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Vompatti View Drop Down
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Points: 67407 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: May 19 2009 at 15:29
untitled #2

handshoehandshoehandshoehandshoehandshoehandshoehandshoehandshoehandshoe
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VanderGraafKommandöh View Drop Down
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Points: 89372 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: May 20 2009 at 17:41
Yet another poem by me!  What's going on?

That's two in as many months.

Anyhow, this is a very un-James like poem and is straight-forward.  It even has a boringly generic title.  Some may even call it a prose poem.

99 Smiles

There he goes
The man with 99 smiles
Back bent
Shuffling severely
Toward the flea market
Destitute and diseased;
yet dynamic.
A denizen of back alleys
and shop fronts.
Yet he has 99 smiles
and counting.

It just goes to show
that a man without a home
can be devoid of sadness
despite having cold feet.

Geck0 - 20 May 2009








Edited by James - May 20 2009 at 17:52
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Points: 65261 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: May 20 2009 at 17:44
 ^ that's almost prose James (good prose)
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Points: 89372 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: May 20 2009 at 17:45
It's poetry to me and that's what counts. Wink

Thanks though, David.

I really am not used to writing "normally".  I always try to break the rules and experiment.  I felt a change was required.

But yes, it is prose-like (prosaic?) and it was completely intentional.

I was driving into town the either day and started to speak out loud to myself a line very similar to the first line above.

I have changed things somewhat.  My original intention was to have the man with 99 Smiles being depressed and lonely.  Like a guy who always smiles when amongst friends but is actually really depressed and is putting on a front.


Edited by James - May 20 2009 at 17:49
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Vompatti View Drop Down
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Points: 67407 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: May 27 2009 at 12:41
how miserable one can feel in a millisecond

it's not just the shoes.
if that was all there is
to it
I wouldn't be telling you
this.
I was sitting right here
on the sofa,
reading Kerouac & looking
at the clock & thinking about
potato chips.
I hadn't had much
to eat that day
& thinking about
those greasy potato chips
I just had to
get up & buy
some.
so I got up & out the door
& to the shop where
they sell
those fine
chips
that cost 3€ / 2 bags.
naturally
I had counted my money
so I knew
I had those
3 euros.
I knew I had them
in small coins.
so I got to the counter
with my two bags of chips &
3 euros
in small coins.
the salesgirl said: 3 euros
& before she said that
I had already begun
to lay those small coins
on to the counter:
first 50 cents,
then another 50 cents,
then 20 cents,
then another 20 cents,
then 5 cents,
then another 5 cents
(that's 1.50 so far),
then 50 cents,
then I knew I had a 1 euro coin
somewhere in my wallet
but couldn't find it.
I had no idea
how much time
I had spent
putting those coins
on the counter
one by one
until I should have found
that 1 euro coin
I knew I had.
I didn't
find it.
so instead
I took a 2 euro coin
(I had three of those)
& took back
most of the little coins
leaving only the 2 euro coin &
two of the 50 cent coins.
that was
3 euros.
so the girl gave me the receipt,
I got my two bags
of chips & walked
back home & ate
them both.
that's all there is
to it,
really,
& now that I
think about it
I don't think
there's a
particular
reason
why
I wrote
this poem
but here
it is
anyway
and you
just wasted
some of
your
precious
time
reading
it.



Edited by Vompatti - May 27 2009 at 12:44
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Vompatti View Drop Down
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Points: 67407 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: July 07 2009 at 03:20
some kind of a beeping

it's only a car outside
that makes that beeping sound
or perhaps not a car
but some kind of
a vehicle
anyway.

I guess they are moving
the excavator that
they use when they do
something
to the street
which was never broken
until
they dug
it up.

now it stopped
unless Elvis
buried it
which is
unlikely
due to
low
volume.

no,
there it is,
there it is
again.

there it is
again
and Elvis
doesn't help
at all.



Edited by Vompatti - July 07 2009 at 03:21
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progkidjoel View Drop Down
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Points: 19643 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: July 07 2009 at 05:19
Oh Vompatti
I assume hes a fatty
But that doesn't matter
I assume that I am fatter

Backflip wombat biker king
He dances, drums, kills prostitutes and sings.

