(Post Your) Incredible Poems (Here!)

[modularblues]

Only in RGB

Dip a toe into the obsidian lake
And watch the sapphire sky
Shine blue
And bluer
And radiate above the vanishing point beyond the Schwarzschild singularity

Slide a leaf along the silica stream
And watch the emerald forest
Grow green
And greener
And phosphoresce over the horizon beyond the Brillouin zone

Tap a light inside the amethyst cave
And watch the ruby fire
Burn red
And redder
And spread across the gradient beyond the Voronoi boundary

Why not wander around the fringe patterns of sand dunes
Where consonance and dissonance meet
And fractional harmonics scintillate

Why not improvise a tune with a grass blade
Where construction and destruction intersect
And scattered particles oscillate

Forever

[Fallen Angel]

Die again, love

Why are you still alive?
I was positive you died
negative
perhaps a reason brought you back
a drive?
turn back
nothing but a dead end here
dead
like you

[modularblues]

I was positive you died
negative

I really like this segment.

Transport Me, Energy

There was once when we dreamed in-sync along the tides
Over the periodic motion of the waves
See how the derivative across distance slides

Along the derivative across time that paves
Gossamer sheets, bubbles of sandscape vibration
How a cluster of ideal particles behaves

Drawn by the circuitry of imagination
And thread of reason -- curious shuffles between
Flashing electricity of inspiration

And the inductive, sweeping magnetism seen
In graceful curves of field lines etched across the sand
When the phantom aerosol sprays a misty sheen

That refracts the rays from the setting sun, unplanned
And unwittingly paints and splatters brilliant hues
Where the shimmering water meets the stoic land

We lie down on the shore, watching the stars for clues
And graphical cues that one can never refuse
To wonder about, amidst the expansive strides
In which the whisper of the universe confides

[JayDee]

That's good, modularblues. I've tried Terza Rima a couple of times, but I haven't managed to make it work - the structure / form tends to take over and I turn away from what I meant to write.

Love the imagery, too. Mathematics is full of poetic ideas.

[bigglesworth]

Bad Wings.

We rise on bad wings,
Above this world.
Where's the toxin, that great evil? It clings to the earth.

Here we're free, you and I.
The ground is poison.
Fire the engines, run the power lines true.

Forget the ground-huggers, the hungerers.
Wrap blankets around ourselves.
Watch the ice form at first light.

Beauty... At any price.

[bigglesworth]

Sorry to just post without commenting on any other recent poems. I just had to put it down somewhere.

[modularblues]

That's good, modularblues. I've tried Terza Rima a couple of times, but I haven't managed to make it work - the structure / form tends to take over and I turn away from what I meant to write.

Love the imagery, too. Mathematics is full of poetic ideas.

Thanks JayDee I was going to comment that your Terza Rima is indeed reflective in a whimsical way. Feels a bit like chasing tails! But in a good way. This Dreamwidth seems to be invite only, hmm.

[lauripple]

I'm nothing compared to the master poets that have previously posted, but I guess I'll contribute something. I don't really write with any pattern or set rhythm, so none of mine are really rhyming or beautifully rhythmic.

Dissonant Silence
I drown in the dissonance of silence.
Its empty waves crash against my ears,
And I hear nothing.
Light floods into my eyes,
Yet I see nothing.
Textures bathe my fingertips,
But I feel nothing.
Emotion slips away.
Thought reduces to mere chemical connections.
Language loses its power as there is an impossibility of forming words.
Gravity chains me invisibly.
The pulse is only a repeating beat, not an indication of life.
The mind and body separate as the former becomes an entity of its own.
Escaping is plausible, but an invisible force confines me.
I cannot break free, I am too fragile.
My innate power gone,
I can only submit to this higher power,
The tyranny of silence.

Bittersweet Recollections
Memories,
The only thing holding me to reality,
Chaining me from drifting away,
And dissipating into nothingness.
Bittersweet recollections.
Paintings of bliss.
Images of suffering.
In a state of numbness,
While being suffocated by the unnerving silence,
Only memories are recognizable,
In this swampy mix of a mind brimming with mud.
Smiles flicker across my eyes.
Laughs tickle my ears.
Sensations tingle my fingers.
Yet as enchanting as they are,
All they can be,
Are mere memories.

