Share your poems?
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closethomosape
Well-known member
Thank you all for posting your poetry. I love hearing beautiful words from beautiful people.
Title: Lavender Brown Adjusting to Being a Werewolf
Summary: Lavender Brown is a character in the Harry Potter universe. She was attacked by a werewolf (Fenrir Greyback) and might have been transformed into a werewolf because of it. This is a poem about her adjusting to being in a werewolf's body.
Lavender, the dreams of her past impressed
upon her with certain things stressed.
Not much but some in her bowels smoldered
within her and chimed on her shoulder
with the diction of long ago it told her.
She was entranced and entrenched
while wallowing in her stench
in a solitude she couldn't wrench
and from a restlessness she couldn't bench.
And in the morning it wouldn't die.
From the depths of its envelop she couldn't cry,
but in the midst of the carnival she felt spry
as if every breadth beyond, she could fry.
Every movement sweltered under an internal sun
as every volition was won
with the step of a step of gamboling fun:
every tick of a switch in her was at a run.
She licked her lips with a sliver
of a gash that was delivered
on her tongue as it opened like a liver.
A descent of a swallow gleamed a shiver
to enliven her hands as quivers.
Lavender, the ebullient mistress, supple thing
has raked her mind back in order to sing
about her days at Hogwarts she's gleaned,
then to an horizon yet to be seen.
Summary: Lavender Brown is a character in the Harry Potter universe. She was attacked by a werewolf (Fenrir Greyback) and might have been transformed into a werewolf because of it. This is a poem about her adjusting to being in a werewolf's body.
Lavender, the dreams of her past impressed
upon her with certain things stressed.
Not much but some in her bowels smoldered
within her and chimed on her shoulder
with the diction of long ago it told her.
She was entranced and entrenched
while wallowing in her stench
in a solitude she couldn't wrench
and from a restlessness she couldn't bench.
And in the morning it wouldn't die.
From the depths of its envelop she couldn't cry,
but in the midst of the carnival she felt spry
as if every breadth beyond, she could fry.
Every movement sweltered under an internal sun
as every volition was won
with the step of a step of gamboling fun:
every tick of a switch in her was at a run.
She licked her lips with a sliver
of a gash that was delivered
on her tongue as it opened like a liver.
A descent of a swallow gleamed a shiver
to enliven her hands as quivers.
Lavender, the ebullient mistress, supple thing
has raked her mind back in order to sing
about her days at Hogwarts she's gleaned,
then to an horizon yet to be seen.
Hot_Tamale
Well-known member
Jingle bells,
S.A.'s hell
Fattening sweets galore
The season for ice,
I'm too nice
Santa can skip my house
Yay!
S.A.'s hell
Fattening sweets galore
The season for ice,
I'm too nice
Santa can skip my house
Yay!
Graeme1988
Hie yer hence from me heath!
I'm contemplating posting my crappy work in progress song lyrics, but... :thinking: :idontknow:
Hot_Tamale
Well-known member
Do it if you're afraid someone will judge you for it. If they do then they're the ones with the problem.
Sacrament
Well-known member
Wrote this one after my grandmother's stroke:
Setting Sail
When they moved her upstairs
from the ICU, she was still frail
and unable to move,
as if a handful of birds
had flown from her limbs
to chase Spring in a younger place.
She was tired.
We wrestled for seats
in the waiting room,
unsure of what to expect.
Most of us were afraid.
She always smiled, ashamed
of the attention she was getting,
ashamed that the disease
she hadn't planned on
was closing little doors
for everyone around her.
Grandfather has since then
grown bitter, a frustrated man
who has always been the man
of the house, different times,
different values.
His twin brother died
shortly after birth;
didn't wait for his eyes
to bloom open,
never let the sun
rush through him
during Summer days
or fought in the back seat
of a car.
Grandmother says
he hits her,
calls her names.
He's afraid.
No one taught him how to mourn.
As she weeps,
now that we are separate continents
and cannot speak the same language
anymore, I wonder who inhabited
those stripped hospital beds
only to linger in the room,
who's gone home, who has passed
or who later died in the arms
of someone who will be haunted
by that very moment
for the rest of their lives.
If it wasn't for them...
Grandmother:
if it wasn't for them,
you would have closed your eyes
to dreams of my sister's arms,
a child too young
to know where we go
when it's time to go
or how the darkest room
takes us whole,
knitting the flesh
into something new
time and time again.
Setting Sail
When they moved her upstairs
from the ICU, she was still frail
and unable to move,
as if a handful of birds
had flown from her limbs
to chase Spring in a younger place.
She was tired.
We wrestled for seats
in the waiting room,
unsure of what to expect.
