|
Post by onethreetwo on Jun 6, 2020 10:16:43 GMT
Any brave souls willing to write some poetry?
|
|
|
Post by Nora on Jun 6, 2020 11:42:21 GMT
Any brave souls willing to write some poetry? yes. what are the rules?
|
|
|
Post by Nalkarj on Jun 6, 2020 12:13:15 GMT
Coincidentally, I just wrote this yesterday:
|
|
|
Post by alfromni on Jun 6, 2020 12:35:31 GMT
I wrote this some time ago...
The uninspired.
I decided one day that with words I`m au fait, so a playwright or poet I`d be. With knowledge and age I`d become a great sage, and Brecht would have nothing on me.
With typewriter empty but paper a-plenty. I loaded a virgin white sheet, then I sat back and thank, but the brain remained blank, and stayed so for nearly a week.
I surveyed with black rage that unsullied page, it taunted and dared me to write. I thought and I fought, but came there still nought to blacken that paper of white.
"Too quiet, that`s what wrong", I stuck out my tongue, banged my head on the wall, shook my fist. I stared in despair at that sheet sittin` there. Said "Sod it, I`m gonna get pissed."
I put on my hat, walked out of the flat and pub-wards I went for a drink. With people about, and a good feed of stout, I might just be able to think.
"Time gentlemen please!" I was down on my knees. I managed to crawl to the door. With help from friend Pete, I got to my feet, but threw up all over the floor.
In a pub when you`re sick, it`s fantastic how quick you discover the pavement is hard. Whilst rubbing my lip, I heard a wee quip, "Don`t ever come back mate, you`re barred!"
On return to my room that unwritten poem in defiance evaded it`s birth. My moggie`s eyes flashed, thro` the window it crashed down two or three storeys to earth.
When I heard breaking glass, my temper turned crass, and my typewriter followed the cat, heard a pitiful yelp or a vague cry for help, Thought "Bollocks to writing, that`s that!"
Thro` hazy blood red and devilish dread I`d apparently finally cracked. The bedroom was slashed, the whole kitchen smashed, and anything handy was wrecked.
I really felt bad about that wee lad, and glad that the boy didn`t croak. Tho he ne`er held a grudge, he said to the judge, "Flying QWERTY machines are no joke"
Tho` the sentence not light and asylum doors tight An inmate, a shrink, said "Don`t fear... It`s all home from home, you`ll get help with your tome. `cos we`re all bloody crazy in here."
So if you wish to succeed, as an author, take heed. Just plough on and don`t even stop. Don`t drink to think, and don`t even blink. Just scribble down any old crap! -----------
|
|
|
Post by Nora on Jun 6, 2020 12:57:47 GMT
I wrote this some time ago... The uninspired. I decided one day that with words I`m au fait, so a playwright or poet I`d be. With knowledge and age I`d become a great sage, and Brecht would have nothing on me. With typewriter empty but paper a-plenty. I loaded a virgin white sheet, then I sat back and thank, but the brain remained blank, and stayed so for nearly a week. I surveyed with black rage that unsullied page, it taunted and dared me to write. I thought and I fought, but came there still nought to blacken that paper of white. "Too quiet, that`s what wrong", I stuck out my tongue, banged my head on the wall, shook my fist. I stared in despair at that sheet sittin` there. Said "Sod it, I`m gonna get pissed." I put on my hat, walked out of the flat and pub-wards I went for a drink. With people about, and a good feed of stout, I might just be able to think. "Time gentlemen please!" I was down on my knees. I managed to crawl to the door. With help from friend Pete, I got to my feet, but threw up all over the floor. In a pub when you`re sick, it`s fantastic how quick you discover the pavement is hard. Whilst rubbing my lip, I heard a wee quip, "Don`t ever come back mate, you`re barred!" On return to my room that unwritten poem in defiance evaded it`s birth. My moggie`s eyes flashed, thro` the window it crashed down two or three storeys to earth. When I heard breaking glass, my temper turned crass, and my typewriter followed the cat, heard a pitiful yelp or a vague cry for help, Thought "Bollocks to writing, that`s that!" Thro` hazy blood red and devilish dread I`d apparently finally cracked. The bedroom was slashed, the whole kitchen smashed, and anything handy was wrecked. I really felt bad about that wee lad, and glad that the boy didn`t croak. Tho he ne`er held a grudge, he said to the judge, "Flying QWERTY machines are no joke" Tho` the sentence not light and asylum doors tight An inmate, a shrink, said "Don`t fear... It`s all home from home, you`ll get help with your tome. `cos we`re all bloody crazy in here." So if you wish to succeed, as an author, take heed. Just plough on and don`t even stop. Don`t drink to think, and don`t even blink. Just scribble down any old crap! ----------- it feels Edgar Allan Poeihs and I am reading it in John Cuscack voice in my head. I like it.
