Poet's Club

[CamRad18 337]

Hey guys, CamRad18 here. I, like many others, enjoy posting my poems on this site (pony-related or not). However, I grew tired of watching my poem's slow crawl down the front page and into eventual obscurity, desperately hoping for someone's comment to resuscitate it. Cue the Poet's Club; a place where fellow poets (or anyone else, for that matter) can share ideas and poems, give feedback, and generally have a jolly old time talking to other like-minded individuals. 

 

tl;dr:

 

have an idea: share it                                           All poems must be put in spoiler boxes!

write a poem: post it                                                     (to avoid massive posts and such)

have feedback: give it

want a conversation: start it

 

Theme of the Week:

 

Write a cinquain!

 

 

Have an idea for theme of the week? Submit it to CamRad18 via PM and it just might be chosen!

 

Submissions:

(sorted by author)

 

 

 

 

Edited June 26, 2013 by CamRad18

[Oddgob 56]

There is nothing here.

Edited April 15, 2017 by Oddgob

[CamRad18 337]

I like poems. I've written poems. I will post a poem. Here's one that I've had on my profile:

 

 

 

I think you'll find I am without

The slightest bit of sense.

Yet do not take me for a lout

Consider my defense.

 

Nonsense proves our one release from

Life so filled with fraught,

While nothing makes less sense to me

Than comprehensive thought.

 

In normal conversation (which

does happen all around),

It's true that words go back and forth

But meaning can't be found.

 

If people do speak openly

But choose to hide their purpose

The effort is undone, and we

Find that worth is worthless.

 

Is reason really all that great?

The answer is: it's not.

I'd rather just pontificate

On top of feigning thought!

 

When first one looks at both the sides,

They might appear the same.

But rest assured, it isn't true;

Perception is to blame!

 

If empathy is limited

And truth does prove a lie,

Why bother to communicate?

This effort I decry!

 

And so I think you'll come to find

My reasoning is true.

It's only practical, you see,

To fabricate life through.

Thanks for posting! You may or may not be my new best friend now. Anyway, I really like that poem. It's sing-songy and funny, yet still intelligent. 

Edited May 18, 2013 by CamRad18

[Oddgob 56]

There is nothing here.

Edited April 15, 2017 by Oddgob

[Pan the Fabulous Ferret 2,642]

Definitely in on this. I breathe and live poetry.

And I share a common dissapointment, watching so many of my poems fading with no recognition.

[CamRad18 337]

Definitely in on this. I breathe and live poetry.

And I share a common dissapointment, watching so many of my poems fading with no recognition.

Yeah, I hope this group brings a little more recognition to people's hard work. Also, welcome aboard! I can't wait to see what you decide to post!

Edited May 18, 2013 by CamRad18

[Technicolour Dream (Sunny) 38]

Alright, I'm so in. Most of my work is free form though.

 

Travels

 

 

             Travels

 

              -------

 

There was a mural here once,

but that was a long time ago.

 

The mural depicted birth in vitro,

a beauty one cannot simply ignore.

 

Test tubes from which loveless life is spawned,

caring is an absence and a hole in the void.

 

Ultimately, this beauty is as pure as definition allows.

However, the price of beauty is loneliness.

 

Life tastes like rust and irony.

So, on travels into the self, we must go.

 

The price of beauty is defined as pain,

and pain may change shape from day to day.

 

But while life in vitro is beauty, but not art,

life itself is but beauty in vain.

 

Life itself was meant to be art,

wether in vitro, eutero, or in silico.

 

But while life has become machinery, and misery abundant,

art has become separated from beauty and talent.

 

Because life can no longer define art,

on travels into the self, we must go.

 

Onwards, on travels inwards and downwards, we must go.

To carry on, and to live on as an artist, we must play on.

 

 

 

The Audient Void (Caution: so free form, the formatting is really out of whack. But the message is deep)

 

 

 

 The Audient Void

                  ----------------

 

We have seen it clearer now that the wind has slowed.

