Original Poetry

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Original Poetry

Postby Eodnhoj7 on May 23rd, 2018, 11:53 am 

There may be a thread elsewhere in the lounge area for artistic expression, however I have not found it, hence I figured I would start one for "original" poetry only...no copies please...just original work.

Silence stretches out upon the nighttime sky as the unfolding breath of "wisdom",
Caught within her breast lies the heartbeat of the stars.

Men's dreams unfold through her gaze,
An echoing memory of what may be.

Orion sings as they join, a silent tribute towards the children of creation,
amidst the strife of the void they give shape.

In these dark hours a song is sung through the heavens
"What was, what is, what will be...forevermore...forevermore".

All being looks within towards the flame,
and sees the mother and father dance.

A movement of forms from which qualities spring, bound eternal
ever ringing as those who choose to sing.

It is in truth we grasp the rose
a flower formed from letting go.

Its due drops sparkle through the stars as fertile fields from which
dreams are born.

Madness ceases and sanity blooms
the wolf and the lamb cease their quarrel.

Of this wisdom asks "who are you?"
And this I state: "That which may one day be."
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Re: Original Poetry

Postby DragonFly on May 23rd, 2018, 5:55 pm 

The Impossible Recipe

Explaining the Cosmos is as easy as pie:
It’s an endless extravagance beyond the sky,
Which shows that matter’s very readily made—
Underlying energy raising the shades.

This All sounds rather like an ultimate free lunch,
For the basis is already made, with no punch,
It ever being around, as is, never a ‘was’—
Everywhere, in great abundance quite unheard of.


There’s even more of it than can be imagined—
Of lavish big spenders, there in amounts unbounded:
Bubbles of universes within pockets more,
Across all the times and spaces beyond our shore!

What is the birthing source of this tremendous weight?
There is nothing from which to make the causeless cake!
Its nature is undirected, uncooked, unbaked?
There can’t be a choice to that ne’er born and awaked!

There can’t be turtles on turtles all the way down;
The buck has to stop somewhere in this town.

‘Nothing’ is unproductive—can’t even be meant;
All ever needed is, with nothing on it spent!

Yes, none from nothing, yet something is here, true;
But, really, you can’t have your cake and Edith, too!

And yet I’ve still all of my wedding cake, I do—
It’s just changed form; what ever IS can never go.

Since there’s no point at which to impart direction
The essence would have no limited, specific,
Certain, designed, created, crafted, thought out meaning!

Thus the Great IS is anything and everything!

This All is as useless as Babel’s Library
Of all possible books in all variety!

Yes, and even in our own small aisle we see
Any and every manner of diversity.

The information content of Everything
Would be the same as that of Nothing!

Zero. The bake’s ingredients vary widely,
And so express themselves accordingly.

What’s Everything, detailed? Length, width, depth, 4D—
Your world-line; 5th, all your probable futures;
6th, jump to any; 7th, all Big Bang starts to ends;
8th, all universes’ lines; 9th, jump to any;
10th, the IS of all possible realities.

Your elucidation is quite a piece of cake!
Yo, it exceeds, as well, and so it takes the cake.
Everything ever must be, because ‘nothing’ can’t?
Yes, it’s that existence has no opposite, Kant!

So, we’re here at the mouth of the horn of plenty,
For a free breakfast, lunch, and a dinner party;
Yet many starving are fed up with being unfed.

Alas, for now I have to say, Let Them Eat Cake!
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Re: Original Poetry

Postby Sivad on May 25th, 2018, 5:55 am 

I'm putting my dog down next Friday
They want $250 bucks
He's 14
I don't even know what kind of dog he is
He's like a really big wiener dog
I still can't even guess the mix
I call him MoFo
Or Goonie G, the mental politician
One time he charged a pack of javelinas
Another time he bit my neighbor for no reason
He's pretty stupid
I'm gonna cook him a big T bone for his last meal
I'm digging the grave on an Indian rez
It's kind of a pet cemetery over there
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Re: Original Poetry

Postby Watson on May 25th, 2018, 9:13 am 

Twas the night before FESTIVUS
by Don Watson, 2017

All through the house, twas the night before FESTIVUS.
Not a creature was stirring, just the cat and the rest of us.

The laundry was hung by the chimney with care.
On a line from the fire, attached to the stair.

The children were farmed out to the grand-parants beds
Where FESTIVUS fairies danced in their heads.

Mama with the ketchup and me with the fries,
We settled in by the fire while everything dries.

When out by the lawn pole, there arose such a clatter
I sprang up from the fire to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a spark,
Tore open the window and peered through the dark.

When what to my curious eyes should appear?
My two griping neighbors, riding John Deere.

With both these ol' fellows not moving to quick,
I thought shots of Wild Turkey might do the trick.

More rapid than beagles attacking their dinner,
They whistled and shouted and called out the sinner.

Stop Dashing, Stop Dancing, Stop prancing around,
Stop commenting, kissing, Stop making a sound.

And quick as it started, all griping soon ended,
Last shots of vodka, with both elbows bended.

Two men in their PJ's, and both sporting plad.
Greatful for FESTIVUS, least the one they just had.

Now laying a finger and finding his nose,
to their feet, very slowly, both of them rose.

From the tractor start line they left with a beep.
Racing off into darkness, home and to sleep.

But I heard them exclaim as they drove out of sight,
FESTIVUS for the rest of us, to all others Good Night.

Watson 2017
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