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Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month.
Topic 30: Write a poetry inspired by things ending or ends in general.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more
Questions?
just mercedes
Unregistered
Along the tide line, driftwood
throws shadows from sunset’s slanting light
writing names in a dead language,
conjuring up the lost.
Isaac and Jessica
play on the sand.
The grandfather they never met
soars overhead trailing flight feathers,
his father looks up from the milking,
his grandfather watches from shadows
in the forest. his great grandfather waves
from the black-sailed ship in the shallows
setting out for somewhere else yet unknown.
Phew. It's over. Thanks Milo and all who took part.
Posts: 444
Threads: 285
Joined: Nov 2011
(04-30-2015, 12:07 PM)milo Wrote: Topic 30: Write a poetry inspired by things ending or ends in general.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more
Questions? What are "or ends"? I can only assume it was a typo and the word you meant
to type was "oar". In which case the topic seems obscure at best (ask tectak
about 'obscure' as he seems to have gone off the deep end with its ramifications).
But backing off a bit, a must assume this topic is supposed to have something to do
with racing shells (called "fine boats" in "British") or row boats (called "skiffs" by Melville,
Hemingway, et al.).
Some clarification (also a tektak obsession of some sort) would be appreciated.
as sincere as always,
ray
a brightly colored fungus that grows in bark inclusions
just mercedes
Unregistered
(04-30-2015, 02:12 PM)rayheinrich Wrote: (04-30-2015, 12:07 PM)milo Wrote: Topic 30: Write a poetry inspired by things ending or the or ends in general.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more
Questions?
What are "or ends"? I can only assume it was a typo and the word you meant
to type was "oar". In which case the topic seems obscure at best (ask tectak
about 'obscure' as he seems to have gone off the deep end with its ramifications).
But backing off a bit, a must assume this topic is supposed to have something to do
with racing shells (called "fine boats" in "British") or row boats (called "skiffs" by Melville,
Hemingway, et al.).
Some clarification (also a tektak obsession of some sort) would be appreciated.
as sincere as always,
ray
Endings, ends. Sure, the end of a skiff race? I think you have a big spoon in your hand.
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Joined: Nov 2011
(04-30-2015, 02:38 PM)just mercedes Wrote: Endings, ends. Sure, the end of a skiff race? I think you have a big spoon in your hand. Actually a small spoon being used to partake of a handy little bowl of cardamom gelato.
a brightly colored fungus that grows in bark inclusions
Posts: 845
Threads: 57
Joined: Aug 2013
Erosion
Wind and rain
weathered our lithosphere
of influence with consequence.
Fault lines carved deeply
into relationship stratifications.
Your igneous intrusion
into my sedimentary layers
resulted in insurmountable
metamorphic pressure.
Over epochs abrasive forces
ground us into sand
that scours the continents.
Although separated
by great ocean rifts,
tectonic plates still clash.
Despite mountainous upheaval
and volcanic eruption,
lava no longer flows
through my tubes for you.
My new watercolor: 'Nightmare After Christmas'/Chris
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04-30-2015, 11:19 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-30-2015, 11:19 PM by Todd.)
The End of Reality TV
Every torch had been put out.
Rose petals drifted on the wind
like little broken promises,
and no one remembered
how it all started
with Let’s Make a Deal. Real People
begging for biscuits like dogs,
dressed like dogs. We would watch
like we never could in life.
We would stare like children
without pretense at this cripple,
this traffic accident of a human being.
We would gaze into the fun house
mirror, hour by hour, and without noticing
became warped. In the end,
there were no survivors,
we were left alone
with ourselves clutching
our stem of thorns.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
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In Peace
when no victories remain
we celebrate
the surrender of strawberries
and taste for the first time
the sweet glory
of the mundane
until the appetites wane
and we celebrate
by gorging on reflection
while our bellies ache
to be hungry again
when all that meat is for shame
we celebrate
the comfort of corn fields
and smell for the first time
the ghosts in the rain
no conquests remain
so we celebrate
the spoils of peace
allied
in a circle of wagons
‘round a campfire's flame
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i sang about the sun
i sang about the red of dawn
i sang about flowers blooming, pollen spreading
across the chilly air
i sang about melting ice
and streams filling up with water,
mud, and salmon eggs
i sang about the bear
waking up to the smell of juneberries,
to the smell of another season to eat through,
to breed through, to live and die through
i sang about the mountains
rising in the distance
i sang about the eagle
soaring over the sea
i sang about the stones under my feet
i sang about my mother
surrounding me in all her splendor
i sang, i sang, i sang
and then you came, and built a house,
and dragged me to the bed,
stealing me from my mother,
tearing away my throat
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i'm having issues seeing an end besides the one I write too much about, so I went back in time a bit.
Following the Path to its End
This pathway looks familiar,
but it has changed into a rut.
The weeds choke the flowers,
suffocating anything good.
Fault lines tremor
opening canyons of blame
between us.
You open your mouth to scream
something I refuse to hear.
My hands are clenched;
I will not budge.
You scream you've lost your best friend,
well,
I've lost my whole damn world.
I travel up the path alone,
with chunks of my life
falling off my skin,
littering the trail
behind me.
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NaPM
the
End
is
just
the
beginning
see you
next year
Erthona
©2015
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
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< like leaves >
for Pat
a picnic blanket
in the park
the leaves
the sun glows through them
as we're lying here
i listen to you
read the poems you love
you tell me of your day
your breath
the casual warmth
of your light touch
these simple things
so quickly gone
and here we are
the chill of fall
where all is quiet except our hearts
we watch the leaves content fall
through shadows of late afternoon
and we pretend they are not us
but on this blanket
in this park
our love
it draws us up
it weaves us tight
and we forget the time
we'll have no summers left
no winters waiting for us
when our wishes, promises
will lie like leaves
turned lazily from breeze to breeze
our life
our love
how quickly gone
how slight our light breath moves
across these leaves
- - -
a brightly colored fungus that grows in bark inclusions
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It is now May 1st for 10 more minutes here in colorado, and i officially fail at this whole dates thing. Oh well. Fun topic.
Really, it was abrupt.
You were here and then you were
gone.
You were seventeen, at a party, having fun
(I assume)
then you just
didn't
exist.
But why why why why why why
did it take seven more years of my life
to realize
what you had meant to me?
Sometimes I feel like writing poetry and sometimes I watch Netflix. No judging.
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Feel free to go back and write on anything that inspires you...that's really what this whole thing is about. Plus we won't beat down your door and whip you with wet noodles since you were late. At least most of us won't....
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All things come to an end
You said we would meet on Thursday,
time to talk things through,
a night when buildings wept
and car wipers conspired
to miss you run.
The driver only saw a silhouette
popping out from a shop doorway.
I must have missed your call,
softly the message meandered into rapids,
undoing me a syllable at a time.
You chose the right car
Range rovers are expensive
and quick to shatter life and bone
you didn't even leave a dint,
the driver kept quoting his stopping distances,
dry and wet,
we can all measure them now,
count them in years.
I waited in the bus station café
like we said, sipping cold coffee
playing back your voice message
of the car coming round the corner.
If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out
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