 

We have seen it clearly, and cannot deny what has been seen.

And if we choose to refuse to accept the simple truth,

the fact that we are not all we appear,

then we simply will not progress any farther.

De-evolution will follow us as we proceed to stride for nothing,

when we say we are striving for everything,

yet, still we find nothing.

 

We have seen it clearly.

It can only be described as the Audient Void.

The center of creation,

all creation of which we now see,

was spawned from noises and rhythms.

Carefully calculated sounds and sequences that brought forth the existence of music,

and soon after,

the natural flow of thought.

We are beings comprised of a burning desire for knowledge in pursuit of power.

Music has created consciousness and thus, our hostility.

So we must conclude,

we are solitary beings of a hostile composition,

purely comprised of music, sound, and clever sequencing.

 

From the audient Void,

life took shape based on sound and thought.

But sound and thought alone cannot describe the complexity of humanity and its trials.

We are not simply born human.

We learn the way.

Anxieties and pressures mix with our thoughts and hostilities,

and from that we have the core of creativity,

that emotional drive in us that makes us become destructive,

and in this sense,

the modern human being is born.

The idealistic being of thought,

who thinks about his fellow man purely as an instrument,

not a man.

 

The Audient Void created us from music,

and out of tribute to our new-found creativity,

we became musicians.

Not necessarily ironic,

but I do feel a sense of honest distaste for turning out like this.

Humans,

we are so interested in simple things like sound and thought.

I suppose the Audient Void chose us to be this way to reflect our creator.

We reflect our creator with our own creations.

Surely this must mean our creativity is in some way connected to our lack of simplicity.

Look at us,

we are still exploring the human body and even more extensively,

with less results,

the mind.

Why this happens is a mystery to me.

It is clearly evident that humans are purely meant to be musicians.

It's a strange concept,

creativity.

 

But we have seen this very clear now.

And, what we have seen must not be forgotten.

We cannot refuse our right, our claim, to creativity.

We cannot refuse to fulfill our purpose, 

to become musicians.

We are the song writers and bass guitar players,

the drummers and pianists.

We are the violinist sitting alone in the street,

playing for money and a compliment or a smile.

Music is our mother and our father.

We owe it to the Audient Void to be the best musicians we can be.

We are the musicians.

We are the poets.

We are noise.

We are melodies.

We are but songbirds rather than individual beings.

All in all,

we are music.

[CamRad18 337]

 

Alright, I'm so in. Most of my work is free form though.

 

Travels

 

 

             Travels

 

              -------

 

There was a mural here once,

but that was a long time ago.

 

The mural depicted birth in vitro,

a beauty one cannot simply ignore.

 

Test tubes from which loveless life is spawned,

caring is an absence and a hole in the void.

 

Ultimately, this beauty is as pure as definition allows.

However, the price of beauty is loneliness.

 

Life tastes like rust and irony.

So, on travels into the self, we must go.

 

The price of beauty is defined as pain,

and pain may change shape from day to day.

 

But while life in vitro is beauty, but not art,

life itself is but beauty in vain.

 

Life itself was meant to be art,

wether in vitro, eutero, or in silico.

 

But while life has become machinery, and misery abundant,

art has become separated from beauty and talent.

 

Because life can no longer define art,

on travels into the self, we must go.

 

Onwards, on travels inwards and downwards, we must go.

To carry on, and to live on as an artist, we must play on.

 

 

 

The Audient Void (Caution: so free form, the formatting is really out of whack. But the message is deep)

 

 

 

 The Audient Void

                  ----------------

 

We have seen it clearer now that the wind has slowed.

 

We have seen it clearly, and cannot deny what has been seen.

And if we choose to refuse to accept the simple truth,

the fact that we are not all we appear,

then we simply will not progress any farther.

De-evolution will follow us as we proceed to stride for nothing,

when we say we are striving for everything,

yet, still we find nothing.

