finger typist syndrome. I will post the rest over the next day or two.

Woo-hoo! Thank you! :)

Do you want to know a secret? Read my username backwards. ~ ~ ~ - - - . . . - - - ~ ~ ~ Also known as Egg-Rock, Egg-Roll, E-George, Eggy...

☮ & <3

8 March 2013
2.16am
Ron Nasty
"Where have you been?" "I'm not telling you..."
Apple rooftop
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Second part of The "Phoenix" Cycle. There are obvious connections, I think. The layout changes here stay for the remaining parts. There are still bits of this one I'm not that happy with but, hey-ho, it is what it is!

From the Womb Unto the Grave

Standing ranged all in a line, their backs against the wall,
they looked each to the other to see who'd be the first to fall.
With the weight of their discomfort, they shift from foot to foot,
as they struggle to come to terms with the self-belief she took.
Her words had pierced them deeply, opened them to fear and doubt,
as questions long suppressed grew from a whisper to a shout.
Their lives brought into stark relief had them looking to what they gave
as they stumbled blindly on their journey from the womb unto the grave.

Feeling so backed-up put their hackles up, left all gasping for air,
struggling to escape the condemnation of an uncompromising stare.
But soon the second thoughts were tumbling as they sought to lift the blame
from the shoulders of those who felt justified in their playing of the game.
"Just who are you to judge us? Or this path we've chosen to walk?
Who's to say that one day you'll not realise you're the one at fault?
Our house will stand the test of time, we saw all its foundations laid;
it'll easily last our passage, our journey from the womb unto the grave."

Her reply came soft and low, though still the Politician stood and left,
"Will your children's children have anywhere to lay their heads?
Already in this house you'll leave, there's cracks within its walls;
whilst it may last your lifetime, you already know it's bound to fall.
You know drought's drawing close — with its destruction, decay and disease;
if you mutely stand and watch, that's how you seed the land you'll leave.
If your life's all logos and the latest brands, you should really learn how to pray;
there's more to learn from these days in between, from the womb unto the grave."

The Priest jumps up, washes his hands, denounces her as a fraud,
then hurries outside, quickly crossing himself before the curfew's called.
There's relief etched in their faces, his absolution echoing in their minds,
for they believe the Pope's agent on Earth must surely know its design.
Realising they've the blessing of the Priest to damn her as absurd,
though she continues speaking plainly, she's no longer really heard.
They drift away in ones and twos, her words falling without leaving a trace,
determined to pursue their own greeds from the womb unto to the grave.

There's laughter, self-satisfied smirks, filling the queue for the bar —
the ad-exec grins widely, nudging the once breakfast-time star,
"Who would've thought all we stand for was so very nearly dismissed?
She's no understanding of survival when it comes to a world like this."
"What's it matter," came her reply, "when these are the lives we want?
These days belong to us, so what matter what we leave when we are gone?
This time is ours, who cares the price tomorrow has to pay,
so long as we can dance through our days, from the womb unto the grave?"

"I only said we were bigger than Rod... and now there's all this!" Ron Nasty
8 March 2013
2.49am
Egroeg Evoli
Across the universe
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a-hard-days-night-ringo-8 

*speechlessness, again*

Wow… amazing, once again.

I love how you repeat the title in the last line of every stanza.

I can't wait for the next part of The "Phoenix" Cycle! :)

Do you want to know a secret? Read my username backwards. ~ ~ ~ - - - . . . - - - ~ ~ ~ Also known as Egg-Rock, Egg-Roll, E-George, Eggy...

☮ & <3

8 March 2013
8.29pm
Ron Nasty
"Where have you been?" "I'm not telling you..."
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Thank you again for your comments. Parts three and four of The "Phoenix" Cycle. Another two to go.

A Church Not Made of Stone

Sitting in the shadows, lit only by the flames,
silently he's listening as they seek someone to blame.
Their words are falling blindly in amongst the sparks
as he wonders if they truly reflect what's held in hearts.
Sitting there with those who sometimes dare to dream
that, for all they've done, theirs are the only hands still clean.
He wonders if, like him, they no longer feel alone;
if they too have found their church not made of stone.

Their words seemed a corruption of everything he'd heard.
Their twisting of her truth far less than it deserved.
She was looking to tomorrow, they were trapped in yesterday.
Their worries all revolved around the price they'd have to pay.
He heard with disillusion, as the flames continued higher,
"I've got thirty pieces of silver here with which to buy her."
All at once, within those words, his hopes for them had flown;
he saw not one who understood a church not made of stone.

He found himself falling back into the shadows of the room,
and his shaking head was glimpsed deep within the gloom.
Sitting back upon his haunches, he began to deeply breathe,
watching as she stood and toward the door began to weave.
Following her into the darkness, he saw her silhouetted by the sky,
and no words were sought or needed in that time of no reply;
he felt within, beginning to bloom, the seed that she had sown,
and felt awaking — deep inside — a church not made of stone.

