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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 4) |
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#626 |
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The Blacksmith
The Blacksmith toiled on nothing less Than space within the hour, His anvil was the nothingness, His hammer was the power. He smelted matter long ago Till darkness dull and bitter Was brightened by a sudden glow As light began to glitter. The hammer struck, an aim so sure When sparks began to settle He'd made the stars forever more, Unending points of metal. Each muscle is a raw machine Where furnaces stay hidden, Those other forges are not seen, Onlookers are forbidden. No rest as molten rivers run, The work is never over; Not only does he mould each sun, He welds the supernova. The Blacksmith even made us too, Burned iron on hot coals Then added love and poured it through The stardust in our souls. © |
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#627 |
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Will we never get over the past?
Our flags burnt on its mast need retribution fast? (and it's quite a blast?) They were the much worse side They killed us and they lied. For honour and for pride - on with the landslide? Until death does us part; May we restore the art of honest discussion? Stop the destruction! All comfy and tuned in? Lets watch those devils sin. Look! There's uncle Jack. Heroes don't come back. I'll say it one more time. I'll even make it rhyme. Thou shalt not ****ing kill. You people make me ill. |
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#628 |
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Willow
Weeping as for a lover’s broken pledge, green tears trail the river’s edge, caressing waters over summer’s sedge. Limbs drift, languid in desolate air, teardrop leaves seep despair, teasing sunlight into shadow’s lair. |
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#629 |
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Quote:
Stop the destruction!
A noble poem none the less.Quote:
Limbs drift, languid in desolate air,
teardrop leaves seep despair, teasing sunlight into shadow’s lair.
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#630 |
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Quote:
I don't think it's going to happen John
A noble poem none the less.
Spoiler
I'll use 'spoiler tags' more if think some may not want to read. Could just post happy ones. Hmm. I found Willow really calming scottie. Thanks. |
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#631 |
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Quote:
Perhaps you could help out? It seems to have possibilities.
We write in different ways John and I couldn't fit my words to your rhythm.
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#632 |
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Quote:
The Blacksmith
© ![]() Quote:
.............................
Look! There's uncle Jack. Heroes don't come back. I'll say it one more time. I'll even make it rhyme. Thou shalt not ****ing kill. You people make me ill. ![]() |
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#633 |
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#634 |
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The Blacksmith
Nice one Musty.
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#635 |
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#636 |
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Sorry but I can't help laughing at the name Bigshorts.
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#637 |
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Sorry but I can't help laughing at the name Bigshorts.
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#638 |
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Tumbleweed and Whisky
The tumbleweed was shifting, The sun was hot and high, A single cloud was drifting Across the desert sky. Ramshackle and outdated Beyond the railway tracks A small town was located, A group of deadbeat shacks. He’d driven miles to find it, The car he parked was old, A trail of dust behind it, A Buick re-sprayed gold. The bar was called Nathaniel’s, He went inside and bought A bottle of Jack Daniels Then sat, immersed in thought. He saw Christ and Bin Laden Behind his Ray-Ban shades, Two thousand years can harden A grudge that never fades. Defeat had made him tougher, Now he’d spread human pain And make dissenters suffer On Crucifixion Lane. The jukebox started playing, Don’t Fear The Reaper rocked, He strolled out after paying With new wars to concoct. A rattlesnake he frightened, It hissed and changed its path, The world was unenlightened But soon would feel his wrath. © |
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#639 |
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Quote:
Sorry but I can't help laughing at the name Bigshorts.
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It is a good one
![]() ![]() I couldn't stop giggling but it is probably more so because I've got some shorts where the elastic has loosened after washing them, think it might be the spin cycle that did it.
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#640 |
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Quote:
it is probably more so because I've got some shorts where the elastic has loosened after washing them, think it might be the spin cycle that did it.
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#641 |
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Quote:
Tumbleweed and Whisky
©
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#642 |
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Quote:
The Blacksmith
The Blacksmith even made us too, Burned iron on hot coals Then added love and poured it through The stardust in our souls. ![]() Quote:
Tumbleweed and Whisky You're getting good at this Musty. A rattlesnake he frightened, It hissed and changed its path, The world was unenlightened But soon would feel his wrath. © ![]() It's like one of those films that you're hoping for a sequel as soon as you've seen it. ![]() I've abandoned any thoughts of writing more to the 'congratulations' rewording. Rhyme bombs sometimes survive the rubble though possibly maybe. I might continue on the 'commandments' theme though. I'm thinking: 2. Don't lie (except in poetry and fiction). |
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#643 |
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I've pondered and pondered, but nope.
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You're getting good at this Musty.
![]() It's like one of those films that you're hoping for a sequel as soon as you've seen it. ![]() |
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#644 |
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Nice. As if though really. I mean everyone knows the creator was white.
![]() ![]() If it's any consolation I've discarded endless poems that didn't come to fruition. It happens a lot to me
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#645 |
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It was in fact the Anti-Christ Biz. 'A trail of dust behind it' was needed for the car arriving and 'find it' was all I could come up with as a rhyme. This implies he needed to find the bar, a bit of a mystery that I was forced to leave in.
![]() Quote:
2. Don't lie (except in poetry and fiction).
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#646 |
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Quote:
![]() If it's any consolation I've discarded endless poems that didn't come to fruition. It happens a lot to me ![]() Quote:
I obviously haven't read enough of the Bible, because I can't say I've spent any thoughts on the Anti-Christ; however a quick scan of Wiki told me all I need to know.
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...........unless your life depends on it. Or your popularity.
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#647 |
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I prefer the John Lydon view. "An Anti-Christ". Still pretty couched in prophetic terms though.
I think I'll just "look on the bright si-ide of life". To tell the truth I've been avoiding The News lately because I can bear to see the appalling happenings reported but it makes me realize just how fortunate we are.......... for the time being. Quote:
Or your popularity.
Or your job.
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#648 |
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Sylvia
You showed me the art of suicide. Full. Accomplished. Your life irrevocably your own. Not the bullet in the stomach for you or pocketful of stones but the gentle laying down of your head and surrender to the soft whisper of gas as it wafted through your loosened hair. Your body, folded, like freshly ironed linen, lay, too late to be claimed. All you left was your china-white cast, hollow as a conch and your words, full of the roar of the sea. |
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#649 |
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Quote:
Such a beautiful poem Scottie. From the name and method of suicide, I'm guessing it's about Sylvia Plath.
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#650 |
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Hello Mr Radio
Hello Mr Radio, Now the day is dawning Play some sounds to help along Another humdrum morning. Let me hear from yesteryear A pop hit that exploded; Lazy Sunday, Arnold Layne Or something ELO did. Kettle’s boiled, the butter’s spread On toast and to the glowing Golden shade of marmalade The golden music’s flowing. Goodbye Mr Radio, I have to obey time But on waking I'll tune in To you again come daytime. © |
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A noble poem none the less.
We write in different ways John and I couldn't fit my words to your rhythm.