Most of us were afraid.
She always smiled, ashamed
of the attention she was getting,
ashamed that the disease
she hadn't planned on
was closing little doors
for everyone around her.
Grandfather has since then
grown bitter, a frustrated man
who has always been the man
of the house, different times,
different values.
His twin brother died
shortly after birth;
didn't wait for his eyes
to bloom open,
never let the sun
rush through him
during Summer days
or fought in the back seat
of a car.
Grandmother says
he hits her,
calls her names.
He's afraid.
No one taught him how to mourn.
As she weeps,
now that we are separate continents
and cannot speak the same language
anymore, I wonder who inhabited
those stripped hospital beds
only to linger in the room,
who's gone home, who has passed
or who later died in the arms
of someone who will be haunted
by that very moment
for the rest of their lives.
If it wasn't for them...
Grandmother:
if it wasn't for them,
you would have closed your eyes
to dreams of my sister's arms,
a child too young
to know where we go
when it's time to go
or how the darkest room
takes us whole,
knitting the flesh
into something new
time and time again.
Sacrament
Well-known member
And this one after my grandfather died:
Looking out the window
Sometimes he would speak
as if painting, holding us to the sun
so we could see it seep through the fence
like time does in the Fall.
We perched on his nose
and listened, eager to learn
of how the Earth stops spinning
when we dance by ourselves
or summon the guts
to tell someone we love them
for the very first time.
At night we were up for hours,
vigilant, chasing stars that had died
millions of years ago but waited for us
to see them splinter across the sky
like fireworks.
And it was only years later,
when the first Summer came
after he died,
that we would push our bare feet
into the sand and pray it was enough
to be remembered by,
a sudden gust of wings
in someone's recent memory
like he always wished he would be.
Looking out the window
Sometimes he would speak
as if painting, holding us to the sun
so we could see it seep through the fence
like time does in the Fall.
We perched on his nose
and listened, eager to learn
of how the Earth stops spinning
when we dance by ourselves
or summon the guts
to tell someone we love them
for the very first time.
At night we were up for hours,
vigilant, chasing stars that had died
millions of years ago but waited for us
to see them splinter across the sky
like fireworks.
And it was only years later,
when the first Summer came
after he died,
that we would push our bare feet
into the sand and pray it was enough
to be remembered by,
a sudden gust of wings
in someone's recent memory
like he always wished he would be.
Graeme1988
Hie yer hence from me heath!
Oh, I know. That's always been my mentality towards making music or anything I create. It's not so much the judgement I'm afraid, more the fact I've used the adage of "write what ya know" and used my depression and my turbulent relationship with my family, as inspiration.
That, and the fact I've just been writing these short verses on my Samsung tablet in a Word document in the middle of the night, the only time I get any peace n' quiet, without my rhyming dictionary at hand.
AtTheGates
Banned
Graeme1988
Hie yer hence from me heath!
Okay, here goes...
mg: Not really got titles for these, as I did have any in mind. And these were very much improvised, stream of consciousness style. So ah didn't put much thought into words and was more focused on how it flowed.Thinking all the time
Always something on my mind
That perpetually sad look in my eye that has you say, “Why?”
Well, I ain’t gonna lie... I'm fine
Some of the time
But still, I'm just wasting time
Searching for something I can't find
____________________________
You won't find happiness in my eyes
Just doors to the thoughts I love to despise
A diary full of lies
Who? What? Why? Deny?
From prologue to final chapter
Life, what does it matter?
A question answered with questions
An endless subliminal mind-f*ck deception
Designed to challenge my perceived perception
Asking for forgiveness
Asking for redemption
PugofCrydee
You want to know how I got these scars?
To yearn for love
To yearn for hate
To endeavor to know what is my fate
I walk among liars, deceivers, those who call themselves true
yet I see through their smokescreen and see their true being
Those with righteousness, those who judge and control
those who preach but do not practice
Lies, pathetic, weakness
I am alive but walk amongst a wasteland
I walk among the living dead
Those who are nameless
Powerless
Pathetic
I seek
connection with kindred
I seek.. I am lost, I find emptiness
I see the workings of the universe
respect and acknowledge
we are nothing
To yearn for hate
To endeavor to know what is my fate
I walk among liars, deceivers, those who call themselves true
yet I see through their smokescreen and see their true being
Those with righteousness, those who judge and control
those who preach but do not practice
Lies, pathetic, weakness
I am alive but walk amongst a wasteland
I walk among the living dead
Those who are nameless
Powerless
Pathetic
I seek
connection with kindred
I seek.. I am lost, I find emptiness
I see the workings of the universe
respect and acknowledge
we are nothing
PugofCrydee
You want to know how I got these scars?
