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Post by Deleted on Jan 10, 2015 21:44:48 GMT -5
This poem is about a girl I knew in school.
Debra
Just a glimpse was worth it Only a glance was needed For as a fire is lit It glows and shines as she did
Many a days I watched her still Standing at my window pane Across the yard and over a slight hill Numerous thoughts pouring like rain
She often came for a cigarette break Standing just outside the doorway Looking lovely as one God did make Breaking the monotony of the day
I delighted to watch her walk It was a thing of absolute beauty But though we would seldom talk It was poetry when she spoke to me
One day I was suddenly sent home So I never saw her again She lives on within the lines of this poem And my memories of back then
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Poetry
Jan 11, 2015 5:16:01 GMT -5
Ruby likes this
Post by jennifer on Jan 11, 2015 5:16:01 GMT -5
This poem is about a girl I knew in school. DebraJust a glimpse was worth it Only a glance was needed For as a fire is lit It glows and shines as she did Many a days I watched her still Standing at my window pane Across the yard and over a slight hill Numerous thoughts pouring like rain She often came for a cigarette break Standing just outside the doorway Looking lovely as one God did make Breaking the monotony of the day I delighted to watch her walk It was a thing of absolute beauty But though we would seldom talk It was poetry when she spoke to me One day I was suddenly sent home So I never saw her again She lives on within the lines of this poem And my memories of back then As I sit here at 4am with sleep eluding me, I'm left wondering if the poet ever tried to find Debra, or if he decided the memories were enough. I'm not asking you to spill your personal life dman, only thinking how difficult it is, yet satisfying on occasion, to leave a stone unturned, and itch unscratched, an unrequited love accepted...
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Post by Deleted on Jan 11, 2015 5:56:09 GMT -5
This poem is about a girl I knew in school. DebraJust a glimpse was worth it Only a glance was needed For as a fire is lit It glows and shines as she did Many a days I watched her still Standing at my window pane Across the yard and over a slight hill Numerous thoughts pouring like rain She often came for a cigarette break Standing just outside the doorway Looking lovely as one God did make Breaking the monotony of the day I delighted to watch her walk It was a thing of absolute beauty But though we would seldom talk It was poetry when she spoke to me One day I was suddenly sent home So I never saw her again She lives on within the lines of this poem And my memories of back then As I sit here at 4am with sleep eluding me, I'm left wondering if the poet ever tried to find Debra, or if he decided the memories were enough. I'm not asking you to spill your personal life dman, only thinking how difficult it is, yet satisfying on occasion, to leave a stone unturned, and itch unscratched, an unrequited love accepted... Thanks for the support as usual. No, I didn't try to find her. Sometimes it's best to leave things alone, no matter how painful they may be. But I still think of her on occasion, and this poem which I wrote years later, is sort of a remembrance to her and that time in my life.
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Post by aliensoul13 on Jan 12, 2015 4:55:44 GMT -5
Fun idea, @dman24. I like your creativity. I wrote this one last year. Reading this now, I feel like I should edit some stuff, but #foreverlazy. It's actually supposed to have been written by a character of mine (Sometimes I write stories in my free time.) Here it goes:
Standing in a spotlight painted black, Put out, concealed, all forgotten Tears streamed frozen, they wondered why My soul was corrupted, but neither did I
I never knew, but it was; Tragic like the waterfall that stood still, Hopeless like a land never trodden, Empty like the shallow pool you never knew Alone and merciless
There was; A numbness mistaken for calm A nonchalance perceived as control A despair taken for optimism
But I, I seek not the truth, but mysteries to keep me searching And purpose to keep my heart lurching For without it, I am equal to;
The wind that blew without notice The sun that shone behind clouds An ocean never plunged A mountain never climbed The bridge no one ever crossed The seeds that were never sown
And without it, I am nothing more than; The warmth above the ice The shelter inside the snow The chick that never flew The heart that beat behind a wall
He who smiled behind a mask She who held you with gloves ...... A child never born The person no one met A life never lived
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Poetry
Feb 2, 2015 18:34:36 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Feb 2, 2015 18:34:36 GMT -5
Dreams. We all have them. But what happens when they don't come true?
What ever happened to dreams?
What ever happened to dreams? Did they fly away like a bird? Or are they around but just won't be heard? Did they disappear into the night? Or are they there, half-hidden from the sight? Are they sleeping? Or perhaps weeping? Maybe they took a vacation? If so, was there an explanation? Did they try as hard as they could? Or perhaps gave up, and withered away like rotten wood? Do they still linger in the head? Or are they dead? Or was it ever a dream?
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Post by Deleted on Feb 28, 2015 19:09:41 GMT -5
Just discovered this poem by Edgar Allan Poe. A Somber subject matter, yet very apt of the man. Compelling and thought-provoking stuff. I like it.
