Two poems: boyhood, and old age [with a note on style] - poetry
Oh me! Thy glorious days have flown!
Ah yes! My childlike past days,
They stop by to see me now
These are my fragile links
I mean to take the timer off;
A note on Style: some ancestors ask, "What style of poetry to you like the best?" I can never come back with that question; it is open-ended to me. If I feel like contravention free from tradition as in the poem of: "Old Age," so be it; and if I feel accepted verse, a stricter ceremonial blueprint ought to be used, as in "Boyhood," and can be a factor deeply to the poem, so it is. I guess a poem-my way of assessment anyhow-is meant, for man, not man for the poem. In a comparable manner, like a Sunday, which is meant for man to rest, but not to be used as a tool for such a rigid life, that you leave the goat in the well and wait until Monday to get it out; you got to do what you got to do.
Dennis Siluk's new book, "Spell of the Andes," is now out at most of your internet books sites such as http://www. amazon. com. He lives in Minnesota and Peru. He is also operational on a book called, "Curse of the Abyss Worm," and a book of 25-short stories, in English and Spanish.
Man Unbowed [A poem]
Man UnbowedUnbowed by sin, the world of man, stands Upon his feet he gapes into the sky, The lack of interest of centuries contained by his eyes, And in his heart the curse of the old world. Who made him dead to love and God? A thing that breathes only for wants and needs, With a lack of emotion, a brother to the fox? Who tightened and hard-pressed up his rough brow? (To make him look so grand, so proud-so tall.
Africa - Wheres The Profit?
A poetic commentary that just welled up exclusive my head - why cant we just do amazing - ahead of many more are dead?How pious those politicians are, When up there on T.V.
now is not the time to open open that great door again not the time to be more tolerant not the time to play to winnow is not the time for justice evolution mercy choices not the time to pet the puppies yipping with pathetic voicesnow is not the time for kindness not the time for compromise not the time for loving blindness not the time to close my eyesnow for one too many people not that i have gained no good heart has sown but flesh is reaping tears to mind and emaciated bloodnow my inner wolf seeks equals only those whose chords can howl deadly whether lone or social defending young or on the prowltell me not that you would die upon the spines of my displeasure live for me and for you will i cherish each cell as if a treasureput me not classified a cage but roam with me all through snow and sun be by my side or breathe my dust for i shall bleed again for noneNiki Lasher Artist, Writer, and Webmatron http://www.kthulah.
Three Poems: Liberty, Death, and a Frog [with Commentary on Liberty]
Frog SummerSummer grows hot, for the New-blooded frogs; The bugs are thin, yet the Frogs stay fat, young and sassy. In these palsy times-they Only listen, as we decline away.
The Poets Back into a corner [Three Poems with a review]
The Poet's Corner [Three poem/ see appraise of poetry under the poems]The Poets CondorThe condor fly's Amongst the hillsIn open skies Of San Jerrónimo, Near Huancayo?Forbidding any To near his path-Lest he dare To risk a attack, Near Huancayo!..
AFRICA (to africans in diaspora)africa here i come, africa africa of the black soul the soul of an antediluvian civilization the cultivation of your timid tribes.its your voice i hear africa your voice of the discussion drums your beaded drums and the royal trumpeter the metal gong of your town crieri have come to see your music dance i have heard of your perpetual minstrels have i not heard of your alternation hips! i have heard adequate and have come to watch wouldn't you dance for me africaafrica here i come africa would you not show me to your tribes the timid tribes of your syrupy tongues the diverse tongues of your honorable menafrica, black soul africa tell me about your gods your gods of the sky and of the protect earth your gods of the hills and of the rivers aboundshow me to your kings africa your kings of the antiquated dynasty the antique empire of rusted spear and shield africa, here i come africaHEAVENLY GUESTheavenly guest heralding thunderously in its own awake pelting on men as well, the gods gathering itself drop by drop.