 

We have seen it clearly.

It can only be described as the Audient Void.

The center of creation,

all creation of which we now see,

was spawned from noises and rhythms.

Carefully calculated sounds and sequences that brought forth the existence of music,

and soon after,

the natural flow of thought.

We are beings comprised of a burning desire for knowledge in pursuit of power.

Music has created consciousness and thus, our hostility.

So we must conclude,

we are solitary beings of a hostile composition,

purely comprised of music, sound, and clever sequencing.

 

From the audient Void,

life took shape based on sound and thought.

But sound and thought alone cannot describe the complexity of humanity and its trials.

We are not simply born human.

We learn the way.

Anxieties and pressures mix with our thoughts and hostilities,

and from that we have the core of creativity,

that emotional drive in us that makes us become destructive,

and in this sense,

the modern human being is born.

The idealistic being of thought,

who thinks about his fellow man purely as an instrument,

not a man.

 

The Audient Void created us from music,

and out of tribute to our new-found creativity,

we became musicians.

Not necessarily ironic,

but I do feel a sense of honest distaste for turning out like this.

Humans,

we are so interested in simple things like sound and thought.

I suppose the Audient Void chose us to be this way to reflect our creator.

We reflect our creator with our own creations.

Surely this must mean our creativity is in some way connected to our lack of simplicity.

Look at us,

we are still exploring the human body and even more extensively,

with less results,

the mind.

Why this happens is a mystery to me.

It is clearly evident that humans are purely meant to be musicians.

It's a strange concept,

creativity.

 

But we have seen this very clear now.

And, what we have seen must not be forgotten.

We cannot refuse our right, our claim, to creativity.

We cannot refuse to fulfill our purpose, 

to become musicians.

We are the song writers and bass guitar players,

the drummers and pianists.

We are the violinist sitting alone in the street,

playing for money and a compliment or a smile.

Music is our mother and our father.

We owe it to the Audient Void to be the best musicians we can be.

We are the musicians.

We are the poets.

We are noise.

We are melodies.

We are but songbirds rather than individual beings.

All in all,

we are music.

 

I really like these! I have a question, though. Are you saying that this "Audient Void" is responsible for the entire universe (i.e. rhythm and simple structure gave rise to all of creation)? Or is it just responsible for human consciousness?

Edited May 18, 2013 by CamRad18

[Technicolour Dream (Sunny) 38]

I really like these! I have a question, though. Are you saying that this "Audient Void" is responsible for the entire universe (i.e. rhythm and simple structure gave rise to all of creation)? Or is it just responsible for human consciousness?

The idea is that Human beings are purely noise and music. As far as The Audient Void, it is responsible for all of creation. The poem just states that human beings are the only creation that offers tribute.

[MelancholicMemory 2,025]

I write a lot of poetry. I write a wide variety of different poems, but I almost always have a rhyme scheme. I've even had some published, though all of my copies are buried in my stuff because I just moved home from college   Anyway, I'm definitely in on this. Also, here's a little thing I do whenever someone tries to use "Roses are red / Violets are blue." I get that a lot when I say I write poetry so I came up with this. It's obscene so I'll spoiler it.

 

 

 

Roses are red

Violets are Blue

This is a cliché

So fuck you!

 

 

 

Now here's a real poem

http://mlpforums.com/topic/45158-the-darker-side-poem/

 

 

Also, I guess I'll share this here too if anyone is interested.

http://mlpforums.com/topic/51190-mlp-poem-requests-including-ocs/

 

 

 

I, like many others, enjoy posting my poems on this site (pony-related or not). However, I grew tired of watching my poem's slow crawl down the front page and into eventual obscurity, desperately hoping for someone's comment to resuscitate it.

I certainly know that feeling This was a brilliant idea!

Edited May 18, 2013 by Typhlosion

[CamRad18 337]

Hey guys! I finally finished my poem! Thoughts?

