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AE Poetry Club

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Mila View Drop Down
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  Quote Mila Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Topic: AE Poetry Club
    Posted: 28-Mar-2006 at 21:01
Still my favorite, I don't know if I posted it before...

Zemlja naa
Sve od Broda do Mostara,
pobijena naa raja.
Pobijena il' prognana
i po svijetu razaslana.
Do juče smo skupa bili,
zlo i dobro, sve, dijelili.
A sada nas protjerae,
iz te Bosne, zemlje nae.
Our Land
Everywhere from Brod to Mostar,
Our folk are vanquished,
Vanquished or exiled,
And scattered around the world.
Until yesterday, we lived together,
Sharing all, both the good and bad.
Now they banish us
From Bosnia, from our own land.
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Jhuntadu View Drop Down
Immortal Guard
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  Quote Jhuntadu Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 31-Mar-2006 at 17:49

April Fool's Day

Mackenzie put a whoopie cushion
on the teacher's chair.
Makayla told the teacher
that a bug was in her hair.

Alyssa brought an apple
with a purple gummy worm
and gave it to the teacher
just to see if she would squirm.

Elijah left a piece of plastic
dog doo on the floor,
and Vincent put some plastic vomit
in the teacher's drawer.

Amanda put a goldfish
in the teacher's drinking glass.
These April Fool's Day pranks
are ones that you could use in class.

Before you go and try them, though,
there's something I should mention:
The teacher wasn't fooling
when she put us in detention.

--Kenn Nesbitt

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DukeC View Drop Down
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  Quote DukeC Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 09-Apr-2006 at 00:28

      Home From The War

They were days of terror, of boredom and brotherhood

Of not knowing if the next moment would be the last

Seeing lives end every day and feeling the emotional arteries harden

I remember my true love from those times

She was long and lean with such a smooth action

The wild abandon I felt with her pressed tightly to my shoulder

High powered sensations running up my arms

And filling my existance

There was no time to feel shame at the destruction we caused

Just the joy of being the ones to live through the day


Those days are gone now and I have another love

One it hurts no one to hold

She wears a puzzled frown

At the wetness that sometimes comes to my eyes

But how do I tell her about that part of me

That will never come home from the war



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Guests View Drop Down
  Quote Guests Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 15-May-2006 at 05:00
Originally posted by ok ge

Here is my best. I wrote that around the spring of 2001. Sorry if it carried too much feelings, but at that time, the emphasis was on that issue . I copied it back from (some of you know this website).

Let the Rocks Say, O'Jerusalem

Let the rocks speak and talk,Listen to them whimpering and walk,
Let them tell you the story of Jerusalem's folk,
And they will speak, O'Jerusalem.
The appeal letters they send, The bloodshed that shall end,
The injustice and malice cannot bend,
And they will whisper, O'Jerusalem.
See those young boys at the gates,
Fighting tanks, and rocks are their mates,
Death is watching, and their fates,
And they will yell, O'Jerusalem.
In day, lachrymose bombs are smelled,
In night, gunshots are heard,
Death became my friend,
And they will call, O'Jerusalem.
Children asking for peace,War that will not cease,
All had to beg on knees,
And you will still hear them, O'Jerusalem.
By the sunset, I had to go,Leaving them as you know,
Ask the rocks what they saw,
And they will answer you, O'Jerusalem.

Wael Mansour Qassim

Copyright 2005 Wael Mansour Qassim



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Pieinsky View Drop Down

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  Quote Pieinsky Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 26-May-2006 at 20:13
Here's a Poem I wrote for english class about half a year ago. My teacher asked the class to base their poem on the style of Dillon Thomas. This is a new stlye for me, so please tell me what you think.LOL
Clonmactose: Narrative Poem

Let us go back to the beginning, where not only the beginning began On a winters morning dew, Listen, listen to the owls hooting under the woodllike sky, its sharpened voice echoes, hitting of the trees like needle on stalk. As the leaves hustle in the breeze. The night is still, with where one might hear the rare sound of an animal scurrying, as it rustles through the leaf stained floor. Be wary, a perched spectre lyes sited on its woody vine. Its prey a victim to its desire. A spotted mouse below scurries under the brush like a Fugitive on the run. Swoosh. The large wings of the owl go. The mouse has been strangled by its demons claws.