LoyalXenite
Well-known member
I like to fancy myself something of a poet at times, though not a very good one Got about 140 that I've written saved so I'll share a couple of them (be gentle Im fragile )
Her Name Was Gabe
“You know that place between sleep and awake, that place where you still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you. That's where I'll be waiting.” J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan.
I’ll look for echoes of you everywhere.
I’ll see your laughter in the stars,
and your brown eyes in every
thin blue circle.
I’ll gladly choke on the bones
of you in every filet o’ fish.
After all, what use is breathing
when my lungs are filled with
the absence of you
I’ll cling to the memories,
until they fade into the ether.
Because once they’re gone,
I lose you all over again
I can’t believe in an afterlife,
but for you I’ll hope.
Wait for me.
Saline Secrets
Sometimes, if you listen close enough,
and ignore the lies of the wind,
then briny murmurs can be heard.
Whispering waves tell sordid tales,
of sailors with maidens at every port,
and intrepid tales of pirate gold,
forever lost to the ocean depths,
and every now and then,
if the tides favour you so,
the ripples along the swell
spell out all the secrets you never knew
that you’d been whispering to the ocean too
and because I really enjoy writing Haiku poems I'll share a couple of those that I've written too
The Campground Caller
The fading fire sings
A brave fox with silver eyes
Steals the last sausage
The Nest
Tangled in the wood
A scrap of azure fabric
A bower’s treasure
Got about 140 that I've written saved so I'll share a couple of them (be gentle Im fragile )Her Name Was Gabe
“You know that place between sleep and awake, that place where you still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you. That's where I'll be waiting.” J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan.
I’ll look for echoes of you everywhere.
I’ll see your laughter in the stars,
and your brown eyes in every
thin blue circle.
I’ll gladly choke on the bones
of you in every filet o’ fish.
After all, what use is breathing
when my lungs are filled with
the absence of you
I’ll cling to the memories,
until they fade into the ether.
Because once they’re gone,
I lose you all over again
I can’t believe in an afterlife,
but for you I’ll hope.
Wait for me.
Saline Secrets
Sometimes, if you listen close enough,
and ignore the lies of the wind,
then briny murmurs can be heard.
Whispering waves tell sordid tales,
of sailors with maidens at every port,
and intrepid tales of pirate gold,
forever lost to the ocean depths,
and every now and then,
if the tides favour you so,
the ripples along the swell
spell out all the secrets you never knew
that you’d been whispering to the ocean too
and because I really enjoy writing Haiku poems I'll share a couple of those that I've written too
The Campground Caller
The fading fire sings
A brave fox with silver eyes
Steals the last sausage
The Nest
Tangled in the wood
A scrap of azure fabric
A bower’s treasure
Sacrament
Well-known member
Your haikus are dope.
I wrote this poem for my grandmother after she had a stroke:
Setting Sail
When they moved her upstairs
from the ICU, she was still frail
and unable to move, as if a handful
of birds had flown from her limbs
to chase Spring in a younger place.
She was tired.
We wrestled for seats in the waiting
room, unsure of what to expect.
Most of us were afraid.
She always smiled, ashamed
of the attention she was getting,
ashamed that the disease
she hadn't planned on
was closing little doors
for everyone around her.
Grandfather has since then
grown bitter, a frustrated man
who has always been the man
of the house, different times,
different values.
His twin brother died shortly after birth;
never let the sun rush through him
during Summer days or fought
in the back seat of a car.
Grandmother says he hits her,
calls her names. He's afraid.
No one taught him how to mourn.
As she weeps, now that we are separate continents
and cannot speak the same language anymore,
I wonder who inhabited those stripped hospital
beds only to linger in the room, who's gone home,
who has passed or who later died in the arms
of someone who will be haunted by that very
moment for the rest of their lives.
If it wasn't for them, she says.
Grandmother: if it wasn’t for them,
you would have closed your eyes
to dreams of my sister's arms,
a child too young to know
where we go when it's time to go
or how the darkest room takes us
whole, knitting the flesh into
something new time and
time again.
***
And this one for my grandfather, after he died:
Looking out the window
Sometimes he would speak
as if painting, holding us to the sun
so we could see it seep through the fence
like time does in the Fall.
We perched on his nose
and listened, eager to learn
of how the Earth stops spinning
when we dance by ourselves
or tell someone we love them
for the very first time.
At night we were up for hours,
vigilant, chasing stars that had died
millions of years ago but waited for us
to see them splinter across the sky
like fireworks.
And it was only years later,
when the first Summer came
after he died,
that we would push our bare feet
into the sand and pray it was enough
to be remembered by,
a sudden gust of wings
in someone's recent memory
like he always wished he would be.