 

 

 

Each night I raise failure;

beauty, scarred.

My artwork corrupted;

essence, marred.

 

My Magnum Opus;

night’s gem, dusk’s pearl.

A former prison;

greed’s wings, unfurled.

 

Black canvas flaunts ego;

power, abused.

The dreamer’s haven;

sanctum, misused.

 

Come dawn I snuff exile;

choices, bold.

My signature piece;

distant, cold.

 

Edited May 26, 2013 by CamRad18

[Technicolour Dream (Sunny) 38]

2 new ones comin' your way.

 

 

 

Witch Anthem

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

 

The Earth cries out in shortness of breath.

She cries out to me in light of my imminent death.

She bellows aloud, she shrieks from afar,

"Never again shall i drop my guard!"

 

For I am death, virtue and the dislocated jaw,

that hangs in the breeze as she bellows from afar,

"Never again shall i drop my guard!"

But sweet lies stays sweet as the rotten apple that falls to the ground in the cold winter months.

 

I too fall to the ground in the freezing cold of winter.

I too survey the lands I no longer own.

I too shriek and bellow from afar,

"Never again shall i drop my guard!"

 

In the black of night and the brightest day,

she wails and howls through the blackness surveyed.

In each ditch, grave, hovel, and tomb,

the words of enchantment spell out our doom.

 

Through clever remarks and emptied graves,

lie the bodies of those whose names she has claimed.

Their ashes used to cultivate the lands I no longer own.

The very same lands shelter my aging decrepit bones.

 

So I say to you from realms afar,

her chanting and moaning to a god beyond the proverbial door,

are but gibberish and meaningless but mean only one thing,

"Never again shall i drop my guard!"

 

And never again shall I see the light.

Although the light is bright and the night has come again.

In my dying days and in my bed to which I breathe my last breath,

I say again,

"Never again shall I lift my head!"

 

 

 

This one is better

 

 

Canvas

----------

 

Paint on brush,

steel on flesh.

Wet with blood,

painted fresh.

 

Canvas for skin,

paint for blood.

The artists believe,

their work here is done.

 

But the art is incomplete.

The art is not pure.

The sword is still weak,

and there is pain to be endured.

 

Canvas, oh canvas,

tell me what I seek.

Wetting the paintbrush,

to illustrate a dream.

 

Dreams that defy us,

and leave us bound to the Earth.

Canvas and cancer,

her body is dead but her soul is on canvas.

 

Her name lives on.

Her name lives on through me.

Her soul lives on in me.

Her legacy amounts to canvas.

 

 

[MelancholicMemory 2,025]

Hey guys! I finally finished my poem! Thoughts?

 

 

 

Each night I raise failure;

beauty, scarred.

My artwork corrupted;

essence, marred.

 

My Magnum Opus;

night’s gem, dusk’s pearl.

A former prison;

greed’s wings, unfurled.

 

Black canvas flaunts ego;

power, abused.

The dreamer’s haven;

sanctum, misused.

 

Come dawn I snuff exile;

choices, bold.

My signature piece;

distant, cold.

 

Holy pancakes wrapped in bacon! That is amazing! You have excellent diction, which presents your ideas in a very vivid, meaningful way, and the style you used was perfect. I really like this one. 10/10

 

While I'm here, I guess I'll share a poem I wrote about my depression.

 

 

 

"Dysthymia"

This here's my old friend

Whisperin' in my ear.

You see, he depends

Upon my despair and on my fear.

He tempts me, taunts me, tries me.

He treats me all afoul.

He keeps himself quite busy.

He's teasing me right now.

You may look upon this game, this race

And think that he offends,

But I'll keep smiling in his face

Until the bitter end.

 

 

 

 

My poems seem to be a lot shorter than the poetry of others.

 

Also, guys, to make this thread more active I have an idea. We can have a theme of the week and all of us share a poem (old or new) about that topic. That would also encourage us all to write more. If you want, I can choose topics, or the OP can. What do you think?

