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10 May 2013
Expert Textpert
In bed.
Apple rooftop
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18 April 2013
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fabfouremily said
Here's one I wrote in class today.

Sixty million, they said.

That's sixty million, dead.

Lives ended before they could flourish,

like weeping willows, undernourished.

People shot down before they could flower,

all because of the suits with power.

John Lennon once said:

                                  ''War Is Over

                                   if you want it''

I guess we just don't want it.

I like that.

Here's one I wrote a long time ago.  I don't know what it means. 

I don't really write much anymore.  Words disappoint me.


There is a time to drink,

to think outside of time;

for as we step outside,

our western glow retreats

into its shadowy bed.

We slip through hairline labyrinths,

through the null warmth of mother web.

"This Beatles talk bores me to death." --John Lennon
17 May 2013
Sitting in an English garden
Apple rooftop
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3 May 2012
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Autumn, here's the poem I entered the comp with. I wasn't able to make it as long as I wanted to, but it's still okay. Enjoy, hope the translator treats it nicely :)

Guerra, conflicto,



Escasez de suerte.

Millones y millones muertos.

¿Y para qué ha servido?

El mundo sigue llorando,

simplemente deseando,


en un mundo mejor.

En un paraíso donde guerra,

conflicto, dolor,


simplemente no existen.

Hay gente que tiene miedo a la muerte

tiene miedo de ser arrancados de la vida,

de la tierra.

Algo que yo nunca he entendido

ya que la muerte es el final del sufrimiento.

Los que sufren son los que se quedan aquí,

esos son los que siguen dolidos por dentro.

Es muy escandaloso en el campo de batalla

mujeres y hombres, antes

soldados, ahora.

Si se quitaran los guantes se verían sus manos

se vería que son humanos,

seres humanos matando,


para lograr paz.

Otra cosa que yo nunca he entendido,

¿desde cuándo se consigue paz mediante guerra?

No hemos aprendido todavía.

Todavía no hemos aprendido que no se puede conseguir paz mediante guerra.

Un veterano hace poco murió.

Dijo que aún le dolía,

aún le pesaba el corazón

porque al acostarse por la noche

oía los gritos de sus amigos,

los que fallecieron.

Algunos dirían que él fue afortunado,

fue afortunado porque sobrevivió.

Pero ya te he dicho

que los que sobreviven

siguen sufriendo,

siguen dolidos por dentro

hasta que se duermen un día,

y no vuelven a despertarse.

Guerra, conflicto,



Moving along in our God given ways, safety is sat by the fire/Sanctuary from these feverish smiles, left with a mark on the door.

(Passover - I. Curtis)

18 May 2013
Sitting in an English garden
Apple rooftop
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Moving along in our God given ways, safety is sat by the fire/Sanctuary from these feverish smiles, left with a mark on the door.

(Passover - I. Curtis)

19 May 2013
Fool in a field of Strawberries
The Jacaranda
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I have one that I wrote for a class, but I'm not sure it's actually any good. I'd love to know what you guys think of it.

Burning-after Ted Kooser

A wave of sound crashes over you as you enter the arena—

following people of varying colors, shapes, sizes, and volumes—

though none truly know why they are

here. You scrimped and saved for this chance

while not knowing why, and you never will.

Not knowing is what drew you to him in the first place;

a moth drawn to his flame,

burning your feet, layer by layer, as you flutter closer to the answer.

He’s superhuman? A god from mythology, come to the present?

Yet you want the flame to consume you, you crave it more than anything,

and you’ll do anything, commit murder even, if you are only allowed the opportunity to burn yourself with his fire.

That is why you are here: You are here for him to use, as an outlet for his passion, his every whim.

He singes your feet for two hours as you writhe and scream with the others, wishing your wings would burn to a crisp.

As you leave, you realize that he had done just that,

used you, used all of you, and been paid to do so.

Your car slowly warms as you sit inside with your head resting on the steering wheel,

savoring what you’ve just allowed the one you have admired since childhood to do with you, to you.

For the first concert you’ve been to on your own, that was far greater than you could ever have imagined. 

27 September 2013
Ahhh Girl
sailing on a winedark open sea

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mja6758, at first blush with a quick skimming of your poetry, I see such a wonderful variety to keep interest high. I am truly enjoying them.


mja6758 said
Hadn't noticed this thread before. Here's one of mine.

Your Hands

Your hands clasped,
prayers for tomorrow?
Your hands holding
out hope for something beyond night
after night
after night.
Your hands reaching
through this pervading darkness,
the candle flickers.
Your hands searching,
match poised,
aiming always to breathe light
into light.
Your hands touching,
but never me,
never mine,
never mind.

I grew up watching the "School House Rock" videos during Saturday morning cartoons. One of them is about inventors and their inventions. The ending goes:

“They made this country really grow, grow, grow, grow
Mother Necessity and where would we be
Without the inventions of your progeny?”

So is this poem the sigh of resignation of a disillusioned inventor, scientist, painter, songwriter?

Mother Necessity made a plea, a prayer, to one and all to create and innovate to make the world a better, brighter place. She is reaching out through the darkness to help anyone who will turn her thoughts into reality. The breakthrough will come to the one she deems worthy. An eager soul takes up the challenge, but can never make that breakthrough. He sees others around him getting patents and Nobel Prizes. Perhaps Mother Necessity finds our character lacking because he isn’t willing to go out on the cutting edge and really experiment. He is playing it too safe. Perhaps. Or did he just give up in frustration too soon? What would he and Mother Necessity have given the world if he had persisted?

mja6758 said


Tonight I think, and think alone,
of all that I have done:
the friends I've hurt, the tears I've cried,
the fact I've only just begun.
The winter it is drawing out
and the snow is starting to fall,
whilst walking by the riverside
I think I hear you call.