I wrote this poem for my grandmother after she had a stroke:
Setting Sail
When they moved her upstairs
from the ICU, she was still frail
and unable to move, as if a handful
of birds had flown from her limbs
to chase Spring in a younger place.
She was tired.
We wrestled for seats in the waiting
room, unsure of what to expect.
Most of us were afraid.
She always smiled, ashamed
of the attention she was getting,
ashamed that the disease
she hadn't planned on
was closing little doors
for everyone around her.
Grandfather has since then
grown bitter, a frustrated man
who has always been the man
of the house, different times,
different values.
His twin brother died shortly after birth;
never let the sun rush through him
during Summer days or fought
in the back seat of a car.
Grandmother says he hits her,
calls her names. He's afraid.
No one taught him how to mourn.
As she weeps, now that we are separate continents
and cannot speak the same language anymore,
I wonder who inhabited those stripped hospital
beds only to linger in the room, who's gone home,
who has passed or who later died in the arms
of someone who will be haunted by that very
moment for the rest of their lives.
If it wasn't for them, she says.
Grandmother: if it wasn’t for them,
you would have closed your eyes
to dreams of my sister's arms,
a child too young to know
where we go when it's time to go
or how the darkest room takes us
whole, knitting the flesh into
something new time and
time again.
***
And this one for my grandfather, after he died:
Looking out the window
Sometimes he would speak
as if painting, holding us to the sun
so we could see it seep through the fence
like time does in the Fall.
We perched on his nose
and listened, eager to learn
of how the Earth stops spinning
when we dance by ourselves
or tell someone we love them
for the very first time.
At night we were up for hours,
vigilant, chasing stars that had died
millions of years ago but waited for us
to see them splinter across the sky
like fireworks.
And it was only years later,
when the first Summer came
after he died,
that we would push our bare feet
into the sand and pray it was enough
to be remembered by,
a sudden gust of wings
in someone's recent memory
like he always wished he would be.
Kiwong
Well-known member
Ghosts of my old home
My old home is often haunted
trapped inside; night is coming
Waiting in my small room alone
the ghosts of regret and guilt are manifesting
I run fast at the monster waiting at the front door
the wreckers about to begin
I dreamt I was home
and you where still there
Could you ever forgive me?
I tried to tell you “I’m not well .”
but my voice was a raspy whisper
lost inside, that no-one could hear.
the dreams of you crying behind the door
are the worst
I want to comfort you
but the words are trapped on my tongue
and won't come
the words I wished I'd said
but the chance is gone.
My old home is often haunted
trapped inside; night is coming
Waiting in my small room alone
the ghosts of regret and guilt are manifesting
I run fast at the monster waiting at the front door
the wreckers about to begin
I dreamt I was home
and you where still there
Could you ever forgive me?
I tried to tell you “I’m not well .”
but my voice was a raspy whisper
lost inside, that no-one could hear.
the dreams of you crying behind the door
are the worst
I want to comfort you
but the words are trapped on my tongue
and won't come
the words I wished I'd said
but the chance is gone.
Last edited:
FountainandFairfax
in a VAN down by the RIVER
Good stuff, Wong.
PugofCrydee
You want to know how I got these scars?
Kiwong
Well-known member
Wish
He retreated to the beach
facing out to sea before dawn
as far out reach of the sleeping town
he feared, as he could.
The clouds were blood red and black
No escape stepping forward
And only fear turning back.
An angry orange glow fired the horizon
Terns screamed for bellies full of fish
As the man whispered his dying wish.
That no one would hear, that no one would care.
Crimson light fired the clouds underbelly
His fingers stinging cold , eyes streaked with tears
His felt the warmth on his face
The glow in his skin, saw light on the rocks
a pink and orange swell swirling in
It was the most beautiful sight of all his wasted years.
And it gave him the hope
To turn and re-enter that frightening human race.
He retreated to the beach
facing out to sea before dawn
as far out reach of the sleeping town
he feared, as he could.
The clouds were blood red and black
No escape stepping forward
And only fear turning back.
An angry orange glow fired the horizon
Terns screamed for bellies full of fish
As the man whispered his dying wish.
That no one would hear, that no one would care.
Crimson light fired the clouds underbelly
His fingers stinging cold , eyes streaked with tears
His felt the warmth on his face
The glow in his skin, saw light on the rocks
a pink and orange swell swirling in
It was the most beautiful sight of all his wasted years.
And it gave him the hope
To turn and re-enter that frightening human race.
FountainandFairfax
in a VAN down by the RIVER
Hell yeah, Kiwong.