Below is a Green sea.


Up up any mountain, down the rushy glen. Parsley.sage, rosemay and thyme


Down down into that hollow hole which is Clomactose, no one ever leaves, nor no one ever acknowledged existed.



Oh not again. The presidented politician mayor of all Clonmactose slumbers sureingly enough upon his pillow, pilling dash upon dash of endless complaints, constantly continuing through his mind. In one ear out the other, they go. His currency is overrated.


Shh, one must keep quiet in Clomactose, so not to awaken those asleep. Lawyers, doctors, politicians, schoolgirls, schoolboys, teachers, hairdresser, police, woodcutters, coalminers.


Each a sleap, all awake.


Schoolboys dream of wondrous adventures where ye must fight hand on weapon with a band of companions, against the forces of evil.


Schoolgirls of adventures too, but these of horses, and how they will have to attain that wonderful prize be it golden egg or crystal cup.



But now morning is coming, and one can hear that cunning cock while it plans its crow, while crouped upon its coup.


 Morning has come and the sun is peeping its head above the horizon, and slowly seeping through the forest, bark after bark.


The silence breaks as the continuing thud of the woodsmans axe, hears its way throughout the forest as it carves its way into a tree.


A statue UN built. It may be


I share creation, kings can do no more.


The silence is slowly dispersed, into that which is nothingness, as the chirping of birds can be heard, which is the recognition by all that morning has come.

The chirp of the birds start as flame but soon flame turns to fire, as noise erupts throughout the green woody like wood, as its inhabitants leave their homage.


As there is a lot to be done.


So that eternal wheel, which is Clomactose, slides down its infinite hill and the woodman cuts as in every morning.


Clang, Clang, Clang goes Clomactose.



Bits written in red not myn.


This Narrative Poem attempts to copy the style of Dillon Tomas.


2005. Age 15

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  Quote Dolphin Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 13-Sep-2007 at 09:54
Ah, just the kind of thread I was looking for. Some good stuff here.. But do we have any current members willing to post their own poems online for public scrutiny? I'm just afraid of copyright!
But seriously, anyone willing to post a poem?
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Arch Duke
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  Quote Dolphin Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 13-Sep-2007 at 10:07
I also think this topic should be stickied as literary pursuits is a relatively inactive forum and this topic, I think, would attract more users who either like poetry, like reading other's poetry, or who like composing poetry and want to share it..
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  Quote Dolphin Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 14-Sep-2007 at 04:53
Ok, owing to the 'huge' interest in this topic, I will push on anyway!

The Self-Unseeing

By Thomas Hardy


Here is the ancient floor,
Footworn and hollowed and thin,
Here was the former door
Where the dead feet walked in.

She sat here in her chair,
Smiling into the fire;
He who played stood there,
Bowing it higher and higher.

Childlike, I danced in a dream;
Blessings emblazoned that day
Everything glowed with a gleam;
Yet we were looking away!
Nothing will Die - Alfred Lord Tennyson

      When will the stream be aweary of flowing
            Under my eye?
      When will the wind be aweary of blowing
            Over the sky?
      When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting?
      When will the heart be aweary of beating?
            And nature die?
      Never, O, never, nothing will die;
            The stream flows,
            The wind blows,
            The cloud fleets,
            The heart beats,
               Nothing will die.

        Nothing will die;
        All things will change
        Thro eternity.
        Tis the worlds winter;
        Autumn and summer
        Are gone long ago;
        Earth is dry to the centre,
        But spring, a new comer,
        A spring rich and strange,
        Shall make the winds blow
        Round and round,
        Thro and thro,
              Here and there,
              Till the air
        And the ground
        Shall be filld with life anew.