[Mr Dynn]

A Love Song (with a unique motif - I'm not good at serious poetry, so it tends to be rather whimsical. I wrote this for my wife, and then used it for my webcomic at http://www.feudaleffort.com/Comic079.html.) I wish I could write more poetry on demand - I like doing it but it's tough to find inspiration. I guess that's true for most people.

Love Raccoon by the Light of the Moon

I’m just a love-raccoon by the light of the moon
And I’m raiding the trashcan of your heart.
I’m just a love-raccoon; the night is opportune
For tenderness a la carte.

I’ve been to all the driveways on the city grid,
Looking for a trashy woman who will flip her lid.
I watch you take your trash out from the trees up above,
Fifty-five gallons of heavy-duty love.

Call animal control, ‘cause I’m on a roll.
You really make me wild on your nighttime stroll.
You walk on by, and with a headlong crash,
My love-life is in the trash!

Unhook your bungee cords and let me in.
I want your teabags; I want your banana skins.
Please, please, just some lumpy cottage cheese –
You’ve got me foaming at the mouth like I’ve got a disease.

You set your trap out for me and in I went –
So please Havahart and give me nourishment.
I’m caged by love, and I can’t get loose;
This could be animal abuse!

My heart is banging like a rusty oil drum.
I’ve got a hunger for you, my little sugarplum.
So step right out onto your porch out back,
‘Cause I’m an animal in the sack!


-By Brian

[Memory212]

Finding an audience that can appreciate poems about math is tough. I hope you guys enjoy these!

[Memory212]

Maybe copied-and-pasted text would be friendlier...

A Mathematician’s Apology

Conversations
hide a lurking
threat: that you
will find me quirky.

If you link fashion
to the word “mod,”
you might even
judge me odd.

I’ll blink not an eye,
turn not a hair,
when you admit
you think me square.

Squares give rise
to tesseracts.
My grasp of that
I’ll not relax.

With understanding
my obsession,
no choice have I
in my profession:

A tailor’s work
could not suit me—
even Taylor
would not refute me.

Words’ governance
falls to others,
as my domain
consists of numbers.

To apply my craft
I have no urge;
from mechanics’
my goals diverge.

My angle is
unconventional;
my point of view,
infinite-dimensional.

Because of this,
I’ve no contrition
for being a
mathematician.

Greek Letters

For every me,
there is a you.
Put us together;
we make a μ.

There is a δ
for every ε.
Such proofs deserve
to be retched upon—

as did the proof
of your indifference.
Then μ minus me
sought forgiveness.

Sum our missteps
with a Σ.
The total implies
this enigma:

Our union looks warped,
skewed by a θ,
but ups my life’s worth
by a huge factor β.

We’ve lodged in a trough
of our wave function Ψ,
but after the sighs
we’ll peak back up high.

Let’s scrap this try,
tear it in two.
On a fresh page,
we’ll start a-ν.

Snack Break?

Seven at night
(or nineteen, depending):
I plod through problems,
dessert impending.

Trapped by trig,
I’ll pen an ode
to modular algebra
and cake a la mode.

Better than cake—
I needn’t say why—
I wouldn’t decline
a serving of pie.

For half a meringue
I’ll trade any graph—
won’t even insist
on the larger half.

I’d give any sphere
or prism or cone
for one nibble
of chocolate-chip scone.

Apple crumble
holds me in thrall,
but closer to home,
calculus calls.

My ruler maps
a trajectory
away from
the refectory.

Save me, straight-edge,
from sweets’ encumbrance;
I must mind
my circumference.

[Fallen Angel]

A time of change has come

A time of change has come
The kind you can't forget
There shall be no more wars
Not when we all know pain

[Arkeal]

Nary a moon
for four long nights
and every eve
a new found fright

dreadful shapes
all cloaked in black
and at every turn
the land turns back

if fear and mists
fetter my mind
then my eyes
have suffered in kind

but if I see clearly
and ever true
then may I impart
a warning to you

To save yourself
from grisly fright
don't stay out so late
as midnight.

[stryper]

I wrote this after reading the comic of the subject on here. Be gentle.