Life is a Fantasy
LIFE IS A FANTASY!A pink-eyed rabbit, fuzzy whiteHops in bedrooms full with frightA child of six with much to knowHer father's basest feelings showShe knows of LOVE, only all through himHe satisfies his every whimHe leaves, she wipes himfrom her chin!Her care for NEEDS to see the bestHe answered her God requestTo have a roof to comfort bringA yard where all the birdies singTell me how she could especially knowWhat cause for culture could she go?Her care for consistently beaten if not worseThe cycle of violence - a woman's curseConflicting visions, dependenciesOne can continue many idiosyncrasiesShe could not make him defendant beDenial, avoidance? she disbelievesThe rabbit hides beneath tall trees.At thirteen a step-grandfatha'Finds a well-trained girl that oughta'Do what brawny men requestNever aware what is bestAnd run away she does at lastFreedom can be such a 'blast'A rabbit's foot upon a chainThe FANTASY her 'safe' domainHow long in life must it remain?To guard her from these menWho all the time for her lips, do 'yen'A state trooper in Tennessee Like every other man does see Her lips so full and juicy red Through the bars, not in a bed.
Rules for Journalism Poetry
You've been inscription poetry since that first assignment in your high instruct inscription class. You know the rules about inscription poetry, right? Are there rules? Well, if you everyday the poetry forums athwart the Internet as much as I do, you'd find that there are a lot of amateur poets who immovably affirm that there are no rules for journalism poetry and if a celebrity even suggests analysis poetry or books on poetry, many of the amateur poets will throw up a guilty front.
Ole Bulky Jeeps & Paper, Ink and Rain [two Peoms]
Ole Bulky JeepsThrough late summer's heat These bulky shaped jeeps Ride by house and farm City and barn-Hungry for Spring-again, hopeful to avoid The Slipping and sliding Of winter's ice and wind?[s]Their big legs are dirty From heartbreaking dust and rain (Here and there, everywhere) Through all kinds of terrain Like affecting clouds caught In the plants of the woods? They never slow down a ting They have a duty, and give.It's part of how they live- In military-, bulky ole jeeps!.
Let Your Feelings Be Your Guide
The light of all eternity shines with me now / My feelings light up my life / How I find my way is gritty by them / They light my path and show me who I amWhen I was young, I felt so many clothes / Then came the day when I could not stand the pain / My world was chaos then, crammed with be distressed and grief / So I clogged up to defend that fragile Self withinYears would go by ahead of I could open again / I was artificial to by state of affairs away from my check / Life dealt me blows which I later accepted as my own / To get up me to that be sorrowful deep surrounded by my SoulI worked hard to find my way back to the Light / To that place inside where I could feel once again / There my Heart shone forth with a brave face / And shed light on all that I had concealedNow I see how I bunged that tender-hearted Self / How I froze in the face of my future / Troubles swirled about as a devoted cause of grief / And I fell to sleep out of fearI am beginning now to the deep void surrounded by / Where I've stored all those troubles and pain / I fight my way back to that concentrate once again / So I can come forth from tip to toe and be trueMy life moves accelerate as of this day / When I committed to conclusion my true Self / I've engaged all comportment of demons on this journey / To benefit to that Cause deep insideI wish for life to fill me now and bring all it can / I am dehydrated for encounter and for cyst / I want bestow possessions from my Soul to fill me / So that I can truly enjoy all that I beholdThis work is every now and then challenging as I have cultured / But no more than any task requiring Love / This journey enriches me with its end / And fills me with Life and SoulThis is my gift to myself, my own holy Soul / To have, to hold and to see / This Heart that bled is now curative its wounds / And can burgeon again from what Life bringsLet there never be a arrival to where hurts cramp me up / And fill me with anger and pain / I am awake now, yes, and can move ahead / To be grateful for all that Life has assignedOh glory to you, my Sweet Soul, for appearance this day / I thank you from the base of my Heart / We two can sing all together the praises of Love / That take us accelerate on this journey by means of timeNever let it be said that one so deserving / Could not find his or her way Home / All whom will admire shall see this Light in turn / And know that their journey can be wonI take you with me now, my Sweet Soul / For you are here in my hands / Where I can see you / And together, we can be so bold"Move on," you say to me. "Move on, my love / The Light needs for us to do so" / And my Heart sings with the potential / So that "Yes" is the fulfil I can render with easeMy Heart is packed with Love and joy in this jiffy / Knowing that I am with you, my Soul / My feelings tell me you are there and constantly were / Till that sleep came over me before onBy beginning to your touch do I know You / And find my own truth there in your eyes / You show me all through Love what my drive can be / I am inspired by this all ears designI am contented we are here together, in this life / I am delighted that our love is so bright / For now I can reach you, my Sweet Soul Magnificent / When you call to me from deep in my HeartI have your key Dear, and know this to be true / That you and I are ceaselessly to be born / In this life or another, we join with each other / And We Soar .
