Because I'm a Poet - A Poetry Thread

Maybe our baby will be poetry
We'll swaddle the child in a banyon tree
The leaves will grace a home for three
And in their shadows only substance and reality.

Maybe our baby will be poetry
Causing hate to scatter and scorn to flee
Where truth and love are born as word
Passion and pain as whispers yet heard

Maybe our baby will be poetry
My life enriched because of thee
I with you and you with me
Content adrift in churning sea

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!​!
thank you for this poem !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The staircase
That leads upward
Lined by the words she gives me
This clean structure
Ascends into the Heavens
Building on instruction
As if the light could be magnified
Collapsing every piece of darkness
Up the stairs she builds
Perceived in the measureless
Defined by the unguided
My lingering swim among her stars
Hands among the galaxies, playing
I think no longer I am god at all
But that I’ve met god
And we fell in love.

You think in one rhyme or two
and you cannot believe
They are too good to be true
So you write on the paper that Eve
had given her ipod to Adam
and showed him a new song of that band
“What a piece of shit!”, and her eyes
saw a fiery sword and
Adam’s
Butt
They were naked in the paradise

Adam ribbed Eve and Cain killed Abel
Some say fact while others say fable
If I had money I'd put it on the table
but I gave it all away to that good time Mabel

Brasil has ipods and olymipics on the mind
Likes the bands that are hard to find
Running round in Rio playing three of a kind
Worried over time 'cause the watch won't wind

Adam in paradise with a fiery sword
Eve took it patiently always apple core bored
Serpent drove-up in a shiny red Ford
They all took-off but forgot the lord

Homeless and hungry they were naked again
Sneaky little serpent was a lousy friend
Wisdom that was promised disappeared from men
Now we're all in parking lots searching for zen

Wanted to share this. Just kinda diggin' it today.

Molecules becoming me
In this span of infinite
Finally it was time
Absent swinging at specters
The pangs of secrecy
Are selfish fabrications
A propagandizing of Self
Creation of a false vector
And the science of belief
Pouring out on mankind from the
Aquarian vessel
In the confusing stew of the religious
We have found the Truth
Hanging from the tallest, deadest tree
The real fruit of knowledge waits
Unstained by the atmosphere
And ready to be eaten.

Where's My Medal?
October 13, 2011 at 10:25pm

Almost forty years old and I have not killed another soul.
Four decades on this planet, and yet, never turned a body cold.

Where's my medal?

I haven't invaded another country, enforcing brutal will.
I couldn't go to war to kick in doors of citizens and kill.

Where's my damn medal?

I could never think about dropping bombs, humanitarian aid?
Taking lives, husbands and wives, orphans by grenade.

Where is my prestigious medal?

I'd never dream of murdering millions found guilty by association.
Or to send young Americans to foreign lands to defend corporations.

Where's my glorious medal?

I wouldn't start wars, behind deception, spilling blood for oil.
I can't stand the one who commands death to all on foreign soil.

Where's my worthless medal?

I couldn't make up a terrorist plot to use as a guise for war.
To use my power to bring down the towers, a blood thirsty whore.

Where's my sexy medal?

I wouldn't use words to cause fear like "weapons of mass destruction".
Or, an "Evil Axis" full of "terrorists" to justify Haliburton's construction.

Where is my oily medal?

I could never feel a day of sanity if I were filling the Garden of Stone.
Pin a star on their chest, lay them to rest, a soldier's uniformed bones.

Where's my "to die for" medal?

I can't understand glorifying murder with silver stars and purple hearts.
Or following orders from four-star shoulders, brainwashed from the start.

You can keep your fucking medal.

Dropping bombs, drone attacks, millions of lives have been ceased.
Look with your eyes and realize the prize is only the mark of the beast.

Wm G Smith (DancingSioux) ~ 10/13/2011

False vectors and dead trees
Hollow words to a soul like me
Give me a taste of confusing stew
To know I'm just as befuddled as you

Fruits of knowledge are never eaten
Souls are battered and badly beaten
Aquarian vessels are dead in the water
Hear them bleat the lambs to the slaughter

Poetry as simple whimper or whine
Another cry to a deaf ear divine
I know no more than them or you
Except to hold that nothing is true

Playing games with my words
And splitting their hairs into thirds
One for each miscalculation
Obvious in its mental addiction

Being of an aimless lot
I've freed myself of being caught
And wisdom may just trickle down
But I've beheld the lighted crown

Hisses come from snaking tongues
Empty words that carve along
The clay discarded by the vessel
Sloughed itself from every level

Nice call and response, OP. Enjoyed your reply, Nothing better than the back and forth to get the words banging.

If time allows, there's a classic poem, "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love"
written by Christopher Marlowe in 1599 that I truly admire. In 1600, a year after Marlowe's poem was published, Sir Walter Raleigh wrote, "The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd" and since then there have been numerous call and response spin-offs.

I think you might enjoy both poems and the give and take between the two is the tradition behind my cherry-picking of your earlier poem.