When she'd come in from the storm was when he'd first fallen,
though there were voices all around offering up their warnings.
Their barbed remarks, the cutting quips, he disregarded them —
knowing for himself the well of fear from which they stemmed.
Their masks of anarchy quivered at the freedom she displayed,
her belief in values they had dismissed made many feel afraid.
The sadness of her smile showed she had already known,
many here among us cannot pray in a church not made of stone.

He watched her take to the road, no glance over her shoulder,
and felt the shiver of his spine as the night blew suddenly colder.
Turning from the path, out into the fields he saw her striding,
as she sought out more of those living their lives in dying.
He marvelled at the choices she had found within to follow,
not questioning if she could somehow salve all of their sorrow.
In her reflection he knew himself to have truly grown,
and had no need to doubt her church not made of stone.

The Whistle of a Distant Train

The guests arrive at a steady pace, the Priest greets each and every one,
saying, "Those who come to the Father, they do so by the Son."
Smiling meekly at perceived wisdoms, they hurry on to their pews,
pausing briefly at the altar for prayer, their lip service paying dues.
Stumbling mummers muffle their voices, morality plays out of tune,
panic mounts on the faces of those still trying to hide the Groom.
The stone angel on the spire can clearly hear the saddest of refrains,
carried in upon the wilderness breeze is the whistle of a distant train.

The Bride is waiting with the midnight choir just outside the lychgate —
while she knows the dice aren't loaded, she's resigned herself to her fate.
Dressed in white, with garters of blue, it's just another part of her soul —
what's the loss of a little bit more when she can't remember feeling whole?
A compromise here, another belief sold, she believes they call it growth;
the woman she's reflecting now, she once wouldn't wanted to have known.
She's taking one last look inside, though she knows it's all in vain,
then stifles a sob as she suddenly hears the whistle of a distant train.

The days are running faster now. The sky is really darkening.
Teardrops fall through rolling thunder, lit within the clash of lightning.
The church bell sounds its sombre tone for both the Groom and Bride:
Just how long before they realise that inside false lives they hide?
The thunder rolls once more, its foreboding freely heard;
there are those who refuse its message, while others it does disturb.
The warning's gone out now, though many still refuse to change,
some are crying openly on hearing the whistle of a distant train.

He stands among the gravestones, the ceremony drawing to a close,
his thoughts drift within the voices of the choir as they gently roll and flow.
He senses their temptation, sometimes even feels their need,
but knows he couldn't call it life to live with all that self-deceit.
Passing there beneath the yew trees, as he lights another cigarette,
a stalled parade of familiar faces he now feels like he's never met.
For all they had once meant to him, he cannot recall a single name;
all are lost within the sound of the whistle of a distant train.

Recalling all he'd found in her, he'd the strength to turn away;
knowing all that had held them together meant they'd nothing left to say.
There were those broadly smiling as he set his eyes upon the trail;
some saw he was escaping, others thought it proved he'd failed.
His thoughts were of tomorrow though, as his foot fell to the road;
looking forward to the lessons he'd face on this journey of the soul.
His collar turned up against the wind, he doesn't mind the rain,
following in the footsteps of the whistle of a distant train.

"I only said we were bigger than Rod... and now there's all this!" Ron Nasty
10 March 2013
5.10pm
Egroeg Evoli
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a-hard-days-night-ringo-8

*speechlessness x 2*

Wonderful, amazing, incredible, marvelous… I'm trying to describe it adequately, but it's almost impossible.

Moremoremoremoremore!!! :) heart

Do you want to know a secret? Read my username backwards. ~ ~ ~ - - - . . . - - - ~ ~ ~ Also known as Egg-Rock, Egg-Roll, E-George, Eggy...

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10 March 2013
10.07pm
Ron Nasty
"Where have you been?" "I'm not telling you..."
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a-hard-days-night-ringo-8Thanks for all your blush making comments. The last two parts of The "Phoenix" Cycle. I cannot claim to being entirely happy with either of these. Changes are constantly being made to them as I attempt to get them to sit right.

The Darkness of the Night

He walked into the wilderness, not knowing what he'd find,
though feeling little regret at the life he'd had to leave behind.
He knew the storm was coming, had felt the winds begin to rise;
of those he'd left behind he wondered which would feign surprise.
As the sands around him rose, he sought some place to lay,
and with his luck still holding out he stumbled across a cave.
Once inside he quickly built a fire to shed a little light,
though far from strong it still held back the darkness of the night.

Within the flames he recalled days when the sun shone still,
aware that even in their depth he'd felt there must be more to feel.
While waltzing through his flaws, just like a man freshly condemned,
he wondered that he ever got it right, even if only now and then.
He clearly saw all that he was lacking, the insight and compassion,
to prevent himself from drifting into a life determined by the fashions.
He glimpsed her face within the flames as they grew strong and bright,
and knew within he'd find the strength to face the darkness of the night.