Angular Momentum
By Christian Falde

I don’t remember when it was I first spun. Daddy tells me it was soon after I walked. He called me “Spinning Baby”.
I do remember the first time I spun with her. I was seven and the magic bunny had come. We hunted the eggs he left and chased each other. As we ran she stopped and said, “Let’s spin”. We spun till we could stand. The world seemed to spin after we fell and I knew time a stopped for the briefest of moments.
Years spun by and life moved on.
Though it seemed sophomoric, we would spin we could. After school and before rehearsal we’d spin. When she got the part, we’d spin. When I made state we’d spin. It always seemed the day lasted a bit longer when we’d spin. For the briefest of moments, the wind stopped, the sun paused, and the world seemed to relish the pure joy.
Years spun by and life moved on.
The room was bright and machines were arranged in modular fashion. The blue sheet blocked my view. You were covered in sweat, but happy. A flurry of motion at the corner of my eye, and a woman in blue carried a red mess to a table. I went over and it screamed. The world spun, and then went dark.
“Well this isn’t right, “ I thought and forced myself up.
My son red and screaming to the world, I’m here. I grabbed his tiny hands a feet and held them close to his body. He looked at me and grinned.
Years spun by and life moved on.
My father died. I spun with the kids before he did. I tried to make time stop. It didn’t work. His time was done. He looked at me before he left and smiled “Spinning Baby” he said.
Years spun by and life moved on.
Now the kids look like us dear when he had them. The grandkids love to spin. I hold your leathery hand once more and ask the kids to help me spin. We move the bed with wheels out onto the lawn where so many spins had happened before. I can’t spin any more. It hurts too much. So, I climb on the bed and say to the kids, “Help me spin”.
We spun.
And the world stopped.
Everything blurred.
You smiled and closed you eyes.
The sun paused.
The wind stopped.
Your chest fell.
The spin stopped.
“I’d spin a thousand times more, for the briefest of moments with you.”

[Chuff]

I'm no poetry expert, but I really, really liked that stryper. I thought it was great, and very touching. Simple concept used to surprising depth.

My crappy poem that I don't remember writing but found in a notebook of mine. I assume I wrote it because it's my notebook and it's written in my strange bottom-up handwriting. Anyways, there's one part that I really like, which I bolded. Eh.

Can a poem be a single word?
A line?
Certainly?
But a poem?
A stanza?

Yes

You see,
A poem is what you want it to be:
Free
One.
Two words,
Or even three

Poetry in motion
Is any motion at all
One word
One line
One motion
It's all
a poem

Yes, a poem can be a single word
It's no question
Whether read or heard
A poem is anything at all
Anything.

[Ronster]

Captive creativity
Denied of any liberty
Would it be audacity
To think that I should be set free?

Every day I'm hypnotised
With dreams seems never realised
Would you want me had I'd not lied?

Concience
Pretence
Defence
of derision.

Innovate
Infuriate
Generate
no division.

Opt for simplicity
Or look towards the melody?

[Dasboard]

My crappy poem that I don't remember writing but found in a notebook of mine. I assume I wrote it because it's my notebook and it's written in my strange bottom-up handwriting. Anyways, there's one part that I really like, which I bolded. Eh.

Definetely agreed, love the bolded part. The rest is good, but nothing compared to those two lines, in my opinion.

Listening to a Long december in June,
Without exactly knowing what the song is about.
But it is comforting,
And I don't want these moments to pass without a sound

[black rook in rainy weather]

From a little while back but I love 'Bad Wings' bigglesworth.

[stryper]

I'm no poetry expert, but I really, really liked that stryper. I thought it was great, and very touching. Simple concept used to surprising depth.

Thanks.

And its not really poetry. Poetic yes, poetry not really.

I originally posted it in the general topics and the mods moved it here. Not a perfect fit but in the same vein.

[Dudleykins]

Blades of grass reach for the day
life and death in mY front yard.
Yet I care not. I sEe only their fallacy,
a fern in a deSert like paint inside water
a picture of lighT for a blind man.
Steal the hands of thE artist and the mind
of a poet, feet of balleRina and grace enough
to make the sunrise surrenDer. Frankenstein of art.
Monster of beauty, I have tried to tAme you.
You walk alone. Heedless, into the fraY.
And I caught along in the gusts of your adventure
find myself propelled into a world
of crimson tinged darkness and gaudy red lights.
the no does not exist, punishment is circumstance
when choice is removed.
Life in those terms
becomes black and white.
life becomes easier.
Yesterday was easier.
Your shoulder no longer rubs mine.
But I can feel it there.
Your weight is no longer my passenger.
But I still smell your hair.
There are so many yesterdays,
but only one tomorrow,
So many in fact,
that they smother the present
with edges yellowed with age
that it makes this moment feel veiled.
Since you've left the world has be come much brighter.
Because I never had the strength to turn off the light.