Again, thanks for the read.

the day came as the days do
out of somewhere and off into nowhere
i went following it all the way through
the wooded trail
across the handmade bridges
up into the cliffs and dens
where the quiet ones nest
and watch as the rest come traipsing along
sliding muddy boots against the stones
starting out alone
friends, lovers, strangers we are
wet with the rain
meeting for the first time
meeting again
in this kiss of a thousand winds
blown all this way
out of somewhere
and off into nowhere again

thank you for this.

And thank you, October, for "the day came as the days do." Lovely.

Haha. Thanks. :) Nothing wrong with a little poetry slammin'.

I've got those two poems pulled up and decided I might as well post them both since they were suggested by you. Thanks for the reads! By the way, you're a strong writer. Nice work.

---------------------


The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd
By Sir Walter Ralegh
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields,
To wayward winter reckoning yields,
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten:
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and Ivy buds,
The Coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

-----------------

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

COME live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Fair linèd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my Love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my Love.

Wow. That was very kind of you to post the poems, OP. I hadn't read them for some time and it was really nice to see/read them again.

Thanks for your thoughtfulness. I'm shining like a polished dime and springing into my day with a piece of your grace. Best to you, brother.

Dude, you just brought back one of my favorite childhood memories! I used to shine my dimes when I was a kid...forgot all about it. I loved the sparklies. Haha.

Hope that works.

Me escaping a bridle shower. How much could have been? How much could have been while I have been soaked, a token critter, one fretful, and with tread-ful toes.

Harlequin with a slangin dick for yall. That’s right I am the remote caregiver. I send my good wishes. I curse and banish idol wishes. I don’t know. Go along and say things unimagined, appeasing the ursine nature.

whats yours is whats mine. As always, on time. This is the proverbial-tree. Thinking fast and wont be gone. And so the boundary I've come upon.

That is beautiful but I think you sending word that, I must be heading back. Well either way, that’s where I go. I made a lot of progress.


I am recording this just so you know. I wish you would come closer, my life on the line. Thank you for the pleasure. And that is how you do it. You reach their boundary and you step back because they know that you’re the master. I am pan ser.

This is a message that goes back. Thank you for the audience tonight. <Be away good sir>, ... HAHAHAHA!/

now I can take my time, relax, with a soothing rhyme that spills over as sunlight is pouring in all over these things. Wondrous encounter.

And I slowly make my way back. Meandering. Because it is all gentle winds and soothing words. You can think it, I can speak it.

You’re dancing, I sing. Of course you know how to type that, I know how to say it. Do I panic? Maybe I do, ... is that my panic-response to that external stimulus? Possibly.


Swinging a stick. Like a monkey. They know where i am and who I am and with whom I associate. It is always that. It is always me and you. Me a sociopath, you a stalker.

From cradle to grave, Yea the moment lives on. I am carrying, son. Thank you for the company coward. Come out and say hello, my name is Howard, Bartlow.

My name is angry-bear and, my name is crowning chicken. You dance and I sing you ursine serpentine thing. You dance and I sing,. ….

They are listening from the ridge, waiting for a chance to sing.

They speak in hushed tones, then the key, again, ... <spit>, sigh, “am tired and realizing that, there is only so much that my loving nature can get. Past that it is all circumstantial".

\This is my homing-beacon. These are my creatures. This is my garden. I am enfeebled. So carry on then, <Hehehe>.

Following? Good, I hope that he is, ... eh, he panicked, stricken thing. If he is the thespian he thinks he is, then, let the whole thing play.

Know no voice-recording. So lets say for a moment that I did, so be it. What is the worst that could happen? Make another journal / have another profession?

Do you profess to be that which you speak? You must whole-heartedly dip both feet in. You dance and I sing. I do a thing and you blame the wind. And now you know my native tongue. Feasting and raveling, let the games begin.


Walk lightly and so say a thing begins. Sometimes things go badly. Sometimes I make a mistake and continue on my way, walking, sticking to known trails.

There, you must not be listening. Twice now I have seen a thing cross the road, momentum bound, rolling, only next thing to see, all the flies buzzing. I don’t know.

You fill the time with lies and fill a thing with alibis cause you are too afraid to admit that you are not one of the guys. No brother, no sister. That life goes on, am I right? Carry forward, see with the one true eye.

I am you and I, that is the way to beautifully say that thing and be happy and content with the source, the knowledge. Known virtue, just playing true to what you've always been, an escape artist of sorts, loss of sight and well-being.

Now I feel a pressing weight and a moment of concern. What am I submitting myself to? What is my true plan and purpose? Unknown quantifier? I don’t know, hopefully that one comes <it doesn't>.

Testing. This is all something that can be read initially without much

Nice. You inspired me to write one of my own prose-ish poems tonight. Thanks.