TO BE CONTINUED.
-Joel
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Points: 67407 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: July 07 2009 at 05:26
I've got a little tummy, that's all. Disapprove

Oh, and I very rarely kill prostitutes. And I do mean very rarely. Stern Smile
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Vompatti View Drop Down
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Points: 67407 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: July 07 2009 at 05:26
The above post is not meant to be a poem, by the way.
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Vompatti View Drop Down
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Points: 67407 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: July 07 2009 at 05:27
Neither is the one above this one.
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Points: 19643 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: July 07 2009 at 05:39
^^ What about that one?
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Vompatti View Drop Down
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Points: 67407 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: July 07 2009 at 05:41
That one, yes. (But not this one.)
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Luca Pacchiarini View Drop Down
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Points: 530 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: July 07 2009 at 05:43
I composed this one in italian, and I translated it in english.
 
 
Silence
 
The rustling of a never said word
is silence for these ears

The spreading of the wings
of a butterfly in an empty room
explodes booms and resounds

ripping our ears apart
and making our head bleed.
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Points: 19643 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: July 07 2009 at 05:55
Originally posted by Luca Pacchiarini Luca Pacchiarini wrote:

I composed this one in italian, and I translated it in english.
 

 

Silence

 

The rustling of a never said wordis silence for these earsThe spreading of the wingsof a butterfly in an empty roomexplodes booms and resoundsripping our ears apartand making our head bleed.




Wow!
Deep!

-Joel
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Vompatti View Drop Down
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Points: 67407 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: July 07 2009 at 11:02
yet another imaginary hen
wanders past the tenement flat where
my dreams reside.

how could I decide
whether it's really a hen or a hare,
a hare or a hen,
when I don't even know
how this poem will end?

(if there's ever
any need to amend
or to pull a lever . . .)

whatever,
I just press "send."

no, wait, it says "post."
"post" . . .

most
people would have ended
this poem already.
I didn't, but I mended
some of the parts that didn't rhyme
so now it's practically ready.

mime.
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Luca Pacchiarini View Drop Down
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Points: 530 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: July 07 2009 at 16:19
it's really good, sounds like something Syd Barrett would write after too many hours in front of the computer
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Points: 8052 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: July 10 2009 at 13:16
< ="-" ="text/; =utf-8">< name="ProgId" ="Word.">< name="Generator" ="Microsoft Word 12">< name="Originator" ="Microsoft Word 12"> I was playing around with triolets for a while, and while most of them were discarded soon enough, a little editing, a slight deviation from the form and an inspirational sunrise came up with this. Without putting inane wordplay into the central couplet, I felt a variation was needed for its first occurence, and I think my general aversion to verbs could cause confusion, but decided the scene was too important for action. So, verbosity aside:

Unclaimed

The morning’s gold and specks of powder grey
are light and soft and lost in sight and truth;
Light-river chill, light-pattern songs repay
The morning’s gold and specks of powder grey,
Soft love without pretention or affray,
The soft-rain grass, a smile for soft-eyed Ruth,
The morning’s gold and specks of powder grey,
So slight and soft, alight with God and truth.
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Points: 1085 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: July 10 2009 at 13:31
Forbidden Fruit

Partaking of the flower
of Lady Venus, I spied
upon the dead petals
of a red rose, dried

- hourglass silhouette
of a woman - body bare
lounging by a tree
her skin & likeness fair

from between her legs
a hooded cobra rises
& offers forbidden fruit -
'pon eating she realizes

how pleasing to the eye
& desirable for wisdom
is the fruit of her own body
- sacred keys to the kingdom

her milky white skin
shining bright as the moon
the dance of the serpent
woos her into a swoon

with eyes wide open
she goes forth to awaken
the man-beast by her side
- their innocence forsaken

they cover themselves
for the pleasure of undressing
their sins now vindicated
by the act of confessing
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Points: 3144 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: July 10 2009 at 13:42
Taking of Helldoorn (a BF1942 inspired poem)
 
Hellendoorn was a hell of a fight
Soldiers fighting with all their might
Till this day I will remember
Helldoorn in mid september
Every day was cold and hard
We lived on peas and horsey lard
We had no food, we had no shelter
All we had was some smelter
Every day we'd drink our wine, feelin' fine
Killing all those stupid schwein
Having nothing but a gun made of pine
 
YES!
Trendsetter win!

The search for nonexistent perfection.
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Points: 67407 		Direct Link To This Post Posted: July 14 2009 at 16:00
Page Load Error

I threw away my old shoes;
There are no absolutes anymore.
Suddenly some-
                              one said:
                    That.
Oh,
great ocean, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.
hello, kitchen
       sink.
           .
         .
           .
         .
           .
         .
           .
               hell-o.
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