[Katella Avenue 28]

Holy pancakes wrapped in bacon! That is amazing! You have excellent diction, which presents your ideas in a very vivid, meaningful way, and the style you used was perfect. I really like this one. 10/10

 

While I'm here, I guess I'll share a poem I wrote about my depression.

 

 

 

"Dysthymia"

This here's my old friend

Whisperin' in my ear.

You see, he depends

Upon my despair and on my fear.

He tempts me, taunts me, tries me.

He treats me all afoul.

He keeps himself quite busy.

He's teasing me right now.

You may look upon this game, this race

And think that he offends,

But I'll keep smiling in his face

Until the bitter end.

 

 

 

 

My poems seem to be a lot shorter than the poetry of others.

 

Hey, short doesn't mean bad. A poet does whatever they need to do to create the style of the poem. Like the way you personify Depression (using a very technical term), classic method of dealing with an inanimate subject! From a formalist perspective, I just want to point out that you could have done some syntactic stuff to give the poem a little more punch. Like, the subject is depression, so the structure could be less rigid to reflect the mind of a depressed subject. Like cut out the commas, maybe no capitalization... Just a thought, but of course it's your poem.

 

I'm very technical about my poetry, even when I have things to write about I'm very meticulous about being as contrived about it as possible, so I have nothing for you guys at the moment. 

[CamRad18 337]

Holy pancakes wrapped in bacon! That is amazing! You have excellent diction, which presents your ideas in a very vivid, meaningful way, and the style you used was perfect. I really like this one. 10/10

 

While I'm here, I guess I'll share a poem I wrote about my depression.

 

 

 

"Dysthymia"

This here's my old friend

Whisperin' in my ear.

You see, he depends

Upon my despair and on my fear.

He tempts me, taunts me, tries me.

He treats me all afoul.

He keeps himself quite busy.

He's teasing me right now.

You may look upon this game, this race

And think that he offends,

But I'll keep smiling in his face

Until the bitter end.

 

 

 

 

My poems seem to be a lot shorter than the poetry of others.

Well compared to the works Oddgob has posted, we're all a little lacking in the "word count" department.

 

This poem is awesome, by the way. I also suffer from depression (albeit shorter, heavier bouts of it) and this poem perfectly captures how I feel during those moments. Also, the casual, rhythmic tone contrasts nicely with the darker message.

 

Depression was actually the reason I got into poetry. Here's the first one I ever wrote.

 

 

 

It waits

 

sitting at the corners of the mind

always present

never tangible

 

It hunts

 

looking for weakness

a break in concentration

a gap between events

 

It attacks

 

a razor blade its weapon

isolation its strategy

pain its goal

 

It retreats

 

not in fear but in triumph

loathing in its wake

a promise to come back

 

and, on an entirely different note, here's a little something I came up with about an hour ago. It's almost too short to warrant a spoiler but hey, I made the rule, I'll follow it. 

 

I find there is a 

             simple

sort of

elegance in the

            angel’s

broken

            wings

Edited May 29, 2013 by CamRad18

[MelancholicMemory 2,025]

Hey, short doesn't mean bad. A poet does whatever they need to do to create the style of the poem. Like the way you personify Depression (using a very technical term), classic method of dealing with an inanimate subject! From a formalist perspective, I just want to point out that you could have done some syntactic stuff to give the poem a little more punch. Like, the subject is depression, so the structure could be less rigid to reflect the mind of a depressed subject. Like cut out the commas, maybe no capitalization... Just a thought, but of course it's your poem.

 

I'm very technical about my poetry, even when I have things to write about I'm very meticulous about being as contrived about it as possible, so I have nothing for you guys at the moment. 