        The world was never made;
        It will change, but it will not fade.
        So let the wind range;
        For even and morn
              Ever will be
              Thro eternity.
        Nothing was born;
        Nothing will die;
        All things will change.

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          Arch Duke
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            Quote Dolphin Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 14-Sep-2007 at 04:54
          All Things will Die - Alfred Lord Tennyson
            Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing
                    Under my eye;
            Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing
                    Over the sky.
            One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
            Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating
                    Full merrily;
                 Yet all things must die.
              The stream will cease to flow;
              The wind will cease to blow;
              The clouds will cease to fleet;
              The heart will cease to beat;
                 For all things must die.
                    All things must die.
              Spring will come never more.
                    O, vanity!
              Death waits at the door.
              See! our friends are all forsaking
              The wine and the merrymaking.
              We are calldwe must go.
              Laid low, very low,
              In the dark we must lie.
              The merry glees are still;
              The voice of the bird
              Shall no more be heard,
              Nor the wind on the hill.
                    O, misery!
              Hark! death is calling
              While I speak to ye,
              The jaw is falling,
              The red cheek paling,
              The strong limbs failing;
              Ice with the warm blood mixing;
              The eyeballs fixing.
              Nine times goes the passing bell:
              Ye merry souls, farewell.
                    The old earth
                    Had a birth,
                    As all men know,
                    Long ago.
              And the old earth must die.
              So let the warm winds range,
              And the blue wave beat the shore;
              For even and morn
              Ye will never see
              Thro eternity.
              All things were born.
              Ye will come never more,
              For all things must die.

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              Dolphin View Drop Down
              Arch Duke
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                Quote Dolphin Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 14-Sep-2007 at 04:55
              Does ANYONE have an interpretative flair for poetry??
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              eaglecap View Drop Down
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                Quote eaglecap Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 10-Mar-2008 at 18:14
              I am not sure how new this is but it is still in hard back. The computer here will not allow to to post the image of the book on properties but here is the amazon link:
              It looks good so I will order it from Amazon, vs. $24.99 at Border's book store.
              The Fall of Constantinople: The Ottoman conquest of Byzantium (General Military) (Hardcover)
              Λοιπόν, αδελφοί και οι συμπολίτες και οι στρατιώτες, να θυμάστε αυτό ώστε μνημόσυνο σας, φήμη και ελευθερία σας θα ε
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              Seko View Drop Down

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                Quote Seko Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 10-Mar-2008 at 18:17

              Seems like a nice book.

              ...and how is it related to poetry?
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              Aster Thrax Eupator View Drop Down


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                Quote Aster Thrax Eupator Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 10-Mar-2008 at 20:47
              This seems like a good poetry society - far too often poetry societies dissolve into Romanticism appreciation societies run by ponytailed ponces who think they are profound because they can plagurise Byron or Shelly and quote one sentance of Nietzche. Phew - sorry, I've had bad experiences with poetry societies!
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              Arch Duke
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                Quote Dolphin Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 22-Mar-2008 at 01:38
              Poetry competition..I'll take to that Cool
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              Theodore Felix View Drop Down

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                Quote Theodore Felix Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 23-Jul-2008 at 07:02
              These are a couple of poems from an Albanian poet who is one of my favorites: Gjergj Milosh Nikola AKA Migjeni(the acronym he is mostly known by). His poetry is usually of the depressing type and very detached from any sort of nationalist poetry that dominated at that time. He died at the very young age of 27.

              These are rough translations of his poetry.


              The mosques and churches float through our memories,
              Prayers devoid of sense or taste echo from their walls.
              Never has the heart of god been touched by them,
              And yet it beats on amidst the sounds of drums and bells.

              Majestic mosques and churches throughout our wretched land,
              Spires and minarets towering over lowly homes,
              The voice of the hodja and priest in one degenerate chant,
              Oh, ideal vision, a thousand years old!