Four Poems: Grendels Nature...the Racetrack...Counting days...[Now in English and Spanish]
English Version1) Grendel's DivorceYou must know that I do not hateAnd that I hate you, Because all dead has twoSides; A sound is one arm of the quiet, Ice has its warm half.I hate you in order to start hating you To begin life again And never to stop hating you: That is why I do not hate you yet.
Two Poems and an Chemical analysis ['Witness,' & 'An Old Love']
Two Poems and an Examination ['Witness,' & 'An Old Love']WitnessMy face belongs to whoever sees it Everything has a denotation but life Even the bugs strive for existence God saved man, from God Ghosts have lonely sins Her bones are stones Up and down the hill Gardens blossom Spotless skies Dramatists August I can not rest!..
A World That Doesnt Care
War bombs may explode demolishing man and land. Hurricanes may devastate and leave us completely bare.
My Final Defeat - Fixed Competition
She maybe can't consider and I know I can never forget..
Write Your Way to Fame
Have you ever brain wave about how nice it would be to see your poem discussed in the New York Times? Think you have what it takes to befall a illustrious poet? Well the adverse truth is that no one has what it takes to be a celebrated poet. Here's a a small amount exercise: Name the most famed contemporary poet you can think of.
Anne Bradstreet, To My Dear and Loving Husband, A Discussion
"To My Dear and Loving Husband" was in black and white by America's first female poet, the Puritan, Anne Bradstreet. In fact, Anne Bradstreet is one of only a handful of female American poets at some point in the first 200 years of America's history.
The Last King of Mars [A Poetic Mytho]
[As Told by the Last] King: it was in the year 23,700 BC that one of the two moons of earth was hit by a meteor that of which, a great part of the moon broke off and hit earth's become known with a devastating impact. Thus the solar classification absorbed a deluge in incredible proportions, from Jupiter to Mars; knocking Earth out of its 100,000-year Ice Age.
Learn About Love From Poet Rumi
Learn about love by conception poetry by a long dead poet named Rumi. No need to look for antediluvian texts concealed in caves.
San Francisco [Almost a Sonnet]
(The city by the bay of Northern California, near which the Appeasing Ocean resides; the year is 1967)Mid October seemed like some bounce day,When all the way through the calm waters, dry as lead, The ferry, like vague darkness that stand the dead,Slipped down the bent coast of Frisco bay, Rounded the Blond Gate,-and San Francisco lay, Before me, that gay city, pink and red, Hippies sheltered Haigh Asbury's destitute head,-My home, to be, I found stirring and grey.The waves not working on the wooden-sides; fishermenNearby with long necks, looked and cast again.
Expressing an Emotion - The Art of Inscription Poetry
Writing poetry is an art, a way of expression, judgment connotation in few words. A tune of passion flowing out onto the pages, words that flow into each other and yet convey the inner most feelings and feelings of those who read the words.
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