I usually don't mess around with capitalization and whatnot very much, simply because I hear the poem rather than seeing it, if you know what I mean. I'll keep that in mind though. I'm very meticulous about my poetry as well, which comes through more in my more recent stuff. This is one of the first poems I wrote, actually and the whole thing came to me one day out of the blue with hardly any effort. Thanks for the comments, Katella.

 

 

 

Well compared to the works Oddgob has posted, we're all a little lacking in the "word count" department.

 

This poem is awesome, by the way. I also suffer from depression (albeit shorter, heavier bouts of it) and this poem perfectly captures how I feel during those moments. Also, the casual, rhythmic tone contrasts nicely with the darker message.

 

Depression was actually the reason I got into poetry. Here's the first one I ever wrote.

 

 

 

It waits

 

sitting at the corners of the mind

always present

never tangible

 

It hunts

 

looking for weakness

a break in concentration

a gap between events

 

It attacks

 

a razor blade its weapon

isolation its strategy

pain its goal

 

It retreats

 

not in fear but in triumph

loathing in its wake

a promise to come back

 

and, on an entirely different note, here's a little something I came up with about an hour ago. It's almost too short to warrant a spoiler but hey, I made the rule, I'll follow it. 

 

I find there is a 

             simple

sort of

elegance in the

            angel’s

broken

            wings

 

Both of those were very brief, yet you say a lot with few words. I like that. Depression also got me into poetry, though I'm most proud of the poems I make during that transition state between full-blown depression and normality. I suffer from major depressive disorder, as well as dysthymia (as my title suggests ) so things are always kind of crazy. Next time I'll share a more uplifting poem, hopefully. By the way, what do you think of my theme of the week idea (I added it to my last post ).

[Pan the Fabulous Ferret 2,642]

I suppose I should share here...

 

 

Disaster shall be your name

 

 

To walk and find no reason in doing so, perhaps the greatest journey to ever be taken

A forlorn hope of false intimacy which led you on this forsaken path

And an all too common knowledge of your emotions which fail to see reason

Alone and aghast against the perfect repetition of life’s mundane themes

And all the while, in the eyes of another, you once stood to be a testimony of love

 

Disaster should be your name, and in the incompetence shall fire be your end

All you ever found yourself wanting, all in of yourself and the dreams of others

A crime against melancholy, and observed by an unknown and unkind force

Such would be the malevolence of your name, of disaster, and your deeds

 

By all your virtues, where shall you stand?

As drums shall beat as the marching feet do come

All the while dare you pace and cry, pouring your heart into empty words

Lines upon lines, forming visceral meaning and poems of better days

Unto the eyes of your lover in which you cry but more tears

And all the while, as you slowly burn in the fire which consumes you,

Your ashes shall fall and create your final peace, a poem of all ages to contemplate

And so shall others view this piece, your final testimony to the life you cared to live

Among the many and few who dare, and among the majority who try

Between here and there, and unto later days

By all means in which I know care to write this

And by all means which emotions do play

My fire, it does so burn

 

 

-David Favret

 

 

 

I wrote this earlier today...

[CamRad18 337]

I usually don't mess around with capitalization and whatnot very much, simply because I hear the poem rather than seeing it, if you know what I mean. I'll keep that in mind though. I'm very meticulous about my poetry as well, which comes through more in my more recent stuff. This is one of the first poems I wrote, actually and the whole thing came to me one day out of the blue with hardly any effort. Thanks for the comments, Katella.

 

 

Both of those were very brief, yet you say a lot with few words. I like that. Depression also got me into poetry, though I'm most proud of the poems I make during that transition state between full-blown depression and normality. I suffer from major depressive disorder, as well as dysthymia (as my title suggests ) so things are always kind of crazy. Next time I'll share a more uplifting poem, hopefully. By the way, what do you think of my theme of the week idea (I added it to my last post ).

Ah yes, you've picked up on my favorite writing style. I love taking an idea and condensing it into it's "purest", most succinct form. It's a fun little challenge, I guess.