[Microscopic cog]

I liked it, especially the last lines.

What's up with the random capitals though.



Kudos if you know which movie I was watching.

Blindly I claw at the glass sky,
Until my fingers are raw and broken.
And the blood flowing from the scratches in the air,
It turns into thoughts and they wash me away.

Tear the sins from my skin,
All life must be judged and I don't want any thoughts!
No! No....
All life must be judged and I feel different every moment!
No! No...
All life must be judged and I am not willing to be.
No! No, no, no, no...

Wrap your silver shining humanity around my sins.
And we'll become the tumor on their blind child.

[JayDee]

What's up with the random capitals though.

Those aren't at all random. Looks like a mid-line acrostic. They even line up rather well.

[Microscopic cog]

Okay that's just cool. Forget what I said. Neat.

[Turiski]

I wrote this poem for English class with the restriction that it had to be written in the style of Emily Dickinson (although the meter takes a few liberties). Normally I just tuck these in my schoolwork folder but my teacher said she liked it and after looking it over I think I see why.

1*
A House cannot Divided Stand—
But will attempt to feign—
The Unity of Nature—
The Faithfulness of Saints—

A Crack that Splits the Sideboard—
Is covered in a Shroud—
A Wardrobe falls to Shambles—
Its Contents on the Ground—

Tho’ even Dog and Cat now hold—
A grinning pointed Knife—
Their Master claims Neutrality—
In such a Triv’al Fight—

And Piece by Piece the Treasured things—
That made a House a Home—
Fall fast to Dust— to Disarray—
Until Remaining None—

So even as She Falters—
And into Chaos falls—
She still Attempts— to Hide Away—
The Madness in Her Walls.

How many Men— all Mortal souls—
Will stop for Evening Tea—
But find Inside the Man provides
A Dreadful Company—

* She didn't put titles on any of her poems; they're all numbered. They're referred to by their first line.

[Have_A_SnApple]

Fragments:

To the tune of Miss American Pie:

Note: I thought of this before I had any idea of the pronunciation of Hwi. I always thought of it as rhyming with 'why' and not 'we'.

Chorus:
And he was dictating
Hwi, Hwi
My Ixian Hwi
Drove my cart to the Sarrear but the humidity was high
Spaci'n Guild's hop'in this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die
...
Nayla's faith refused to yield
She lased the bridge and His suspensor field
The day that Ghawwwwddd died.
To Chorus

Rap song:
Main riff (or whatever its called in rap)
"Don't be a choom or we'll l'iminate you, Don't be a choom or we'll l'iminate you.

Recognize us or DIE!
Loonie rocks are gonna FLY

Our number one product will fall on you
If You a choom we l'iminate you
Just like we do to punks in LC

[seventeen]

first comment here this is a poem i wrote a few years ago

Crumbling leaves beneath my feet
Chalky dust thrown in the air
With every step I take
A twisted silence
Running through the cold, bitter winds
Like the calm before a storm
All alone, peace and rest in isolation.
Dull shadows of mile high trees
Dance in the stormy winds.
Rusted out wire fences
Line the edges of the old dirt trail.
Time stops, but relief comes.
My cares seem to melt away,
Like nothing can get me here in the woods.
Eventually that place is gone, withered away,
Like so many stones in a graveyard, slowly destroyed by time,
Overgrown by plants, crushed by trees.
Nothing left behind except a pile of rubble and a
Few faint memories.
Slowly, they're dying as well.
The place that I was able to run to.
The place I can never return to.

[modularblues]

To Memory212 - My favorite stanzas... delicious puns and rhymes, cheers!

...
I’ll blink not an eye,
turn not a hair,
when you admit
you think me square.
...
Words’ governance
falls to others,
as my domain
consists of numbers.
...
We’ve lodged in a trough
of our wave function Ψ,
but after the sighs
we’ll peak back up high.
...
Trapped by trig,
I’ll pen an ode
to modular algebra
and cake a la mode.
...
Save me, straight-edge,
from sweets’ encumbrance;
I must mind
my circumference.

Mr Dynn's raccoon poem is a fun one too

My latest... "Duties Deferred", a quasi-parody of the Langston Hughes poem with a similar title

What happens to a set of keys
If I spin it around on its lanyard
And then let go?

Does it launch
Into a geosynchronous orbit
Like the Moon under the stars?

