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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 3)
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Musings while trying to code web pages recently:
Redo from start.
I know too much already,
now my head is getting heavy
and my little pinkies aren't very well.
CSS is cool,
but I'm too much old school
to learn to do HTML.
It's the same with C++.
I got BASIC just
when object oriented came out.
I could do some assembler,
but I never remember
what classes and pointers are about.
Give me firewall configs
and name server digs
and I apt-get along real fine.
But cascading style?
I just run a mile.
Too many ways to align.
© archiver.
And; while being undecided:
I'm free.
You know; to be or not to be, can sometimes be - the sanity of quiet free.
Or merge the cold and shiny words, as told to me by men and birds.
For now, fear I no smiley tap. No vengeful strap may sheer my nap.
For style and famous doth corrupt. Who knows what mad men may obstruct
this freedom to be quite unknown. Can't catch me - I'm all alone.
Or © my name and my number? Would I really write hereunder
all the things I'd want to say, if you could come and break my day?
No then. Well fank frank for that. Perhaps I'll buy a pussy cat.
You'll never know the real me. Hallelujah! I am free.
© archiver.
This thread is a continuation of: Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 2)
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With grandeur and aplomb.
Ere I lay, alack,
I have smoked too much crack.
© Biffo the Bear 2011
Oh, part 3, I see, silly me.
© boxx 2011:p
Hi Biffo
Welcome to Part 3 everyone
It now lies in history with part one.
Is poetry dead an art long past.
not here, not here on DS.
Now they clamour to get the last post.
The poem to end and yet begin the next thread.
Who will decide what that poem will be.
Not the poet but the powers that be.
Congratulations on your third thread.
I need to find an ebb and flow that renders
The undertow and those romantic splendours
So tangible the hardest heart surrenders.
Where every wave is full of dreams that last
And every fountain guides a golden mast
And every ripple slides into the past.
Where sirens are so beautiful young princes
Learn of a love so special it evinces
A memory that's lost and yet convinces.
The seeker cannot put aside his quest
Until he finds this sea-home and can rest
Submerged in deeps harmonious and blessed.
©
An exquisitely crafted poem Musty with remarkable imagery.
Blinding stuff indeed!
Pity is that petulance and frowns can be much more prevalent
Our mood may be low to midling, down or deeply direly worse
Polarities of blandishments morph through perversity to curse
Among our frail accomplishments make best of humour's bent
Jokes help you through dark waters and stab at blue crocodiles
Frank.
Good advice, Frank. From now on I'm going to keep a few jokes handy in my backpack incase I encounter any blue crocodiles.
Interesting pattern of line endings there.
Everyone knows
Linux is much better than WIndows
But will it run on my computer? Well, here goes ..........
a heart put severely to many a test pursuing love.
She tangled on many a reef that ensnare errant
relationshipwrecks. Matters of her heart's desires
occupied oursilver screen goddess in a Sargasso
Sea of romantic love. Mortal she was though rich
in so many ways. death tragedy and ill health as
constant visitors as those to her Hollywood star.
Beauty would tarnish naturally from those heights
given by fortune's providence but a cloak of grace
would tarry and settle around this elegant person.
Elizabeth's tender heart rent so often rendered rest;
great life: mega epic, modern Cleopatra to: The End.
So we're agreed. Poetry is not a dead art.
I'm the same as Musty, but my curiosity got the better of me :-
From Wikipedia - Job Control Language (JCL) is a scripting language used on IBM mainframe operating systems to instruct the system on how to run a batch job or start a subsystem. The term "Job Control Language" can also be used generically to refer to all languages which perform these functions, such as Burroughs' WFL and ICL's OCL. This article is specifically about IBM's JCL.
Let us know the result of the venture - in verse of course, if that is possible - unfortunately I haven't the gift.
Others; it's a rare dish
better heard within a song
to help the mindless day along.
Some even say; that one short line
can make their day or mark a time
when everything was better then.
What better use for a pen?
To sign a cheque for some new toy?
To write to beg for new employ?
To write off for some chicken feed?
Or write as if to somehow plead;
for sanity. For peace of mind.
It helps me to unwind
the mysteries of humankind.
I came, I :eek: and then I rhymed;
Not even on a dish