Author Topic: Poetry  (Read 195 times)

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Poetry
« on: November 25, 2017, 04:39:35 PM »
Fly

This fly of mine just won't leave this place
He kisses me right in my face

no matter what I do
he follows me and dive bombs my face

every living thing desrves to breathe
but ..............................

SWAT

Re: Poetry
« Reply #1 on: November 25, 2017, 05:42:53 PM »

Re: Poetry
« Reply #2 on: November 26, 2017, 03:40:00 AM »

Re: Poetry
« Reply #3 on: November 26, 2017, 03:44:55 AM »
Bad Girl.

I long for the intoxicating smell that oozes from the nape of her neck. Her natural beauty is sublime. I wish she wasn't such a cunt. Alas

Re: Poetry
« Reply #4 on: November 26, 2017, 04:48:39 AM »
The time has come to air the Voice of Reason,
In a world gone mad, adrift on banal seas,
For all who feel that lies have had their season,
And whose Hearts Cry Out instead for Honesty,
For all the weary souls grown bored with dreaming,
Whose thirst for Beauty and for Knowledge goes unslaked,
For all who want to wake from what is dreaming,
To know what’s Real, and what is Real to embrace.
For all who’ve watched with mounting horror,
Evil’s reign upon this world grow ever-clear,
For all who’ve prayed in vain, Emancipators,
Wielding Swords of Truth and laughing without fear.”

-William Melvin “Bill” Hicks

Re: Poetry
« Reply #5 on: November 28, 2017, 02:26:26 AM »
Can we combine this thread with the Haiku one I read?

Re: Poetry
« Reply #6 on: November 28, 2017, 03:24:07 PM »
The written word
can be absurd
or it can bring the light.

It can bring about
world peace
or stir one up
to fight.


The written word
can be many things
but of this
I am assured.

When it comes
to wielding power,
the pen IS mightier
than the sword. 


-Marci.  1988

Re: Poetry
« Reply #7 on: February 28, 2018, 06:49:39 PM »
Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
-
Ozymandias - As Read by Bryan Cranston: Breaking Bad


Re: Poetry
« Reply #8 on: February 28, 2018, 10:44:45 PM »
Hipsey, Nipsey:


Re: Poetry
« Reply #9 on: March 30, 2018, 08:58:34 PM »
"You should never shy away from posting the best stuff that some might consider
obvious and redundant. It isn't to the new eyes that will see it for the first time."
MrHippie - Poet

-----------------------------

 The Second Coming
By William Butler Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Re: Poetry
« Reply #10 on: March 30, 2018, 09:19:27 PM »
The Gods of the Copybook Headings  
 
  
 
 
 
 AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race,
 I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
 Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
 And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.
 
 We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
 That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
 But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
 So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.
 
 We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
 Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
 But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
 That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.
 
 With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
 They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
 They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
 So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.
 
 When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
 They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
 But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
 And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."
 
 On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
 (Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
 Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
 And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."
 
 In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
 By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
 But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
 And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."
 
 Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
 And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
 That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
 And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.
 
 As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
 There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
 That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
 And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;
 
 And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
 When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
 As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
 The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

-Kipling 1919