Closing arguments could end today
Somebody somewhere will ultimately pay
The darkies are coming get out of the way
Don't go to Walmart the overweight say

I just hope my Timmy makes it home in one piece
I feel like a Palestinian near a bulldozer beast
The darkies are coming on honkys they'll feast
Hope my stupid sister hides my pretty neice

Race wars are coming the cultures will clash
And liking demon Oprah won't give us a pass
The darkies are coming my potatoes won't mash
I'd bug-out if I could but they stole all my gas

People are boasting they have all their guns
I wish I had listened to those dark habit nuns
The darkies are coming and it won't be no fun
If I was only born in Kenya I'd get up and run

I stand-up drunk but fall down sober
Pretty chinga mama say her love is over
She rides so hard and laughs real deep
Wake-up sour sugar it's time for sleep

She loves her a cripple with a walking stick
Tied him to his wheelchair to clear his tic
Tock is his name and he took her from me
They're clocking all the gurneys in the infirmary

I skate on banana peels and ski on black jets
Pretty chinga mama isn't done with me yet
She walks so soft and cries real shallow
Sleep sweet bitter it's time for tomorrow

I wrote this back in May, it was inspired by someone's signature meme here at GLP. BAN ALL THE THINGS!! That has amused me greatly since the first time I saw it. Whoever you are, THANK YOU!

Ban All The Things

Ban pain
Ban strife
Ban feelings
Ban life

Ban truth
Ban lies
Ban flowers
Ban flies

Ban trust
Ban faith
Ban courage
Ban hate

Ban leaders
Ban sheep
Ban ALL THE THINGS
Then ban sleep

Ban silence
Ban speech
Ban instinct
Eat a peach*

*Allman Brothers Band reference :)

hannah
05.08.13

Last Edited by ~ hannah~ on 07/13/2013 06:40 PM

THAT, is amazingly simple and so deep at the same time. Love it.

Verdict came in and the kid's still dead
Chunky Georgie Z has bumps on his head
Daddy's so happy he's polishing his guns
Take a trip to Florida but not for the sun

Smoked another cigarette and banged a lung
Burnt-up all my hoodies and bit my tongue
Mama's so sad she chewed-off all her nails
Home from sunny Florida holding bitter blackmail

Sometimes I can be a frank and empty stein
But when I see the fire I flail and whine
Angry little people with a fork and a pitch
Lead me down an alley to a concerete ditch

Verdict came in and the kid's still dead
Chunky Georgie Z is sleeping safe in bed
I pray the circled torches aren't coming for me
I just spent my paycheck on a new tv

When I was a little boy we'd shoot our darts at squirrils
They'd fall out of the branches in squealing furry twirls
Took them to dark basements and hung them on the wall
No one gave a good fine fuck about who really buried Paul

Beatles knew a Gidgeon guy with the name Racoon
Hill gilly girl gave him all her cozy coozy room
He stayed out of my neighborhood like he knew he should
Cause darts were flying everywhere from everyone that could

Thanks for the nod, Hannah, and the wink to this blind horse. I enjoyed your "Ban" jam as well. Can see the colors of the "Eat a Peach" lp cover and then jump down to the whipping post of "Live at Fillmore" cover in black and white.

To all others, thanks for your indulgence and allowing me to scatter immature seeds. I shoot them in the moment (and promise my last Zimmerman) and outline them in chalk, but careless rain takes them so I shoot and shoot again. Took-up too much page on this thread so apologies and gratitude.

Went downtown to Harlem
With a trombone in my hand
There were Dutchies on the tables
But no talk of Zimmerman

There were songs and rasta rhythms
where hustlers jumped the squares
Past the burnt-out brownstone
Where lions fed on pears

There was no talk of Zimmerman
Except for one or two
There was little beef for anyone
Unless you find a zoo

nice! ban all things! hahahaha - and allman brothers band will be playing right up the mountain from where i am in just a few days. woo-hoo

never too much of a good thing 'ey? please keep taking up space as i love reading your poetry.

I would like to call this poem: "Fuck you" in honor of all you self-absorbed dipshits out there.


Fuck you. Don't ask who.

Do you have to write,
in this manner I type,
and seem so fucking conceited?
Couldn't you admit,
this shit's for clicks,
fuck you, just beat it.

Or write a piece without chopping it up. That shit is annoying as fuck. Fuck you.


Goodnight ladies and gentlemen.

and morning, she comes again
bright behind the green tempest
and warning of tempers past
like feet they have scampered across the given meadow
without regard
to the entangled clover
set just so the tiniest nymph
can know her way home
when the fire rages
with a scorching demand
and gravel grits
through the hands of the losing masters
morning, she has always been here
right behind the lurking ones
hiding not in the cloak they give her
wiser ones have come to play
on her hills
to seek the flowers of her valley
and to stir delight with laughter
as she mocks the mocking ones
one after another
until they are but specks in their own eyes
and then sweet morning pretends to fly
only to hover just under cover of the butterfly's crown
where no deceit can live.
JAH give us the morning and all her children's glory that we may return you the gift.