Or fly in a parabolic arc
Toward the sun
And then dissolve?

Does it resonate
With migratory dragonflies?

Or collide and tangle with
A passerby kite?

Maybe it just vanishes
like a daydream.

Or does it smack you in the face?

[Isaac Hill]

This is a post a poem I wrote about 8 years ago in college. I should probably explain a few of the references. The IEEE is the Institute of Electronics and Electrical Engineers (or something like that). The student branch at my college (WPI) ran a lounge where people could buy snacks on the honor system. A mouse took up residence and began eating the snacks.

"Bios" are biology majors. DAKA was the company that ran the cafeteria. An MQP is a senior year project, the undergrad version of a thesis. The SIN lab is a student lounge run by Computer Science (CS) majors; the computers are named things like sloth and gluttony. The wedge is a lounge area "wedged" between two dorm buildings; people who hung out there regularly were called Wedgerats.

I wrote this one afternoon in the lounge. I started on the whiteboard, filled it up, and wrote "Turn around" at the end. When you turned around, you saw the blackboard, covered with the second half of the poem. I copied it into a notebook, which I found while unpacking my stuff after moving. Before this explanation runs longer than the poem...

In the couch lives a mouse
Who has made it his house
Setting a trap sounded great
But he's stolen the bait
We may have no choice
But to exterminate

He doesn't pay for his snacks
But that's not so strange
Even if he had money
Could he make change?
He doesn't pay board
He doesn't pay rent
Let the Bios capture him
For experiments

But what would they do?
Make the mouse run a maze?
Or expose him for days
to ultra-violet rays?
He may be a cute mouse
But he acts like a rat
Maybe what we need
is an IEEE cat

We'll shave the hair off the cat
So John doesn't sneeze
It'll work a lot better
Than traps set with cheese
How'd the mouse get here?
Through windows? Through doors?
We'd better find out
Or else we'll get more

We could also end up
with several more critters
if this mouse is a female
carrying a litter
This mouse may have babies
This mouse may have rabies
I have to wonder
if there's anyway these

problems can be solved
non-violently
Can't this mouse die on its own
Like our ficus tree?
Will the little mouse go
to little mouse heaven?
Give the body to DAKA
to serve to the freshmen

We're waiting on the trap
but in the meanwhile
Play Judas Priest backwards
Make the mouse suicidal

If we want to ensure
our little friend's doom
Them we should give him
to Brian LaPlume
For his MQP he puts wires
on small rodents' heads
If the signal frequency drops
the mouse ends up dead

But to punish the mouse
He must first be caught
Our efforts thus far
Have come to naught
In order to stop
the mouse's escape
Cover the floor
with strips of duct tape

Put the strips under couches
out of people's way
And wait for the mouse
to come out and play
We'll keep him separated
from our lounge snacks
And make sure that he
Never ever comes back

This may be called cruel
By some left wing nuts
The People of PETA
will be pains in our butts
It may be better
to set the mouse free
Catch and release like
Fishermen on TV

Leave him in the SIN lab
Where dropped CS crumbs
will keep the mouse happy
For many years to come
The CSs will layout
a mouse welcome mat
for he'll fit right in
with the displaced Wedgerats

I'm afraid that this poem
Must end rather soon
For I'm out of ideas
and running out of room
In the couch lives a mouse
Who has made it his house

[Rudess]

(I know it's not strictly a poem, but I didn't see a better place for it. @Jacque - if this would be better elsewhere, move it where you think best. - Hammer)

I know a someone who is depressed. Very depressed. In his moments of deepest depression, he sits in the dark and writes about what he's thinking at that very moment, when he gets bored with what he's writing, or if his thoughts change mid-sentence, he rolls with it. I like what he writes. It's real. Fiction, no matter how well-written, will never measure up to writings that come from real people saying real things.

