GuiltyPleasure
AWTSS
- Joined
- Jul 12, 2003
- Posts
- 14,131
Thank you. It is a little close to the bone, yet, which can ruin poetry.
You said "bone" and I had an inappropriate moment.
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Thank you. It is a little close to the bone, yet, which can ruin poetry.
come gather up your things,
jump in bed my love
here's sweet water if you thirst,
a solid stone to stand on
beside strawberry sheltered banks, new cleaned beds of your dreams,
of sun warmed glyphs and bird wings
now tucked, bussed near breathless, covers drawn 'til dawn
or a moggy old man pulls them back
slips in the night beside you.
sleep well love
You said "bone" and I had an inappropriate moment.
come gather up your things,
jump in bed my love
here's sweet water if you thirst,
a solid stone to stand on
beside strawberry sheltered banks, new cleaned beds of your dreams,
of sun warmed glyphs and bird wings
now tucked, bussed near breathless, covers drawn 'til dawn
or a moggy old man pulls them back
slips in the night beside you.
sleep well love
come gather up your things,
jump in bed my love
here's sweet water if you thirst,
a solid stone to stand on
beside strawberry sheltered banks, new cleaned beds of your dreams,
of sun warmed glyphs and bird wings
now tucked, bussed near breathless, covers drawn 'til dawn
or a moggy old man pulls them back
slips in the night beside you.
sleep well love
i should like to write a poem
with "discipline"
but that whole
'cane -
no pain, no gain *cheesy grin*' thing leaves
me cold
stuttering and in search of something warm to slip my
thoughts into
in too
intuitively speaking
seeking comfort over dis
dat now wants to run away wiv a rap sheet, init?
focus
should i beat my muse or just
accuse her ov
unrulio! beHaviour? save her
from disco-ordinated raves or
throw down these worthless rains of wordish babble-mouth
go south?
*looks down into my cocoa*
coco drifts upon the air
her double C's so pleasing, bear
with me since i'm no disciple
Pliny, though, through process praxis
philosophied - au naturalis
.
Wow, took a couple of reads (no adjectives) the light bulb went on here
Gaius Plinius Secundus (AD 23 – August 25, AD 79), better known as Pliny the Elder, was a Roman author, naturalist, and natural philosopher, as well as naval and army commander of the early Roman Empire, and personal friend of the emperor Vespasian. Spending most of his spare time studying, writing or investigating natural and geographic phenomena in the field, he wrote an encyclopedic work, Naturalis Historia, which became a model for all other encyclopedias.
Maybe I'm taking away more to the poem than you intended but....damned typo
Typo?
shudda read 'bare with me', since the reference was playing on coco chanel, hence double c's, bewb-allusions et al.... *sigh*
Ah Coco Channel (really?)
wiki he say pliny the elder had discipline *nods*:
ETA: erased as much as I wroteMaybe I'm taking away more to the poem than you intended but....
You start by talking about discipline then take away the accepted forms of (polite) communication of your thoughts by using vernacular and undisciplined writing/spelling. I took the no pain no gain lines to imply that poetry/writing was an arduous process
unruly muse ... sweet
naked poetry!
I'll shut up now and call for a prosodist "Oh 12 Oh"
Maybe I'm taking away more to the poem than you intended but....
You start by talking about discipline then take away the accepted forms of (polite) communication of your thoughts by using vernacular and undisciplined writing/spelling. I took the no pain no gain lines to imply that poetry/writing was an arduous process
unruly muse ... sweet
naked poetry!
I'll shut up now and call for a prosodist "Oh 12 Oh"
The Craft of being Human
A poet lingers; a busy man wants to rush away;
the philosophier, leans backs, looks interested.
The forgetful man remembers and becomes busy,
then forgets why he rushed away,
but the poet has his back, quickly becoming a tired man
eag'r to make something out of this shambles.
The quiet man watches them, tired of it all,
pauses, think's about the reason's he rushed away
to write the where of what it's like to be sapient,
all those long hours ago and ponders,
did he succeed or fail?
In the darkness the glass vase sits
empty of light, prism
and the possibility of blooms.
I long for it to shatter
so I may find feeling
in the absence of silence,
the red-stained shards
and someone's scream.
Thanks!
A voice I am always glad to read.