|
|
|
Post by alfromni on Jun 6, 2020 13:43:34 GMT
Nora - Glad you like it, but I've never read any Poe in my life. If I'm inspired by anyone it would be W.S. Gilbert. His command of the English language is unsurpassable.
|
|
|
Post by Nalkarj on Jun 6, 2020 13:48:25 GMT
I wrote this some time ago... The uninspired. I decided one day that with words I`m au fait, so a playwright or poet I`d be. With knowledge and age I`d become a great sage, and Brecht would have nothing on me. With typewriter empty but paper a-plenty. I loaded a virgin white sheet, then I sat back and thank, but the brain remained blank, and stayed so for nearly a week. I surveyed with black rage that unsullied page, it taunted and dared me to write. I thought and I fought, but came there still nought to blacken that paper of white. "Too quiet, that`s what wrong", I stuck out my tongue, banged my head on the wall, shook my fist. I stared in despair at that sheet sittin` there. Said "Sod it, I`m gonna get pissed." I put on my hat, walked out of the flat and pub-wards I went for a drink. With people about, and a good feed of stout, I might just be able to think. "Time gentlemen please!" I was down on my knees. I managed to crawl to the door. With help from friend Pete, I got to my feet, but threw up all over the floor. In a pub when you`re sick, it`s fantastic how quick you discover the pavement is hard. Whilst rubbing my lip, I heard a wee quip, "Don`t ever come back mate, you`re barred!" On return to my room that unwritten poem in defiance evaded it`s birth. My moggie`s eyes flashed, thro` the window it crashed down two or three storeys to earth. When I heard breaking glass, my temper turned crass, and my typewriter followed the cat, heard a pitiful yelp or a vague cry for help, Thought "Bollocks to writing, that`s that!" Thro` hazy blood red and devilish dread I`d apparently finally cracked. The bedroom was slashed, the whole kitchen smashed, and anything handy was wrecked. I really felt bad about that wee lad, and glad that the boy didn`t croak. Tho he ne`er held a grudge, he said to the judge, "Flying QWERTY machines are no joke" Tho` the sentence not light and asylum doors tight An inmate, a shrink, said "Don`t fear... It`s all home from home, you`ll get help with your tome. `cos we`re all bloody crazy in here." So if you wish to succeed, as an author, take heed. Just plough on and don`t even stop. Don`t drink to think, and don`t even blink. Just scribble down any old crap! ----------- Greatly enjoyed this, Al. “Day”/“au fait” is, as you wrote, a delightfully Gilbertian rhyme, and the, er, “moral” is pure WSG as well.
|
|
|
Post by Fox in the Snow on Jun 6, 2020 13:48:26 GMT
turning stars around we all fall on crooked times sands forever now
|
|
|
Post by Fox in the Snow on Jun 6, 2020 13:56:35 GMT
villas of no joy unconditional shaking hater moves and eyes
|
|
|
Post by Fox in the Snow on Jun 6, 2020 14:27:17 GMT
venangain
|
|
|
Post by alfromni on Jun 6, 2020 14:29:31 GMT
In the 1950s and 60s in the UK most cinemas would give a movie matinee for the kids every Saturday morning, price 6d. They showed cartoons, Stan & Olly and other shorts, and always one feature movie, usually (but not always) a western with the likes of Roy Rogers and Hoppy Cassidy. One day my memory went back to those matinees and I scribbled down this little ode.
Manana Matinee.
In days back then, when I was ten, Roy Rogers rode the range, just one of many cowpoke men our grand-kids would find strange.
`Spite fleas and heat, the silver treat, would thrill us all with glee. Stampede of feet, sixpence a seat, the Sat`day matinee.
In awe we`d gaze, when six-guns blazed (which never were reloaded), in boulder maze, the bullets grazed, and dynamite exploded.
A quip, a song, a shoot-out long, as outlaws weave and cower. Such raucous fun, as horses run at eighty miles an hour.
From ricochets hot lead spat past, (the baddies always missed) The goodies got their gals at last, but only cissies kissed.
Tom Mix, Lone Ranger (Tonto too), those names from days gone by, Gene Autrey, Hart and Lash Larue, our heroes never die.
The army scout who sloped among the warring redskin`s dance, Old Cassidy who hopped along to sprawling Bar-B ranch.
`Neath fiery sun a masked man dashed (where Spaniards ruled the horde), and white teeth flashed as Zorro slashed graffitti with his sword.
Four-legged friends, so fine and true, like Rin-tin-tin and Rebel, Trigger, Topper, tricks they`d do, and all without a quibble.
Popcorns, nuts and choc-ice bliss (designed to spoil your meals), projectionists mid jeer and hiss, attempt to change the reels,
A swift restore, tumultuous roar, and champions win the day, slick on the draw, defence of law, come sunset, ride away.
That cinematic morning flick, was over all too soon, then came the trick, to get out quick, survive without a wound.
