Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 4)
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Future Rider.
In tomorrowmorrow land;
everything will be grand
and exactly half price.
Everyone will be nice.
All the bad eliminated.
All the sad rejuvenated.
Nothing but the very best
and as high as Everest.
Replicating machines
build the finest limousines.
Then drive us to our dreams
of when we were has beens.
Like roller coaster clowns
we survive the ups and downs
casting pitfalls in our stride.
In future - we ride.
(Inspired by the What Will Happen In The Future? thread.)
Continuation of: Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 3)
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always looking over our shoulder.
Should we spend time, a few minutes a day,
just watching and listening to the children at play?
the poems of the past onwards new
find a place such a new thread
part4 already how time flew.
(Parts One To Three)
Were made to depart
By the powers that be.
Not long before came
A Part Four that most
People reading Gen D.
Shall de rigeur ignore.
Let's face those facts:
Poetry impacts on few,
It's chacun à son gout.
The mods have sanctioned new art for
DS and us in you, part four.
round and round there as it falls
like the sea as along with the tide
As the actress said to Frankenstein's monster
Tomorrowmorrowland :cool:
A very relevant poem Flower. It got me thinking about childhood innocence and how it's being drained away these days.
So true Frank
Borrowed from Beyond Thunderdome. I hope they don't mind.
I just remembered something Biz wrote a while back "Hahahahaha! I should be "Bizzy" more often as it's been lots of fun in here. Promise me you poets that if I do come in you won't stay away."
I meant to respond at the time, but forgot: I promise!
You danced the clown in front of my face
and told me lies about the way
the baby clowns are born
with chalk-white skin,
a seared grin
beneath a rounded red-horn nose.
You pulled at his strings for a crazy dance
while holding my fear in the palm of your hand.
Beware the clown whose painted face
hides nothing,
yet masks the truth:
he makes us laugh at a ridiculous soul.
And you told me how they were kept from sight
with their skinned heads and tragic eyes,
old-man’s jowls,
stretched feet,
fat-bottomed seats
and dressed, from birth, in motley clothes.
And that night the clowns came while I was asleep,
with rainbow gums and needle teeth,
tear-daubed plaster cheeks,
star-crossed eyes,
custard pies,
honking horns, stamping feet.
They spun me around to a circus beat,
tumbled and tripped me over their over-stretched feet
and under a shower of paper strip rain
they passed me along,
one from one,
and cast me back to my bed to sleep.
That morning I took your clown and cut his strings,
left him dead to repent for your sins.
Then in the mirror I painted my face
etched tears of joy
into this clown-boy,
as my smile cracked over the death of a clown.
Certainly Sandy - I had to Google that, I think it's a Britvic
About four lines into this I could feel a tingling sensation and by the end it had spread all over. A completely terrifying poem about the primal fear of clowns that not only captures it, but takes it into a world of fright not many visit, only in their worst nightmares. Which reminds me I'm glad I didn't read this late at night. If I could reach this level of horror in a scary poem I think I'd stop writing that sort - where do you go after complete and utter horror? I'll be reading this over and again. Thanks Scottie, for contributing another great poem to the thread and one that's easy to find on the first page
The path I walked was serpentine
Where I first heard a sonnet
Read out by nature's voice divine,
Then soon I came upon it;
A waterfall with waves like milk
Foamed white and undefended,
Its water seemed as rich as silk,
How lovely it descended.
Surrounded by the forest sheen
Its secret home was hooded,
An overlooked and pleasant scene
In regions thickly wooded.
Tides fell in colonnades onto
A stream where they collected
More splashing drops of silver-blue,
Like diamonds all connected.
My mind recalls the waterfall
And after having been there
I felt as if I'd heard the call
Of god within his green lair.
©
Drinki.
Drinking down the strongest ale.
To prove I am the hardest male.
Drinki you under the table.
'Til you are well unable.
Down the hatch and Bob's yer uncle.
Red nose, gout and huge carbuncle,
don't stop me from drinking more
than all those flat out on the floor.
Market days were best of all.
By 10 am I'd watch them fall,
then rise again for skinfull two.
You taught me well - what Men do.
So pull that tag and hear the fizz.
Then fall down shouting what it is.
As warming as a freezer,
The loudest in the pub,
Come in and meet the geezer
Whose mates think it’s their club.
Nobody ever muzzles
The geezer, he’s that type,
The Ship is where he guzzles
And spouts his endless tripe.
How weird a woman picked him,
Her sentence feels like life,
Poor Brenda is the victim
Who chose to be his wife.
For cheap laughs he will work all
The evening and by far
In his pathetic circle
He stays the crudest star.
Why talk at normal levels
When you can shout it out?
A fool enjoys the revels,
Though boozing makes you stout.
Red-faced and fat and wearing
A horrid bulging shirt,
When his act turns to swearing
You should be on alert.
With stale jokes getting dumber
An awful beer-gut shakes,
He’ll also taint the summer
With fashion’s worst mistakes.
The geezer’s donned his flip-flops,
In shorts he looks so bad
And only when The Ship stops
At closing time feels sad.
Rolls home from one more bender,
Too drunk for any cares
He goes up, waking Brenda
Who moans and goes downstairs.
The geezer is soon sleeping,
Snores underlining this:
The motto’s his for keeping,
Yes, ignorance is bliss.
©
Today's weather is like a waterfall, good weather for ducks.:D
Geezer with his Bacardi Breezer
I've known a few Geezers in my time
It's happened many times Archiver