              The mosques and churches float through memories of the pious,
              The chiming of the bell mingles with the muezzin's call,
              Sanctity shines from cowls and from the beards of hodjas.
              Oh, so many fair angels at the gates of hell!

              On ancient citadels perch carrion ravens,
              Their dejected wings drooping - the symbols of lost hopes,
              In despair do they croak of an age gone by
              When the ancient citadels once gleamed with hallowed joy.

              Poem of poverty

              Poverty, brothers, is a mouthful that's hard to swallow,
              A bite that sticks in your throat and leaves you in sorrow,
              When you watch the pale faces and rheumy eyes
              Observing you like ghosts and holding out thin hands;
              Behind you they lie, stretched out
              Their whole lives through, until the moment of death.
              Above them in the air, as if in disdain,
              Crosses and stony minarets pierce the sky,
              Prophets and saints in many colours radiate splendour.
              And poverty feels betrayed.

              Poverty carries its own vile imprint,
              It is hideous, repulsive, disgusting.
              The brow that bears it, the eyes that express it,
              The lips that try in vain to hide it
              Are the offspring of ignorance, the victims of disdain,
              The filthy scraps flung from the table
              At which for centuries
              Some pitiless, insatiable dog has fed.
              Poverty has no good fortune, only rags,
              The tattered banners of a hope
              Shattered by broken promises.

              Poverty wallows in debauchery.
              In dark corners, together with dogs, rats, cats,
              On mouldy, stinking, filthy mattresses,
              Naked breasts exposed, sallow dirty bodies,
              With feelings overwhelmed by bestial desire,
              They bite, devour, suck, kiss the sullied lips,
              And in unbridled lust the thirst is quenched,
              The craving stilled, and self-consciousness lost.
              Here is the source of the imbeciles, the servants and the beggars
              Who will tomorrow be born to fill the streets.

              Poverty shines in the eyes of the newborn,
              Flickers like the pale flame of a candle
              Under a ceiling blackened with smoke and spider webs,
              Where human shadows tremble on damp stained walls,
              Where the ailing infant wails like a banshee
              To suck the dry breasts of its wretched mother
              Who, pregnant again, curses god and the devil,
              Curses the heavy burden of her unborn child.
              Her baby does not laugh, it only wastes away,
              Unwanted by its mother, who curses it, too.
              How sorrowful is the cradle of the poor
              Where a child is rocked with tears and sighs.

              Poverty's child is raised in the shadows
              Of great mansions, too high for imploring voices to reach
              To disturb the peace and quiet of the lords
              Sleeping in blissful beds beside their ladies.

              Poverty matures a child before its time,
              Teaches it to dodge the threatening fist,
              The hand which clutches its throat in dreams,
              When the delirium of starvation begins
              And when death casts its shadow on childish faces,
              Instead of a smile a hideous grimace.
              While the fate of a fruit is to ripen and fall,
              The child is interred not maturing at all.

              Poverty labours and toils by day and night,
              Chest and forehead drenched in sweat,
              Up to the knees in mud and slime,
              And still the empty guts writhe in hunger.
              Starvation wages! For such a daily ordeal,
              A mere three or four leks and an 'On your way.'

              Poverty sometimes paints its face,
              Swollen lips scarlet, hollow cheeks rouged,
              And body a chattel in a filthy trade.
              For service in bed for which it is paid
              With a few lousy francs,
              Stained sheets, stained face and stained conscience.

              Poverty leaves a heritage as well,
              Not cash in the bank or property you can sell,
              But distorted bones and pains in the chest,
              Perhaps leaves the memory of a bygone day
              When the roof of the house, weakened by decay,
              By age and the weather collapsed and fell,
              And above all the din rose a terrible cry
              Cursing and imploring, as from the depths of hell,
              The voice of a man crushed by a beam.
              Under the heel, says the priest, of*god irate
              Ends thus the life of a dissolute ingrate.
              And so the memory of such misfortunes
              Fills the cup of bitterness passed to generations.