He recognised the golden clouds from whence she had once sung,
her voice alluring and elusive, an echo back to when the world was young.
Her words had shown him there was more to life than he had dreamt,
and he wondered at those who managed to dismiss it with such contempt.
He'd heard words of light and shade, they damnation and hellfire;
while they had turned from the reflection, he'd found himself inspired.
"Can those chained to material ways ever learn the art of flight?"
he had wondered to himself deep within the darkness of the night.

Their slogans ringing empty, overused to the point of meaning nothing;
where they'd spoken of love, he saw merely shallow sexual coupling.
The ridiculously righteous all stand and wave their Chomsky quotes;
while he challenges them to change, they're simply jotting down notes.
Those pantomime anarchists just lost their bite as the optimism faded —
though the hunger they'd had to tear it all down was never truly sated.
But somewhere along the way they had lost the will to fight,
and now their sleep is dreamless in the darkness of the night.

The melancholic trawl old photos, seeking to spark fresh emotions,
but find themselves adrift in times inspiring so much less devotion.
But he had glimpsed another way of life deep within the fire's flames,
and knew that if he didn't try, he'd only have himself to blame.
So one last time he'd dwell within all those places he had been,
raise a glass to those who'd passed through his requiem for a dream.
Those figures he sadly saw fading slowly from his sight
were those who could not pass beyond the darkness of the night.

There Within the Mind

From out of the darkness, she did watch her children come:
while some could barely walk, there were those still strong enough to run.
The moon bestrode the night, as a deeper darkness fell;
from somewhere in the distance came the toll of a church bell.
Some held up their torches, for the little light they cast,
fearing that they'd lose themselves right there at the last.
They trod the path with caution, not knowing what they'd find,
then stumbled on the secrets held there within the mind.

The trials and tribulations of life were reflected in their eyes,
as was the wisdom they had gained as they'd travelled through their lives.
Some understood their part in the scheme, others couldn't comprehend —
only able to see themselves hurtling pointlessly on toward their end.
Each in their own way knows just how much life sometimes hurts,
but some still smile at the miracle of it all as the seasons hit reverse.
He himself was fumbling at the edge of darkness, feeling almost blind,
though centred upon the light he glimpsed there within the mind.

Blinking blindly in the brightness, he emerged from the dark,
and felt anew the blood pumping through the ventricles of his heart.
His self-disillusion no longer led the direction of his thoughts,
as he learnt there was a strength in not denying all his faults.
As his eyes grew accustomed, he saw she sat beneath a willow tree,
and wishing to offer her his thanks, he dropped to bended knee.
"Be still, child," she murmured, her embarrassment refined,
"this is nothing new, it was always there within the mind."

He found himself then laughing, delight upon his face;
realising he'd kept up the human while giving up on the race.
The only best he needed to be was the best he held within;
so with no need for guilt he cast away the roles society had given him.
She smiled upon him lightly as she saw the recognition dawn;
for in that moment he had found himself feeling fully reborn.
He'd recognised there are no fates to which we are resigned,
there's a multiple of possibilities there within the mind.

Rejecting the media's myth-making propaganda he observed
that the world which we create is often the world which we deserve.
But despite the darkness of the day, in some the light still shines;
and there we'll find is held the hope that runs on down through time.
For all we know, tomorrow still leaves its path uncertain:
the script can be rewritten before the falling of the final curtain.
In each of us, these lives we lead, our future is defined,
from the very best, the very worst, all that's there within the mind.

"I only said we were bigger than Rod... and now there's all this!" Ron Nasty
10 March 2013
10.24pm
Egroeg Evoli
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a-hard-days-night-ringo-8

*speechlessness yet again- bet you didn't see that coming, did you? a-hard-days-night-george-10*

Those were wonderful, especially the last one, especially the last stanza of the last one.

The "Phoenix" Cycle is amazing (maybe I should find my thesaurus?). It really is. I went back and read it all again. The poems flow together so nicely. I love the story they tell.

Have you written any other poems? I'd love to read them. :)

Do you want to know a secret? Read my username backwards. ~ ~ ~ - - - . . . - - - ~ ~ ~ Also known as Egg-Rock, Egg-Roll, E-George, Eggy...

☮ & <3

11 March 2013
2.55am
Egroeg Evoli
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A poem I'm working on that's not finished or very good:

I sit on the cold, hard stone steps
Just outside the back door
And let the snow fall on me-
On my hair,
My face,
My hands.
The wind stings my cheeks
And pricks my bare, exposed fingers.
I let the tiny crystals melt on my skin
And I stand.
I carefully make my way 
Across the ice
That covers the pavement
And I stop when I reach
The stiff grass
And the hardened soil.
The cold is unforgiving.
The sky is a monotonous white.
But somewhere beneath the ground,
A small seed
Is preparing
To bloom
When it finally feels
The warm glow of spring.

Do you want to know a secret? Read my username backwards. ~ ~ ~ - - - . . . - - - ~ ~ ~ Also known as Egg-Rock, Egg-Roll, E-George, Eggy...

☮ & <3

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