[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 14 most recent journal entries recorded in
Poetry Monkeys' LiveJournal:
|Thursday, May 25th, 2006|
A soul asking for promises before going to Earth
Tell me it’s fine, nothing bad happens.
Life isn’t hard, the good guys always win.
There is a God, a Heaven, all’s forgiven.
And no one’s ever heard of sin.
Tell me that I’ll never be lonely,
Or wrong, or lost, or full of shame,
I’ll be there in time, never go a step too slowly,
And there will never be a cause for blame.
But if you can’t, then tell me there’s reason.
Wrong and right bound close in some great plan,
Otherwise, three score from my allotted season,
lose sixty years from my given span.
|Thursday, May 4th, 2006|
A little poem I found in one of my ever increasing collection of anthologies...
Life is mostly froth and bubble,
Two things stand like stone,
Kindness in another's trouble,
Courage in our own.
|Tuesday, April 25th, 2006|
We all want to go back to some happier time.
The Old wish “I was young again.”
The Sick wish for “health again.”
The Poor “was rich again”,
the Hurt “free of pain”.
But I know to which time I wish I still belonged
That golden time before I knew how I was wronged.
A Norse horoscope, old stories,
half remembered prophecies.
Came to pass.
The Moon was eaten, swallowed from the sky,
Surt threw the Sun from its place on high,
And swallowed the Earth.
A long winter. Everything died.
Save ruined white worms, buried alive.
The world watched and waited for battle.
Something emerged, laeve pale,
from the sick ground, it began to fail,
fumbled and died.
And men sat in their conference room,
Watching another's country's doom,
Wondered where the Gods had fled.
Guys want just the one thing.
(and my dear, that ain’t a ring)
If not, ask with scornful laughter,
What else it is that they are after.
(For they should be ashamed indeed,
of such presistant, grasping greed. Current Mood: contemplative
|Monday, April 10th, 2006|
Here are my letters,
and here lies the page,
same old emotions,
love, grief, joy, rage.
This poem is a picture,
I drew just for you,
A letter I'm writing,
old words, meanings new.
The meaning is complex,
message written in the dark,
there but unseen,
without some sort of spark.
God knows if it's clear,
Hell knows if it's true,
but here is the poem,
that I wrote just for you.
|Sunday, April 2nd, 2006|
Our 'poems to random men'
To Sr Galahad
Dear Sir Galahad,
how are you?
With the angels
and Jesus too.
What's it like
to be a bloke,
the Holy folk?
We've heard that men
have active minds,
and we were wondering
your minds are focused on,
Or just the one?
an avid fan
in search of man) To 'The Man'
What the heck were you thinking of . . .
the day you-
well, the week you-
uh, the month you-
meh, the year you-
Did you consider-
did you think-
was your brain
on the blink?
Us vote for you?
Huh! NEVER! To Tony Blair (The censored version)
(though you're looking
When you smile,
when our pennies,
with no cure.
Got our vote?
Got our goat!
Don't like phonies,
Get out Tony! To 'The bloke I ran over outside the pub' (our favourite)
To the bloke I ran over outside the pub
I'm very, very sorry. To 'a man who knows how to change a lightbulb'
Women seeking man,
who knows how TCLB.
Any age, any race,
please come help me? Current Mood: amused
|Tuesday, March 28th, 2006|
into our dreams
where nothing exists
but the smile
of a friend.
the weaving heart
where tears have caught
and cling like
and when the rain
comes crashing down
and dreams are ripped
from fragile fingers
Dark in the Light
A weird poem that makes no sense.
Dark in the eyes,
like night, but
its light too -
painful light like
dreams, or night-
mares. All at
once, and its like
sound and silence
when might makes
right or the
it the Earth.
of conflict, like
war or marriage,
in the dark when
come; when dreams
and the sand-
man is lost.
Dark in the eyes
and pain so
bright it makes
you ache ways you
or the sound of
that saw the feast
that blinds and sound
that makes you
and dreams in the
dark that's light,
the might that's
in the dark.
Toldja it's weird o__0
Something I just felt like writing.
When we began, our story,
was fossil, rock, and stone,
A cave of our living,
History caved in bone.
We grew softer, our tools,
Now brass, now iron, now gold,
Now paper, in crude scribbles,
Our story was still told.
Now we fade entirely,
We talk and live through air,
We die from radiation,
That isn’t even there.
And in time, someone will ask,
Who were they? Why were they there?
They’ll look for our story, all they’ll find,
Silence on written air Current Mood: weird
|Friday, March 24th, 2006|
When the fire in the spine
and the embers in the hips
and the fog in the mind
have torn your heart asunder;
when the aloneness
and the loneliness
and the memories
put on your smile,
let the tears wash away.