I sit here with my memories
and nothing seems worthwhile,
all that remains are photographs
and poems in a file;
moments carefully captured
and stored on bits of paper:
I hid them there so long ago
so I could recall them later.

They tell a story I never could,
things I'd never admit,
like how my words once spoke of beauty
but now just hint at it.
They lay there slowly fading
bringing forth thoughts of yesterday
(people's faces, forgotten places,
times when things were going my way).

We'd walk along, hand in hand,
stand on the iron bridge.
Slowly you'd wipe away my tears
and silently we'd kiss.
That summer was made of a magic
that had to one day fade and blur,
and what once we viewed as beautiful
has now become a slur.

We'd talk into the cigarette light
of early dawn about love and life —
we'd comfort each other in sadness,
we'd comfort each other in strife.
But now those memories are long gone,
and only return in splashes,
when I'm reminded of your laughter and smile,
your silent midnight splashes.

Now I'm said to be dark and brooding
and in great need of a new love.
No one understands that after loving you
another could never offer enough.
And now I'm so cold and naked and lonely
and praying for a change of heart,
hoping that one day you'll forget our ending
and dream up a brand new start.

Tonight I think, and think alone,
of all that I have done:
the friends I've loved, the smiles of joy,
the fact I've only just begun.
The summer is approaching now
and the snow is starting to thaw,
I no longer feel the bitterness felt
when you walked out my door.

First thing that popped into my mind was the song "Diggin' Up Bones" by Randy Travis.

Now for something more serious and focused. The photographs and poems built a very needed bridge to the past. When the past which starts out as a "winter of discontent" is reached, examined, and dealt with, some type of mental, emotional, and/or spiritual healing takes place and our character can move into the life and future before him like "silver white winters that melt into spring."

Stanza 6 grabs me as Paul after he lost Linda, but he can never truly have her back. The hope at the end of the stanza isn't to be for dear Paul. Really, now that I look back and reflect, much more of the poem could be used with the Paul and Linda analogy.

In stanza 3, the image of fading photographs and scraps of paper complement and enhance the character's sense that his words no longer have the bright, vivid, stereoscopic brilliance they once had.

The second half of stanza 4 makes me think of the scene in "Mary Poppins" when the rain begins to wash away Burt's chalk drawing on the sidewalk.

27 September 2013
Ahhh Girl
sailing on a winedark open sea

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1 August 2014
Ahhh Girl
sailing on a winedark open sea

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From page 2

GniknuS said

I want to write one about the Beatles Bible and how it differs from other sites, so here's one Johnny and the Moondogs on the spot. I'm a cheesy writer so I apologize in advance…a-hard-days-night-george-10

From the four corners we gather,
these words planning their escape from my head.
We walk the streets unnoticed,
the spindle weaving life upon this thread. (puns are fun)

What seperates this engaging site;
this one from all the rest?
The tangles of confusion leaves a Internet divided,
those simply arguing at their own behest.

Masks of persuasiveness are most certainly donned,
perhaps how we would like to be shown?
For every Mr. Big claiming his rightful prowess,
leaves a hint of deception not fully known.

Then how lucky I am to have found you!
I was just so fully entwined.
Like the slaying of a dragon or some miraculous feat,
the type of search that leaves most resigned.

So the gratitude is quietly flowing,
the drain unplugged as it washes over the floor.
Keeping my spirits high with a quip or a post,
Oh Beatles Bible sounding board!

So here's to you that have listened,
when my heart was in need of amends.
The web would undoubtedly be a much happier place,
filled with a thousand like mithveaens!

@Joe's site has been loved for many years. I hope some of the former users check back in with us one of these days.

The following people thank Ahhh Girl for this post:

Mr. Kite, Joe
24 October 2014
Apple rooftop
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Hello. I’ve realized this used to be a thread where people posted their favorite poems. It has turned into a thread where they post their own work. I am sorry to disappoint you, but I can’t write poetry –I wish I could, since many poems have driven me to tears. I’d like to share one of those with you. Probably many of you know it.

The poem is called “Ulysses”, and it was written by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, (1809-1892) in 1833. It’s based on the premise that Ulysses, after returning to Ithaca, couldn’t stand his life there anymore –a story first written by Dante in “The Divine Comedy”. I find it powerful. And I would like to thank @Ahhh Girl for letting me know about this thread. Here it is:


       It little profits that an idle king,

By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole

Unequal laws unto a savage race,

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink

Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those

That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and known; cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;

And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'

Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades

For ever and forever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!

As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life

Were all too little, and of one to me

Little remains: but every hour is saved

From that eternal silence, something more,

A bringer of new things; and vile it were

For some three suns to store and hoard myself,

And this gray spirit yearning in desire

To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.


         This is my son, mine own Telemachus,

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild

A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees

Subdue them to the useful and the good.

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere

Of common duties, decent not to fail

In offices of tenderness, and pay

Meet adoration to my household gods,

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.


         There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,

Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—

That ever with a frolic welcome took

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed

Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;

Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

'T is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

The following people thank Oudis for this post:


Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit” (“Perhaps one day it will be a pleasure to look back on even this”; Virgil, The Aeneid, Book 1, line 203, where Aeneas says this to his men after the shipwreck that put them on the shores of Africa)

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