 

Also, I find this "theme of the week" idea both intriguing and brilliant. Here's my idea for the selection process; everyone interested submits an idea via message. A select few poets (or mini-mods, as I like to call them) would discuss them and come to an agreement. Then I, as OP, will edit my first post to include this theme. 

[MelancholicMemory 2,025]

Ah yes, you've picked up on my favorite writing style. I love taking an idea and condensing it into it's "purest", most succinct form. It's a fun little challenge, I guess.

 

Also, I find this "theme of the week" idea both intriguing and brilliant. Here's my idea for the selection process; everyone interested submits an idea via message. A select few poets (or mini-mods, as I like to call them) would discuss them and come to an agreement. Then I, as OP, will edit my first post to include this theme. 

Sounds good. I really think it will get more traffic in this thread, and it will encourage discussion. I would be honored if I could be one of those mini-mods.

[CamRad18 337]

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I'm a dead terrorist

Silence, I kill you

 

Eh, eh, am I a masterful poet or what?

Hey bro, I can appreciate the humor and all but if you're going to post I'd prefer it be constructive. If you don't feel like writing perhaps you could provide critique or compliments? Even a simple brohoof would do.

[MelancholicMemory 2,025]

I would be proud to contribute the first poem for theme of the week.

 

 

 

 

"The Notebook"

 

You give me a voice.
What I say is all your choice.
You scribble across my straight, blue lines
Writing notes, prose, verse, and rhymes,
Or perhaps a doodle when bored in class.
I am your record who shall last
And know all that you feel and think
For great thoughts last for but a blink of the eye
And it is my job to keep them alive.
I am simple, but unique
For of your soul, I contain a piece.

 

 

 

Edited May 29, 2013 by Mellon Collie

[Pan the Fabulous Ferret 2,642]

I guess this would fit for the weekly idea.

 

Petals

 

 

I stare, astounded, at the white of the petals

Amassed and radiant, flowing in the wind

Cast to and fro, to here and there, these petals

White as the light of day as it ignites the air

These petals of flowers, strange and magnificent

 

I stare, in an attempt to comprehend

By the light which glistens from their white sheen

And by the graceful arcs of their paths as they fall to the ground

For even in this, their falling, they show a true color

And swiftly, yet ever so slowly, touch upon the earth

Allowing the grace that I contemplated, to be shared

 

Among the trees and earth which holds them

These petals of white and air

Of grace and beauty which is a fondest recollection

The flowers stand amongst my gaze

 

-David Favret

 

 

 

[Technicolour Dream (Sunny) 38]

Lets dodis!

 

 

 

Ladders

-----------

 

Looking up I find,

the climb is too high,

and the fall is inevitable.

 

Looking down from atop,

the ladder; my rock,

where I built my wall.

 

The wall is tall,

my ladder secure.

So I fall down behind my wall.

 

We climb so high,

so far only to fall,

and to hit the grounder harder every time.

 

But behind a wall,

no one sees us fall,

and on the outside we appear collected.

 

But eventually like our ladders,

the wall will fall down,

and bring us down beneath it.

 

We cannot live behind a wall,

build ourselves upon a ladder,

and expect ourselves not to fall.

 

We need to bring down these walls.

We need to come down from above,

and climb down the ladders on our own.

 

 

[Katella Avenue 28]

Will we be leaving comments on other's poems? Anyways, I'm making this one up completely on the fly, so it probably won't be much good: 

 

 

 

 

She sat at ease upon a blank ocean,

calm as the breeze of summer days

spent idly by the wandering mind

whose thoughts come in myriad ways.

Or perhaps she sits amidst the storm

thrashed about in furious bays

in the eve of tempest nights

depicted only in shades of grays.

 

Meticulous to motion of joint

Ocean that she does anoint

With the power of her point

 

(Subject was paper and pencil)

 

 

[Oddgob 56]

There is nothing here.

 

Edited April 15, 2017 by Oddgob