              Poverty in drink seeks consolation,
              In filthy taverns, with dirty, littered tables,
              The thirsting soul pours glass after glass
              Down the throat to forget its many worries,
              The dulling glass, the glass satanic,
              Caressing with a venomous bite.
              And when, like grain under the scythe, the man falls
              To the floor, he giggles and sobs, a tragicomic clown,
              And all his sorrow in drink he drowns
              When one by one, a hundred glasses downs.

              Poverty sets desires ablaze like stars in the night
              And turns them to ashes, like trees struck by lightning.

              Poverty knows no joy, but only pain,
              Pain reducing you to such despair
              That you seize the rope and hang yourself,
              Or become a poor victim of 'paragraphs.'

              Poverty wants no pity, only justice!
              Pity? Bastard daughter of cunning fathers,
              Who like the Pharisees, beating the drum
              Ostentatiously for their own sly ends,
              Drop a penny in the beggar's hands.

              Poverty is an indelible stain
              On the brow of humanity through the ages.
              And never can this stain be effaced
              By doctrines decaying in temples.
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              Illirac View Drop Down

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                Quote Illirac Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 24-Jul-2008 at 21:00
              Oh nice nice, I write poems... there is only one problem: I've written some poetry I don't understand myself Ouch...
              I'll post some later, because they are on paper and I have to put them on the computer...
              For too long I've been parched of thirst and unable to quench it.
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              Illirac View Drop Down

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                Quote Illirac Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 24-Jul-2008 at 22:22

              If you don't like them: read some less:
              There will be no bore if after the first
              All the rest you suppress!

              -Poésie, VLII

              Thou rob it from me!
              Thou showed in all of thy beauty!
              O fair maid, I could not resist…
              It is my heart you took away,

              O white-bosomed maid,
              The heart you are keeping
              It’s flaring much…
              Enhanced by the look of thee,

              I know this isn’t good,
              May you so keep it,
              I can live without it
              If I know you have it…

              -Poésie, LVII

              I dreamed a perfect world
              Where the hen uses wings to fly
              And nobody desires to know why.
              They flew like a bird…

              Where all weapons melted down
              To forge; and help those who really need it.
              Here it’s at last, accomplished a myth:
              A world that’s united under one crown.

              A world where hate is known,
              But still, love holds us tight;
              Where the skies are clear and bright.
              A dream that won’t be renown…

               -Poésie, LXVIII

              How I was waved aside
              Should I dare?
              Tell me that old lies are alive:
              And just be there.

              The more thou take,
              The more I blame
              For how I was fake…
              But everything still feels the same.

              I do take too much of a strain,
              But I forgot to forget.
              If I forget, what wilt I gain?

              -Poésie, CXIII

              Seldom thy quaff the bitterness of life,
              Whence there hast be no strife?
              Haring in a hazard chase:
              In the den, what wilt thou have to face?

              Hark! In this chapter thou art amid,
              A life done’t, everyone needs to feed,
              Hide, rather then living as a slave
              Rather then dying as a brave…

              Hare here and there
              For someone should always care,
              Rise high a home

              Or at least, alone out, do not roam…

              -Poésie, CXVII

              In this marvelous land I was born:
              The sun rises from the foam of the deep,

              And sets, where the snow heap,
              All of its beauty I love, even its thorn.

              During spring, there’s woods where to be,
              During winter, there’s snow where to play,
              During autumn, there are parks where to stay,
              During summer, there’s water where to flee.

              You can always hear the whispers of the winds,
              The trees are above us, making shadows for us, 
              The woods, the fields, little river, made me free.
              It’s the place where I dwell…

              Poésie, CVLI

              Always the same! So we march,
              Going here and there, take a drink
              Or a drunk that drunk more then his share
              And carry him somewhere…

              Then back, and once again:
              All the way from the start,
              Come boys, drink and get drunk,
              And high till thou in the bottle sunk!

              And thence confusion pursue me,
              So confusing:
              One disappears, hundred joins!
              Or am I just drunk – the plausible solution!