This is what they say:

The images whch fladh before my eyes are not real.. How could they be? These fleeting bursts of informatio and sensation are nothing but udicrous mockeries of reality. How can I be so sure what I see is reality at all? Why should I believe the thoughts which grace me with but a few short moment before sisappointingly flying into the ther from which they originally came. I hate this world into which i have been delivered. what is the meaning of it? who controls this? God? Don’t make me lugh. God is a crutch, the last foolish crutch of a losting race. Humanity no longers longs to be a part of one another, we want nothing but division. THe us and the them consume our good intentions until nothing remains of us but greed and osolationism. Do i feel the same. i don’t know anything about myself anymore. why the fuck am i here? what purpose do i serve but to convert oxygen into carbon dioxide. its a travesty that su h a body and suh a mind should be wated on one such as me. my place in the wrld is so trivial it borders on hilarity. what ipact do i have? they say they care about me, or they would. and they show it to me through ther actions and jokes, but i fail to feel it. i fail to feel anything at ll nymore. my emotions are dulled to the poit of none-existance. if ever there were a more pathetic wretch than myself, than i pity him. i do not actually pity him, but i would use such a word as that in my writings and in my speech i would use such an emotional word as that to lie about what actually resides wihtin my worthless exterior: nothing. What am I but a joke in the eyes of creation? i laugh at what i say, but not because it is funny, i do not know what that means any more than i know the distance between the earth and the moon. will they seek me out? i hope so, but at the same time i hope they spend the rest of heir evenings without a thought in thei mind even remotely related to me. i hope they come to relize the pointlessness of my existence in the same perameters as i hav e. i write like this becaue i think that i am prilliant, that writing continuously and ignoring the spelling and grammar mistakes will cause my work to rise above the others, to make me distinct in a way that nothing else ever has. i fear that this is not anew gimiick, that others such as myself have come up with it. my problems are not unique. i am simply depressed, just like the X% of other teens out in the world that the television commercials like to taut around, hoping against hope that theses message will inspire fear in us, enough fearm in fact, that we stop what we do in order to buy what they seell. i am not unique, i have others out there with the same provlems and issues i have. they are waiting to group with the rest of us so that we may move towards recovery together and reach perfection as one peiple. and this is exactly the reason why i hate them. i see myself as being the best. my mistakes ar e simply days off, days not on the ball. i am the piece of shit that the world revolves around. i take the worst aspecs of self-centered douchebaggery and self-esteemless depression and i mix them into a concoction of my own creation, leading to where and what i am now. a man writing to himself in the dark of the top foor of the library. i hink that i love her, if i knew what that meant. when i am around her i feel a cnnection stronger than with any other. my need to stay near is insatiable, even as i feel her slip away from me, perhaps she is indifferent about me, but i don’t think it seems like that. whn in groups she is distant, and when alone, she talks of others, even whil i lie there and look at her, and she looks back. wht does she want feom me? it is a fmily problem, this paranoia, from my father’s side f the family it is. my aunt is a schizophrenic whom i have never met, and my dad takes his monopoly money with him to the bathroom to aoid our thievery. i am a depressed, self-centered, paranoid, acne-riddled, worthless lump of a failue of a college student. what am i doing here. nathan chastizes me for not being complete enough in my essay. i respect him. i love him. am i gy? am i ready to admit that? i watch porn and all i see is the penis. it is what i watch it for. that is a lie, i watch lesbian porn also, and imagine myself as a woman among them. a gender identity crisis. i hat ebign tall. i hate being shorter than others. i hate being a singer. i hate nathaniel for tewlling me and others how to sing better. no genereal tips mind you, only a thurough rebuking when singing an interval wrong. fuck him and his tiny little eyes and his narrow little face. i hat them all. no i don;’t i love them, if i knew what that meant. what is love? i must learn what it means, and what it feels like. how could anyone be sure of nything until after it happens? hindsight is 20/20 aftr all. how long have i sat here writing this drivvle? who would care about this mess? would she? I doubt it. she may find it worrying, she is so distant, i hate her too, her forces cheeriness at the mere idea of anything to do with anything. what is her motivation? WHAT IS HER MOTIVATION? she intices me but i hate her. why do i kiss her? because she kisses me back, she grind her almost naked body against mine as i awkwardly try to get her t go further. why wouldn’t she touch my penis? is she afraid? only 6 weeks have elapsed since we started “going out” with each other. this isn’t helping. this wiritng. it doesn’t hepl me at all. it started with a lie, a lie to myself. i lied to myself and told me it was a social experiemtn, and so it started. i got a salad because it meant i didn’t havw to talk to the cafeteria workers. i sat quietly and looked down at my food while they all sat around me and enjoyed themselves. casey was worried. i lovwe him, if i knew what that meant. she was unconcerned, she had seen me do t before. she was a little concerned, maybe very concerned because she cares about me. but she didn’t show it to the others because it would embaress her. i hate her for that. i pushed her hand away when she tried to ask me if i was sad, she tried to remove my music to ask me so that i would hear her, and i pushed her hand away. i hurt her in that instant, perhaps permanently. i don’t think i did. she is strong, stronger than i am. i love her, if i knew what that meant. when we are with others i think “what am i doing with her? look how she lies away from me, sits away from me, reads her books by the light of a different lamp, of a different idea of what a relationship is. i hate her in those moments, i want us to be a crazy couple, where we immerse ourselves in each other ntil nothing of an individual remains. i want her to understand how much she means to me. how much i value her every glance in my direction. it makes me feel like i’m worht something. like i matter to another human being beyond just a bag of meat that spews jokes and funny like quips and voices. fuck them all, they want things from me, but i have nothing to give. no talents to develop. i wish she knew how much i loved her. i know what it means.