Alone
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
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Poetry
Mar 5, 2015 6:37:28 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 5, 2015 6:37:28 GMT -5
Everyone comes to the proverbial "fork in the road" at some point in their life. Which direction to take-which decision to make pretty much determined the outcome of everything. Do you take a risk and travel the unknown path, or do you keep it safe and don't? This poem by Robert Frost is a prime example of that, and in it, the risk made all the difference.
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
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Post by Deleted on Mar 8, 2015 6:19:49 GMT -5
I love this poem by Pablo Neruda. It describes love and all it's complexities. Just incredible... and so true!
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.
I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.
In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
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Poetry
Mar 15, 2015 21:17:27 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 15, 2015 21:17:27 GMT -5
One of these days I'll write a poem about Nina. I guess it's almost fitting, given the way I feel about her. And yes, I'll keep it classy as usual. No obsessive fan ramblings here. Well, maybe a little. She'll be proud though. I just have to figure out what to say, cause poetry comes from the soul; it's not something that should be rushed. Hopefully it's sometime soon. It's long overdue I think. Here's a poem by Rudyard Kipling giving some much needed fatherly advice to his son. It's both powerful and wise, and one that has always resonated with me. IFIf you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too: If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; If you can dream---and not make dreams your master; If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim, If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same:. If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools; If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings, And never breathe a word about your loss: If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much: If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!
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Poetry
Mar 18, 2015 13:15:25 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 18, 2015 13:15:25 GMT -5
"A Poison Tree" by William Blake. Yes, THAT poison tree Klaus was reading in season 1 episode 6 of The Originals! Nice to finally read it. Good poem.
A Poison Tree
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree
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Post by Deleted on Mar 19, 2015 20:57:10 GMT -5
Enjoying the simple things in life is often at a conflict in our modern world. We live busy, disconnected lives and fail to really capture what's important and meaningful. This simple poem is a testament to that. I wrote it about one of my favorite aspects of nature: rain.
The Rain
I listen to the rain As it falls outside my window And I remember a time When life was simple And moments were cherished
Now in this world of tomorrow Things need to be done And places to go And money to be made And the rain, only for a brief moment.
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Poetry
Mar 21, 2015 21:03:10 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 21, 2015 21:03:10 GMT -5
This is a short poem, but what I really like about it is that every word rhymes with the next, which gives it a very unique quality rarely seen in poetry.
Give Me a Kiss
Give me a kiss
My soul cannot dismiss
So whenever I am miss
Or feeling out of bliss
I'll always reminisce
Of you and that passionate kiss
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Poetry
Mar 22, 2015 20:19:05 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 22, 2015 20:19:05 GMT -5
William Shakespeare was an exceptional writer and poet. He had a knack for dissecting the human condition and composing it into words. "All the World's a Stage" is one of his best, and it perfectly describes the stages of life and the roles we play in it. A truly timeless classic!
All the World's a Stage
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
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Poetry
Mar 24, 2015 12:45:05 GMT -5
Post by jennifer on Mar 24, 2015 12:45:05 GMT -5
William Shakespeare was an exceptional writer and poet. He had a knack for dissecting the human condition and composing it into words. "All the World's a Stage" is one of his best, and it perfectly describes the stages of life and the roles we play in it. A truly timeless classic! All the World's a StageAll the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. It's interesting he begins the poem talking about men and women, then the main part of the poem is about a man's life, without mentioning a wife or children. Only a mistress in the younger years. Every life doesn't need to include marriage & children but most did in Shakepeare's time. Perhaps it was more common for soldiers to choose a solitary life. Anyway, the larger point is that we start & end life in childhood, which is very interesting with current brain research indicating just as the frontal lobes of teens are growing to add a rational perspective to often emotional decisions, older adults are losing the very same frontal lobe abilities. I'm not sure the aging population would think of it as 'second childishness and mere oblivion' though! Different era.
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Post by Deleted on Mar 28, 2015 23:42:40 GMT -5
Appearances. Appearances. We all seem to judge people by appearances, concocting our own perception of them and what we think is true. Too often though, that is not the case, and our perceptions betray us, and we find out we never knew the person at all. People are infinitely more complicated than that, and appearances should not be the deciding factor of a person's value or indication of what goes on in their lives. The internet alone teaches us that! I can't help but feel a little sympathy for these celebrities that seem to have it all, but go through hell (paparazzi, drug & alcohol abuse, anxiety, depression) to maintain and retain it. Hmm... makes you ponder what's really important, doesn't it?
I read this poem in High School, and from all appearances, Richard Cory had it all. But we eventually came to realize that was not the case, and a whole other world existed beneath the surface. (BTW, it was written by Edwin Arlington Robinson. Really good job by him!)
Richard Cory
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
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