Poetry

[dinadan]

He hunted, once, the lands of men
When long ago he could get in
To their mortal worlds-realm
And stole a silver dragon-helm

[CynanMachae]

He kept it for a thousand years,
and as he sat, wept bitter tears.
he loved and hated this shining thing,
for his grief, assuredly, did it bring.

[laurelin]

For long gone were days of old,
When tales of dragons oft were told
In whispers quiet and in fear
That the mighty beast was near,

[Child of Immanuel]

Now that science is in fashion
It's no more fun to be crashing
Through the skies; for those who see
Will go to a shrink; they do not fear me.

terrible, huh?

dinadan said:

Of old there was a dragon-lord
Whose face was pretty and adorned
With silver and jewels, with jewels and gold,
And his curse was that he might never grow old.

The rhythm is a little off, but other wise good.

[dinadan]

Our dragon-lord has become weak of heart,
And begins to ponder existential things--like Sarte:
Is it all as meaningless as it seems?
Or is there a place yet for things from dreams?

[dinadan]

Beware College Arts Publications

I say this because, once again, my college's arts journal has decided that my Arthurian poetry is "too Arthurian" my metaphysical poetry is "too metaphysical" and that my narrative and lyric poetry are "overdone." Apparently, what they really want to see isn't well-crafted poetry; sonnets and ballads are too traditonal to be any good. What they really want is cerebral, artsy, post-modern, beat-poetry--because that's what original and creative mean. I suppose if I wrote things like this:

soup is hot
ice so cold like sliding
snot down the soul

so cold
like the wind blowing through the holes
in my oh-so-hip dashiki

I'd probably get published. But oh well--such things cannot be helped. I just thought I'd warn all of you out there who think that a liberal arts college publication might be open minded; you're probably mistaken.

[Child of Immanuel]

Well, I found this poem hanging out on my computer... so here goes. It has no meter or anything... uck.

Imperfect Roses

Tears of sorrow
Are imperfect roses
Why yearn for that which is gone, is gone?
The Living Light is there for you.

Tears of rage
Are imperfect roses
Rage is futile, in violence rests no hope.
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.

Tears of despair
Are imperfect roses
Why despair, why feel lost and alone?
The God of love is always with you.

Tears of compassion
Are perfect roses
The God of compassion
Had mercy on you.

Tears of joy
Are perfect roses
The One who prepared
Heavenly mansions
Wants to see you smile.

[dinadan]

Wow, that's greally a great poem. I love reading good religious poetry, because I find that I can't write it; I think that's why I have such an appreciation of it. But, again, good job Child of Immanuel!

[twyrch]

I wrote this poem last night. I won't say who I wrote it to... but it is one of the most emotional pieces I've written in a while and wanted to share it here.

*********************************************
I WISH

I wish that I could take them back
The words when wisdom lacked
I wish that I could turn back time
To be more caring; Be more kind.

I wish I was a better friend
The good advice that I could lend
Would always help, would never fail
Would never let them helplessly flail

I wish that God would grant me this,
My single hope; this one request.
To be a friend to those in need,
To show my love through word and deed.

Forgive me for my failures past,
To be your friend is all I ask.
To give advice and lend an ear,
To erase all doubts and calm you fear.

I promise to be there in your need,
Most loyal friend that you have seen.
I promise faithfulness to you,
I'll be your rock, my whole life through.

[Child of Immanuel]

That's very good. It echoes what everyone feels, I think.

[Hinata]

*hugs oniichan* That was a good poem, even if you know the reason you wrote that isn't true:)

I wrote this poem, and I can't figure out the title. . .any suggestions would help.. .


The black duck feather floats on the surface
Of a river that tears through the canyon.
Sometimes it starts to sink below,
Only to be pushed back to the top
With a steady rock below.

I float on the surface
Of a life unknown to me.
Sometimes I begin to sink below
With the weight of my trials
But you are there as my rock,
You push me back up.

Just as the feather floats and sinks,
I cannot fight the current alone
But the rock remains constant
And I will remain afloat.

[twyrch]

Hinata said:

*hugs oniichan* That was a good poem, even if you know the reason you wrote that isn't true:)

I wrote this poem, and I can't figure out the title. . .any suggestions would help.. .


The black duck feather floats on the surface
Of a river that tears through the canyon.
Sometimes it starts to sink below,
Only to be pushed back to the top
With a steady rock below.

I float on the surface
Of a life unknown to me.
Sometimes I begin to sink below
With the weight of my trials
But you are there as my rock,
You push me back up.

Just as the feather floats and sinks,
I cannot fight the current alone
But the rock remains constant
And I will remain afloat.

"Truth" can be ambigious sometimes....

I gave you some titles on MSN last night and I think you decided on [The River Current]. I like that title.

[Child of Immanuel]

twyrch said:

[The River Current]

I have no idea why, but that makes me think of heraldry and the Middle Ages. (read current as modern, not the stream)

[Hinata]

interesting. . .

So this is the poem I wrote yesterday for today's class. . .I'll be writing another poem for Wednesday as well. . .

Trophy Given to the Sentimental


1.
The silver frame
Sit on the brown table
Exposed to the beating sunlight.
It is no one’s yet,
The success will come with it
And confess of their accomplishment.

There are some, who wish for the larger one,
That has first place written upon it.
Others will miss their chance for it.

It is nothing fancy,
Just a picture frame
That reads: “3rd place
IE Sweepstakes”

2.
A picture is taken
Where the Californian sun
Beats off the glittering silver.

It is hard to read for those
Who do not know of it.
But those who won it
Know the mixture of success.

The frame sits behind the glass windows
Upon the glass shelves.
Many flow by, and never take notice.
Never know what was accomplished.

3.
Now it sits,
Surrounded on all sides
By a year commemorated with friends.

Truth be told,
Only to the owner
Is the true value known
Of the battered picture frame.

[Hinata]

Butterfly

If nothing ever changed,
There would be no butterflies.

You allowed me to change
That night you held me in your arms,
As we laid on your bed in a firm embrace.
The look upon your face,
The desire I had only seen
By one other person,
Told me your inner most feelings,
Your inner most desires.

If nothing ever changed,
There would be no butterflies.

Still you suppressed your love and
Your desire to kiss me gently.
You knew I was with another person,
And yet, you still loved me
Beyond that of friends
But not enough as lovers.
You let me go that night
And allowed me find myself.

If nothing ever changed,
There would be no butterflies.



my latest poem. . .I really like this one. . .