Don't comment if you don't have to. No snide remarks. I just love the poetry of the mind. The act of writing precisely what is one your mind is very soothing to me, and I have started doing it everywhere, Facebook, whatever. It's sometimes a little arduous to read through, but I feel like it gives a much better picture of who you are as opposed to thinking of yourself as a collect of "likes" or pictures of your jumping while smiling. Try it the next time you're talking about something serious on Facebook, let your mind flow onto the keys as opposed to your agendas. Nothing too Freudian though, I don't think the world is quite ready to experience what REALLY goes on in our minds.

-me

[Cuddleskunk]

All to Make the Grade
By Cuddleskunk

I have seen them
Walk to their ivory boxes,
Ready to be
What they want them to be

Bewildered by reverie
Thought long gone
By a black mass.
They dare to dream.

It's all so clear...
Transparent blue
Blazing a trail
Into the endless grey.

And yet we turn them away...
We need no pioneers;
No seers...
We've lost it all.

[TheChosenLnE]

What it wants, I know not,
yet the yearning fills my dreams.
Something I wish I could blot
out of mind, but it seems

imminent to occur --
much like the night and day.
The three, though with lines obscure,
cannot happen any other way

then they do in my sleep:
how it has to unfold.
My sanity I wish to keep,
yet letting go is what I'm told

will make this burning fade.
Going back to be a part,
from the light and into shade,
gambling away my heart

in this game I want to quit.
But however hard I try
I still wish that I could fit
right back into the lie.

[WaterToFire]

~Crumbling to Yellow Sand~

Everywhere I go I hear a name
Scrawled on the wind
Whispered on a thread
I feel it on the backs of my scorched eyelids,
Its cinnamon scent coloring my fingertips

This is not about you.

I believe it may have started that way
When I followed your errant tracks over the dunes and into a new country
Thinking it marvelous,
While just as easily you wandered back out

Those times are crumbling to yellow sand now
But still your name stifles the dust around me

Sometimes I think back to how it began
I see myself bright and young, much wiser than now
Striding through the desert sea
While all around the monoliths stared down
It was as the clock struck twilight that I saw you
And I marked you by your pentagram as I am marked by mine,
Though you did not see it

I fear in that journey I left my water behind

In the between-times I thought your name a wondrous concoction,
And I grew drunk on it til the stars blistered the earth
Now, though
It fills my lungs with the shattered bones of ancient cities
I have become short of breath
The desert remembers me too well

You couldn't find me now even if you so desired

Still I wonder how your name came to be written
Within each and every coconut husk
I think perhaps I wrote it there

[gobo fongo]

What vain verbalization, what divine appreciation
could do justice, could express
this great love which swells my breast?

For though no connoisseur, no expert to be sure
I am yet quick and able
when it comes to the dinner table.

No stranger to curries, chuño, or clams
having feasted on hummus, hoagies, and hams
I had thought, what error! what horror! what defeat!
for this world had nothing, just nothing left to eat!

Thus had my experience not inconsiderable left me a craving that seemed quite incurable.
And so in poor spirits, dejected, unstable!
did I lamenting, sink down to the table.

Past each appetizer I chewed with a grimace
and on to the soups and a salad with spinach.
But then with a chorus of angels celestial, or was it a growling of something more bestial?
did that platter descend, the vessel awaited
at which I sat back, my breath quite abated.

I heard not a word, in profound contemplation
of the wondrous! the stunning! olfactory sensation.
Quite miraculous as health restored to a leper
'here you are sir' she said, 'parmesan? fresh ground pepper?'