From silv`ry screen, to noon-day scene, we`d barge, sun testing eyes, we`d cock our thumbs, and slap our bums, then charge home western-wise.
-------------------
|
|
|
Post by alfromni on Jun 6, 2020 15:22:44 GMT
THE DOGGIE, THE ZOGGIE, and ME. (A sort of space odyssey.)
We went for a jog in our spaceship from Zog, (a planet in M 58.) Electronic`ly steered thro` the void we careered me and my five headed mate. A rotating black hole, (our first port of call) Invisibly loomed on our screen. "That`s it Fred," I said, he nodded his head, (the one that was slimy and green). Not happy was Fred, (I could tell from that head) I told him " It`s only a jaunt". He gave me a hiss, "You`ve brought me to this?" His demeanour all twisted and gaunt. Above me he sat, with his six-legged cat. (An amaphrodite down to the ground). This mog was a dog with a snout like a hog and a willy of turquoise and brown.
To dive down that hole like a mole and stay whole had never been rated a chance. As we gained speed of light, I remembered with fright that Zoggians never wore pants.
To get thro` and win, round that hole we`d to spin, and be whipped to a gateway in space. "Here we go" I remarked, from above came a fart, and a hot sticky splodge hit my face.
Round and round, and again, round that galaxy drain, (the pressure was too great too mention) with feet on our hearts and hands on our parts, we were flung to another dimension.
Spinning out of the hole and losing control, desperation to keep our ship steady. I looked up at Fred, who lowered one head, and quivered his bum at the ready "Where are we?" said Fred. "How do I know?" I said. Said he, "I`ve a hell of a drouth." "So have I Fred" I said, whilst mopping my head, "and I`ve more of your crap in my mouth".
Then from afar we `spied a bright star with orbiting worlds, (I think nine). "Over there Fred I guess, and Fred replied "Yes", so we veered for the blue one in line.
A heavenly sight if you`re in such a plight, to see such a beautiful world. We managed warp ten then Fred farted again, and again I was splattered with turd. Well to keep matters short, force of gravity caught and we plummeted down to the earth. Thro` the ozone we sped, Fred thought we were dead, and the six-legged cat-dog gave birth.
Years came and years went, how long have we spent? We`re stuck here and yearn for our Zog. Trapped in this place, no more to roam space, one hundred yards under a bog.
So I`m clogged with a soggy, and foggy old Zoggie, who`s troubled by failing ill health, and a sex mad old moggie cum hoggie cum doggie, that does nout but bugger itself.
=========
|
|
|
Post by Nalkarj on Jun 6, 2020 15:34:13 GMT
An open window: Summer’s sea-wind, rushing in, Fills an empty house.
|
|
|
Post by Morgana on Jun 6, 2020 15:37:54 GMT
Black skies and purple seas Endless lines of ancient trees whispering in the wind
|
|
|
Post by enigma72 on Jun 6, 2020 15:49:43 GMT
No way 132.
The above poems are great! I can't compete. My idea of a poem i write starts with
'Rose's are red..'
Or
'There was man from Nantucket..'
I'm a loser compared to those on this thread. Lol
|
|
|
Post by alfromni on Jun 6, 2020 16:07:56 GMT
On feeling citrical...
There is a particular word, all poets consider absurd. this couplet they say can`t be done in a lay, and in fact it will never be heard. An elegist girlfriend Solange, frustratingly sucked a phalange then let out a curse "An impossible verse... Just can`t find a rhyme for `Orange`"
--------------
|
|
|
Post by clusium on Jun 6, 2020 16:27:40 GMT
Any brave souls willing to write some poetry? thefleetsinLooks like someone has an opening for you.
|
|
|
Post by Feologild Oakes on Jun 6, 2020 16:42:34 GMT
I`m so cold in my head I can hardly feel the sun I`m growing colder everyday.
|
|
|
Post by thefleetsin on Jun 6, 2020 17:34:14 GMT
Any brave souls willing to write some poetry? thefleetsin Looks like someone has an opening for you. hmmmmm. should i throw my hat into this ring? dare i stand between what could be the next poet laureate of this board? for i am but a listener of sorts and sorted. a hitchhiker at once transported. from dairy maid to the supremely exhorted. i find it safer to squat behind the cow teasing til the milk flows. who knows the power of the scribbling residing here. . .
|
|
|
Post by alfromni on Jun 6, 2020 18:44:04 GMT
Hungry?....
One evening bored with tele-V, we hobbled out with zeal, to spend our cash unfrugally, and splash out on a meal. As pensioners you understand, not used to flashy scenes, a little speciality, not bacon, chips and beans
We found a comfy restaurant, down upon the Strand, the menu carried nowt you`d want, the food was oh so bland. With empty hearts, and hollow parts we walked with aching hips, back home again, shoved on the pan for bacon, beans and chips.
------------------
|
|