Pretend it's all good;
pretend it's all right.
Shamefully inspired by watching 'Mulan' on DVD this evening, the 'make a man out of you song'. Semi-hijacked a couple of lines from that song. Just something about social trends atm. Specifically male ones but only because of the song.
Light steps turn to heavy ones,
Every smile, now a glare
Bruising, battering paths form,
Where someone used to care.
It’s a sad and it’s a funny world,
And the old dresses up as new,
God forbid they make a Man out of you.
Six pints an hour,
To prove your worth,
Till you’re left in the gutter,
Far from your home turf.
What a weird way to prove yourself,
Drunk and dazed without a clue,
God forbid they make a Man out of you.
No one remembers how to talk,
A fist leaves a deeper bruise,
Where once we’d have talked it out,
Now, you’ll lose.
Violence breeds a vicious cycle,
And hell knows how you’ll break through,
God forbid they make a man out of you.
There used to be a careful balance,
though we never saw the line,
Now someone trampled through it,
All’s in decline.
I’m not sure you’ll like the world so soon,
But I guess it’ll have to do,
May they never make a Man out of you. Current Mood: contemplative
|Wednesday, March 22nd, 2006|
I wrote these last night and they're terrible, but funny because of it. XD
Someone said: "The end is nigh"
but, I think, he was high.
Poetry is, at best, a lovely sound
of rhyme and rhythm, it makes hearts pound
but at its worst it is dire
and makes me wish I was a fire.
ROFL. n__n I originally had "on fire" but Mom said "a fire" would be better... and I agree. That way I could destroy the dire poetry and not myself XD
Heee. There were a couple of others that are too weird and daft to post anywhere. =P
|Saturday, March 18th, 2006|
Another nice poem I found, and one of my own dragged out of the depths of livejournal (written in a cold-feverish delirium :P)A Cold by any other name . . . by Me :)
Why do they call a Cold a Cold?
It sounds benign, its horrors untold.
It should have a name befitting it more,
Your nose is blocked and red and sore,
and out of it leaks gore and more,
You just can't think, your head is raw,
the sinus pains, something of awe.
But I never yet have found,
when this thing comes prowling round,
anything 'cold' to shout about,
just it wants in and I want out!
So whoever so named this nasty bug,
(be you scientist, doctor, garden slug)
Please change its name? But even more,
Please, PLEASE find me a cure! Dream-Pedlary by Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803–49)
IF there were dreams to sell,
What would you buy?
Some cost a passing bell;
Some a light sigh,
That shakes from Life’s fresh crown
Only a rose-leaf down.
If there were dreams to sell,
Merry and sad to tell,
And the crier rung the bell,
What would you buy?
A cottage lone and still,
With bowers nigh,
Shadowy, my woes to still,
Until I die.
Such pearl from Life’s fresh crown
Fain would I shake me down.
Were dreams to have at will,
This would best heal my ill,
This would I buy.
But there were dreams to sell
Ill didst thou buy;
Life is a dream, they tell,
Waking, to die.
Dreaming a dream to prize,
Is wishing ghosts to rise;
And, if I had the spell
To call the buried well,
Which one would I?
If there are ghosts to raise,
What shall I call
Out of hell’s murky haze,
Heaven’s blue pall?
Raise my lov’d long-lost boy
To lead me to his joy.
There are no ghosts to raise;
Out of death lead no ways;
Vain is the call.
Know’st thou not ghosts to sue?
No love thou hast.
Else lie, as I will do,
And breathe thy last.
So out of Life’s fresh crown
Fall like a rose-leaf down.
Thus are the ghosts to woo;
Thus are all dreams made true,
Ever to last! Current Mood: nostalgic
HUSBAND FOR SALE - Height: 6ft. Will do
anything. Use as car wash, waste disposal,
etc. Great in bed.
While stocks last.
I wrote this for one of my uni modules. One of my favourites and the only one I can still remember the whole way through though I did have a spot of bother tonight :P Wait, this morning? XD
Anyhow, it's actually a commentary on relationships. See, I'm of the cynical but realistic opinion that the only reason people commit to relationships - when it's quite clear we're biologically not cut out for long-term stuff - is because we want a servant. Females are just as guilty as males, in their own way. Sometimes I see more romance in it, but at its base level I think that's what marriage is all about. So yeah. Current Mood: accomplished
Hehe, just me and Emma to start with I guess. So here is a lovely little verse I found by Robert Frost, Fire and Ice
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Interesting comparisions going on there *nod nod* Current Mood: happy