              By Stefano Segnan

              I will not post other poems, because I'm afraid someone will just copy-paste (even if those are not good, I don't care: What you read in a brief time I took several months to write).

              p.s I have a problem in changing the fonts and the size of the letters - that's why it is a wee bit of all Embarrassed

              Edited by Illirac - 24-Jul-2008 at 22:28
              For too long I've been parched of thirst and unable to quench it.
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              Northman View Drop Down


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                Quote Northman Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 25-Jul-2008 at 00:25
              Impressive and provoking Illirac Clap, and if some criminal should copy and paste your work, take it as a compliment.
              Remember - everything on the net IS copyright material automatically, unless stated otherwise. 
              When I was your age, I also wrote poetry - or at least love-letters... with a rhyme.
              btw. - if you copy and paste from a wordprocessor, you might get the result as in your post.
              Copy and Paste to Notepad first, and the Copy from there and Paste in here. Then you are rid of hidden codes in the text.
              This time I think I will post the lyrics of a beautiful song with a wholesome message we all can learn from....
              "Imagine" by John Lennon.
              Imagine there's no Heaven
              It's easy if you try
              No hell below us
              Above us only sky
              Imagine all the people
              Living for today

              Imagine there's no countries
              It isn't hard to do
              Nothing to kill or die for
              And no religion too
              Imagine all the people
              Living life in peace

              You may say that I'm a dreamer
              But I'm not the only one
              I hope someday you'll join us
              And the world will be as one

              Imagine no possessions
              I wonder if you can
              No need for greed or hunger
              A brotherhood of man
              Imagine all the people
              Sharing all the world

              You may say that I'm a dreamer
              But I'm not the only one
              I hope someday you'll join us
              And the world will live as one 
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              King Kang of Mu View Drop Down
              (Foot)Balling DJ from da Eastside

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                Quote King Kang of Mu Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 25-Sep-2008 at 05:01
              My favorite poem from one of my favorite writer.  I haven't read it in years, but tonight it fits almost too perfect

              Samuel Beckett



              why not merely the despaired of
              occasion of

              is it not better abort than be barren

              the hours after you are gone are so leaden
              they will always start dragging too soon
              the grapples clawing blindly the bed of want
              bringing up the bones the old loves
              sockets filled once with eyes like yours
              all always is it better too soon than never
              the black want splashing their faces
              saying again nine days never floated the loved
              nor nine months
              nor nine lives


              saying again
              if you do not teach me I shall not learn
              saying again there is a last
              even of last times
              last times of begging
              last times of loving
              of knowing not knowing pretending
              a last even of last times of saying
              if you do not love me I shall not be loved
              if I do not love you I shall not love

              the churn of stale words in the heart again
              love love love thud of the old plunger
              pestling the unalterable
              whey of words

              terrified again
              of not loving
              of loving and not you
              of being loved and not by you
              of knowing not knowing pretending

              I and all the others that will love you
              if they love you


              unless they love you


              (S. Beckett, 1936)

              from Collected Poems in English and French, S. Beckett, Grove Press, Inc. N.Y. 1977


              Edited by King Kang of Mu - 25-Sep-2008 at 06:41
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              Dolphin View Drop Down
              Arch Duke
              Arch Duke


              Joined: 06-Feb-2007
              Online Status: Offline
              Posts: 1551
                Quote Dolphin Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 10-Mar-2009 at 00:09
              I'm in the mood to share tonight. It feels like a deep expiration sometimes. This is a quickie I rustled up in a squeak of thoughtful activity. It doesn't mean much, I just write it like a think it!

              When you have the urge you shouldn’t fight it,

              It comes at once with sleep invited.

              Without the threshold of thoughts repressed

              Hidden can become expressed.

              Words combine in physique and rhyme

              Sudden inspiration is the breath of time,

              Juxtapose and intersperse

              Felicitations of nouns in verse.

              Talk forever in squalid tone

              Seek the comfort of musing alone!

              Edited by Dolphin - 10-Mar-2009 at 00:20
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