But this was too much! What more could one add?
do a dish so adorned, so handsomely clad!
Let down from on high, I was sure it had been
prepared there by angels and yes even Him.

But wait, what was this? a devilish hiss?
for there lay a trap, a spice ill concealed!
There were peppers! hot chilies some demon might wield!
did my plate then arise to tempt and tantalize?

How slowly passed the time, what anguish in my heart!
as I reached out for my fork, and lifted it, to start!

The tines passed through with ease, as the most delicate of cheese
that whitest, moistest flesh and the pasta oh so fresh.
But as I raised the morsel, what discovery! what bliss!
as I chanced to behold the tomatoes so crisp!

And as it reached my mouth, well words fail me, I admit.
For language, so prosaic! I am forced here to omit,
it has no place, it lacks proportion, so austere when it is writ!

Can I compare the flare of spice to fireworks? to burning ember?
Or soft warmth of fish to summer days? to sun drenched sea? a kiss so tender?
The crunch of tomato, the crackle of spinach
and before I realized, I had quite finished.

The garlic yet lingered, light in the air
the sting of jalapeno quite potently there
the pasta all gone now, the sauces quite scant
to convey the experience, I'm sorry, I just can't

I am sorry to say, but it will have to suffice
that try it you must, it's really quite nice!
And so hope restored! I went on my way
singing, ecstatic, oh what a day!

An Ode:
- Jalapeno Garlic Tilapia
At Johnny Carino's

[MissAusten]

Looking at the weeping willow

As I was looking at the weeping willow,
I realized that I was entirely to blame,
Unlike the poor thing in front of me standing,
I do not have roots to keep me exactly the same.
I should not stand in one place forever,
Who knows what the road tomorrow will bring,
Run straightaway and try to discover,
How again to be able to laugh, dance, sing.
But instead, I wandered lonely as a cloud,
Making my way through the sea of nothingness,
Rambling everyday in constant pursuit,
Of hopefully finding the right address.

(written for a contest, the poem had to have the phrase "I wandered lonely as a cloud").

[Solumnant]

Shame

A self-righteous face
Awaited (me)
In the mirror

[modularblues]

Shame

A self-righteous face
Awaited (me)
In the mirror

I like this quasi-haiku. The title suggests a sense of irony.

[Bufo_periglenes]

The Pigeonhole Lymerick

Put n holes in a number of pigeons
And if the pigeons add also to n
.....Then the next shot you make
.....Though great pains you may take
Means a pigeon's been pierced through again.

(Boards wouldn't let me indent, which is why the dots.)
Enjoy!

[Maraki]

On It Goes (Time)

Silently listen- Mother Earth stopped snoring,
And she whistles through the trees,
And the sun sitting beside me on the leaves,
My tiredness free,
Letting my self be- be just me.
And now I stay.

Yet eventually I must wander,
Leaving myself, leaving the trees, and the leaves,
And Dawn has ended, as time began,
With cracks like fronds,
And fissures like ponds -
On it goes.

Desperate fees, and decadent pleas,
Can't keep me away from this or these,
Now Noontide rots with heat and pain,
Oozing for the Dusk of day,
Pain inflaming my brain -
On it goes.

On and on my travels to travesty,
Evermore to the end of all war,
But sweet silent darkness cannot soothe me-
It stays deep inside me, yet it does not hide.
And so, on it goes.

If ever I open myself,
And let loose my hide for all to see the darkness-
The darkness that is me-
I hope and pray that eventually,
Midnight it shall be -
And when my time has finally come,
My soul's nocturno plays -
Weep? For, who, but a ghost?
On and on it goes.
~
The meter and rhyming would probably make more sense if this were spoken - sadly, though, it is not.

[Data Hero]

I wrote this (sadly autobiographical) piece a few days ago. Probably the bleakest poem I've ever written.

Healing a Scar

Healing a scar
Is just as a race to nowhere
As a journey to the edge of the Earth
As lifting oneself by the bootstrings

The stitches are placed correctly
But the damage is never healed
The state of disrepair is a permanent stand-in
On hold of nothing

But soon I will depart
Soon I will no longer be the latest product
Of a family of scars.

-----

This is the only poem I have ever written about my family. This is probably the only poem I will ever write about my family.

[Fifis]

What do some fans of mathematics
Give to each other for New Year?
Guess what—they do present some LaTeX,
Tight-fitting LaTeX underwear.